Catherine abducted and ravaged by Vikings.
A brisk spring morning, late in the first millennium, on the northern coast of Ireland. Sean, a shepherd lad of fourteen years, brought his flock out to the edge of the cliff at dawn and saw two sleek Viking longships approaching the beach from the northeast, coming in out of the sun. Sails already furled, the Norsemen rowed to the shore, beached the two boats, and disembarked, setting up defensive positions on the beachhead.
The ship’s banners and the dragons on bow and stern made obvious the origin of the sinister vessels. Sean quickly hurried his sheep back into the fold, and ran down into the village to spread the alarm.
The village was under the rule of the local monastery. Abbott Philemon hurriedly questioned the lad, and quickly realized the reason for the invasion. “Bloody heathen spring festival: they need a sacrifice. Since they have no virgins of their own, they come here for a victim.” He quickly ordered the villagers assembled in the courtyard and addressed them.
“My children”, he started, “this spring the accursed Norse infidels have chosen our village for their unholy sacrifice. We have no way to resist them. Holy Church will deal with the heathens – go back to your hovels with your families and livestock and bar the doors. All will be made known to you tomorrow before Easter services. Trust to God to deal with the sinners hereafter.”
At least, here was a golden opportunity to rid the monastery of a disruptive influence! Young Catherine, orphaned after a winter illness swept off her parents, had taken refuge in the monastery and was set to menial tasks, scrubbing floors and dishes. Unfortunately for group discipline, her lovely a posteriori view (even through the rough homespun robe she wore for labor), sticking up into the air when she was on her knees with the scrub brush, had tempted the younger monks. Several of the novices had been caught in flagrante, but so far they had only sodomized the slut, continuing the illicit practices practiced with each other. At least once, the master of novices had found her between two lads, engaged in simultaneous oral and anal activity, and not resisting the intrusions. By the standards of both Canon Law and the customary law of the Norse, however, she was still a virgin in one of three orifices, which sufficed for the application. “Recalcitrant, ungrateful, disrespectful, slothful, lusty, uppity, snotty, abominable vessel of carnality – fit only for sacrifice!” he meditated. “Not the marrying kind, and unfit for the cloister. God help us if she should whelp here and contribute further brats to this Christian village! At least, as a sacrifice for the greater good of the Church and village, she may attain paradise. I don’t see any other route thither for such as she.”
Sister Agatha from the monastery infirmary was dispatched to fetch the unfortunate wench from the scullery. Catherine fell on her knees in front of the Abbott, who directed the nun to remove her ragged clothing. As she lay sprawled naked on the cold stone floor, the monks threw several pails of cold water on her, turning her over between rinses, and the good sister toweled her down with a rough cloth. Sister Agatha washed her hair (both head and pubic) with stale beer, rinsing with another pail of cold water.
At the abbot’s orders, three monks grabbed her: one held her wrists, and other two held her ankles to spread her legs. Sister Agatha then probed her to verify an intact maidenhead. Catherine moaned at the invasion, and the sister’s fingers continued to verify that her pleasure reflexes were in good order, while a fourth monk delicately fingered her nipples. Catherine’s moans increased as the sister continued her diagnostics with her tongue, tasting the remainder of the shampoo, until Catherine screamed out and the ankle-holders could not restrain her. “The girl is intact and functional!” Sister Agatha confirmed to the Abbott “and cleaner than anyone else here.”
The Abbott then offered Catherine a last chance for the sacrament of Confession. “You have far more to confess than I”, she spat back at him. The Abbott found himself blushing, remembering a disciplinary session where he was trying to whip some sense into the young sinner—tied between pillars in the chapel, stripped to the waist for lashing. He had not been able to resist the appeal of the pale-skinned vessel of iniquity, had bent her over the font, and had pulled her clothing down while untying his own robe. At that point, his own patron saint had intervened, disabling his manhood just as he was about to deflower the girl, thus avoiding one sin while preserving the maiden for her ultimate fate. Damnation – his manhood seemed to be functioning now!
The choirmaster Brother Maynard brought in a choirboy’s robe, approximately the right size, and put it on her for decency. As an afterthought, Sister Agatha decorated her hair with a few newly-picked spring flowers to reinforce the image of virginity.
The choirmaster then hastily organized a procession from the walled monastery to the beach. Starting with two crucifers and a thurifer, followed by the Abbot with his crozier, they led the barefoot victim (her ankles hobbled together by a three-foot rope) to the invaders, followed by Brother Maynard and a half-dozen choirboys chanting the dies irae. The Viking chieftain stood in front of the shore party and raised his right hand in greeting. “These stupid Christian sheep have finally come to their senses”, he thought. While the chieftain stood proudly with arms akimbo, his subaltern took Catherine, bound her wrists together in front, and led her over the gangplank onto the boat. While the procession warily returned to the monastery, Catherine reflected on her position: “I’ve prayed to my namesake, the blessed martyr Catherine, and to St. Mary Magdalene, hoping they would understand my plight, for deliverance by any means whatsoever from this horrible village and monastery. I never thought deliverance would come at the hand of the Vikings! At least something is happeningthe village patron St. Leonard would have not understood that anything was required.”
All hands from both vessels reported to the chieftan’s flagship to greet the captive. She was led over to a short stool. The subaltern forced her to sit down, tied her ankles to two of the stool legs, and pulled her robe down to expose her chest. A red-haired sailor ordered her (in Gaelic) “Sit quietly, and we’ll untie your wrists. You can’t escape this boat!” She meekly complied, and rubbed her wrists to restore circulation.
The red-haired sailor then quietly told her what was expected of her. “It’s no worse than what they made me do when first they abducted me as a skinny youth. You will now service a dozen selected crewmen, without losing your maidenhead.” Even though she hated the monks and all they stood for, she was shocked by the sacrilege that followed. He brought out a large gilt chalice, obviously stolen from an Irish church, and a rag that on closer examination had been cut from an altercloth, with the fine embroidered Celtic cross still visible at one end. He directed her to wet the cloth in the water in the chalice, and the first sailor came forward, with his personal bowsprit already standing at attention. Following his instructions, she washed the sailor’s member and proceeded to service him orally (at least, she thought, this was something she already knew how to do). Urged to do a good job if she hoped to avoid the lash, she licked the tip (flicking her tongue), surrounded it with her lips as she continued with her tongue, and then slid the entire length into her mouth. (Not too bad, she thought, he must have bathed yesterday. Better than those filthy novices.) Accelerating the reciprocating action, she quickly brought the virile sailor to climax; she tried to avoid the result, but the sailor grabbed her ears and held on. Sputtering, she finally held him off and took the rest of the load on the side of her head.
“Good job”, the redhead encouraged her, “just another eleven to go. Here’s another cloth to clean off your pretty face.” After she washed herself, he gave her another smaller chalice, this one filled with mead. “This will help kill the taste – we eat a lot of sardines.” Six more sailors, six short mugs of mead, and she was allowed a rest break. “I would have done far worse than this to escape the monastery” she admitted to herself. The redhead gently put his hand on her shoulder, and quietly enquired if she were cold. During her break, he draped her with a blanket. He gave her some ship’s biscuit and another chalice of fresh water for refreshment. “So many chalices in heathen hands” she marveled “Did these barbarians not steal any jewels?”
The next six came forward, starting with the redhead. Since she was, in truth, as sinful as the abbot had alleged, she could have enjoyed this, were she ignorant of what would happen to her when they reached Trondheim. The entire Irish coast knew of the Vikings’ annual springtime sacrifice of a virgin to the goddess Idunna to ensure fertility of their women, livestock, and agriculture. “Damn those ignorant, perverted novices who could never find the right place to plant their filthy sticks! They could have saved me from this fate, had they but known what to do”, she complained to herself. After the chosen group had been serviced, her red-haired guide helped her clean up and fed her again, re-tied her hobble, and led her to a bench in the center of the boat. A quick saltwater rinse, then he toweled her dry and let her sit quietly under a blanket.
As the Vikings prepared to weigh anchor, the redhead sailor and the ship’s carpenter set to deploying the victim as a trophy for the trip home. They led her naked to the bow, to attach her to the dragon prow. A pair of sandals already had been nailed to a platform at the base, and she was fixtured further by inserting a leather-sheathed wooden plug, lubricated with rancid butter, into her experienced posterior. They set her feet into the sandals, laced them tightly, and inserted the other end of the plug into a newly-drilled hole in the wooden prow, location carefully measured by the carpenter against the victim’s dimension. The redhead bound her to the prow with ship’s ropes, while the carpenter held her in place. Her wrists were bound together behind the dragon’s neck after she had been securely tied and could no longer struggle. To preserve her during the cold voyage, the redhead wrapped her first in a linen sheet, covered that with a woolen blanket, and completed the cocoon with a sheepskin (fleece inward) and another set of ropes. To keep her quiet, they gagged her with a clean rag and blindfolded her with another sacred cloth, a stolen maniple. To keep her head clear of salt spray, they covered it with a fur-lined hood.
Deprived of her senses of sight and hearing by these precautions, Catherine had a long time to meditate on her fate and scheme for her survival. Her previous prayers to Saints Catherine and Mary Magdalene came back to her, and in her extremity she saw visions. “You asked for deliverance, no matter what” they taunted her. “Here it is – make the best of it! You can deal with this: are not the Vikings men as any other? Have you forgotten what they all want? Do you not possess it?”
She pondered these questions, and formulated a plan. She had no faith that her virginity would get her into Heaven, it certainly was not helping her now, and she thought on how best to make use of her maidenhead. There were at least two Norsemen who seemed attracted to her past the end of their organs: the redhead and a cute blond. Surely, after arrival on land, she could seduce at least one of them and lose her qualification for the sacrifice! As the boat sailed to Trondheim, she thought continuously on this, and decided to start with the redhead, since he shared her language. Even though he might not be the marrying kind himself, he certainly had enjoyed her attentions and had been as kind as possible under the circumstances. Hmmm, could work!
A brisk spring morning, late in the first millennium, on the northern coast of Ireland. Sean, a shepherd lad of fourteen years, brought his flock out to the edge of the cliff at dawn and saw two sleek Viking longships approaching the beach from the northeast, coming in out of the sun. Sails already furled, the Norsemen rowed to the shore, beached the two boats, and disembarked, setting up defensive positions on the beachhead.
The ship’s banners and the dragons on bow and stern made obvious the origin of the sinister vessels. Sean quickly hurried his sheep back into the fold, and ran down into the village to spread the alarm.
The village was under the rule of the local monastery. Abbott Philemon hurriedly questioned the lad, and quickly realized the reason for the invasion. “Bloody heathen spring festival: they need a sacrifice. Since they have no virgins of their own, they come here for a victim.” He quickly ordered the villagers assembled in the courtyard and addressed them.
“My children”, he started, “this spring the accursed Norse infidels have chosen our village for their unholy sacrifice. We have no way to resist them. Holy Church will deal with the heathens – go back to your hovels with your families and livestock and bar the doors. All will be made known to you tomorrow before Easter services. Trust to God to deal with the sinners hereafter.”
At least, here was a golden opportunity to rid the monastery of a disruptive influence! Young Catherine, orphaned after a winter illness swept off her parents, had taken refuge in the monastery and was set to menial tasks, scrubbing floors and dishes. Unfortunately for group discipline, her lovely a posteriori view (even through the rough homespun robe she wore for labor), sticking up into the air when she was on her knees with the scrub brush, had tempted the younger monks. Several of the novices had been caught in flagrante, but so far they had only sodomized the slut, continuing the illicit practices practiced with each other. At least once, the master of novices had found her between two lads, engaged in simultaneous oral and anal activity, and not resisting the intrusions. By the standards of both Canon Law and the customary law of the Norse, however, she was still a virgin in one of three orifices, which sufficed for the application. “Recalcitrant, ungrateful, disrespectful, slothful, lusty, uppity, snotty, abominable vessel of carnality – fit only for sacrifice!” he meditated. “Not the marrying kind, and unfit for the cloister. God help us if she should whelp here and contribute further brats to this Christian village! At least, as a sacrifice for the greater good of the Church and village, she may attain paradise. I don’t see any other route thither for such as she.”
Sister Agatha from the monastery infirmary was dispatched to fetch the unfortunate wench from the scullery. Catherine fell on her knees in front of the Abbott, who directed the nun to remove her ragged clothing. As she lay sprawled naked on the cold stone floor, the monks threw several pails of cold water on her, turning her over between rinses, and the good sister toweled her down with a rough cloth. Sister Agatha washed her hair (both head and pubic) with stale beer, rinsing with another pail of cold water.
At the abbot’s orders, three monks grabbed her: one held her wrists, and other two held her ankles to spread her legs. Sister Agatha then probed her to verify an intact maidenhead. Catherine moaned at the invasion, and the sister’s fingers continued to verify that her pleasure reflexes were in good order, while a fourth monk delicately fingered her nipples. Catherine’s moans increased as the sister continued her diagnostics with her tongue, tasting the remainder of the shampoo, until Catherine screamed out and the ankle-holders could not restrain her. “The girl is intact and functional!” Sister Agatha confirmed to the Abbott “and cleaner than anyone else here.”
The Abbott then offered Catherine a last chance for the sacrament of Confession. “You have far more to confess than I”, she spat back at him. The Abbott found himself blushing, remembering a disciplinary session where he was trying to whip some sense into the young sinner—tied between pillars in the chapel, stripped to the waist for lashing. He had not been able to resist the appeal of the pale-skinned vessel of iniquity, had bent her over the font, and had pulled her clothing down while untying his own robe. At that point, his own patron saint had intervened, disabling his manhood just as he was about to deflower the girl, thus avoiding one sin while preserving the maiden for her ultimate fate. Damnation – his manhood seemed to be functioning now!
The choirmaster Brother Maynard brought in a choirboy’s robe, approximately the right size, and put it on her for decency. As an afterthought, Sister Agatha decorated her hair with a few newly-picked spring flowers to reinforce the image of virginity.
The choirmaster then hastily organized a procession from the walled monastery to the beach. Starting with two crucifers and a thurifer, followed by the Abbot with his crozier, they led the barefoot victim (her ankles hobbled together by a three-foot rope) to the invaders, followed by Brother Maynard and a half-dozen choirboys chanting the dies irae. The Viking chieftain stood in front of the shore party and raised his right hand in greeting. “These stupid Christian sheep have finally come to their senses”, he thought. While the chieftain stood proudly with arms akimbo, his subaltern took Catherine, bound her wrists together in front, and led her over the gangplank onto the boat. While the procession warily returned to the monastery, Catherine reflected on her position: “I’ve prayed to my namesake, the blessed martyr Catherine, and to St. Mary Magdalene, hoping they would understand my plight, for deliverance by any means whatsoever from this horrible village and monastery. I never thought deliverance would come at the hand of the Vikings! At least something is happeningthe village patron St. Leonard would have not understood that anything was required.”
All hands from both vessels reported to the chieftan’s flagship to greet the captive. She was led over to a short stool. The subaltern forced her to sit down, tied her ankles to two of the stool legs, and pulled her robe down to expose her chest. A red-haired sailor ordered her (in Gaelic) “Sit quietly, and we’ll untie your wrists. You can’t escape this boat!” She meekly complied, and rubbed her wrists to restore circulation.
The red-haired sailor then quietly told her what was expected of her. “It’s no worse than what they made me do when first they abducted me as a skinny youth. You will now service a dozen selected crewmen, without losing your maidenhead.” Even though she hated the monks and all they stood for, she was shocked by the sacrilege that followed. He brought out a large gilt chalice, obviously stolen from an Irish church, and a rag that on closer examination had been cut from an altercloth, with the fine embroidered Celtic cross still visible at one end. He directed her to wet the cloth in the water in the chalice, and the first sailor came forward, with his personal bowsprit already standing at attention. Following his instructions, she washed the sailor’s member and proceeded to service him orally (at least, she thought, this was something she already knew how to do). Urged to do a good job if she hoped to avoid the lash, she licked the tip (flicking her tongue), surrounded it with her lips as she continued with her tongue, and then slid the entire length into her mouth. (Not too bad, she thought, he must have bathed yesterday. Better than those filthy novices.) Accelerating the reciprocating action, she quickly brought the virile sailor to climax; she tried to avoid the result, but the sailor grabbed her ears and held on. Sputtering, she finally held him off and took the rest of the load on the side of her head.
“Good job”, the redhead encouraged her, “just another eleven to go. Here’s another cloth to clean off your pretty face.” After she washed herself, he gave her another smaller chalice, this one filled with mead. “This will help kill the taste – we eat a lot of sardines.” Six more sailors, six short mugs of mead, and she was allowed a rest break. “I would have done far worse than this to escape the monastery” she admitted to herself. The redhead gently put his hand on her shoulder, and quietly enquired if she were cold. During her break, he draped her with a blanket. He gave her some ship’s biscuit and another chalice of fresh water for refreshment. “So many chalices in heathen hands” she marveled “Did these barbarians not steal any jewels?”
The next six came forward, starting with the redhead. Since she was, in truth, as sinful as the abbot had alleged, she could have enjoyed this, were she ignorant of what would happen to her when they reached Trondheim. The entire Irish coast knew of the Vikings’ annual springtime sacrifice of a virgin to the goddess Idunna to ensure fertility of their women, livestock, and agriculture. “Damn those ignorant, perverted novices who could never find the right place to plant their filthy sticks! They could have saved me from this fate, had they but known what to do”, she complained to herself. After the chosen group had been serviced, her red-haired guide helped her clean up and fed her again, re-tied her hobble, and led her to a bench in the center of the boat. A quick saltwater rinse, then he toweled her dry and let her sit quietly under a blanket.
As the Vikings prepared to weigh anchor, the redhead sailor and the ship’s carpenter set to deploying the victim as a trophy for the trip home. They led her naked to the bow, to attach her to the dragon prow. A pair of sandals already had been nailed to a platform at the base, and she was fixtured further by inserting a leather-sheathed wooden plug, lubricated with rancid butter, into her experienced posterior. They set her feet into the sandals, laced them tightly, and inserted the other end of the plug into a newly-drilled hole in the wooden prow, location carefully measured by the carpenter against the victim’s dimension. The redhead bound her to the prow with ship’s ropes, while the carpenter held her in place. Her wrists were bound together behind the dragon’s neck after she had been securely tied and could no longer struggle. To preserve her during the cold voyage, the redhead wrapped her first in a linen sheet, covered that with a woolen blanket, and completed the cocoon with a sheepskin (fleece inward) and another set of ropes. To keep her quiet, they gagged her with a clean rag and blindfolded her with another sacred cloth, a stolen maniple. To keep her head clear of salt spray, they covered it with a fur-lined hood.
Deprived of her senses of sight and hearing by these precautions, Catherine had a long time to meditate on her fate and scheme for her survival. Her previous prayers to Saints Catherine and Mary Magdalene came back to her, and in her extremity she saw visions. “You asked for deliverance, no matter what” they taunted her. “Here it is – make the best of it! You can deal with this: are not the Vikings men as any other? Have you forgotten what they all want? Do you not possess it?”
She pondered these questions, and formulated a plan. She had no faith that her virginity would get her into Heaven, it certainly was not helping her now, and she thought on how best to make use of her maidenhead. There were at least two Norsemen who seemed attracted to her past the end of their organs: the redhead and a cute blond. Surely, after arrival on land, she could seduce at least one of them and lose her qualification for the sacrifice! As the boat sailed to Trondheim, she thought continuously on this, and decided to start with the redhead, since he shared her language. Even though he might not be the marrying kind himself, he certainly had enjoyed her attentions and had been as kind as possible under the circumstances. Hmmm, could work!
