Chapter 1 – Kirsty’s Life

Tara Cox Literary Erotica logo

Kirsty Dickens threw her oversized purse on the bed. Little Miss curled about her leg, begging and pleading for attention. That was the last thing she wanted after another ninety-minute work-out session at the local gym. She was too tired to deal with a needy pussy, even her own. The creature was a reminder of her destiny as that crazy cat woman in the basement flat.

At twenty-six, it was not the most pleasant of thoughts. She had wasted six years of her life, practically her whole adulthood, on a virtually sexless relationship. It had all blown up three months ago when her ex-boyfriend gave in to family pressure and entered an ‘arranged’ marriage with a second cousin from India. Kirsty took it as a sign and decided to make drastic changes to her life.

Well, probably not drastic to most people. She had no plans to change her career. Her work as an Occupational Therapist for children with autism was emotionally rewarding and financially stable. She was not going to move from her relatively well-to-do neighborhood in north London, either. This flat that she had shared with two acquaintances since she completed university was perfect.

She had not even made drastic changes to her physical appearance. At five foot ten in bare feet, she would have stood out in a crowd, even without the flaming red hair that fell halfway down her back or the freckles that covered almost every single inch of her body.

But the break-up had motivated her to join the gym, and just three months later, her curvy figure was beginning to see some dramatic changes. She might not make Vogue, but maybe she could do well moonlighting as a plus-size model.

No, most people would consider the changes she made rather sedate. But they were radical to someone who had spent the whole of her life in the same area of the city, who had the same few ‘friends’ since primary school, and who wanted nothing more than to please her doctor parents in her choice of careers and men.

While they might have been a tad disappointed that their only child had chosen not to follow in their footsteps by becoming consultants, her role as a therapist fell within the realm of ‘respectable’ for their upper-middle-class friends. And Raj, the up and coming young pediatrician, had more than met their standards.

They had been more hurt by the betrayal than Kirsty. She had been almost relieved at the turn of events. Her feelings for the man had long since cooled to professional respect and friendship, but she did not have the will to end their comfortable arrangement. It was not like she and Raj had ever really shared a great passion, certainly not like the attractions that she read about in her multitude of racy erotic romances on the tablet that had been his final gift to her for Valentine’s Day.

Of course, Kirsty had never really experienced that type of passion or even witnessed it firsthand. Her parents, their friends, and even her own were all in relationships based upon shared values, interests, and companionship. Certainly not the wild and tumultuous sexual attractions portrayed in her books about ménages, reverse harems, and BDSM. The very idea of that level of need and surrender was both intensely attractive and petrifying to Kirsty.

Still, over the past couple of months since her split with Raj, her repressed desires had increasingly overtaken her sensible side. She found herself spending hundreds of pounds each month on her erotic romances, devouring them at the pace of two a day sometimes. On the weekends, she could easily read ten or more. The worst, of course, was Raquel Graffen’s Captive Brides, tales of women captured and ‘married’ to not one man, but two…three…or more.

If her mother, the esteemed consultant Nancy Dickens, knew the content of her only child’s tablet, she would have her sectioned. She could almost hear her mother’s voice in her head. ‘Women are stronger than men, more intelligent. If it were not for centuries of religious subjugation, we would rule the world, and it would be a better place too.’

She knew that her naturally submissive tendencies would be just another disappointment to the woman. A daughter that was never thin enough, smart enough, or ambitious enough.

She sighed, what was the use of such thoughts. She had spent a lifetime trying to be everything the woman wanted and always falling short. Tonight, once more, she would put all that aside and escape into fantasy. It was barely seven and summer nights in London stretched out endlessly, so she had plenty of time.

A quick shower to clean the sweat of her workout from her full-figure, another salad for dinner, then she could look forward to indulging her dark imagination in the latest of Graffen’s too naughty tales, My Brother’s Keeper. She was just getting to the juiciest bits. Ménage. Definitely a cold shower, she thought as she succumbed and rubbed her hand slowly down her pussy from the top of her head to her tail.

Who knew maybe she would even stroke her own before falling asleep? She chuckled at the thought of the Woody Allen quote. “Don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone you love.” That was more than she could say for those rare, lukewarm, and awkward encounters that she and Raj had endured.

No, sex was highly overrated. Well, sex with men anyway. Although with only two lovers in her vast repertoire, she might not be the best judge. Still, nothing had compared to what she read in books or even the orgasms that she gave herself. She sighed, if only it were half as good as the shit she read in Raquel Graffen’s erotic novels.

Who knew maybe it was if you were not a full-figured ginger with freckles and cellulite? But she was, and no amount of time in the gym or tasteless salads would ever get her any smaller than a size twelve or fourteen. Her current size sixteen or eighteen certainly would never attract the attention of those types of men.

‘Enough,’ she chided herself. Her life was not that bad. She loved her job and the autistic children she worked with. She had a safe, quiet, and relatively lovely place to live. Food to eat and some money in savings. That was far, far more than many people had. But still, she craved something more…excitement, wild sex…love most of all.

She shook her head as she pulled the scrunchie from her long red tresses and shook it free. She would not cry. Not again. She would be happy. Okay, maybe content was a better choice of words, but she would be. She promised herself as she headed down the hall to the shower.

Kirsty savored the final bite of her Keema Naan bread with its spicy minced lamb filling. She was saving the Peshwari for later with vanilla ice cream. A dessert of sorts. After her shower, she had spent ten minutes with the door open, staring into her refrigerator. The bag of lifeless green leaves did not seem appealing after killing herself on the treadmill, the Stairmaster, a stationary bike, and even a whole ten minutes on the elliptical trainer. Her body wanted food, real food, and not rabbit shit either.

In the end, she had given in to temptation and pulled up the app on her tablet that promised quick and tasty relief. Indian had been her first choice; it always was, though Turkish was a close second. Hmmm, Turkish? Maybe she should consider dating a Turkish guy next?

She shook her head; she was not likely to find one that would meet her mother’s approval. First of all, there were few Turkish doctors in their circle, and her mother had long since decided that if her only progeny would not become a physician herself, then she must marry one. Besides, her mother would stringently object to the culture’s more traditional views on the roles of women.

She sighed as she cleaned up the leftovers of her dinner and prepared to store them away in her section of the shared fridge. She would take them to work with her for lunch tomorrow, who knew maybe even manage to stretch them out to dinner as well.

“Darn it,” was as close to cursing as she got. She had forgotten that this Sunday would be her monthly brunch with her parents at the upscale tea room in Chelsea. She could almost hear her mother now, “Have you put on weight, dear?” That would soon lead to the inevitable questions about her love life. Was she dating again? Then her mother would offer to set her up with one of the young consultants at the hospital where she worked or perhaps the son of a friend.

Kirsty was still not ready to date, though. The whole idea turned her off. The only part of it that appealed to her at all was the idea of having a baby. And with her mother, that meant she needed a husband, an acceptable one from a distinguished gene pool, the right schools, and the best families. That held no appeal for her.

She stacked the boxes of food next to her bed and reached for her tablet on the nightstand. No, just once she wanted to taste, even a small sample of the passion that she read about in her books — the tingles and anticipation of being dominated by a strong, protective man.

As always, her body began to respond to just the idea of rough, masculine hands laced through her lengthy hair, jerking her head back, forcing her to look deep into his eyes for a long moment before his mouth captured hers. Not some timid, wet, and sloppy kiss, but taking, demanding even forcing her compliance.

She bit her lower lip as she typed her passcode into the tablet. She frowned as she tried to decide. Read My Brother’s Keeper or check out the top blog posts on the too-naughty social networking site devoted to BDSM and alternative lifestyle like polyamory? She had discovered the site in the acknowledgments of Raquel Graffen’s books.

In the end, the decision was not all that hard, website, then book. She never spent more than fifteen minutes or so on it anyway. After two months as a member, she had four friends. Exactly four. All other female submissives. Mostly other young newbies, except for the one older lady who had messaged last week because she too enjoyed Graffen’s books.

She might have one or maybe two messages from them and probably another three or four from rude Dom types, demanding her instant submission, a blow job, and that she become his cum slut for life. Those were easy; block and delete.

Then she would have a quick look over the front page to see if there were any new and titillating stories or poems out. While she had learned so much in the past couple of months about BDSM from reading the top journal entries, she never liked looking at that page for long. Too many selfies of tiny perfect bodies nude or semi-clad. For a big girl, curvy woman, or whatever was the politically correct word for fat chick these days, it was enough to send you spiraling into a depression that could only a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream would solve.

Get that all over with and out of the way, then she could spend a few hours with the sexy Viking brothers and their young Welsh captive. Bronwyn had already been taken by the eldest brother Eirik, who was the leader of their small band of raiders. But it was his youngest brother, Balder, who had captured her heart. It was Einar though that Kirsty was pulling for. The man lived up to his name as ‘one who fights alone.’

Dark, broody, and dominant, all a girl could want in her bed after a long day at work. When she finally grew tired of reading, and her libido grew too strong to be denied, she was confident that she would conjure up his rustic visage with long blonde hair, thick beard that fell past his neck, and piercing blue eyes. Kirsty sighed as she opened the web browser. You knew you were pathetic when the only man in your life was on the cover of an erotic romance. Why was Little Miss never around when she needed comforting?

She smiled as she noticed that she had six messages in her inbox. The first two she did not even bother opening when she saw that both avatars were photographs of their cocks. She shuddered in disgust, some things a girl wanted to unwrap herself, slowly like that big package on Christmas morning. To know that hundreds or thousands of other women and even men had seen it on a website was an instant turn-off.

The other one was a giddy one from another newbie sub, who had started messaging this guy a couple of days ago. Kirsty was a bit worried about her. Things just seemed to be moving too fast. The guy had her friend naked on cam that first night. This one was even more alarming; her friend was meeting him – tomorrow. Three days? Was this girl crazy?

Kirsty sent off a quick message, trying to discourage the other woman from doing anything foolish, but even as she typed, she recognized that it was probably futile. Who was she, after all, to tell the girl anything? What did she know about anything? Three months since the break-up and not a single date.

Her smile widened at the next message. It was the older, experienced sub, the woman, who loved Raquel Graffen’s books as much as she did…well, almost. She gave her a quick rundown of how far she had gotten in the book and how she was hoping that Bronwyn would finally give in to her attraction to Einar.

Kirsty was tempted to quiz the woman a bit about what being a sub was really like. After all, her profile did say that she had lived the lifestyle 24/7 for over forty years. Kirsty could not even imagine such a thing, but she still did not know the woman enough to ask such personal questions.

Could she do such a thing? Probably not. Hell, she was still not confident she was submissive at all. Just because words on a screen got you all hot and bothered did not mean that you wanted those things, right? After all, many women had rape fantasies, but that did not mean they wanted to be raped. She bit her lower lip as she remembered the intense scene in chapter three when Eirik took Bronwyn.

It was a fine line between ‘taking’ and rape, was it not? Those types of scenes in her books got her worked up faster than anything. Maybe some part of her even liked the idea of being ‘taken,’ not the violence and fear of death associated with rape, but just rough sex, being given no real choice, coerced, but within some limits.

She shook her head as she looked at the last two messages. One was a bulk one of some sort. She caught her breath when she opened it and saw some of the most beautiful looking floggers she could imagine. Dark wood handles, intricately carved with all different kinds of fells, some looked soft and wide, others stiff, thin, and way too dangerous to even think about.

What would even one of those feel like against her virgin skin? She thought about the couple of videos she had watched on the site of Doms flogging their subs. She had been so envious. Honestly, those video clips got her worked up almost as much as her books did. She forced herself to close the message.

What was the point? She had quickly discovered that unless she was willing, as her new friend seemed to be, to jump at any offer, any cock-pic Dom who sent her a naughty message, then chances were all this was destined to remain an unfulfilled fantasy. She sighed as she opened the final note.

His eyes jumped out at her. She could not tell the color, just the intensity. The man was Dom. All Dom and despite the sprinkling of grey that she noticed at his temples, which proclaimed him a bit old for her taste, she was captivated. She could not say what it was, some ethereal quality that spoke of confidence, power, and leadership.

Age aside, the man belonged on the cover of one of Raquel Graffen’s books. Kirsty tried to imagine him stripped to the waist in tight leather pants. Heck, she even checked his profile to see if he might not have such a pic there. This was the only one, which was a bit disappointing. Though she was grateful that there were no cock pics. At least, that gave her an excuse to open his message before using the block and delete option as usual.

But when she did open the message, she was surprised. For a man, who oozed Dom from every pixel, the message was refreshingly gentlemanly.

I enjoy reading your profile. You have put much thought into what you like and want. I like this. We share many of the same fetishes, especially rope.

I am a fisherman and work with rope as part of my job, but still, I love the feel of it best rough against the soft skin of a sub. I do not pretend to the same art of this Shibari you like, but I can more than tie a sub into any positions I want. After all, I have been tying knots since almost before I walk and do it every day.

I am sorry if my English is not so good. It is not my first language. As it says on my profile, I am from Norway. The Lofoten Islands, which you not heard of probably. It is beautiful but rough life. I have two younger brothers who also fish with me and my mother and uncle here too.

I would like to know more of you. Be friends. Maybe?



Kirsty’s eyes were drawn again to the profile picture. Yes, she could see this man as a fisherman — someone rough, who worked with his hands and his muscle. Damn, for the first time, she wished a man actually had a naked photo on his profile. Not a cock one, but she would love to see what was hidden beneath that dark blue jumper.

She realized then that for the first time since joining the site two months ago, she was contemplating responding to a message from a Dom. It was not just how incredibly hot this guy looked either. It was how polite he had been. No demands for instant submission. No foul language. No ribald jokes. Not even a comment on how sexy her profile pics were.

Damn it. The man must not have seen those. Of course, that was it. No guy this hot would ever message a girl like her. Even though she had done her best to accentuate the positives with the cropped photographs of her tits in a low cut jumper and her legs and bum in a mini-skirt, it was still painfully obvious that she was a ‘big’ girl. Though he was older, his profile said thirty-nine, almost a decade older than the men she would typically date; this guy was still way out of her league hot.

She shook her head and tried to put the whole thing out of her mind as she did a quick check of the front page. Nothing was exciting in the journal though there were a couple of beautiful Shibari photographs. That just got her thinking about him again. Besides, all those pics had skinny girls in them. She would probably look like a pig dressed for a banquet tied up with a gag ball in her mouth instead of a red apple.

She sighed heavily as she closed the browser and opened her e-book app. Instantly the screen came alive exactly where she left off at lunchtime.

Bronwyn observed Einar as he sat slightly off to the side, away from the others, even his brothers. That seemed to exemplify the man, what little she knew of him anyway.

Almost two weeks on the road from her village that these men had pillaged and burned. They moved fast in their small boats along the rivers and streams that wound through Cymru and Northern Angland. They seemed to know their way, though there had been no incursions this far inland by the Vikings. At least until now.

Bronwyn wished she could feel something, more empathy for the people, who had been killed or had their livelihoods and lands destroyed, but she could not. She had never been a part of that community, an outcast, the ‘devil’s child,’ the bastard daughter of the village healer. Though who fathered remained a mystery.

In some odd way, she owed these men her life, or at least a chance at a new one. Whereas the villagers had seen her dark beauty as another sign of Satan’s curse, a Jezebel, it had attracted her the attention of Eirik, the leader, and Jarl whatever that was.

Bronwyn had to admit their first encounter was less than spectacular. No matter what the villagers thought, she was no light skirt to roll in the hay with the first man to pay her attention. She had been a maiden. Had been until that night. Surprisingly, for a race known for its savagery, once he discovered her untried state, Eirik had been a reasonably considerate lover.

Not that in her time as an apprentice to her mother as healer and midwife, she had not had ample opportunity to acquaint herself with the basics of the act. Still knowing how something was done, watching a stallion cover a mare, or even the occasional glimpse of a drunken customer and barmaid had not adequately prepared her for all that being a ‘wife’ meant.

Especially since she learned that she was not merely Eirik’s wife but his brothers’ as well. The girl who had thought perhaps to die a maiden had not one barbarian husband, but three. She smiled as she saw the youngest brother Balder stand and walk towards her. They had become more than merely lovers, husband, and wife. They had become friends, almost.

He was the only one that spoke even a bit of her language, though she caught wisps of the Saxon tongue from his brothers. She was not sure if they realized she spoke it as well as her own.

He was stunning. Much taller than the men of her village. His muscles bulged in ways that she had never imagined other than on a horse. It was his long blond hair, so different than her own that spun its web about her heart. More than one night, she had spent with his head between her bosoms as she ran her fingers through it after they made love.

He smiled as he knelt next to her, handing her a bowl of the stew, it was the same most nights. She had dared not ask what was in it. Greasy and heavy, but food was food, especially after a hard day’s travel. She took a bite with her fingers and forced it down though she knew it would sit upon her stomach like a stone until morning.

Balder brushed her hair back from her face as he sat upon the cold, hard ground beside her, “Eirik has decided that this night it shall be Einar who shares your favors.”

The way that he seemed to force the words out made her feel as if he was no more pleased than she was at this sudden turn of events.

“Why?” she asked as she stopped with the next bite poised at her lips.

He shrugged, “Does it matter? Eirik says, we all do.” He sighed as he avoided making eye contact, “That includes you especially, dear wife.”

Bronwyn was not sure what to say. Her position as the new wife of the Jarl might be vastly above her old as the bastard and Devil’s own. One thing she had learned in her limited time upon this earth – a woman’s fate was never her own. Be she high or base borne; her path was set by men from the moment of her birth until her death. Hers was simply to endure.

She nodded in answer and expected him to walk back and join his brothers, but still, he lingered as if there was more. After a long silence, he stood up and was about to walk away when he turned, and his eyes met hers, “Einar is not an easy man, Bronwyn.”

She swallowed back a twinge of apprehension at his warning as she fought to keep the food down. She would not be beaten. This was as good a chance as any she had ever hoped for a new life. And while it might not be her childhood dream of the lordling father come to claim his long lost daughter, it was more than she had dared wish for.

Her gentleness and keen mind had won over Balder easily. She even saw chinks in Eirik’s cold demeanor. She would find a way with this brother too. Discover what it took to melt this Norseman’s heart of ice as she was his brothers. She would make a way for herself, a new life, a better one, as much as any woman could. So ‘fights alone’ had better beware. He was about to meet the ‘pure breasted’ one…and she was playing for keeps.

Despite her earlier resolve, Kirsty found herself reading and re-reading the same passage. She could not concentrate. Those piercing eyes seemed to be almost reaching across thousands of miles for her. Damn it; she did not need or want this complication. Or did she? Had she not thought earlier about wanting even a small taste of passion? Maybe this man was her answer. He was certainly far enough away to be no real threat to her safe little existence.

She debated it all for several long minutes before dashing off a short response that thanked Svein for his message and opened the door, just a crack, for further communication. It was barely dusk, but she was tired, tomorrow was another day at work, and honestly, she was horny. Far more so than usual. She powered off her tablet and laid it back on the nightstand as Little Miss curled up at the foot of her bed.

Kirsty felt the sexual energy strumming along nerve endings, dancing from one erogenous zone to another as if her body was on fire. She often got aroused when reading her books. Heck, she had masturbated more in the past two months than her whole life up to that point. But this was a new level of need.

As she lay back against the pillow and closed her eyes, Kirsty allowed her hands to slip beneath her oversized t-shirt. They kneaded and squeezed her decent-sized tits for several minutes until her breath was coming in short gasps. Still, it was not enough. Her fingers began to pinch and twist her nipples that were throbbing and begging for attention. She stifled a moan as she felt the electric shock straight down her less than flat tummy to pool between her thighs.

They fell open as one hand followed the path of those tingles under the elastic waistband of her knickers. They are not as bad as the ones favored by Bridgette in that movie, but they are not far off. Boy shorts was the popular term, but since no one would be seeing them, she might as well dress for comfort rather than sex appeal.

Her fingers brushed through the pubic hairs that proclaimed her a true redhead until they found her clitoris. It is already engorged and pulsing with need as she began to massage her outer lips, the indirect stimulation designed to prolong her pleasure. She fought the urge for a couple of minutes to take things further, to rub against the nub itself.

Edging – it was something she had learned at that site, that oh so naughty site. Her breath caught as her nipple puckered even tighter. One thought led inevitably to another. His face. Those intense fucking eyes, she bet they were blue. Norway. Her Vikings. His presence was much too overpowering to be sweet and considerate Balder. Was he Eirik, the one born to rule and lead? Or Einar, the one who fought alone?

Something about the man said that he was destined to rule. What would it feel like to be on the receiving end of that stare? Would her knees tremble as her fingers were now? She came closer and closer to her swollen love button. Would she be able to catch her breath even? No, no way, she could not do that even now, just thinking about the man.

Her whole body arched off the bed as she cried out. Her orgasm had taken her so suddenly. By such surprise, without any warning that she had not even been able to stifle the scream. It was, without a doubt, the most powerful one of her whole life. Her whole body was still tingling, alive with desire, and needier than she could ever remember being.

“Kirsty, are you okay?” came the sound of her flatmate. She did not sound close, perhaps at the top of the landing.

Thinking quickly, she yelled out, “I’m fine. Little Miss just sank her claws into me is all. I’m sorry if we bothered you.”

“As long as you are fine, don’t worry about it. The cat can sleep up here with us if she is bothering you. You know we adore her too,” called Becca, a woman she had known since university, her flatmate for six years, and someone she still would consider more of an acquaintance than a friend.

“Thanks, but we’re good now,” Kirsty could only hope the woman did not insist on coming down to make sure for herself.

She was relieved when Becca replied, “Well, good night, then.”

Kirsty waited to hear the soft footfall that confirmed she was indeed going back up the stairs to the room that she shared with their other flatmate, Lauren. A couple of months back, the two women had confirmed what she had suspected for some time, that they were a couple. Not that it bothered Kirsty, she had no problem with them being lesbians. It was just a reminder of her loneliness, feeling like a third wheel even at home.

Maybe she should think about looking for a new flat. But where would she find anything as decent, safe, and close to the hospital? Especially for the rent, she was paying here. So, like other things in her life, Kirsty just let it slide.

She really should have caught on to this submissive thing sooner, considering how much she hated and deplored confrontation. Whenever any of her friends asked where she wanted to go, what she wanted to do, she always found a way to avoid even that simple a question. Unless it was work, she just did not like making decisions.

Even one as simple as whether she should get up and take another cold shower or roll over and try to go to sleep. She pondered the dilemma for a couple of minutes, but that only made things worse as she realized how horny, there was no more polite word for it than that, how horny she was. Worse than she could ever remember being, and she had not even read one of the naughtier bits of the book tonight.

The explanation was obvious…him. Her blue-eyed, she was convinced they were blue, Viking fisherman. The more she lay in bed and thought about him, the worse it got, until with a “Darnation,” she pulled herself from her comfortable bed, put away the leftovers, and stood for several long minutes underneath the shower as cold as she could take it.

Why did it not help? When she finally got out, her nipples were harder from the almost freezing water pounding on them, and the rough terry cloth of the towel made her want to scream. She dared only pat down there. She knew if she rubbed herself dry, it would lead to more rubbing of another kind, and she had already disturbed her flatmates once this night.

Besides, since when had she ever? Twice in one day? She really must stop the edging. That had to be it. Yes, she would stop the edging, maybe even cut back on her reading, she decided as she went back to her room and climbed in bed. She tossed and turned uncomfortably for quite a while.

Even when she did finally fall asleep, it was dream-filled and restless. She had had these erotic dreams before, but never like this. Blue eyes pierced her soul, demanding things she did not think she was capable of giving — things she wanted to taste and feel so very badly, though.

The hardest part was her dream Dom finally had a face, but it was not one of the hard-bodied male models from the cover of her raunchy e-books. It was his. Her rough fisherman. Svein.

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