House of Freya: A Viking Lore Erotic Tale (Viking Lore Erotic Tales Book 1)

House of Freya

A Viking Lore Erotic Tale

vol. 1

by

Gwynn Jones

              Heat. Such heat. Body against body, limbs intertwined, a tangle of legs, his fingers tangled in her hair, his mouth against her throat. Her breath coming in gasps and sighs as he moved against her, plunged into her. And she rose to meet him, arching into him with every thrust, desperate to feel every inch of his thick, throbbing cock buried inside her. The feel of his hand on her breast, his fingers pinching and twisting her nipple, sending thrills of sweet pain shooting through her, igniting every nerve in her body. Her body taut, her hot cunt pulsing around his shaft, everything so wet, so tight. He pulled back, teasing her, and she moaned, begged him to fuck her, to fuck her hard. When he did, thrusting fast and deep, it set off an explosion, her body erupting into wave after wave of climax. Spent, shaking, her loins humming and her head spinning, she'd curled up in his arms.

              And then she'd begged for more.

              But that was then, and this was now. And right now it was cold. Very cold.

              The sun was low. It was always low in these parts, never ascending to the heights of the sky, only ever tracing a shallow arc along the southern horizon for a few precious hours before dipping out of sight and plunging everything back into the shadows of long night.

              Sigrun paused to watch the setting sun, deep orange against a purple sky. She had never seen a sky so purple. She wondered if it was always this way. She had not been in this place long enough to tell whether it had seasons, or whether it was anything like the human world. She looked out over the frozen landscape. Nothing but snow. She had come from a place of rock, made her way down from its jagged spires and treacherous fields of scree out onto these snowy plains, and she couldn't decide which was more menacing, there or here.

              It was bitter cold. Even her dragonskin clothes, made from the most impermeable, protective material in the world, could not completely withstand the bite as the temperature dropped with the waning daylight. She pulled her heavy fur cloak more tightly around her neck, glad that her lined helmet protected her head and much of her face from the wind. She pulled off a glove and concentrated on her hand, willing something, a spark, a flame, to appear. There was nothing. Not even the slightest flicker. She sighed. She just couldn't conjure it like that. No control. But that's why she was here, out in this snowy waste. She was looking for the one who could teach her.

              She pulled her glove back on, flexing her fingers to restore some of the warmth lost by exposing them. She had to keep moving. A long, hard day's walk once she'd left the spires, she'd been told. She hoped she hadn't lost her bearings. She shuddered at the thought of spending a night out on this frigid, windswept place. Surely she must be getting close.

              She was heading south, chasing the dwindling light. It felt like the darkness was looming behind her. Ready to devour her. It was a good thing she wasn't prone to panic. Still, when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, just out of sight and coming up the other side of the rise she'd just begun to climb, she felt a flood of relief. There was someone else out here, too. She wasn't alone in the vastness. The sight, however, of the massive tusked snout cresting the hill made her rethink those feelings. Maybe alone wasn't such a bad thing.

              She froze as the rest of the creature came into view.

              A boar.

              It was a huge boar. Giant. Easily three times her size. Probably more. Tusks sharp and gleaming. Sigrun's hand went up to the hilt of the sword slung across her back. But she paused before drawing her blade. This boar was dressed in battle gear, an armored harness over its thick gray coat. He was no wild creature. He glared down at her, but he was not charging. She dropped her hand, keeping her eyes on his. Another boar, equally massive, joined him. The first tilted his head toward the second, grunting. They were talking about her, she was sure of it. Deciding what to do? She cleared her throat, drawing their attention.

              "Excuse me. I am seeking the great hall Volkvangr. I was told that I would find it in these parts. Do you hail from it? Am I close?"

              They bent their heads together again. Then the first turned back to her.

              "Volkvangr gets few visitors." The boar's voice was rough, his words thick around his tusks. Sigrun found herself remarkably unsurprised that he was speaking. She'd started the conversation, after all. And she'd certainly experienced stranger things. "It is not a place that is easily found. But you are nearly there. Come. We will take you."  

              The boars waited for Sigrun to climb up to them. At the top of the crest, she could see a steady downslope sweeping out before her. Below, in the distance but not terribly far, she saw the glow of lights and the outline of a large building.

              "Climb up on my back. I will carry you. It will be quicker."

              Sigrun was glad for the offer. She had covered so much ground in the past few days. She was tired and cold. She took hold of the harness and pulled herself up onto the beast's back. He was so broad, it would be hard to keep a grip with her legs alone, so she dropped low, lying against him. He was warm, and she buried her face in his neck, her fur cloak pulled up around her ears to protect against the wind. The boars broke into a run, and once she got used to the rocking of his gait, the motion, the warmth, the feel of the powerful animal's muscles rippling beneath her all lulled her into a dreamy state. Her thoughts drifted over recent events and encounters, over the memory of strong hands on her body, her legs wrapped around her lover's waist, the feel of him inside her. Yet here she was now, alone again and far from his embraces. Nor was he the first she'd had to leave. Was this to be her destiny? Fleeting encounters, brief spaces of bliss? And yet she was the one who had made this choice. She was compelled to keep on.

              Sigrun lost track of the time; it was neither a short while nor a very long one before the boars slowed their pace. Rousing herself, Sigrun lifted her head for a better view and gaped at the sight. They were still several yards from the hall, and yet the structure loomed up so large, it was too big for her to take it all in. The walls had to be over a hundred feet high. They curved away
—
was it a circle? An oval? They stretched so far, she couldn't tell. The surface was smooth, ice or polished stone, or glass, and it glowed. Regular points of light, as though torches were embedded in the walls, gleamed along the length of it. It was breathtakingly beautiful, warm and cold at once. They approached a gate, maybe twenty feet high and nearly as wide. The entrance stood open, but it was guarded by two enormous boars on each side.

              Sigrun's escorts stopped, and she slid down to stand beside them. The boars exchanged a few snorts. The one who had carried her nodded toward the entrance.

              "Come. We go inside."

              They stepped through the gateway into a long, broad corridor punctuated with a series of heavy doors and grates ready to be shut against an enemy. There was no easy way into this place. But she wondered, who would ever dare to attack it?

              She glanced at the animals walking beside her and then looked again. Without breaking their stride, the boars shook themselves, rose up onto their hind legs, and shifted before her eyes into men. They were still very large
—
tall, broad-shouldered, massively muscled
—
but not as huge as when they were boar-shaped. They wore their hair short and had short, bristly beards. The one she had ridden glanced sideways at her and flashed a quick smile.

              Sigrun smiled back. Shifters! Well, why not. Of course.

              They emerged from the tunnel into a vast space, and her escorts paused to let her take it all in. This was no hall: it was a citadel. The interior walls were honeycombed with rooms and terraces. Staircases rose up vine-like, twisting and separating to crisscross the entire face. The entrance opened onto a vast square, beyond which rose a cluster of towers beside a tremendously large mead hall.

              The erstwhile-boar nodded toward the towers.

              "Freya's Keep."   

              Sigrun's heart jumped.

              "Is she there? I've been sent to ask her counsel."

              "On what? Is it magic that you seek? The goddess no longer teaches the Vanir ways. And she has little trust for strangers."

              "No, not magic
—
I mean
—
it's personal. Please, how do I seek audience?"

              "I will take you to the keep. She will decide whether she will see you."

              They crossed the square. Sigrun glanced up at the dark night sky blazing with stars. It felt remarkably still here. Out on the plains the wind had been howling. In here it was calm. She felt much less cold. They stepped inside the entrance to Freya's Keep, a squat, round tower from behind which the others rose. A fire blazed in a large hearth, and the room was comfortably warm. But it was empty, only the spacious vestibule to whatever lay beyond. Another set of doors stood opposite them, huge and heavily carved with intertwining vines, birds, and beasts.

              "Please remove your sword and helmet and leave them here. You may leave your cloak as well."

              Sigrun hesitated for a moment. But of course she could not meet the goddess fully armed. Good guests set aside their weaponry. She pulled off her helmet and handed it to her escort. Tendrils of silvery-white hair tumbled around her face. She unbuckled her scabbard, pulling her sword off her back, and handed it to him, as well. It was a large, heavy sword, and she could tell that he was admiring it.

              "Take care with that. It is ancient, and special," she warned.

              She unfastened her cloak, revealing her long, thick braids and close-fitting dragonskin garments. Whether the two men were gaping at the rare, remarkable material or how it revealed her form, she couldn't be sure. It was probably a bit of both. Sigrun had long since grown accustomed to men being amazed by her beauty. Though for some time, when she was young, she had managed to stay aloof from all advances
—
as though forces beyond her had protected her from the uncouth hands of men
—
in the end, her preternatural beauty had made her an outcast, had been her doom. And yet, also, that doom had offered a rebirth. It had set her on this path. Now if only Freya could help her learn who she really was.

              While the one boar-warrior placed her cloak and weaponry inside a solid, ornate cabinet on the wall opposite the fire, the other disappeared behind the great doors. He was gone for several minutes. Sigrun stood quietly, eyes on the door, tracing the scrollwork and the braided lines of interwoven flora and fauna.

              After a few moments of gazing, she realized that there were human figures in the interweave as well, male and female, tangled in one another's embraces. A man
—
a god?
—
crouched in one corner, his unnaturally large phallus standing rigidly erect. He was partially obscured by the flowers and vines
—
as were the others
—
but she could see that he had his hand on his prodigious prick. It was like he was watching. Near him, a woman with her hands entwined in the coils of a dragon seemed to be taking it both before and behind from two men with beatific faces. Flower petals
—
or flames?
—
framed her head. The more Sigrun looked, the more she imagined the carven orgy in the flesh. It was like the images were coming to life under her scrutiny. She could almost hear their panting and moaning, smell the musk of their sex.

              A male figure with tusks and a bristle of hair down his back
—
clearly a boar-shifter somewhere between his animal and human forms
—
caught her eye. He held a woman in his arms. Her hair streamed behind her, curls and braids caught in the vines around her. Her face was tilted up, looking into his, and somehow the woodcarver had achieved the effect of making her eyes seem to sparkle. One of her hands was on his arm. Sigrun found herself imagining the feel of the boar-shifter's muscles under her fingers. The other hand was gripping his thigh, hooked around the back of it and pulling him toward her. The head of his thick, swollen cock was pressed against her sex, just beginning to penetrate. Sigrun felt a gush of wetness. She felt her senses getting pulled into the scene, imagining that she herself was the woman with the streaming hair, pulling her lover to her. She ached to feel that thick, hard rod push past her wet lips and plunge deep inside her. She tightened her muscles at the thought of it, and a thrill ran up her spine. She blinked and looked away.

              She could feel her companion's eyes on her, but she resolutely avoided meeting his gaze. Finally, the other returned. He nodded curtly and beckoned for her to come forward.

              "She has agreed to see you. You may enter."

              Sigrun tried to suppress any visible signs of relief. Or nervousness. She straightened her shoulders and pushed through the doors into the chamber beyond. But as the doors swung shut behind her, she stopped short in sheer awe at the sight before her.

              The goddess sat on a raised throne at the far wall, directly opposite the entry. The throne was exquisite, impossibly ornate, carved from a wood so white it looked like ivory, the base and arms allover flowers and vines. The back extended all the way to the ceiling and portrayed a magnificent tree, its trunk entwined with braided vines and blooms, its branches extending upwards and outwards to cover the better part of the wall. Many of the leaves were covered with gold, punctuated with a scattering of bright red painted flowers. The entire thing seemed to glow with life. Flanking the throne, one on each side, were two snow leopards the size of polar bears. They wore gold collars and sat upright, attentive, eyes locked on Sigrun. She hoped that neither would decide to pounce.

              Then there was Freya herself. So beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman Sigrun had ever seen. She too seemed to glow. Her hair was a deep lustrous gold, coiled in thick braids piled on her head and spilling onto her shoulders. Wisps of free hair curled in tendrils around her face. Her skin was dark against the whiteness of her throne, a deeper shade of gold, a warm, soft hue like polished walnut. Gold bracelets coiled around her bare arms, and a heavy gold necklace rested on her ample bosom. A light, cream-colored gown seemed not so much to cover her as to spill down over her, sliding along her curves. The goddess was lithe and sleek, yet luscious. She looked strong, tightly-wound and powerful like a wildcat
—
and yet Sigrun was somehow simultaneously reminded of the buxom, rosy-cheeked young mothers of her village, that essential, simple, cheerful sensuality of a fertile woman. Freya seemed to exude sensuality in all its forms.