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An Honorable Union Gone Awry

N

Nurse_K

Pulsar
Joined
Jan 9, 2009
The Princess Elsa had not been excited to be marrying a Viking leader. For one, he was older than her. Two, she didn't know him. Thirdly and most importantly, he was more barbaric than her own people were. He had seemed nice enough she supposed, but she wasn't looking forward to having to spend her entire life with him. No was she looking forward to what she knew would be expected...giving him children.

Elsa was average height, around five foot hour. She had brown hair and light skin, dotted with the classic Celtic freckles. She had honey colored eyes and a nice curvy body. She could've been married to anyone, but no, her father decided to give her away as a peace offering.

The peace hadn't gone so well, however. They had been in the middle of the wedding feast when suddenly, all of the vikings in the room had gotten up and begun to yell battle cries. They flipped the tables, pushed the Celts out of the way, and started stealing things. She'd looked at her new husband next to her in horror, but he was grinning widely.

In that moment she hadn't him even more, she knew he had planned this. If he hadn't, he wouldn't be looking so smug.
 
Canute never even engaged in the slaughter - except once, in the midst of tearing a chunk of meat from a fat leg of chicken, when his long knife flashed in a streak to bury itself in the belly of one of the Celtic warriors, charging bare-handed at the Viking warlord.

The young princess's new husband is certainly frightful in appearance. His hair is a mane of fiery reddish-blonde, falling straight down a set of broad shoulders. Fierce gray eyes are set in a hawkish face, but it is his frame that truly catches the eye. He towers nearly 6 and a half feet, his body rippling with the muscles and scars of a life-long warrior.

Giving barely a glance to his terrified new bride, he flings the unfinished chicken leg onto the floor, takes a long gulp of mead, and plants one big hand firmly on Elsa's thigh. His voice is a low growl, "You stay, and watch my conquest." Once more, his teeth gleam in a vicious grin.
 
She jumped a little as he placed his hand on her thigh, she'd never been touched on her thigh like that. She was about to protest to it, but he had already started to move away. She hoped that he didn't think he could touch her like that whenever he wanted. They may be married, but she wasn't going to be treated like a piece of meat.

She watched him as he moved to the middle of the fray. It was a bloody mess. She could see both vikings and Celts dead on the floor, but sadly, it was mostly Celts who were dead. She sighed, reaching up and placing a stray hair back into it's buckle. Her hair had been elaborately plaited in the way of the Celts, but she wore a hideous viking wedding gown.

She felt hot and stuffy in it, the fur was making her itchy. Celts got married in beautiful cloth gowns, but her new husband had insisted that she look like a viking as much as possible. They'd compromised, and she'd gotten her hair done the way she wanted. She was angry that she would never be able to live among Celts again...she'd have to leave with these barbarians.
 
Canute, seemingly satisfied his new wife will not be running off anywhere, busies himself surveying the carnage. A few waves of his hand and growled commands in his own brutish tongue send his men shuffling among the bodies, pulling valuables from the Celts, all dressed in their finest for the evening's festivities... now, all that remains of those fine tunics and clean linen is tattered and blood-stained.

By now, most of the fighting has ceased, and Canute passes his way unchallenged through the hall, only to stop at the feet of Elsa's own father. The poor old chieftan is on his last leg, breath tattered, with a deep gash across his belly. Canute smirks, leaning forward to growl, "Pleasure trading with you, king."

He snickers, one big hand thrust out to catch the massive gold torc around the chieftan's neck, freeing the gold only to fit it around his own thick neck. With that, he spins on a heel, shifting the wolf-fur on his shoulders and cocking his head to one side, observing his new wife with another of those big grins, "Well, wench? You're tougher than you look. Not even a tear for your father?"
 
She glared at him as he put her father's chain around his own filthy neck. She gritted her teeth and balled her hands into fists beneath the table, trying to control her anger. "Celts don't show emotion to the enemy," she stated bluntly, seething horribly on the inside. She hated Canute more than she had ever thought she could hate anyone. He was the scum of the earth to her, and she vowed that she would never be a good wife to him.

She stood up quickly and walked down the platform that held the wedding table. She walked gingerly among the dead until she got to her father. She knelt down beside him and whispered something in Gaelic. Then she closed his eyelids gently. She stood up and began to walk out of the great hall, and away from Canute.
 
Canute offers an amused little chuckle at the furious princess, growling something to his men in Saxon. The warriors let loose a hoot of laughter at their warlord's humor.

It is not until just as Elsa reaches the doorway to the hall that he calls out to her in his rumbling shout, "Where do you think you're going, wife? I told you to stay."

Already, his long egs are taking him across the hall, loping over an overturned table that stands in his way. The warlord moves frighteningly fast for a man his size, leaping the table to come down thunderously behind Elsa, a single meaty fist shooting out to catch her by that beautiful brown hair.
 
She stopped short when she heard him leap down behind her, his body made the entire floor shake. Her muscles tensed as she could feel him so close behind her. Canute towered over Elsa, he could lean over above her and look at her face if he tried to. She felt him grab her hair and she gritted her teeth, it was petty, but the last thing she wanted him to do right now was mess up her hair.

"What do you want?" she growled back at him, though hers was obviously much less intimidating than his. She could be quite vicious when she was angry, but she hadn't quite gotten to that point yet. He was pushing her there though.
 
He seems intent on driving her over the edge and letting that temper fly. As soon as those meaty fingers catch in her hair, the opposite arm is looping around the slender Celt, catching her fully around the waist to tug her back against his hard, fur-clad body.

She can feel his rumbling laughter as he tugs her hard against him, pressing against her body, that big hand spread over her belly. The hand in her hair releases, at least, giving some small relief, though it only drops down her body to rest alongside one long thigh.

"Is it the custom of Celtic wives to abandon their husbands on their wedding night? I have always been told other tales..."
 
Her face grew hot as he mentioned the 'other tales'. Celtic women were known for being extremely sexual. They were renowned for pleasing both themselves and their husbands far better than almost every other kind of woman in Europe did. Of course there were rumors about the women of the Middle East, but no one around here was even sure if the people there existed.

She pushed his hand off of her thigh, though it took a lot of energy for her to do so. He wasn't just bigger than her, he also had ten times the strength that she did. "Don't touch me like that," she demanded, trying to pry his other arm from around her waist, but she couldn't do it. She struggled against him, flailing a little bit.

She had dreaded the end of the wedding feast from the time she woke up that morning. Any new husband would expect to be loved by his new wife on their wedding night, but she knew that Canute was going to expect that and much more.
 
Canute, for his part, is probably doing his new wife a kindness by not backhanding her for tossing his hand off her thigh. Instead, he just continues that rumbling little laugh, amused by his spunky new bride. The arm around her waist holds her fast, though, and all her struggling and wriggling against him is probably not helping Elsa's case.

"Mm, I'll touch you how I please, woman. I know your people let their women speak equally in the house... this will not be true with us, you'll find. We take our women as we please," he growls, punctuating the remark with a forceful press forward, shoving the woman's body against the doorframe, pinning her between the wooden beam and his own hardened body.

The free hand that was tossed off her thigh is back at its games again, but this time, more likely in an attempt to humiliate the woman than not, that hand slides its way up the side of her thigh again... this time beneath the furs she has been forced to wear, rough, callused hands fondling soft flesh.

Canute's men have already left the hall, for the most part, tracking down the rest of the city's women for sport of their own, no doubt. Only a few linger, digging among the destruction for the last of the Celtic gold.
 
She did her best not to show the growing terror that was rising because of him touching her. She groaned softly as he shoved her against the doorframe. She swallowed again, nervously, trying to think of something to say. "The dining hall is not the proper place...to get to know your new bride," she had decided to try to be diplomatic with him. She already knew that he was stronger than she was, so trying to out fight him wasn't going to work.

She had to surpress a whimper as he hand slid up inside the furs. His hands had to be the most disgusting things she'd ever felt in her life. Her skin was soft and silkly, lovely to touch, while his hands were calloused and rough, they felt like rocks scraping over her delicate flesh.
 
Canute, at least, seems to appreciate the soft skin. His hand lingers a moment longer before sliding higher up those furs, his big, shaggy head leaning in close to her for a low rumble, "And what would be a good place, mm? Seems I may as well have my second conquest on the battleground of my first."

He seems thoroughly amused by her protest, pressing the young princess up against the wall, his warm body far too close to Elsa for comfort. The arm around her waist slides upward, one of those rough hands sliding along her belly to cup one breast in a rough squeeze.

"Don't like you father watching, is that it?" He snickers cruelly.
 
Tears came to her eyes as he pressed her against the doorframe harder. She tried to hold them back, struggling within herself, but as one hand moved closer to her womanhood and the other to her breast, they spilled over. She was silent for a moment, now trying to regain her composure. She didn't want to see her this weak, especially not already. If he did then he would never dream of giving her any kind of respect.

"Dead bodies aren't exactly romantic," she said carefully, doing her best to keep the quivering out of her voice. She didn't think that Canute had any concept of romance, but she thought she'd at least give it a try. If she could get him to a secluded place she would have a better chance of fending him off, or appeasing him with something else.
 
Canute's snicker continues, the hand upon her breast squeezing once more through those furs.

"I didn't know you Celts were so concerned with romance," he laughs, and suddenly the hand upon her breast drops, wrapping around that slim waist and lifting the princess bodily off the floor, slinging her over one shoulder. "But if you wish..."

The big man shoves through the doors with Elsa upon one broad shoulder, only to lope over the roadway to one of the few thatch-roof homes his men have not set on fire. One booted foot kicks in the wooden door, nearly splintering it - certainly stifling any chance they might be able to at least close the door again, for privacy's sake.

The home is empty, and Elsa knows it was once the house of the town's fletcher. Now, it is simply an empty home, with an empty table in the middle. A stain of blood mars the straw mattress, making it less than appealing, but it is the table on which Canute deposits her.

"I suppose you're more apt to be a good wife here, mm?"
 
She groaned as he slung her over his shoulder, deciding that he definitely had no concept of romance whatsoever. He plopped her down on the table and looked around, he'd brought her to the fletcher's house...and put her down on their dining table. "This isn't exactly the picture of romance either," she said, but looking over at the bloody mattress wasn't any more appealing.

She shifted a little and rearranged the gross itchy furs she was in. He'd hiked them up a little bit, but she brought them back to where they were supposed to be. She virtually ignored him for a couple of minutes while she tried to fix her hair, but she knew it was going to be in shambles soon anyway. She didn't answer his question about being a good wife...because she didn't plan on being a good wife to him ever.
 
Canute watches her patiently for a long moment as she fixes her hair, arms crossed over his big chest. Finally, he shakes his shaggy head, tossing that mane of hair before taking one quick step forward.

Both big hands shoot like arrows for Elsa's wrists, to catch them and pin the young princess with arms high above her head to the top of that big table. His own body towers over her, pressing uncomfortably into her body from above.

"All right, wench, I'm tired of waiting. It's time you meet your husband," he snarls, face dropping close to her own.
 
She was taken by surprise when he grabbed her wrists and laid her back hard against the table. She wriggled a little bit, trying to come up with more excuses, but she couldn't really think of any that would actually work, only ones that would end up getting him pissed at her.

In a rare moment of weakness she whimpered as he pressed against her so forcefully. The second it happened she regretted it, her face turning a deep red color with embarassment. He was going to think she was weak now, and there was nothing she could do about it. She'd signed her own death warrant with that horribly feminine mistake.
 
Canute's face spreads into a broad grin with that whimper - like a shark sniffing out blood in the water, the Viking can hear the fear in her voice, and he seems to thrive off of it, swelling against the young princess, no doubt humiliating her even more.

One hand lets her wrist free, that rough, callused right hand sliding down her soft arm to tangle fingers in the shaggy wolf fur tossed over her silky body. Once his strong fingers latch onto the fur, it takes only a single strong yank to tear the leather thongs holding the rough clothes to her chest, suddenly baring her upper body to the warlord.

He allows himself a moment to admire, grin remaining, "I'm going to enjoy you, I think, wife."
 
She flinched as he ripped the wolf fur off of her chest. Her instinct had been to cry out in fear, but she had managed to surpress that one. She was going to try to gain back her standing with him, though she was vaguely aware of the fact that she had never had any standing with him, he'd always thought of her as his inferior, meant to be there only to please him.

She closed her eyes in humiliation as her chest was revealed to him. She was a busty girl, though with the size of his hands he could easily grasp her entire breast. Her pale torso was also revealed to him, the lines of her flesh visible. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and fall and her abdomen moving as well, her body was giving away her terror to him whereas before, she could hide it in her face.
 
Canute releases the woman's wrists, apparently satisfied that the half-naked princess will not try to flee him through that broken door. This, of course, frees his hands to slide down that busty body, trailing her slender ribcage before lifting up from below to cup both those breasts. She can feel his hot breath against her soft skin, his teeth nipping painfully along her neck.

"You're going to enjoy this, wench," he sneers, pressing his body against her, forcing those soft legs apart with his knees. The table creaks beneath them, but Canute seems unworried as to its stability... he seems more concerned with the soft woman beneath him, roughly tracing her neckline with his teeth.

She can feel him swell between her legs, pressing needfully against the inside of those smooth thighs.
 
She tilts her head back as he starts to touch her so that he can't see her face. Her eyes have filled with tears again, and Elsa doesn't want him to see that. She blinks a few times, but it doesn't help. His calloused hands kneading her breasts makes her feel horrible, he's violated her immensely already. She resists a little as he pushes himself between her legs, but his strength makes her obey easily.

She feels her womanhood spread beneath the wolf fur, open for him to penetrate. Her only hope is that he won't remove the skirt, that he'll leave her at least the dignity of not being fully naked beneath him. She doesn't think he'll give her that though, he hasn't shown much mercy so far.

She winces a little as he bites her neck. He's touching her like lovers touch eachother, but she's not in love with him at all. He's giving her love bites and groping her instead of just screwing her and being done...and it's making it harder for her to handle.
 
Canute seems to read the young princess's mind, leaving her the last shred of dignity that fur skirt allows. As far as her wish that he just be done... still his hand remains upon her breast, and by now, his head has moved this far as well. She can feel his teeth nip painfully along one sensitive nipple, before tracing their way back up the curve of her breast to her neck.

She feels him slide between her legs, his own fur tunic not offering much in the way of barriers between his growing flesh and her own waiting womanhood. A quiver - no doubt of shame - runs through her body as she feels his hardened flesh press against that tender womanhood, and there is only a brief moment of expectation before his hips thrust brutally upward, driving him inside the young princess with a long groan from deep in his chest.
 
There was no way that she could have possibly surpressed the cry that escaped from her when he thrust into her. Her tears broke loose and she whimpered again, her insides stretching and nearly tearing to accomodate his girth. She takes a deep breath, trying to control the sobs that want to erupt from her. She fights a little, her legs flailing.

She bites down on her lip as he bites on her nipple, her tears blurring her vision. She reaches out to push him with her hands, but even with all her strength to him it would just feel like a little nudge, almost as if she's moving to hold on to him as he pounds away inside of her.

Her head is spinning with all sorts of thoughts. She thinks of the pain, the humility, of how many times she's going to have to endure this during her marriage to him. One sob escapes her, her face a deep red, almost purple, with shame.
 
Canute seems to have little care for the humiliation his new wife faces. His feet drop to the floor once more, towering over her, standing at the very edge of the table. Both those big hands encircle Elsa's slim waist, yanking her across the rough wooden tabletop to its very edge, driving into the young princess with a low growl deep in his chest.

Those big hands finally commit the final act of humiliation with the yank across the table-top, sliding those loose furs from around her waist and baring the princess completely to her new husband.
 
She is forced to cry out not only in humiliation but also in pain as he yanks her across the table. The wood has scratched her back and the back of her thighs, her smooth skin not used to being on rough surfaces. She chokes back a sob as she realizes that her gentle womanhood is completely exposed to him. Especially so because he's forced her legs to spread, he can now see himself shoved inside of her.

She keeps her eyes closed and her head tilted back to avoid even seeing his mane of red hair as he humiliates her. She moves her hands from his chest to her face, covering her eyes with it. She feels like she should claw her eyes out, but she knows that that wouldn't do anything for her.
 
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