Iron Age Kink

“Keeper of the Keys” was inspired by wondering what kind of kink would have been likely in Briton England.

Forget butt plugs and handcuffs, what I thought about was how a woman with that much responsibility would experience sex and desire. She feels she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, or on her belt in this case, and I imagine the need to be relieved of that would be enormous. Isn’t some kind of relief or cathartic event what people today report when they discuss their desire to be spanked? And rather than a lover barging in and taking charge, it seemed more interesting to have her realize this need and have to learn to communicate it to her husband, a man of cool calculation who matches her ambition. After all, trouble communicating in marriage is hardly a modern phenomenon. In this case, I wanted to show how recognizing and communicating desire could help a couple realize their true potential.

People come together for all kinds of reasons, and though in this story the reason is purely economic at first, by learning to communicate and express needs and desires to one another, their relationship achieves a new level.

Excerpt:

I clench beneath his hands, sweated up and lathered as a mare. Instead of his hand landing on my ass again, it goes to my hair, brushing back the sweat-damp swath of auburn mane from my face, while he’s murmuring along my ear as though I were a mare to be soothed and caressed. Under his hands, I relax.

He’s speaking the barbarian Saxon tongue, so I only catch one word in ten. I’m not really trying though. Once in a while I catch a Latin phrase, or something in Greek, meaning basically the same as what I think he’s saying in his own language, “Shh, easy, girl. Relax. Good girl, gooood girl.”

And his hand comes down again, a solid, thrilling blow to the meat of my ass. The weight of the blow sinks in, reddening my cheeks and heating a path all the way to my cunt. The blows are glorious. He holds my wrists behind my back with one hand, while with the other he spanks and grips, or thrusts his rough warrior’s fingers into my well-lubricated slit. Nothing gets me as wet as when I’m completely at his mercy, his muscled thighs supporting me, my breasts bouncing down, ass thrust in the air. It’s the only time I’m not in charge.

Outside our small thatched hut, the snow falls, another harsh winter brewing. But here, beside our hearth, with the cook pot suspended on a chain over the fire, I have laid my household keys aside with a clink, along with my brooches, and I lain myself bare to this taciturn man who I claimed for a husband.

I groan under his hand, arching my back, ready to come, aching to come.

“You’re a lusty wench, aren’t you?” he says, in rough Briton. He’s been learning our language, since no one in the village will lower themselves to speak Saxon. They might understand it perfectly well, but, when it’s spoken to them by those who’ve invaded our lands, filling the hole of power left in my grandfather’s time by the retreating Roman legions, they’ll give the speaker a sullen look and reply in the fewest words possible.

I bite my lip in response, but a low moan of pleasure escapes when his hand meets my flesh, three times in quick succession—one cheek, the other, and back to the first. I’m trembling again, craving his cock, craving release, but craving this giving up of responsibility more.

He stoked the fire before we began, so the thickening of smoke before it escapes through the hole in the roof chokes me a little, promising a sore throat. He’s turned me toward the fire, so my ass is even hotter while my head remains cooler. It makes for a startling sensation. My nipples are rigid in the chill while my bottom burns.

His hand comes down again and I clench, then shudder. He grabs a handful of my ass, grunting at the meat and heft of it before releasing the cheek to sink his fingers deep into my wet slit. He purposefully hits the spot deep inside that makes me gasp, bucking against his hand. He pulls out just as I’m about to come, leaving me shaking across his knees.

“Not yet, beauty,” he says, smoothing back the wild tangle of hair from my face. “Not yet.”