Two smiling Vikings hauled the squirming man to the
gunnels, grasping his upper arms and bending him on the
rail. His mistress examined the scars on his thighs and
found that he had been serving her for eight moons. She
grinned at him as he begged in a language she did not
understand, drew her fish gutting knife from her belt,
grasped his scotum, pulled it down and cut off his
testicles cleanly and then rammed them into his
screaming mouth.
“Well done, Greta,” said one of the two holding the
writhing man. Together they pushed him over the side
and into the gray sea. For a minute or so his feet
bobbed in the red-dyed waves.
The next surplus male was dragged forward to the bloody
hatchway and his woman approached with her thin blade
in her teeth. Wordlessly she brushed aside his limp
cock, grasped his hanging balls and sawed them off,
tossed them into the sea and turned her back on the
spurting male who had failed to satisfy her twice. Over
he went, his cry ending in a gurgle.
By then Gerta had selected one of the cowering new boys
they had stolen in the recent raid and hurried him to
her place with an arm bent behind him, sat him down
roughly and shackled him and then called for the
sucker. The toothless old man hurried to her bench,
knelt and did his job. It was all that kept him alive,
getting men ready to perform their duty. He grinned up
at the proud Viking and crawled away, licking his
chops.
Gerta smiled at the boy’s tall, slim erection, got her
well-muscled legs on both sides of the narrow rowing
bench, rose and sat on the young man’s loins, impaling
herself on his stiff prick with a sigh of satisfaction.
He squealed, feeling as if his cock was going to be
torn from his lean body. She held him firmly at the
shoulders, her jutting breasts right at his bewhiskered
chin and ordered him to thrust, then arching her back
and putting a tit in his gaping mouth she enveloped him
with a gasp of pleasure and squeezed firmly.
The boy did not understand the word, but he knew what
was wanted and rammed his stiff cock up into the big
woman hard and fast, the bloody sights he had just
witnessed fresh in his frightened mind. For more than a
week, he had waited his turn, hoping he would be able
to satisfy one of the lusty Vikings. He groaned as
their flesh slapped together, and he rubbed his tongue
over her jutting nipple and sucked it as hard as he
could, straining his belly muscles to thrust again and
again and again. On each penetration he felt his young
manhood being squeezed by powerful interior muscles,
but every recoil was much easier as the fleshy tunnel
relaxed and quivered, preparing for the next heaving
invasion, the next pleasurable sundering, the next
fierce copulation.
“Meirr, more,” demanded the big woman, slashing at his
back with the leather quirt that hung from her wrist
and pushing her other big breast at his mouth. She
tensed her powerful thighs and managed to hook one leg
behind her lover’s backside and pull him tightly to her
hard and hairy groin, her wrists now linked in the
small of his back. Well satisfied with both his size
and strength, Gerta relaxed a bit, planted her foot
back on the deck and tried to remember the motions of
the last horse she had ridden down is Espagna, smiling
at the striving lad’s red and sweating face. Then she
galloped him, bouncing them both off the wooden bench.
It was a ride the boy thought might never end, one that
would leave him with bruised buttocks and thighs.
“Ah, ah,” he grunted, his balls in turmoil as he used
every muscle he had to ram his young penis into the
woman’s fleshy maw faster and faster, doing his best to
meet her demands, to match her tempo, his shackled
hands clawing at the bench. He felt trapped, a prisoner
of the woman’s staggering desire, of her need for
release, for violent friction, for complete
satisfaction. In his mind he saw his predecessor bent
over the charging ship’s rail, the bubbling wake
stirring his hair as this young woman emasculated him
and then filled his gaping mouth with his own flesh
before he was fed to the fishes, spurting blood like a
fountain. He thrust again and again, determined to
survive and crying out in fear and effort, feeling his
climax nearing.
Gerta saw the look in his eyes, felt his hard maleness
swell in her and stepped away, dragging his long, hot
penis from her healthy cunt, its thick lips rippling.
The boy spurted twice, ribbons of sperm that fell to
the bench he sat on. The woman patted his cheek and put
his hands on the oar at his hip. “Jam, gud,” she told
him, still unsatisfied but sure he would be better in
time for he had the size and the strength. She hoped he
would be as good than the kona she had just fed to the
tossing waves, the one with the wonderfully curved
organ who simply wore out. The old sucker came and
licked up the spilled sperm, including a thick streak
on her muscular calf, one of his jobs on the boat, one
of the ways he survived.
The frightened boy understood that he had been accepted
as a sexual slave and dedicated rower on this big
Viking craft manned entirely by frightening women,
fearsome women who carried heavy swords and who
demanded sexual homage from the males they captured and
put to work. He also knew how his life would end unless
these women were defeated or their boat crumpled on
some unseen rocks. Even then, since he was chained to
his post, he knew he was doomed and all he could do was
delay his fate. Deep in his mind, he had to admit he
had enjoyed the woman, enjoyed the frenzied rutting,
and he knew that as long as he did that well, he would
live and be fed. He was sure he could survive on gruel,
fish and sex for the rest of his days.
Greta stood, adjusted her thick belt and looked down
the wide aisle of the longboat where the men bent over
their heavy oars, her jutting breasts still tingling
from their attention, her puffy sex lips quivering,
oozing, wanting more. The sleek ship had rounded the
cape and they were headed into a protected cove and
toward what appeared to be a prosperous fishing village
with cottages spread well up the steep hillside.
“Bend your backs,” cried the tall captain, “roa, roa!”
She snapped her long whip over their heads. Forward
where the lithe blonde now stood at the dragon-headed
prow, whip in hand, her boy kneeling at her side, spray
crested and at the stern the captain’s two big archers
manned the huge steering oar, their mighty male members
swaying freely, looking like ribbed clubs, bronze
adorned badges of their station, their huge ball sacks
dangling from the leather harnesses they wore.
The fair-haired captain called herself Vixen, a name
she had taken from her unfortunate predecessor, the
woman she had eviscerated in a fair fight for
leadership on her third voyage when she was barely
eighteen winters. She had chopped off her snarling
aunt’s right forearm and then ripped open her belly and
as she stood there trying to hold in her coil of guts,
the new Vixen had beheaded her and the kicking body
fell from the wharf and disappeared, dragged down by
her armor. Then she had demanded that the dead woman’s
two Nubian guards come and pay her homage.
After they bowed, arms wide spread, she had one lie on
the dock, his massive member upright in his fist, and
she lowered herself on him, squatting and swallowing up
his wide rod with a fixed smile on her face, and then
the other archer opened his heavy harness and drove his
huge cock up into her raised ass. The other women and
slaves watched in awe as she exhausted them both in her
muscular body and then had the youngest new slave
brought forth to clean her furrows with his tongue.
That boy was the one she now slept with, rolled
together in her soft, goose-down sack, his head between
her thighs and his young prick often in her lips.
Gerta, nominally second in command but in no hurry to
challenge for leadership, approach Vixen, bowed and
said, “We have but two unused boys left, the youngest
ones, rather puny I fear, beardless. Shall we try for
at least another half dozen here?”
Vixen smiled and tousled the fair hair of the boy who
knelt grasping her leg, his talented tongue well up
into her tireless slot, always seeking, from front or
back, keeping her constantly aroused. “Take every
youngster you can find who matches the standard, the
hand. Two or twenty-two, my friend, it matters not.”
She showed her teeth in a nasty smile. “And throw those
two poor bairn overboard, I never thought they would
amount to anything. I’d like to know who picked them.”
“Mona I think, you know she loves the children, the
younger and smaller the better for her. She suckles
them sometimes. She had the board that day. But
Mistress I think we miss some good candidates who are
too frightened to get erect, to lay their manhood on
the measuring board.” Greta smiled at the captain; they
had known each other for several voyages and argued
this before.
“Probably, likely in fact, but I know not another way.
It has been used since the time of the old ones, of the
sagas. We want no little pricks to goad us on our way.
Make sure we do not take any over the age of twenty if
you can, not unless they are like those two black ones
back there.” She smiled and turned her attention to the
landfall, the big, red sail flapping behind her as it
was being lowered.
Gerta laughed, saluted, backed away, unshackled the two
weeping boys, examined their shriveled genitals,
snorted and tossed them over the side and then set to
sharpening her broadsword, conscious that the other
women in the raiding party were also arming themselves,
several standing with their men burrowing between their
legs, doing their duty while they rowed, getting the
women’s battle blood up. She thought of the two big
archers and their prodigious rams, curiously tattooed
cocks that belonged now to the young captain and only
to her. Perhaps, if she did well, she could beg for one
as a hylli. She poured herself a cup of mead, drank it
down and squinted at the nearing shoreline.
“Shields up,” cried Vixen as several large stones arced
toward them from the shore. “They have some sort of
catapults.” She kicked the tow-headed boy aside, and he
crawled into the shelter of the bow strakes, wiping his
bruised mouth on the back of his hand, his immature
male member erect as it usually was, not much bigger
than his thumb.
Rocks splashed near the fast-moving boat as two-dozen
rowers bent their backs. Several big stones bounced off
raised shields, one struck and splintered a railing and
then the captain hurried to the stern and took over the
steering herself as balls of Greek fire mounted from
the shore. Greta hammered the thick railing with her
sword hilt and increased the rowing speed, promising
extra draughts of ale while her war mates used their
short whips on their slaves’ backs.
Vixen’s two prime fuckers, their mighty members jutting
forward like spears, grabbed up their longbows and
began sending iron-tipped shafts toward the defenders
as the smiling woman steered toward a rocky jetty, her
long hair flowing behind like a flag. The narrow dragon
boat skidded along the ledge and the raiding party
scrambled ashore while the ship was still moving,
screaming war cries and flashing their blades, faces
streaked, breasts bare and painted nipples jutting,
trying to look like bezerkers. A half dozen screaming
killers in leather skirts with round shields on their
left arms and their unbound hair streaming behind them
charged toward the thin line of frightened defenders.
Most ran.
Two men with spears stood their ground and were chopped
down and dismembered on the waterfront while the rest
fled, crying for mercy and pushing their families
before them. Mercy was not one of the things these
female raiders knew. They seldom killed women or
children but they quickly owned the market, leaving
several merchants dead on the stones, heads rolling in
the gutters, and their fellows and a few slaves were
quickly there behind them gathering baskets of food and
supplies while the armed women rounded up a dozen or so
young men in the village square.
They made them strip despite the cold wind and demanded
that they use their hands to get their penises hard.
The women sheathed their bloody blades and stood
grinning at the youngsters they had found, most of them
full grown and showing pubic hair, a good haul that
would surely please their insatiable captain. Gerta had
watched Vixen use five newly-captured men in a single
morning after the last raid, cutting one frightened
boy’s cock in two for his failure and kicking another
in the balls when he cried in her arms, his stiff rod
spurting rich cream.
Gerta drew the ancient measuring board from her waist;
it was a red, wooden slab the size and shape of a man’s
extended hand, perhaps six or seven inches in length
from middle finger tip to base of palm. She went from
boy to boy, grasped their stiff cocks and laid them on
the red board. If they measured up, she yanked on their
hard members, and they were led aside, squealing for
mercy. If they did not, she cuffed them and sent them
off to hide with the others up on the hillside.
The five young men whose pricks were long enough were
dragged to the jetty with their meager clothes in their
hands and loaded on the ship along with the food and
cloth from the market. Long oars pushed the boat out
into the bay, the patterned linen sail shuddered up the
mast and the drakkar was soon gone, a bad memory and
the source of horror stories for a century or more in
that tiny village.
With six raiders and only five new males, Gerta stood
aside while her compatriots enjoyed the spoils of their
brief fight. The woman set aside their heavy arms and
sat on the benches in the stern, each with a stripling
on his knees between their strong legs. Each young
man’s head was soon mashed between a smiling Viking’s
thighs, and they were quickly taught what their tongues
were for as their bare buttocks were lashed if their
pace of licking and sucking slowed. A long, braided
whip hung from each woman’s wrist, a quirt used mainly
to encourage rowing speed but also a goad toward
improved sexual performance. There were few men abroad
who did not feel the whip at least once a day and all
bore scared butts and shoulders.
Once the raiders were ready for coitus, their quivering
folds thoroughly slicked and their vaginas teased and
aroused, the boys were brought upright on their knees
and pulled to their main task. Five young horns were
drawn into five hairy pudendas with the women’s hands
grasping the boys’ lean buttocks and their full breasts
at their slaves’ faces. Soon all five youngsters were
sucking and fucking, urged on by hard slashes to their
backs and thighs.
When each woman felt that her slave was nearing the
climax of his frenzied humping, she yanked him to his
feet, took his dripping prick into her mouth and sucked
down his spurting ejaculations, believing it gave her a
man’s strength and knowing it weakened the eager male
before her. Then the shaken boys were shackled along
the ship’s ribs, huddled together for warmth, wearing
only their tattered shirts, frightened and ashamed. The
toothless sucker brought them bowls of gruel and cups
of barley ale, whispering comforting words to each.
The rowers had watched this performance in fear.
Twenty-four men sat on the benches and now there were
five youngsters in chains. It meant that some of them,
they knew, would soon die, died horribly, unmanned and
drowned by their merciless mistresses. It did not take
long for the first exchange to be made. As soon as the
ship cleared the sheltered harbor and the fluttering
sail took hold, two women dragged a startled rower from
his bench, bent him over the rail and watched with wide
smiles as his grinning mistress castrated and
emasculated him, opened his belly with a backhanded
slice and pushed him over the side. She then took one
of the boys to the dead man’s place and initiated him
to his duties as a rower. She did it slowly and
carefully, enjoying the process and making him climax
twice before she was satisfied and shackled him in
place, patting his shaking back.
Once they were in the open sea, Vixen left the stern;
sure her two big men could man the steering oar, and
went to assess the young men gathered in this brief
foray. When the raiding party was ashore, the captain
had taken her ease with her massive archers, exhausting
each one in turn on her sleeping mat while the tow-
headed boy watched and played with himself. She stood
before the new ones now, hands on hips, her long hair
blowing wildly in the wind, her big nipples fully erect
in the cold, rivulets of thick cum oozing down her
legs. “Free those two,” she said, pointing at a pair of
slim youngsters, “they don’t look old enough to me.”
The two followed her to the bow where she grasped the
handles on the side of the dragon figurehead, spread
her long legs and pointed at one dark-haired young man.
“You first,” she demanded in his tongue. The boy shook
with fright as he took his place behind her, despite
himself aroused by her obvious beauty, stood between
her wide-spread feet and stroked himself hard. “Be
quick,” Vixen said loudly, striking back at him with
her short whip. He thrust up into her with a moan, his
buttocks tightly tensed and rove his rod in to the
hilt, to the balls.
“Ah gud,” Vixen cried in Norse. “More, harder,” she
demanded, whipping him again and again until blood ran
down his right leg. The boy grabbed the wooden rungs
above the big woman’s head and arched his whole slim
body into her. He had often mounted two girls in his
village and was preparing to marry one of them soon,
but he had never experienced anything like the
clasping, muscular vagina that he now strove to sunder,
the heated body that seemed to suck him deeper and
deeper. Despite the cold, he was quickly sweat drenched
and then his thighs and belly muscles began to cramp as
he gasped for breath. Fear gathered in his guts.
“Enough, bastante,” Vixen said in a border tongue, one
the boy recognized, and he pulled free of the woman
whose hard butt had been pressing his belly and
stomach, and fell to his knees sobbing with relief.
“Now you,” Vixen said to the other boy, pointing as she
turned to face him, seeing that he was already erect
and ready. She locked her feet on the round steps
behind her and spread her knees, smiling at the lad as
her labia quivered open, obviously wet and ready.
The boy, his face deathly white, struggled to his feet
and stared at the lusty woman, knowing what he must do.
His excited penis softened and flopped as fear spread
through him. He grabbed it and stroked, whimpering. It
was no good, the big woman who had used him only a half
hour before had taken too much out of him. He had
ejaculated four ribbons of his semen on her and into
her mouth, and he had no more to give. He had been a
virgin and now he was frightened, frightened and worse,
suddenly impotent.
He looked up and was about to say that he was sorry
when Vixen’s eating knife sliced though his throat and
his blood sprayed out like a fountain. Spattered with
gore, the captain stepped aside as the body fell at her
feet. Vixen kicked the corpse and said, “Get me the
other two” as the first boy crawled away on the gory
deck and her young pet came to lick away the blood
spots on her ripe body and leather armor.