The Claiming Ritual

Chapter 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, Asbjorn—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, Asbjorn 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 Asbjorn, 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.

“And other things,” he adds, giving me a meaningful look before he turns to the fridge behind the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

I look at the couple again, my eyes drawn as if by a magnetic force. “Sure. Just a soda, thank you.”

I try to focus on the bar and Asbjorn pouring soda into a glass, but my attention keeps drifting to the scene.

Reading my uncertainty, Asbjorn says, “It’s okay to watch. If they wanted privacy, they’d be in a room instead.”

For the next ten minutes, I watch discreetly and sip my soda while Asbjorn goes to talk to another couple in hushed voices a bit farther down the bar.

But it’s not just the scene on the nearby couches or the one on the spanking bench across the room that I watch.

I try to restrain myself, but my eyes keep flicking to the man in the back of the room.

There’s something about him that makes my breath shorten.

Something potent and worthy. A strength and a stillness that makes me think of the snow-covered mountains at the fringes of town and the harsh winds outside.

He doesn’t look my way again, and I’m as relieved as I’m disappointed.

Lea, a bubbly blonde who was also here last Friday, breaks me from the trance when she jumps onto the barstool beside me. “Are you nervous?”

“Nervous?” I parrot, a bit confused.

She nods to my hands that are fumbling with my lip balm, pulling the lid off, pushing it back on, and scratching at the label. “I know it’s overwhelming. I mean, I was nervous the first ten times I came here. Still am sometimes.” Smiling softly, she makes an excited lift of her shoulders.

“Yeah.” My shoulders drop with the admission.

I guess I’m more nervous than I thought.

But not just for the reasons I’d expect.

I watch the mighty man with the icy stare.

A few other couples are on the adjoining sofas, but not a single person has tried to sit on his couch or approach further, and the other members seem to steer clear of the area as if out of quiet respect.

“Don’t worry; it gets better. Even if the nervousness lingers, the excitement grows. Especially when you find someone to play with.”

“Do you have a Dom? Or a play partner?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Nah, I’m just playing a bit with whoever is free. Sometimes, I join a scene when a couple wants an extra sub. That kind of thing.”

She says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world; meanwhile, I’m trying not to gawk. “That sounds exciting.”

She makes a cute little bounce. “It is.”

“Have you ever been to other clubs?”

“Several. But this one is my favorite. I knew it the first time I came here.”

“Do all kinksters look like this? I mean, do all Dom’s look like Vikings?”

“Nah, it’s just here.” She giggles and fiddles with a bracelet that I only notice now. A silver bead with a rune symbol—?—sits on a simple band of braided black leather. Feeling like I have seen it before, I glance at Asbjorn and find the exact same one among his many armbands.

I point to the rune. “What does that mean?”

Her smile widens. “Dagaz. It’s the old rune symbol meaning dawn. New beginnings.”

I study the symbol, oddly mesmerized, feeling a strange sense of connection. That’s exactly where I am. At the dawn of a new beginning.

“What kind of new beginning?”

“Long story,” she simply says.

I almost reach out to touch the symbol but stop myself. That’s when I feel that prickling sensation again. Lifting my gaze, I find the man at the back watching me again. His eyes drift over my face, down to my hands, then slowly, languidly, looks away again.

My breath catches and chills spread over my skin. “Who is that?” I whisper to Lea.

“Who?” Lifting her gaze, she follows my line of sight, and her voice fills with a sort of careful hesitation. “That’s Ulf.”

“Ulf,” I whisper, wanting to taste his name on my lips. “Who is he?”

“Um. He’s the leader.” Uncertainty flickers in her expression, and she hurriedly adds, “I mean, he’s the one people go to for advice here. But don’t get your hopes up. He’s looking for something very specific.”

“I wasn’t,” I say a bit too quickly, probably giving myself away. I swallow, trying to crush my curiosity, but I can’t help myself. “What kind of specific?”

“No one really knows.” She watches him for a moment, then adds to herself, “Someone fit for a chieftain, I guess.”

“A chieftain?”

Her attention snaps back to me. “Never mind. It’s just speculation.”

“You said leader? What kind of leader?”

“I—” She glances back at him, then at me, uncertainty straining her features as if she’s not sure whether she was supposed to say that. “Just forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter.”

Before I can ask more questions, she slides off the stool and goes to join the people on the couches close to the bar.

I frown and turn my attention to my soda, taking a few sips and fiddling with my lip balm as I try to comprehend Lea’s strange behavior.

“What did Lea say?” Asbjorn leans his elbows on the bar top before me.

“What?”

He points to my face. “That frown on your brow. It came when she disappeared.”

“She just said something about...” I point at Ulf, not quite daring to say his name for some reason.

“Ah, Ulf. What did she say about him?”

“Something about him being a leader, or... chieftain. I don’t know; it was weird.”

“Ulf is the best Dom in this place. Everyone holds him in high regard.”

“Oh. Is there some kind of hierarchy in the lifestyle?”

“There is here,” he says, just as vague as Lea.

He must read my uncertainty. “Don’t worry.

Just don’t sit on that sofa when Ulf is here”—he nods to where Ulf is sitting—“and don’t try to insert yourself into his group.

” He puts his hand on my arm in a reassuring gesture.

“Don’t worry. There are no other hidden rules like that.

It’s just with Ulf. And he doesn’t even come here that often. This is the first time in months.”

I’m a bit unnerved by the way he seems to be reading my mind but relieved nonetheless. This Ulf guy unsettles me. But as the night carries on and I chat with Asbjorn and a few other members, the strange sensation fades, and I enjoy myself.

Intimidating as this place and the people here are, it’s also friendly and surprisingly open. Besides my inquiries about Ulf and the strange Viking vibes, people answer all my curious questions about the lifestyle and the power dynamics.

Still, the more I listen and small details keep catching my attention, the more curious—and mesmerized—I become.

Many of the members wear the same armbands: woven black leather with one or more silver beads etched with runes.

I’m both fascinated and somewhat unsettled as a quiet, uneasy thought settles in the back of my mind.

Something hidden. A cult? A brotherhood? A secret society?

I remember what Asbjorn said about rituals, and my mind runs wild with images that scare me as much as they enthrall me.