Author's note: the Icelandic character þ is called a 'thorn' and is pronounced 'th'. So þrall is pronounced 'thrall'.

The warm water pours from my ladle and sluices over his rippling muscles, carrying away with it the blood and grime and sweat and sea-salt. I caress his body with a soft rag. He has the hard muscles of a swordsman, and the pale scars too: they criss-cross his chest and back and shoulders, each pale and puckered patch marks a brush with death. But only a brush.

But what those scars buy... my hand goes absent-mindedly to the beautiful fine gold chain around my neck, the work of the finest Rhineland goldsmiths, a betrothal-bond taken from the neck of a fair southern maiden. A sweet shiver runs down my spine and between my legs at the thought of what else my husband might have taken from that blue-eyed, dark-haired girl. Our longhouse is filled with material treasures: of gold coins and goblets we have plenty, plundered from the strange stone temples of the southern lands.

And sometimes it's the maidens themselves who get plundered and carried back to our longhouse. I meet the eyes of the þrall who kneels on the other side of my husband. The bronze collar around her neck signals her subservient status. Her arms and face are the colour of seasoned oak and her hands tremble as she gently washes my husband's strong body.

My husband lifts his head, his eyes blue-grey like forge-fresh steel, pinning me beneath his gaze. I know what he wants. I stand, dropping the cloth into the bowl of warm water at my feet. The þrall looks up at me, mute, her big brown eyes wide as she realises what might be coming next.

My bare feet padding on the hard-packed dirt floor, I softly pad over and stand behind her. I place my hands on her upper arms and she takes the hint, rising to her feet. My husband sits back against one of the longhouse columns, his attentive eyes taking in every inch of us in the flickering light of the fire.

She's closed her eyes. I can hear her heart pounding in her chest. I lean forward and whisper in her ear: "Be still. Try to relax..."

She cannot understand our tongue, but she understands the tone. She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself. Her eyes are still pressed tightly shut but her breathing slows as she forces herself to relax. I unfasten the brooches which close the straps of her apron-dress, and the heavy fabric falls to the floor to pile around her bare brown feet. I sweep her dark hair to one side and my nimble fingers attack the cord which laces closed her linen shift. I watch my husband's face as it cascades to the floor too, exposing her smooth brown flesh to his gaze. I watch his eyes widen subtly in arousal, his thick member making a tent of his linen undershorts.

The þrall has a fine body indeed. Her breath catches in her throat as I step in close behind her and cup her small left breast, my fingertips caressing her darkening nipple. My other hand is on her hip and I trace my finger-tips down across her belly, down across the downy mound... Her legs are pressed as tightly together as her eyes.

I take her nipple in my left hand and roughly pinch and twist it. A cry escapes from between her lips, she takes the hint and lets me slips my right hand between her legs.

My finger's back on her nipple now, tracing slow circles round and round, my the fingertips on my other hand tracing a line between her lips, drawing slow circles around that knot of pleasure-flesh that rests above. For the second time her breath catches in her throat and I feel a shudder that's definitely not fear ripple through her young lithe body.

I slip in front of her and kneel submissively at her feet. As she feels my hot breath on her lips, her eyes flicker open, and then widen in surprise as I cup her cheeks like a chalice and bring her to my mouth. I reach with my tongue to taste her and find that despite her reluctance, her body has made itself ready to be used; her juices dribble down my chin, her heady musk filling my mouth and nose. All girls taste different but southern girls taste the best.

I slip two then three fingers of one hand easily inside, my knuckles sliding slickly between her lips as I take her into my mouth and suck hard, while roughly thrusting with my fingers. I feel her knees weaken and almost buckle under the intense waves of sensation that wrack her body.

She's ready.

I stand and step back, my chin slick with her arousal. My husband is standing too, his linen undergarments discarded and his sword unsheathed. The flickering light from the fire caresses the blade as it glistens, broad and long and hard as steel, eager to be thrust deep into virgin flesh.

At the sight of the mighty weapon of a Viking warrior, the þrall's eyes widen and she backs away, shaking her head, words from her strange barbarian tongue spilling from her lips:

"Noh!" she says, "Noh... see voo play! grass! see voo play!"

My husband steps forward, lightning fast, catching her wrists and throwing her back onto the straw-stuffed and fur-covered bed where we sleep. The þrall lashes out at him with her feet but he easily evades her kicks, catching her ankles in his strong hands and forcing her knees up almost to her chin, exposing her to him. He pauses and meets her eyes as she lies there, knowing he has her completely at his mercy, her body fairly thrumming with lust for him, but desiring her voluntary submission.

She looks him slowly up and down, her eyes lingering on his shaft, thick and throbbing and lust-beaded. She smiles slyly and looks meaningfully at his shaft and then taps her pursed lips. My warrior looks quizzically at her, not sure what she has in mind. He takes her by the hips and pulls her down the bed so she can kiss the bared blade of his weapon. She smiles up at him, meets his eyes and licks the underside of his shaft long and slow.

He growls, deep in his throat. She parts her lips and slips them over the tip, taking his thick and hard weapon into her mouth! I feel like I should be disgusted, but I find the sight incredibly erotic. She's gripping his shaft in her hand now, her head bobbing up and down. She's definitely done this before, it must be something that these sultry Southern sluts do for their sires-- a Southern Kiss. My warrior's fingers are laced through her hair and his eyes closed, growling through his teeth as he enjoys the þrall's talented mouth.

Such talents should not go unrewarded. Her torso lies between my husband's legs and I kneel between hers, bring her lips to mine like a drinking-cup, and eagerly sup. She moans low in her throat and I feel one long-fingered hand reach down and take a handful of my hair. The mistress's hair bunched in the hand of the þrall; the role-reversal turns me on so much.

My husband gets rougher with her, gripping her hair in his hand and thrusting between her lips. Her eyes are pressed shut in concentration as she moves under him, letting him use her mouth and throat for his pleasure. He thrusts deep into her, his balls slapping against her chin and she starts to gag on him.

From where I kneel at her feet I can look up across the smooth expanse of her belly, between the small hills of her young breasts and see my warrior roughly thrusting himself between the þrall's moist lips.

Obediently I yield to him, my fingers beckoning between the þrall's parted lips, caressing her in the way all women love. Between my own two lips I take her knot of pleasure-flesh and caress it with my tongue. I lift my eyes across that smooth expanse of belly and see her leaning back on her arms, eyes closed, breath coming out in ragged gasps as the tension builds within her.

Her fingers tighten, gripping my hair tight as the þrall grinds herself into my mouth, using me -- her mistress -- for her pleasure. Looking up across her taut, flat belly, across her heaving chest, I see her at the moment of climax, my fingers deep inside her, feel as her young body is wracked by waves of pleasure.

As it subsides her fingers loosen on my hair and I start to push myself up, chin slick with her arousal, panting from the exertion. I turn and see my husband grinning at us, his spear once blunted, now upraised once more and ready for battle.

But I feel a tug as the þrall, standing behind me, takes my hair in her hand again. A wicked smile spreads like spilled milk across my husband's face. With her other hand she smartly slaps my ass! I cry out in surprise and pain and humiliation. First I bring her to climax even as I remain yet unsated, then she raises her hand against me!

I turn, my own hand upraised to show her who is the þrall and who is the mistress, but I find it caught in my husband's tight grip. My cheeks flush and redden in my mounting humiliation, to have my own husband discipline me in front of the þrall. My head bowed in shame, I relent and allow my husband's þrall to force me to my knees in front of him.

Kneeling before him as he sits, he looks a giant, even bigger than he does when he takes me in our marital bed. He towers over me, his broad shoulders and chest a shield-wall of muscle and scar-tissue, his powerful legs corded with muscle, and between them his warrior's weapon, raised for assault and glistening in the flickering firelight.

I think I know what's coming next.

With the þrall's fingers in my hair I let her guide my lips to his shaft. She shows me the shape to make with my mouth, drawing in my cheeks, using my tongue, making my mouth a pleasureable hole for my husband to use.

I take him between my lips. He tastes of salt and sweat and cum and þrall. A shudder runs through me from the nape of my neck, right down through my heart and between my legs as I taste another girl on my husband's shaft.

I can only take the very tip, so I wrap my hands around the rest of him and milk him like a cow's udder into my mouth, my two hands pumping up and down his slick shaft. I hear him groan, watch over that vast expanse of warrior-flesh as his eyes close in pleasure and he leans his head back.

But the þrall is having none of it. Her fingers lace through my hair and she forces my head down down, driving my husband's weapon deeper into me until I start to gag and choke on his thick lance. She finally relents and I bolt upright, eyes smarting, drool slopping from my chin onto my chest, gasping for breath.

As I kneel there, regaining my composure, the þrall takes my husband by the hand and has him kneel behind me. I smile, a throbbing tingle of anticipation between my thighs at the prospect of being filled with my warrior's thick member, and then with his emission. I obediently go forward on my hands and knees and waggle my ass at him.

But the þrall has other ideas. She stands, straddling me, facing my husband. She lays a stinging smack on my ass cheeks, one after the other. I bite my lip to suppress my cry, and bear this humiliation as I know the warrior desires.

And then she puts her finger in my ass.

Just one, slick with olive oil plundered from the same place she was, it slips easily into that tight hole. Again I feel like I should be outraged and disgusted by this but to my surprise I find that having her -- the girl who should be serving at my beck and call -- violate me like this sends a shudder of pleasure from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair.

One finger becomes two, then three. I feel myself stretching as the þrall forces me wider, using me in a way in which I was never supposed to be used. I growl deep in my throat as she violates me with her fingers, shamed and humiliated and more turned on than I have ever been in my life.

I feel a fourth finger slip into me, how much wider will she stretch me? What will I be made to take? Her fingers slip from me and I find out what I am to be made to take. My husband slides his oiled weapon into my stretched and abused asshole. He growls as I take it deeper and deeper inside me, more deep than the þrall's fingers reached, until I feel his balls resting against my lower lips.

I can feel him, all of him deep inside as he begins to thrust into me. He draws back his hips and then drives forward, slamming his thick lance deep into my willing flesh, sinking it deep into me, up to the hilt. It is so intense I cry out, but I want this. I want him to use me like this. Want him to take what he wants, to abuse my ass.

I reach down between my legs and feel how empty I am in the place he usually takes me, and how ready I am to be taken there, even as he's thrusting deep into my tight ass, roughly pounding me. My fingers are still between my legs, playing with myself as roughly as he plays with me.

I am tight for him and he doesn't last long, and nor do I. As his first load splashes up inside me I feel the climax wrack my body, as I clench tight around him, as if milking every last drop out of him. He cries out with the intensity but I can feel him pumping his load like a geyser deep inside me.

He slips out and I lie panting on the floor for a few moments, feeling his gift as it settles inside me. When I push myself to my feet I see my husband and the þrall entwined together in a tangle of pale and dusky limbs on the pile of furs that comprise our bed.

Smiling, I go to join them, admiring the þrall's smooth brown skin, taking in her body from her toes to her neck-- my heart catches in my throat. With trembling fingers I reach up to touch my own neck, to find what I know must be there: the collar of a þrall.

My master's cum filling my ass, I curl up at the foot of his bed, where I belong, awaiting his and his dusky-skinned wife's command.