The Viking Woman Who Ruled the Valley as She Pleased
I, who served the house of the lord of Valle Hondo since my hands could barely hold a candelabrum, am finally sitting down to tell the story of the foreign woman. I do not do it for the thrill of scandal, but with the patience of one who has watched the years go by and has learned that the extraordinary is remembered for generations.
No one remembers now the exact date when the blonde Astrid came down into the valley from the cold northern lands. But everyone kept in memory her dazzling figure and that eccentric character that so bewildered the people of those isolated parts. She had arrived on the arm of Don Severino, owner of the manor house and of every forest and slope the eye could reach. To the annoyance of some and the gratitude of others, the village began calling her “the Viking woman,” and although her name was Astrid, the nickname stuck to her until the day she died.
At first, they were years of nonstop revelry. Wine flowed by the bucketful, the doors of the manor were never closed, and in the gardens one could see women sunning themselves with their tits out and their legs spread to the wind, just as easily as men mounting them on the grass without bothering to hide either their cocks or their groans. I saw the notary’s wife sucking off a stranger behind the gazebo, her skirt hiked up and her ass bare, while two others ate each other’s mouths over a blanket. The common folk lived off that circus too, because everything fed the gossip in the café and the pharmacy. The sweet shop prospered, the tavern could not keep up, and even the most modest girls would let some good-looking stranger fuck them on the sly, with their panties hanging from one ankle and a hand over their mouths so they would not cry out. Desire, once unbound, seeped into every corner of the valley.
In time things calmed down, though the Viking woman, with her firm breasts and those large, pink nipples that looked to the sky, her well-formed hips, her blond cunt that was always wet, and her long mane of fire, still stirred passions and envy, especially among the women. It was not just one man, but many, who murmured her name in their sleep while coming halfheartedly inside their own wives, imagining it was Astrid’s cunt squeezing their cocks.
And then, when no one expected it anymore, the foreign woman put things in order. With the serenity of one who rules her own territory, she organized life in the manor with a discipline as ironclad as it was original. Everyone had their day, their hour, and their function, and no one dared disturb the balance imposed by the lady. What is most curious is that the valley’s leading lights accepted that arrangement delightedly, pleased to have a reserved place in the house’s tightly packed schedule.
Monday was devoted to Don Severino himself, a man of proud temper and curious inclinations. He liked the hard side of pleasure, and the Viking woman knew how to give it to him. She handled the whip and the riding crop with a skill that left the lord red as a beet, his ass crisscrossed with marks and his cock dripping from the effort of holding back, just enough to keep him laid up for half the week in the bedchamber of the south tower, from where he contentedly watched the gardens.
She would have him bound for hours to an X-shaped cross, naked, with his cock held rigid by ointments and tight cords at the base and around the balls, and weights hanging from him that could not dislodge while he stayed hard. I myself, from the doorway, watched her work him with the patience of a craftswoman: she pinched his nipples until he howled, licked the tip of his cock without letting him come, shoved two fingers up his ass while biting his neck. After dinner, she let a few drops of warm wax from the candles that lit the room fall onto his skin, measuring each moan like someone tuning an instrument. The wax slid over his chest, over his belly, over his swollen balls, and he shook all over, unable to move.
—Endure it, pig —she would tell him, without raising her voice, gripping his cock firmly—. If you come before I say so, tomorrow we start over. And I won’t even let you breathe.
And he endured it, with clenched teeth and glassy eyes, because he feared and admired that woman in equal measure. Only at nightfall, when the lord had passed the test, did the Viking woman undress very slowly before him, show him her cunt spread open with two fingers, make him beg, and finally untie him just enough to climb on top of him. She would sit down on his cock in one blow, all the way in, and ride him with her hands braced on his chest, scratching him, forcing him to look at her tits rising and falling. She squeezed her cunt around his cock like a gag, moved in circles, rose almost all the way up and came down on it again, until Don Severino, exhausted, came inside her with an animal roar. Only then did she come too, rubbing her clit against his pubic bone, soaking everything, reminding him who truly ruled the manor and the whole valley.
Tuesday was for visitors. The lady received, according to a hierarchical scale no one questioned, the men who upheld the order of the district. First came the judge, already advanced in years, whom she invited to breakfast. While he brought her news from the capital, she knelt under the table, pulled down his hose, and took out the wrinkled cock hidden in the folds of cloth. She sucked him slowly, with her tongue flat beneath the glans, licking each ball one by one, until the poor old man got as hard as he had not been in years. She squeezed the base with two fingers, took him all the way to her throat, and with that mouth of hers she got out of him in a little while what his stern wife had denied him for a decade. The judge came in with muffled groans, and she swallowed everything without wasting a drop, licking her lips before serving him coffee again. The poor man left there lighter and more loyal than ever, his legs still trembling.
In the afternoon it was the doctor’s turn, a vain little fop whom the Viking woman treated with calculated contempt. She stripped him naked in the middle of the room, turned him around, marked his buttocks and back with her teeth, whispered in his ear everything he lacked to be a real man. She took his cock with two fingers, with feigned disgust, shook it a little, and left him trembling with humiliation and desire, his stiff dick pointing at his navel. Sometimes she opened her robe, showed him her tits and blond cunt, and forbade him to touch himself while she caressed herself before him. The more she despised him, the sooner he came back each week, ready to come in his own drawers as long as she would look at him.
And at dusk, if he was not on duty, Captain Damián of the militia showed up, stiff in uniform and soft of character. She did not even bother to ride that one. She told him the ins and outs of the valley while he stood there in his underwear, his cock poking out absurdly through the opening, and then she recited to him, one by one, the infidelities of his own wife. She described in detail how many cocks the bitch had sucked, how she spread her legs for the blacksmith in the back room, how she let her brother-in-law fuck her on Sunday mornings. The captain went red, clenched his fists, tears sprang to his eyes, and in the end he finished on his knees licking the lady’s feet, sucking her fingers one by one, not daring to go beyond her knee while he gave himself a pitiful wank she watched with contempt. Afterward she sent him back home in his skivvies, chastened and, nonetheless, grateful.
***
Wednesdays she reserved for Don Anselmo, Don Severino’s father, a ninety-year-old man who had to be treated with all due ceremony. He was content to run his tongue over every inch of his daughter-in-law’s body. He licked her tits until her nipples were hard and shining, buried his face between her thighs, pried open her cunt with trembling fingers, and licked it slowly, savoring it like someone drinking an old wine. She granted him a few minutes of glory, came two or three times into his toothless mouth, and the old man savored that nectar as if it were his last supper. When her father-in-law left with a wet beard and a blessed smile, this servant stepped in.
Because I, in addition to watching over the lady’s guard and custody, had been charged with satisfying her needs, which were neither few nor simple. Many an afternoon I found her lying on her back on the divan, legs open and her cunt still shining with the old man’s saliva, ordering me to clean her with my tongue before I fucked her. I obeyed. I licked her thighs, sucked her clit until she arched, slid two fingers deep inside while she pulled my hair and guided my face. She was always inventing games, trying out contraptions brought from who knows where: metal balls I had to insert into her one by one, straps she buckled around my waist, an ivory scepter with which she asked me to penetrate her slowly while she writhed her tits. Then, when she was ready, she demanded that I mount her on all fours and fuck her hard, mercilessly, gripping her by the hair. She dug her nails into my ass as I rammed into her, shouted without shame, “like that, deeper, harder, come inside,” and I ended up emptying myself to the last drop in her tight cunt. I confess that never, in all my years, did I find a task that left me so exhausted or so eager to repeat it.
On Wednesday evening, once night had fallen, she devoted herself to the women of the valley. They dined alone — except for me, who served the table —, told one another the misfortunes of their husbands, debated new candidates, and, warmed by wine, surrendered themselves to pleasure with the newest toys the Viking woman knew how to get hold of. I watched them from the corner of the room remove one another’s bodices, suck each other’s tits while laughing, spread their legs over the cushions. The apothecary’s wife, with those huge udders, let two women suck her nipples at once while she worked a pearl dildo into her cunt. The baker’s wife, the most eager of them all, got on all fours and let herself be fucked from behind with a harness the Viking woman buckled around her hip, her buttocks red from so much spanking. They learned from her without daring to contradict her. They imitated her laugh, her way of walking, her way of coming with her lower lip between her teeth, until they became, little by little, pale copies of the lady.
Thursday was the bishop’s day, and he always arrived accompanied by a nephew of exquisite manners. The three of them locked themselves in the seamstresses’ room, sealed it tight, and I never witnessed what happened there, for I was forbidden to enter. All I know, because the lady told me afterward, with a hoarse voice and a glass of wine in her hand, is that she served as a privileged spectator while the nephew knelt before the prelate and sucked him with liturgical devotion. She told me how the bishop pushed the boy’s head against his cock until he arched, how afterward he bent him over the seamstresses’ table and fucked him in the ass with his cassock hiked up, while she slowly stroked her cunt in the armchair, never taking her eyes off them. The Viking woman took more pleasure in looking than in touching; seeing, for her, was a way of possessing. She came in silence, alone, with two fingers buried deep inside, without either man daring to touch her.
—There is nothing more mine than what I look at without being seen —she once told me, while brushing her mane in front of the mirror, still naked—. Flesh is forgotten. The gaze is not.
Friday she rested from so much bustle and prepared for the weekend. Once a month, the lords celebrated their bacchanals, and invited some novelties from the valley, men or women, hidden beneath carnival disguises so that no one would be answerable for what their body did that night. The salons filled with intertwined bodies: mouths sucking anonymous cocks, cunts opened to receive two cocks at once, women coming on the tongues of other women, semen sliding down chins and tits belonging to no one. Among the most accomplished were the apothecary’s wife and the baker’s wife, both with generous anatomy and an even greater appetite. I saw them take three cocks at once, one in the cunt, another in the ass, another in the mouth, refusing nothing that was proposed to them, with smeared makeup and crooked masks while they begged to be filled with cream.
On Saturday two more figures appeared. The first, Don Honorato, the irritable man who ran the village school and acted as the house’s go-between, always with the dark intention of marrying his grown daughter to Aurelio, the heir. The second, Don Casimiro, a brilliant professor nicknamed the Staff, because he had a thick, arm-length instrument, very much like the lord’s own. When the Staff unbuttoned his trousers and took out that enormous cock, with the veins standing out and the glans like a fist, even the maids spying from behind the door crossed themselves. The Viking woman knew how to get the most out of that human serpent: she sucked him with both hands and her mouth stretched as wide as it would go, rubbed him between her tits, squeezing them tight against the sides, and very slowly drove him into her cunt with a long moan, complaining of pleasure as she felt herself split in half. She played with him without ever letting his vigor flag, changing positions until dawn: on top, underneath, on all fours with the cock buried to the hilt, sideways with one leg raised. She enjoyed his company until the good man, after hours of brutal thrusting, watered her to his heart’s content, filling her cunt with such an abundant load that it ran down her thighs.
Aurelio, for his part, was a shadow of his father. He imitated, learned, and experimented, always under the Viking woman’s watchful eye, which guided him with the same firmness she had shown Don Severino. She taught him how to lick a cunt with exact technique, how to fuck without coming too soon by squeezing the base of the cock, how to spank an ass without leaving ugly marks. She made him practice on her herself, lying naked and ordering him, “slower, like that, now put your tongue in, now suck the clit, harder.” When she considered him ready, she opened her legs and let him come inside so he would learn endurance as well. The wives of the valley, intrigued and jealous, copied the lady without daring to challenge her, so that in the end the manor was populated by men and women who increasingly resembled their two hosts.
That was the weekly plan in Valle Hondo, and it rarely varied. The Viking woman held the balance between authority and charm, between fear and fascination, between punishment and tenderness. It is curious to think that a foreign woman who arrived from the cold lands ended up being the true mistress of the valley. Her influence went beyond flesh and scandal: she changed forever the way those people understood freedom, desire, and power.
Today, from the shadow that belongs to me, I write what I saw. The rumors that crossed the square became, from mouth to mouth, legend. But I, who was inside, know that the legend was born from sheer reality, and that no words do justice to the woman who, with a smile, a strap, and the most desired cunt in the valley, ordered the secret desires of an entire village.
