by Gwynn Jones
"Ahhhh!" He gasped as she sucked at the head of his cock, slowly taking in more and more of the shaft. She cupped his balls with one hand while she gripped and rubbed the rest of his shaft with the other. She had never done this, and she loved it. She loved using her mouth to bring him pleasure, loved how much control she had over the sensations she produced. She used her tongue and lips together, licking and rubbing, dipping her head to plunge him in and out of her, filling her mouth and pressing against the back of her throat. She could feel his legs beginning to tremble. He was holding perfectly still, allowing her to fuck him with her mouth instead of trying to fuck her mouth, himself. But she could tell that the pressure was mounting. He put his hands on her shoulders.
"I can't," he panted, "I'm going to, I'm — oh, ahhhh!" She gripped him by the hips and swallowed the entire length of his cock, taking it deep into her throat. She felt the spurt of semen, a thick stream, as she pulled back, swallowing some and allowing the remainder to spill from her mouth and spray onto her chest.
He dropped to his knees, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. He kissed his cum from her lips. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the pool. She laughed as he washed her off, pausing to scoop up a handful of water to rinse the taste of his seed from his lips, as well.
Her wet underclothes clung to her body. He drew a finger down from her collar bone to the lower curve of her breast.
"So beautiful," he murmured, "and so dangerous."
She couldn't resist kissing him again.
He peeled off her clothes, kissing every inch of her as he went. He lingered on her shoulders, on the hollow of her neck. He spent a small, delicious eternity on each of her breasts. He kissed circles around her nipples, his whiskers brushing against the tips until she was nearly out of her mind with the pleasure of it. He made his way down her belly, and when his beard finally brushed against her pelvis, she couldn't suppress a gasp. Her sex was dripping ambrosia, desperate for his touch, but he continued to tease, to explore her legs, her feet, the backs of her knees and the tender flesh of her inner thighs. Her entire body hummed, and somehow, without even touching her most sensitive sexual spots, he had brought her to the verge of climax.
When his lips and tongue finally found her throbbing clit, it felt like she was shooting sparks. A wave of crackling energy ran through her, tearing a cry from her mouth. Beowulf continued, dipping his tongue inside her, tasting her, licking and sucking at her clit, sending wave after wave through her, every pulse more powerful than the last. He slipped a finger inside her, then two, hooking them to caress that sensitive mound of nerves on the inner wall. With his lips and tongue working her clit and his fingers pressing from the other side, it was like he'd caught hold of her sexual core and held her entire body rapt in his attentions. Every stroke sent another charge through her. Her back arched, her arms flung out, fingers digging into the smooth stone floor, she felt as though her sex was a glowing ball of light, a fire held in his hand, blazing ever higher. She thought she saw blue flames at the edge of her vision.
He lifted his head, looking up at her, his eyes wide.
"What is this? Magic? Are you a goddess?"
Sigrun realized that she was glowing. Truly glowing. Silver and blue sparks played across her skin. She seemed to have blue flames at her fingertips and flickering from her hair. Could this be happening? But she could feel it, the energy pulsing through her and emanating from her. And Beowulf clearly saw it, too. And yet, she thought, he also had a glow about him, a steady golden gleam that was surely more than just the play of the firelight on his hair and skin. He had risen to his knees, and his cock was massively erect.
"My hero," she whispered, "does it matter? Just take me!"
She sat up, wrapping her legs around his. With one arm around his chest, her fingers twisting into the hair at the back of his neck, and her other hand gripping his cock, she pulled herself up against him, guiding his sex to hers. She opened to him, hot and slick, and couldn't suppress a moan at the feel of his thick shaft sliding into her.
"Ahhh," he sighed, groaned, "oh, beautiful creature..."
He leaned back onto his heels, kneeling with her in his lap, and took hold of her hips. She let go of his cock and wrapped her arm around his waist so that she could take the full length of him into her. She sank slowly onto him, pulled back, sank again, until she had every last inch. She held him tightly, held herself against him for several moments, her body on fire, keeping him inside her, before she began to fuck him. She thrust against him, once, twice, again and again. His hands tightened on her hips. Lightning crackled across her belly. She rode him hard, and harder. His chest glistened with golden beads of sweat.
At first he held still, letting her move against him, but now he began to move with her, meeting thrust with thrust, grinding into her. She cried out, gasped at the powerful force of his cock. The way they met, the way they fit, was beyond anything she had felt before. She lost herself in the rhythm of their passion, the rapture of fucking and being fucked so perfectly in synch.
She could not have said how much time passed wrapped in Beowulf's arms. Waves of orgasm washed through her while he fucked her longer, better, more mightily than she had ever been fucked before. His stamina was astounding. Sparks flew from them. She threw her head back, silver flames bursting from the tips of her hair. She felt her climax building, about to explode through her, and wondered for a fraction of a second whether her final orgasm might not burn them both to cinders. But there was no controlling it. She froze, seized by her body's release, wracked by it and enveloped in it. Beowulf, ever the hero, caught up in the vortex of her climax, plunged his rock-hard rod as deep as it could go into her pulsing, molten cunt. They came together, clinging to one another, buffeted by the waves of perfect oblivion.
What now?
Their time together was brief. A day, a night, one, or a few? — long enough for all but Beowulf's most faithful companions to leave the lakeside, he would find, having given him up for dead. Long enough for Sigrun to tell him the true tale of Grendel's attacks and Hrothgar's sacrificial brides. Horrified, Beowulf promised that he would not interfere again, whatever political chaos might envelop Heorot in the future. Besides, he had his own realm to return to, his own loyalties to maintain.
He helped her tend to Grendel's corpse. It was painful, but she allowed him to take the head. It would provide definitive proof of the monster's death, and though Sigrun did not fear for herself, wasn't even sure that she would remain at this place, it would increase the chances of her being left in peace. It would also increase the potential for Grendel himself to rest in peace: the undead rise in mysterious ways, and one can never be too careful in putting monsters down for good. Sigrun did not like the thought of Grendel rising again, more horrifying than ever and even harder to control. They decided to deliver the rest of his body into the hearth, as it seemed the only reasonably available funeral pyre.
Weeping, Sigrun embraced Grendel's cold chest one last time before cutting off his head with the giant sword, slicing clean through with a single swipe. Beowulf helped her lift the body onto the hearth, and then they rolled it into the flames. Tears poured down her cheeks, blurring her vision, but she caught her breath and was startled out of her grief at the sight that was briefly revealed when they consigned him to the fire. The flames were momentarily parted, dampened by the body, finally affording her a clear view to the back of the hearth.
There was no back wall.
Or rather, there was a gaping opening — a passageway. The great carved hearth had always seemed like a gateway because it was a gateway! But a gateway to where? To what? Was this entire hall in fact a gatehouse to something beyond? And was this what Grendel had felt he needed to protect?
Sigrun's questions did not prevent her from taking comfort in Beowulf's embraces. They enjoyed each other again, and again, slowly and carefully. She explored the immense delights of his magnificent cock and all the ways in which she could take it
, giving and receiving pleasure. She used her mouth and hands on him in every way she could imagine, thrilling at the responses she provoked. Beowulf submitted to her caresses, gave himself to her, and then returned the attentions in kind. They explored every inch of each other's bodies. Beowulf mapped and mastered her, as she did to him. His touch was skilled, precise, attentive in no way she had ever felt before, and she learned from her time with him how to read a body, how to play it to perfection.
How this bear of a man, so huge, so powerful, could be simultaneously so sensitive, so careful, amazed her. He made her body sing. And the lightning flashes, the pulses of energy that she had felt before with Grendel and with the sea dragons, became shaper and more focused under his focused attentions. They marveled together at the sparks that flickered from Sigrun's fingertips as she became aroused, and she played at sending them snapping and crackling across Beowulf's bare chest. But for all these pleasures and discoveries, they both knew that their time together was short, and this precious interlude needed to end.
"Can't you come with me?" he groaned, wrapping her in his arms.
"Can't you stay with me?" She chuckled, a bit sadly, knowing what his response had to be. "Of course you can't. You are a hero. You have responsibilities. You have men waiting for you above."
"I do. And though you tempt me to forget them all, I cannot abandon them. And it's not just my men. My king and my country are under constant threat from our enemies, and I am needed to help maintain the peace."
"Your enemies ought to fear you greatly after this amazing feat."
"Yes. It is why I came, to make my name for myself. And now I curse my foolish pride, that I sought this glory. Can you never forgive me? Is that why you will not come with me? And now I must pine for you for the rest of my days?"
"I have forgiven you already. I cannot come with you because my business here is not yet finished."
"Heorot? But I thought you meant to let it fall on its own?"
"Not Heorot. This hall. And that passage." She gestured toward the fire. "And this." She nodded at the blue flame that she'd just conjured in her hand. "I don't know who I am, what I am. But I know that I have become this way since coming here. I think maybe my answers lie through there. I have to go see."
"But you told me the fire never dies. Do you plan to just walk through the flames? It's too much, too great a blaze."
"I have a thought about that."
Sigrun remembered the strange effect that her blade had on the fire when she thrust it into the flames in order to cauterize Grendel's wound. She picked up the sword now and carried it to the hearth, thrusting it up to the hilt into the fire. The heat on her hand was intense, but she noticed a blue glow wrapping around her hand and creeping up her wrist. The flames around the blade burst into a ball of white and blue and then parted, creating an opening in the wall of fire. She smiled, withdrawing the sword and letting the flames close in on themselves again. This blade had hung beside the hearth for a reason. It was both a weapon and a key!
Turning back to Beowulf, she felt a pang in her chest. The man was extraordinary — perhaps in ways similar to her? They had a special connection, she felt it crackling through her, and yet she knew that for now, at least, they had to part. He may have killed her dear Grendel, but he had also freed her in the process, pushed her further on her own path. Her encounter with Beowulf, this gorgeous, powerful man, had been revelatory — but now she needed to find out what these revelations meant.
"Promise me that you will come find me, once you have found the answers you seek." The look in his eyes almost made her falter in her resolve.
"I do. I will." Her throat constricted. "Thank you, Beowulf. Thank you for what you have given me. Now bring them Grendel's head, and tell them that you killed me, too. It would be best for both of us if that is what they believe."
He swept her into his arms for a last embrace, his skin glowing gold against her silver-white sheen, and she allowed herself to sink into him, to be held for a moment completely enveloped in his strong, steady presence. She would like to have this, to keep this. But that gateway beckoned.
"Wait for me," she whispered into his chest, "wait for me, and I will find you again." She said it for herself, the words too soft for his ear to catch. She could not ask this of him, but she could hope it for herself.
Sigrun helped Beowulf swim back to the surface with Grendel's head, enlisting her favorite sea dragons to help speed him up from the depths with his burden. She did not follow. She was sure that he would be received with great acclaim. She trusted that he would gracefully extricate himself from any further commitments to Hrothgar and Heorot and would return to his home on the other side of the sea. And she had no desire to lay eyes on Heorot ever again, herself. She was done with that place.
She looked around the hall. By rights, she supposed, this place and everything within it belonged to her now. She considered her initial plan of flight, how that tiny fraction of the hall's wealth that she'd taken would have enabled her to go anywhere, do anything. She thought again of Beowulf. But then she turned to the hearth, the gateway with its barrier of flames. She knew where she needed to go. There was only one true choice for her. This one. Through those flames and onward to whatever lay beyond.
Sigrun smiled to herself. She wondered what adventures awaited her.
Continue to follow the further adventures of Sigrun Frostdaughter
in Viking Lore Erotic Tales!
by Gwynn Jones