1
Elina
The air is thick with sex and raw primal energy when I enter the club on Friday night, just like the last time I was here. No, even more intense, I realize, as I slide onto a stool at the bar and take it all in. The first time I was here, the atmosphere was calm and casual. People were chatting and laughing, some were playing too, but the atmosphere was easy, almost laid-back.
But tonight is different. People are whispering, acting more subdued. There’s something almost ceremonious in the air.
My attention catches on the scene unfolding at the spanking bench. A man dressed in black, long hair gathered in a surprisingly masculine braid, is flogging a naked woman, who’s restrained to the bench. His steady cadence entrances me, so I startle when he suddenly breaks it with an abrupt, hard swing. The slam of the strands crashing down on his sub’s ass reverberates through the room, drawing a high-pitched yelp from her.
I shudder but keep my attention on the scene, fascinated. It feels like a transgression to watch such an intimate exchange of power, but I can’t help it—and many others are looking too.
The woman starts panting, the shivers in her body becoming visible. I can almost feel the intensity crawling over my own skin.
I realize I’m holding my breath when the man leans down and strokes her back with a tenderness that shouldn’t be possible after such violence. A shiver skitters across my skin, and I shift in my seat, imagining the feeling of his big hand stroking her spine and his hot breath as he whispers something to her.
I draw a longing sigh. My kinky dreams have always been vague and undefined, but this scene is like a perfect manifestation of what I’ve always wanted but couldn’t quite picture. Now, it’s right here in front of me, but also so far out of reach.
A prickling sensation dislodges my gaze from the scene, drawing my attention toward the couches in the far corner. My breath stutters when my gaze collides with hard blue eyes—cold as the ice covering the lake, several inches thick and unforgiving at this time of year.
The man has a long beard that is gathered in a well-kept braid that hangs down his chest, and the sides of his head are shaved, leaving a thick strip of blond hair in the middle, drawn back into an intricate web of braids and gathered with a leather band at the back. The pagan symbol on his necklace matches the tattoos of runes and old Nordic symbols on his arms. It’s the same style as almost every other man in here, yet he stands out. He seems calm in a stoic sort of manner that only heightens the magnificent control radiating off him.
The depth in his eyes hints at a lifetime of experience—darkness, resilience, and hard-earned wisdom. He seems older in soul, but the faint lines across his forehead and crinkles at his eyes reveal that he’s probably just past forty.
I swallow, needing to look away, but somehow unable to do so. It’s like he doesn’t want me to break away, so I can’t.
I’m almost relieved when the bartender breaks me out of the strange trance. “I’m glad to see you decided to return.”
The world seems to have slowed and only sluggishly starts moving again when I drag my gaze to him, and it takes me a moment to realize what he said.
“Of course,” I say with a smile, though the decision wasn’t as easy as I make it sound. Although part of me jittered to be back here in the charged atmosphere, another part wanted to tuck my tail between my legs and stay home—stay safe. Because, despite the safewords and a strict admittance process, this place does not feel safe. I’m not sure what it is, but something gives me the feeling of having walked straight into the den of a predator.
I glance back to the sofas in the far corner, where the man with the icy stare sits as if on a throne, arms draped over the back, surveying the room like it’s his dominion. He’s no longer watching me, but the sight is still heady.
Gulping, I force my focus back to the bartender, Asbjörn—another predator. It takes me another moment to remember myself.
“Oh, I forgot about my member’s ID.” I reach for my purse, but he holds up a hand.
“Nah, it’s okay. I remember signing you up just fine, Elina.”
My name on his lips sends a strange rush through me. This man is all brawn and masculine strength, thick arms covered in full-sleeve tattoos, long hair and thick beard, and a plethora of leather and silver armbands adorning his wrists. He looks like a warrior. A Viking.
His genuine smile softens his dangerous air, but nothing can truly hide it. It’s right there in the open, inked into his skin with images of Thor and his hammer and Odin’s two ravens. In many ways, he looks like the man with the icy stare. Same age that carries the weight of authority and experience, same symbolism, and braids in his hair, though only a few loose ones. But unlike the man at the back, Asbjörn seems approachable and friendly,and the darkness is more like a simmer in the background than something that radiates from his every cell.
A shudder rolls through me as I glance at the man with the icy stare. The sight is too heady, and I quickly return my focus to the room, where I see the same aesthetic of old Nordic symbolism and Viking-like appearances on almost every other man. It’s striking. Even the music fits the same vibe with ritual-like drums and deeply evocative vocals singing in an old Nordic language. It’s all very befitting the wild landscape that towers at the edges of this northern city and the wild winter that rages outside. But the Viking vibes seem to be more of a club thing than something that defines the whole town.
I’ve only lived here a few months, but everyone I’ve met has been perfectly normal—only a bit more rural than in Stockholm. Nothing like the people here at the club. The Viking vibes are mostly tied to the men, but the women wear braids too, and some of them have jewelry etched with the same old Nordic symbols.
“Do you believe in the Norse Gods?” I ask Asbjörn, curious to find out what it’s all about.
“Not really. It’s more the symbolism and the history that draw me in. That sense of belonging to something ancient. Just like the nature here. My spirituality is more connected to the earth. The forests. The mountains. The world that doesn’t need words to make sense.”
I’m quiet for a moment, a bit stunned—fascinated. “Is it like a religion? I mean, is it something all of you believe in?”
“Religion? As in churches and praying, no. But rituals…” His gaze glides down over my throat and my chest in a not-so-subtle manner that hitches my breath. “Sure, we have those.”
I lick my lips. “What kind?”
He shrugs. “Kneeling, serving, worshipping your master.” He nods to a woman who is kneeling between her Dom’s feet,licking and kissing his cock while he leans his head back, eyes closed, one hand resting on her head in a soothing gesture. The scene looks serene. Deeply intimate.
