Bride of Grendel 2: Night of the Bear Man: A Viking Lore Erotic Tale (Viking Lore Erotic Tales Book 3) (4 page)

              She peered upwards through the depths and toward the surface so far away. Her dragons tumbled around her, but she put up a hand when they tried to pull her into their knot, and they kept their distance. Something caught their attention up above, and they shot away towards it. She strained to se
e
—
was that a figure? A man, swimming downwards? It was. A large man. It was Beowulf, of course. Who else would it be? He was swimming powerfully, but the weight of his sword and chain mail was also pulling him down swiftly. Any normal man would have feared drowning, plunging into a deep lake fully dressed and armed, but this one seemed to be using it to his advantage.

              The sea dragons converged on him, curious, playful, and perhaps a bit menacing. They swirled and snapped. He punched one in the nose and slashed at another with his sword. They twined themselves around his arms and legs. Sigrun felt a strange frisson of pleasure at the sight of the hero bound by her dragons. But it might be best for her to interfere. She swam out to meet the roiling mass. She seized the warrior by his belt, shooed away the beasts, and pulled him toward the cave. Surely he was almost out of air. She glanced at his face to see if he was still conscious, and his eyes were open and alert. She pushed him through the opening, and they both swam up to the surface of the pool.

              He took a few deep breaths and then dragged himself up the steps. She hopped out after him. Dripping wet, breathing heavily, he began to hoist up his sword for an attack, but Sigrun punched him in the face, sending him staggering back a step. The brief loss of balance gave her all the opportunity she needed to kick his sword from his hand and knock him to the floor. She jumped on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his hands with hers. He was a very strong man
—
she could feel it as he struggled to free his arms from her grasp
—
but she had grown strong, too.

              Yet he was a very good fighter, far more experienced than she. He planted his feet and bucked her off of him, freeing a hand and sending her to the floor. He regained his blade and swung it in a deadly, hacking arc at her neck. And it bounced off her dragon skin collar as though it were a wooden toy. She rolled away, leaped to her feet, and swept up her own sword.

              "I think mine will work better against you than yours against me," she smiled, lunging forward and slashing at his chest. He jumped back, but she still opened up several links of chain-mail across his breast. "But I have no quarrel with you, Beowulf. You killed my dear Grendel, but I blame Hrothgar
—
and Grendel himself
—
for that. We do not need to fight."

              Beowulf, frowning at the hole in his mail, kept his sword at the ready. "You asked for this fight, I'm afraid, when you killed Aeschere. And I promised Hrothgar that I would avenge that loss."

              "Hrothgar does not deserve your service."

              "He is a great and noble king."

              "He is a terrible king! A terrible, selfish, foolish king!"

              Beowulf took advantage of this moment when Sigrun's anger flared. Well aware of the uselessness of his sword, he threw it at her head. She ducked, but it caught one of the horns on her helmet, knocking it back, and he barreled into her, knocking her down and trying to wrest her sword from her grasp. Her helmet came off in the tussle, and Beowulf paused for a tiny moment at the sight of her streaming hair and her unobscured face. It was the slightest of pauses, but it was enough. She grabbed her helmet by the offended horn and smashed it against the side of his head. He fell back, dazed, and she straddled him, planting her knees on his thighs this time, again. She brought her sword up against his throat. Panting, she felt a grin spreading across her face. She also felt a distinct tingle in her loins. What a fight! She liked this hero. What a shame to have to kill him.

              Her sword bit into the mail at his neck. Any moves, and he risked cutting his throat. He was panting too, staring up into her eyes. A wry smile flickered across his face.

              "What a beautiful, deadly creature you are! Now do you mean to kill me?"

              "I told you that it wasn't my preference, but you seem to have forced me to it."

              "Perhaps we could renegotiate?"

              His gray eyes glittered
—
with humor, or with something else? And then, in a move that risked all, an insane, death-defying gambit, he suddenly snaked his hands up beneath the blade and with a burst of strength pushed up against the flat of it, bucking Sigrun off him again and thrusting the sword away. This time it clattered from her grasp. They rolled over and over each other, both scrambling for the weapon. They came to rest, Beowulf atop Sigrun, both with their arms outstretched for the sword, which lay mere inches from their hands. They froze, their faces inches apart.

              Her chest heaving against his, her pulse racing
—
from exertion or excitement?
—
she felt herself suddenly locked in the gaze of this powerful man. His eyes were bright, sharp, and, she realized with an odd shock, particularly given the circumstances, they were kind. Staring into Beowulf's eyes, Sigrun forgot about the sword. She reached up, pushed back his hood of mail, and plunged her fingers into his thick, dark hair, pulling his face to hers in a long, deep kiss.

              With Unferth, Sigrun had always accepted his attentions, allowed him to do his best and offered little in return. She had never dominated him, ridden him like the feisty new Wealhtheow who had asserted her rightful rule as his queen. Nor had she ever labored to give him pleasure. With Grendel, too, she had given herself up to him. And her body had responded in powerful ways. With Grendel, she had felt her own power building and coursing through her body, exploding from her in orgasmic release, but as much as she recognized that power, she never felt that it was entirely hers to control. When she had taken up the giant-blade to defend herself, she had begun to feel control. Raiding Heorot to avenge Grendel had given her a strange sense of exhilaration. Now, kissing Beowulf, she felt a surge of excitement. She did this. She chose this. She wanted this.

              They sat up, still kissing. She ran her fingers over his chain mail, feeling for openings and tugging at the fastenings of his arm guards. He stood up, pulling her to her feet, and stepped back. He shed his arm guards and pulled off the coat of mail. She unfastened the buckles of her breastplate and let it fall to the floor. Piece by piece, they both removed their various cuffs and straps. She peeled off her tunic, boots, and leggings, leaving only the thin fabric of her undergarments clinging to her curves. He smiled and pulled off his shirt, revealing a chiseled, hairy chest. She smiled back.

              He pulled her into his arms, and she began kissing him again, kissing his face and neck, kissing his broad chest. She ran her hands down his sides to his waist and began unfastening his pants. Her fingers found their way inside to release his swollen prick. She felt a gush of her own juices as she took his big, beautiful cock in her hand. It was very big, the unnaturally large member of an unnaturally large and strong man. She wondered how many girls Beowulf had frightened out of his bed at the sight of this thing. It must have been many, because he pulled back slightly, began to offer apologies in anticipation of her shock. She stopped him, chuckling, pressing a finger to his lips.

              "It is absolutely perfect."

              She dropped to her knees and began to kiss the head. It was so big, she wasn't sure she would be able to fit it into her mouth, but she thought she could try. She ran her tongue around the crown, caressing the length of the shaft with her fingers and drawing a groan from Beowulf. She flicked her tongue against the underside of the tip, circled the head again, gradually making it slippery and wet before opening her mouth as wide as it could go and pulling the whole thing in.

              "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.