Britta was now fifth in line for Ragnar, who had already driven his first ten women to gasping, wailing, screaming orgasm after hurling them onto the snowy ground, tearing off their gowns and plunging his immense penis into their very depths.
From here, that mighty organ seemed as hard, thick and tall as the prow of a Viking ship--the accursed vessel she had seen on the horizon, carrying the raiders that had stormed her father's castle. She did not know why her lower body now seemed as wet as the ocean that had borne the cruel invaders. Her vagina was pouring forth wave after wave of moisture, until she felt sure that the puddle would soon reach her knees.
But I feel nothing but hatred for him, the Irish princess assured herself. And I will not submit to him, she swore, as she stood silently waiting her turn behind her two weeping waiting-maids. I will not be another victory in the horrible competition he is holding against his cousin Torvald.
Neither she nor any other woman would change the outcome of this slave rape contest, and all the cheering spectators knew it. Torvald was only on his second woman and was obviously finding it hard to finish the job..
This final rival had worn himself out the previous evening, Ragnar remembered with contempt. He and Torvald had each had another competitor then, and Torvald had barely won the day--or, rather, the evening--against an opponent with graying hair.
"What ho, Cousin?" Ragnar cried to his sweating, straining rival. "Are you tiring already? Why, a mere ten women are merely enough to arouse me for the next dozen. Is it too hard for you to enjoy a mere two?" Tossing back the lion's mane of golden hair that reached beyond his shoulders, Ragnar laughed uproariously. "Or, mayhap, it is not hard enough."
Karl Gustavsen, on the other hand, found it very easy to throw his copy of "Ravished by Ragnar" across the store--or, more accurately, the Viking Museum and Import Shop of Minneapolis.
"Is it that bad?" his sister asked sympathetically.
"It's worse," he complained, tossing back the straight blond hair that reached the collar of his University of Minnesota sweatshirt. "Vikings holding rape contests. And a championship with playoffs, yet! But those crazy women love it. They are even standing in line to get their copies signed, right over there. One of them left this copy here, but she's probably back there buying another one."
He waved at the left side of the window, in the general direction of the bookstore at the other end of the mall. There, Rose Jacobson's fans were standing in line to get her smile and signature on "Ravished by Ragnar," her second Viking romance and the sequel to "Enslaved by Eric."
The line was not very long. It consisted of only six people, in fact, but the last of these had to stand outside the small bookstore. At that, Karl had to admit that the crowd was a lot larger than any he had ever hosted in the Viking Museum. But then, he was trying to tell the truth about Vikings, not turn them into walking dildoes.
"A rape contest!" he exclaimed. "Really, Ingrid. And because they are talking about our ancestors, they can get away with it. What if she had written about two Black men or Hispanics or Jews holding a rape contest?"
Having originally phrased that mentally as "Black men or Jews or Hispanics," he had hastily re-cast it into alphabetical order, to avoid implying that he had singled any one group out for the dis-honor. But no matter how far down the alphabet "Vikings" might be, they were still on top of the list for stereotypes of sex, violence and both.
"Well, Rose Jacobson was a history teacher," Ingrid answered timidly. "I read that in the Minneapolis Journal. She must know something about it."
"She knows what sells!" And the newspaper article had proven that she knew how to produce it.
Originally released in the eBook section of Orgazm Books, "Ravished" had rapidly sold the 200 copies needed to qualify for print publication. This was, apparently, the Valhalla of all eBook authors. She was also able to quit her day job, which was well known to be the Valhalla of all artists, period.
Valhalla was one of the few positive Viking traditions that had survived the rape fantasies. Of course, there was wenching in Valhalla--or, rather, consensual sexual relations with Valkyries, who had carried the warrior there as a reward for courage on the field. You could call it the Viking GI Bill of Rights. But it always was, well, consensual, he assured himself. And based on shared interests and mutual respect.
But, face it, Viking rape fantasies sold. A lot better than authentic Norwegian patterned sweaters that hung against the wall of his gift shop. He realized that once again, when some of the ladies from the book signing straggled in to look at them.
They were beautiful handcrafted works and also warm enough to serve as coats on a fall day. He pointed that out to them and they seemed to be interested, until he showed them the price tag. Then they hastily put the garments down, no doubt with thoughts of going to the mall to find mass-produced facsimiles at a quarter of the cost, made in China, which was one of the few places his Viking ancestors had never gone.
Instead, the women were purchasing a few of the gilded filigree brooches and amber-bead necklaces in the front display case. These were also authentic and would, he felt bitterly, be just the thing for them to wear, as they fondly imagined being Raped by Ragnar. Ingrid was pointing out their other advantage: mixing silver and gold tones, they could be worn with any other accessories, in a way that would not be rediscovered for millennia.
The shoppers also leafed through the English-language editions of Norwegian magazines and vice versa, while resting on the Swedish farmhouse sofa. These purchases would not, however, pay the rent on this store, located so close to the world's greatest shopping mall.
He had long since given up on trying to sell the sofa itself. This was the shop's most expensive item, with the wooden frame handcrafted in pale blue paint and intricate carving. It was simply not the kind of thing one bought at a gift shop, when the import chains were able to purchase in bulk and pass the savings on.
His parents had sold shoes here, and these had not been able to pay the rent either. They had therefore, perhaps, shown their true Viking heritage by heading for more promising climes, in this case Florida, leaving him to run the store.
Some would say he had run it into the ground, by turning it into a Viking Museum, but he was still proud of the way he had tried to respect his roots. Especially since so many people were trying to tarnish them.
(If that is what one did to roots, he thought, having graduated from the University of Minnesota with enough liberal arts credits to know that you did not mix metaphors. He had gotten good grades in English, even though he had gone to college on a football scholarship, as his broad shoulders and muscular arms still testified).
"May I see those brooches, please?"