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He reached for the hem of her woollen skirt, already hiked up around her knee, and he tugged it slowly to her hip.

He paused there to trail his fingers up and down her exposed thigh, and knew the precise moment she registered his actions.

Her soft form flinched, then stiffened and her breath caught in her throat.

“Good morning, little Celt. I trust you slept well.”

“What are you doing?” Her voice was breathy, her fear of him already apparent despite her seeming trust as she slept.

“I am exploring. I believe I mentioned this to you already.”

“You promised…” She made to wriggle away but his arm around her waist prevented such awkwardness.

“I said your body was mine to explore, to pleasure, and to punish. I hope the latter will not prove needful this fine morning, but as to the first two…”

“Please… do not…”

“Mine, wench. You will no doubt recall the consequences of disobedience.”

“Why must you continue to threaten me? We both know how this will end. I am not a fool, I know what to expect.”

Ulfric paused, his palm now resting against her exposed buttock.

He squeezed gently. “I rather think you have no idea whatsoever what you might expect from me. You do know, now, that disobedience will get you punished…” He squeezed her tender bottom again by way of reminder, “…but submission brings its own rewards also.”

“It is not submission when you offer me no choice. When you threaten to beat me if I do not… do not?—”

“We shall see. And I shall not beat you, ever. You will be spanked if you deserve that, but I will do you no harm. For now, I shall be content to settle for a more intimate exploration of the sweet lips I and my men glimpsed yesterday evening when you were so delightfully displayed for us over yonder tree trunk.” He smiled to himself at her anguished whimper but pressed on with his assault on her senses and her emotions.

He had no doubt at all that she had hated being bared to them and treated to ten hard strokes of the switch.

It had been necessary, and she had found the entire experience painful and humiliating.

The wench would never admit to desiring any repetition of it.

He had taken that at face value, but the glistening sheen that coated her nether lips as he wielded the switch was not lost on him, nor was her outpouring of vulnerability and need afterwards.

His little Fiona had been aroused on some level, and he intended to test that response further now.

She could deny it all she liked, but her body would tell him the truth.

She made as though to clamp her thighs together as he slid his fingers around and started to explore the deep crevice between her buttocks.

“No. You will remain open, spread for me.”

“Please…”

“Wider, little Celt.” He tapped her inner thigh, urging her to offer him better access.

“But, your men… They will know, and?—”

“I doubt they will be shocked so please do not trouble yourself on that account. In any case, they have their own tasks to attend to. We are, to all intents and purposes, quite alone.”

It was clear that she did not believe him since the little wench lifted her head to gaze about her, then she dropped her chin again to rest on his chest. He found he did not entirely care for her air of dejection and defeat, but he supposed it was to be expected.

She was powerless, clearly reluctant, but too afraid to resist his demands.

Perhaps it is too soon?

No. He was her master, she his slave. He would have his way.

Ulfric resumed his sensual journey between her clenching buttocks, pausing when he reached the tight rosette of her rear hole. He circled that with one fingertip as she gasped and buried her face in the front of his woollen tunic.

“Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head quickly, though he had no illusions regarding her opinion of such intimacies. He resumed his lazy play, pressing gently on that pursed ring of muscle until she pleaded with him to stop.

“Sir? Ulfric? I have never… please, not there.”

“No, of course not there, not this time. But soon…”

He moved on, now slipping his fingers lower to explore between her soft folds. Her soft and very moist folds.

Yes! He had known it. The Celtic wench might well be embarrassed and apprehensive, her mind recoiling in aghast horror at his bold and intrusive touch but her body was eager enough. She even parted her thighs for him, perhaps not realising what she was doing.

Still reaching around her, Ulfric spread her lower lips from behind and slid his fingers along the length of her slit.

He stroked gently, back and forth, smearing the copious moisture on his fingers, then bringing it back to her puckered anus.

This time when he pressed, the tip of his finger entered her.

She squeaked, and he withdrew. It was enough.

He reached around and beneath her with his other hand, this time seeking her most sensitive little bud.

He found it, already swelling and deliciously plump, and started to draw his fingers back and forth across the very tip.

His touch was slow, lazy almost, but he knew exactly where to concentrate the sensation for the most devastating effect.

This was her first time, he was sure of it.

He would make sure she did not forget what he could do to her if he chose. If she earned it.

Fiona groaned, writhing against his hand. He did not believe she was even aware of her actions as he built the pressure, his unerring caress drawing out a response he was quite certain she had no idea might be lurking.

“Ulfric, what is happening? What are you doing?”

“Am I hurting you?”

“I do not know,” she answered, her tone one of pure dejection. “It feels… strange.”

“Is it unpleasant?”

“No,” she conceded miserably.

“And do you wish me to stop?” He had no intention of doing so, but was interested in her answer even so.

She did not offer a response at once, but wriggled her hips as she sought to angle her clit for better access, more friction. Ulfric rolled the sensitive nubbin between his finger and thumb before he repeated his question.

“Fiona, do you wish me to stop?” He squeezed softly.

“Oh, sweet Lord…”

“Fiona?” Another squeeze, firmer now.

“No. No, do not stop…” The words were wrung from her, a desperate, anguished moan as her first climax coiled and unfurled deep within her. She grasped his tunic with her still-bound hands and hung on to him as though afraid he might even now slip away.

“Do not fight me, little one.”

“I… I am not. I want… I need…”

“Let it go.” He rubbed her clit harder now, and using his spare hand slipped the tip of his finger back into her rear hole.

“Oh! Oh, I cannot… Ulfric, please…”

“Let it happen,” he repeated. “Let me have your release. Now.”

He was rewarded by her long, drawn-out moan of ecstasy as her body contracted and convulsed.

He was tempted to sink his finger deeper into her arse, but resisted.

He wanted her to be aware of every inch he would drive inside her tight channel when he finally took her, so for now he concentrated on drawing out her quivering response with his deft fingers playing her engorged clit.

At last she was still, silent again, and lying limp in his arms. He withdrew his finger from her arse and released her clit, then bent his head to kiss the top of her head.

“Any more bruises, little Celt?”

“What? What did you ask me?”

“I meant, are you all right?”

“I believe that I am. I am not quite sure…”

“Was that good?”

“Good?”

“Was that pleasant? Did it feel nice? To you?”

“It felt… very odd. You put your finger inside my… my…”

“I know where I put my finger, and I shall most certainly do so again so you will need to become accustomed to that notion. You did not want me to stop, though. Did you?”

“Of course I did.”

“No, you did not. I asked you and you said ‘no.’ Right before you found your release.”

“I did no such thing. You just… it was unexpected, that is all.”

“And you are still lying to me, little Celt. This is a bad habit of yours and I will cure you of it.”

“You are threatening me again? But, I did as you asked, and…”

“Be easy, you have pleased me well enough and despite your refusal to acknowledge the pleasure I gave you I shall not take a switch to you this morning. If nothing else, I need you able to sit a horse.”

“Oh.”

He eased her off his chest and arranged her next to him. Then he propped himself up on one elbow to regard her still perplexed features. “We will break our fast, then we should be on our way. Do you require another visit to yonder stand of trees before we leave?”

She reddened prettily. “I… yes, please.”

“Right then.” He smiled at her as he released her bound wrists. “Let us be getting on with it.”

The camp all packed up, Ulfric assisted Fiona to where his mount waited.

He had considered rebinding her wrists when they returned from the brief sojourn in the nearby trees but decided against it.

She could not hope to escape with her injured ankle, and he had learnt a hard lesson himself about underestimating his latest slave.

He would afford her no further opportunity to seize or wield a weapon.

The large horse pawed the crisp earth as they approached, clearly ready to be on his way. It was a sentiment shared by Ulfric and his men.

“Grasp the saddle and hold on. I will help you up.” He swung himself onto the horse’s back then leaned down, his hand outstretched.

Fiona took it, and he hauled her up before him into the saddle.

“You will be more comfortable sitting astride.” He helped her to lift her leg over the steed’s wide back, then tucked his heavy cloak about the pair of them.

“We will be perhaps five or six hours on the road. If you need to stop, you will tell me. Keep close to me and you will be warm enough.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. He noted that she made no attempt to sit forward, or to break contact with the warmth he offered.

Ulfric was surprised to find that this pleased him, though he could not imagine why he would care.

He gave the matter some thought. She was his slave, just property, but valuable even so.

It made sense to take care of valued possessions.

Satisfied, he urged his mount to the head of the line of men.

“Onward,” he called. “We will soon be home.”

“May I ask you a question?”

They had been riding for a couple of hours and the wench in his arms had been silent throughout. Now she turned to look up at him over her shoulder.

“If you wish.”

“How is it that you speak my language?”

“You are not the first slave to be taken from your land. I have listened to their speech all my life and picked up enough to manage.”

“You do not merely manage. You are fluent in my tongue.”

“Thank you. In time you will learn mine, I do not doubt.”

“Perhaps. But, the rest of your men, they do not understand my language?”

“No, they do not.”

“And the other Viking, the dark one with the scar?”

“No, my brother neither, though perhaps he should. His mother was a thrall too, another captive from your land. She died when he was very young, so had little enough opportunity to teach him her native tongue. Gunnar was raised as a Viking with me, in our father’s longhouse.”

“Is he still alive? Your father?”

“No.”

“Do you know if my father…? In the attack on our village, was he…?”

“I do not know. I am sorry.”

“I see.” She fell silent once more.