Thunder's Slaves

Thunder's Slaves
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ISBN:  9781907976056
Author:  Drusilla Leather
Word Count:  63,407
Format:  eBook

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She would never have thought it was possible to take something of those dimensions but, somehow, he was working deeper into her, stretching the virgin walls of her anus. He was moving slowly, attempting to accustom her to the length and girth of the member that she gripped so tightly within, and she was about to thank him inwardly, until he began to thrust, causing her to cry out. Now he was more urgent, muttering something guttural in her ear which could have been a compliment or a curse. She felt the coarse fabric of his shirt scratching against her back, and heard the slap of his heavy balls against her sore buttocks as he buried himself in her as deeply as he could go. Tethered as she was, she was compelled to move with him, trying to accustom herself to the strange new sexual sensations that were building within her.

Max Cavendish thinks his brother Jonathan's archaeological expeditions are pointless and boring - until he realises the latest one will give him a chance to get his hands on Jonathan's gorgeous, submissive girlfriend, Justine. Together with a beautiful and sexually inventive American doctor, they are heading for a mysterious island, once a Viking settlement but now dead and forgotten.

Only the island isn't dead, and the warriors who live there have their own plans for Justine, the attempts of the members of the expedition to free her from slavery and make an escape causing them to confront their darkest sexual desires...

 

She came to and saw a face staring at her. A headache throbbed low at the back of her skull, and when she tried to pull away from the man standing before her, she could not move. Glancing around, she realised that her arms and legs were securely tethered to two freestanding poles in the middle of a circle of earth.
   'Who are you?' she asked, her voice trembling with fear. 'What the hell are you playing at?'
   The man gazed at her, saying nothing.
   'Don't just ignore me,' she demanded. 'Untie me. Let me go.'
   Again he stared at her, a look of blank incomprehension on his face as he followed the movements of her mouth, and she had the sudden, unsettling realisation that he could not speak English. She looked at him, properly this time. He was bending, so his face was level with hers; if he straightened up, she decided, he would probably be taller than either Jonathan or Max, both of whom stood six foot in height. And he was not only tall, but broad; wide-shouldered and sturdy, with hands whose dimensions she had become all too familiar with as he had tried to heave her out of the tent. His hair was his glory; a thick, wild strawberry blond mane that fell well beyond his shoulders in loose waves, with two small plaits in the front section, one on each side of his head. His eyes were grey and his face young and unlined. He dressed strangely, too: a loose tunic of coarsely woven fabric, and dun-coloured breeches that were bound up to his knees with criss-crossing straps of leather. He looks like something out of the books I had when I was a kid, Justine thought crazily. He's a storybook Viking.
   This was stupid. There were no such things as Vikings, not any more. They had mutated from the wild adventurers who had raped and pillaged their way across half the world into city-suited Danes and Norwegians more familiar with corporate raiding than its physical counterpart. And even if the Norsemen did still exist, it would not be here on Odinland, an island deserted and forgotten about for the best part of a thousand years. She had merely banged her head crawling around in the cramped confines of that lousy tent, and this whole thing was a concussion-induced dream.
   Though if that were the case, surely she would be able to walk away from the situation. As she struggled to find even an inch of purchase in the unforgiving ropes that circled her wrists and ankles, she knew with a horrifying certainty that she was not hallucinating: she really was tied up. Suddenly, Justine felt very alone and very vulnerable.
   If she knew how far from the base camp she had been taken, she could have risked a scream. Jonathan and Adrienne would have been able to hear her; if not, perhaps she might even have attracted the attention of the errant Max. Though what he would say if he saw her bound and immobile did not bear thinking about. She could still remember the firm, insistent pressure of his hands as he had kneaded her breasts while she hung in willing suspension in his playroom. She thought of the moments before Anita had made her unexpected entrance, when she had felt those hands sliding lower, unbuckling the belt of her jeans, and pushing aside the loose denim to fondle her sex through the thin cotton of her panties before bringing her to a shattering orgasm. It shamed her to admit, even to herself, that for all her protestations, whatever he had done to her, she had made only a token resistance.
   She shuddered, feeling a steady pulse beginning to beat between her legs. Bloody Max Cavendish: why did the thought of him turn her on so much, when he was the cold, cruel opposite of his kind-hearted brother? Justine longed to rub her thighs together to soothe the dull ache, but her abductor had secured her legs too widely apart, and she wriggled in a mixture of alarm and frustration.
   If she could not summon help, this man could do anything to her. He came close, ruffling her soft, fair hair and stroking her cheek. She tried not to flinch at his touch, not wanting him to know how frightened she was, and his big, work-worn hand slowly moved down her neck. Justine had always liked to be caressed there, and she could not prevent a small sigh of pleasure as his fingers circled over the sensitive flesh below her jaw line.
   Any pleasure vanished completely at his next movement. He grabbed at her faded red tee-shirt and pulled it out of the waistband of her jeans. With almost no visible effort he ripped the tee-shirt in half, shredding it from her body and tossing it to the ground. A puzzled frown crossed his face and she followed his gaze down her own torso, to realise he was staring at the lacy bra she was wearing. He reached out a curious finger and touched the soft material of one cup, then pulled experimentally at the shoulder strap. If he expected the elasticated strap to tear as easily as the tee-shirt had done, he was disappointed, and Justine winced as he tugged harder. After a moment's hesitation he bent and pulled a small knife from the strapping around his knee. Justine watched the blade glittering in the sunlight before he began to saw at her bra straps. That done, he cut the strip of fabric that separated the cups, letting the now useless garment fall to the floor as he sheathed the knife once more.
   Justine felt cool air on her small, pale breasts. She was aware that her nipples were stiffening, though she could not have said whether it was the breeze that caused them to harden, or her own sense of fear, mingled with anticipation. Part of her mind was thousands of miles away from this forest clearing, back in a room in a Suffolk farmhouse, where the man who gazed on her semi-naked body, liking what he saw, was Max.
   Hands closed around her breasts, cupping and squeezing them roughly. She wriggled in her bonds; wanting to pull away and yet, despite herself, feeling a moistening in her quim and the seam of her jeans beginning to chafe against her swelling labia.
   'Stop it, you're hurting me,' she whimpered, as the man continued to toy with her nipples, pinching them hard between his finger and thumb till small, dull fires of pain raged within them. It was useless to protest: this man, whoever he was, could not understand a word she said, and she suspected that even if he could, he would still have paid no attention to her pleading. And yet, as she rode the pain, it was beginning to turn to a new sensation - one that, had she cared to put a name to it, she would have described as pleasure.
   As he turned his attention to her jeans, she noticed that the creamy flesh of her breasts was mottled with the purplish-red marks his powerful fingers had left. Despite the roughness of his touch, she was already beginning to miss it as he fumbled with her belt. That, and the fly buttons of her jeans, presented no problem to him and without ceremony he yanked both her jeans and panties down to her knees, hobbling her further.
   For a moment he contemplated the twin globes of her naked backside. Then he used his big hands to pull her cheeks apart. She could not see his face, but could imagine him gazing intently at the dark furrow his actions had revealed. He loosed his grip and, with shocking suddenness, his hand smacked down hard on each one in turn, her flesh stinging and reddening under the force of the blows. He smiled and muttered something in satisfaction, before peppering her buttocks with further slaps. Justine wriggled in her bonds, trying to jerk her body away from his punishing palm, but he caught his hand in her fair hair and pulled her closer to him. She yelped and whimpered as the skin of her arse turned a fiery red, conscious that even as she registered the stinging pain, her pussy continued to throb and demand relief.
   He thrust his hand between her legs, encountering the wetness of her quim, and she moaned. First one, then a second finger was pushed roughly into the entrance of her cunt, stretching her wide. She could not stop him from exploring every inch of her, and in truth she could not have said she wanted to. Max was right: it did turn her on to be tied up, helpless, unable to prevent herself from being taken. A third finger was added to the two which probed her, as her juices began to flow copiously. He scooped up her honeyed lubrication and smeared it over her clit, rubbing at the hard little button till she was half-delirious with ecstasy. This man knew what he was doing: he wanted to give her pleasure, as well as take his own.
   And then the finger dabbled in her wetness again, but this time it rubbed at the opening of her other, forbidden hole. No one had touched Justine there before, and she gasped as the finger slowly wormed its way inside her. She felt herself submit to the intrusive digit, and her captor gave a grunt of satisfaction as he watched her writhe, impaled on his strong, thick fingers, driving herself on towards orgasm.
   Suddenly he pulled out, leaving Justine flushed and panting for breath. She watched silently as he dropped his own breeches, gazing wide-eyed at the thickness of his erect cock. Until then she had always thought of Jonathan as well endowed, and she suspected, from the size of the bulge she had seen in Max's trousers when he had been playing with her back at his home, that the elder of the Cavendish brothers was similarly blessed. But nothing she had previously experienced compared to the hard column of flesh that jutted upwards from the nest of gingery-blond hair at this Viking's groin. She yearned to reach out and stroke it, to fall to her knees and take it into her mouth.
   He seemed to sense what she was thinking, for he grinned proudly and began to stroke the length of his shaft, pulling the foreskin away from the bulbous glans that was already weeping tears of excitement. Justine could not tear her eyes away from the movement of his fingers. Her sex felt cavernous and empty, and all she could imagine was that huge cock plunging into it and filling it utterly.
   When he came behind her again and grasped her firmly around the waist, she was ready for him. She had never before felt so wet, her sticky juices trickling down her thighs. The blunt head of his erection bumped against the entrance to her vagina, and she mewled and thrust her hips backwards, seeking to draw him inside.
   And then she felt him move slightly, so that now he was lodged against her anus. This she had not expected, and she tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. His cock-head thrust at her, insistently seeking entry. Justine bowed her head, acquiescing to the inevitable...

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