Page 88 of The Very Virile Viking

She gave his form a long, slow survey, from his head down to his curling toes, then back up to his favorite part, which was behaving impressively, if he did say so himself.

"Great plow," she said, backing up slightly.

"Wait till you see the straight rows I harrow." Magnus stepped forward, crowding her against the tile wall.

"You'd better hope the ground is not too fertile." She combed the fingers of both hands through her wet hair to help remove the shampoo suds. Those motions caused her breasts to rise and fall in a very nice rhythm. In truth, there was a rhythm to her combing that set up a rhythm in his own body, down low.

But her words are like pouring cold water on a hot faggot. Be careful, my lady, or I may just fizzle. "You are right. What I don't need is more… uh, turnips."

"Turnips! Well, that's as good a word as any, I suppose. Where are the turnips, by the way?"

"Some of the turnips are asleep… I hope. The others are on guard duty in the vineyard."

"And how did you escape?"

"I told Torolf I had to visit the bathchamber."

"Ooookay."

"It was not really a mistruth." Actually, Torolf had wanted to know why he couldn't just piss against a nearby tree, and he'd told him he had "more serious business" to handle, which was not a lie either.

Making love to a woman was serious business, indeed.

"You mentioned something about plowing, Farmer Brown."

Laughing, he lifted her into his arms, naked flesh pressed against naked flesh under the warm shower spray.

"Uh-oh!" Magnus said against her ear.

"What?"

"I sense some rough terrain. We must needs smooth it out afore doing any plowing. You would not want to break the tip, would you?"

"The tip?"

"The plow tip… you know, that iron-hard bit that is… well, you know what I mean."

"And how do you intend to do that smoothin' thang , plowboy?"

"Odd that you should ask. I just happen to have available two shovels," he said, holding out his big, splayed hands. Magnus took her wrists in his hands and arranged them high so that she gripped the shower head. Then he filled his hands with liquid soap and began to rub it into her "rough terrain." Hill and dale got equal attention. Rosy pebbles. Boulders. Limbs. Even "grassy" areas.

She was making that little mewling sound deep in her throat that he had come to love. The more he slathered, the more she mewled. And when he moved the slickness on his hands to the slickness between her legs, she almost shot off the floor with a jerk. Lowering her arms, she shoved his chest and said in a low growly voice that nigh melted his… plow, "My turn, sweetheart. The farmer's lady has got to work, too."

He couldn't argue with that.

So he was the one raising his arms to circle the showerhead, and it was Angela who was soaping him up and he was the one gasping his pleasure. With an expertise known to women throughout time, she rubbed his shoulders and neck, the muscled planes of his chest, the tendons in his arms and legs, the hard flatness of his belly, the hard curves of his buttocks and even the crease between them. She left the most important part for last. With slow deliberation, she poured more soap into her palms, encircled him, and began to milk him like a true farmer's wife. She must have paid more attention today than he had thought.

But Magnus was a simple man, and he could only take so much. "Enough!" he roared, and backed Angela against the far wall of the stall, lifted her off the floor, arched her hips outward, and entered her.

He felt as if every bone in his body were red-hot and rigid. He felt as if the blood in his body had turned molten. He felt as if every hair on his body were standing tall. All this because of the intensity of his arousal.

But then he looked at Angela, who was staring at him with wide eyes. And no wonder! Down below, her inner muscles were already contracting around him with the beginning of her "coming," as they referred to it in this land.

He could not wait then. He wanted to—desperately—but it had been too long—a sennight, by Thor!—and she had excited him too much with her farmer-wife play… and so he began the hard, hard, hard strokes that pressed her backside against the tiles with a delicious rhythm that was enticing in itself.

Angela's contractions were never-ending as he plunged in and out. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders.

Her legs tightened around his hips. And still the ripples of pleasure in her inner walls tortured him with their clasping and unclasping till he thrust deep and hard and cried out his ecstasy.