“Stroke my balls, angel. Yeah. Like that. Go further back. Back. Back. Ooh, there.”
I’m so blissed out from the head rub, sex talk, and fellatio, I’m moaning. My clit’s gotta be the size of Texas.
“You like sucking cock. I can tell. Bet you love the taste of cum. You’re gonna swallow it all, aren’t you, every salty delicious drop of my cum. Take it all in, Angela. Deep-throat me.”
He pulls my head forward and I open my throat to receive his full length.
“Damn, girl! Holy fuck!” His legs tremble.
I pull away, do it again, and he growls with pleasure, his head thrown back in delirium.
I pull his cock out and start stroking and licking again.
He has fistfuls of my hair. “Don’t stop, angel, I’m so fucking close.”
Marco’s blowhole isn’t on top of his head, it’s out his cock. He spurts and spurts, and my mouth fills with cum. I swallow it all.
“Finish me.” I’m still on my knees.
“No time.” Marco flicks off the lighter, plunging us both into darkness. “Stay until we’re done. I’ll make it worth the wait.”
“What about my cousin?”
“I just want you.” Marco opens the door and I squint despite the dim hall light. “Where did you learn to suck dick like that?”
“You.” I lick my lips, savoring his brine.
Marco blows me a kiss and disappears behind the door where we fucked yesterday, leaving me to make my way back to the table alone.
“What’s with the disappearing act?” Maria narrows her eyes. “Your hair is all messed up.”
I smooth it down. “Sorry.”
“Can’t he ask you on a proper date? Let him pursue you.”
I didn’t want to be chased. I wanted to be fucked.
Somehow I manage to convince Maria to leave without me after Mono Suavo announces it’s their last song for the night. Marco promised to take me home, I say. Yes, I know the way. Yes, he’s trustworthy.
A half hour later, Marco is driving me to his house.
“This isn’t a house,” I say as Marco parks in front of a dock on the Tena River.
“I’m Ecuadorian. We live with our parents until we get married. I’m not taking you there.” Marco gets out of the car, opens my car door. “I told you I would make the wait worth your while.”
We walk hand in hand to the dock’s edge. The river is wide and the black water glistens in the moonlight.
“Ever fuck in a river?” Marco strips down, tosses his fedora in the water, pulls out his ponytail, and dives in. He emerges, arcs a stream of water from his mouth. “Come on in, Angela. Your pussy must be at least as wet as this river.”
“Aren’t there piranhas?”
“Only thing that’s gonna feed on your pussy is me.”
Marco starts scat singing the classic instrumental strip tease song so I do my best impression of a sexy stripper peeling off her dress. After twirling it and my panties around, I dive in.
Marco disappears underwater, then emerges by slithering up my body. “Buenas noches, my angel. I have a gift for you.”
I wrap my legs around his hips and sink onto his cock. “I love your gifts.”
I’m in lust. I can’t help it. Marco makes me feel beau-tiful and sexy and adventurous. I don’t know if he’s marriage material but he’s the perfect vacation fling.
Marco kisses slowly, his tongue unhurried and thorough. It’s soft and sensuous, and mimics the pace of his thrusts. My legs tighten around him as my pleasure rises, and I run my hand through his hair.
I touch a bump on the top of his head. “What’s this?”
“Birth mark.” Marco grips my ass and stuffs his cock deep.
I groan and throw my head back. “Your cock is magic.” My cunt pulses to a tempo that propels me into a glorious crescendo.
“Slow it down, angel.” Marco caresses my ass, fingers my anus.
That’s all it takes. I arch back and let the beginning of the orgasm wash over me. That’s when I hear all the splashing.
Marco thrusts deep again. “Dolphins, nothing to worry about.”
They’re heading straight toward us, a hundred at
least, their pink skin glowing in the light of the moon.
“Enchanting, isn’t it,” he breathes in my ear. “Fucking the one you love in the midst of a family of dolphins.”
He’s thrusting faster now, prolonging my orgasm, his cock seeming to expand inside me. Wave after wave rushes over me. Marco holds tight.
Something brushes my legs. I open my eyes. Dolphins are everywhere, churning the water around us. One bumps my legs.
“Don’t be frightened, Angela.”
“You’re an Encantado.” Panic surges through my limbs as I try to wiggle away. I can’t! His cock is stuck inside.
“Yeah.” Marco nuzzles my neck. “You’ll be happy.” He begins moving inside me again. “I promise.”
A sublime rush of pleasure floods my senses, my panic swept away in the tide of orgasm. I give myself over to wild abandon.
As my orgasm ebbs away, I look toward the dock— how did we get so far away—and see Abuela and Maria flailing their arms.
“You want this.” Marco kisses me as we submerge.
I do.
The origin of the Encantado myth stems from the oral storytelling of indigenous peoples living near the Amazon and its tributaries. There is speculation about why the large native boto dolphins, with their pale human- looking skin, might have become part of local folklore. Whether the Encantado myth was a way to explain an illegitimate pregnancy in an isolated tribe, an attempt by the elders to keep their youth away from the dangers of a flooding river, or a reaction to the dolphins’ genitalia resembling human genitalia remains a mystery. Whatever the reason, don’t take a dip in the Amazon after being seduced by a hot male or female singer with a beautiful voice.
AFLAME
“You disobeyed me, Bryn.” Odin sat on his throne, legs splayed, one gnarled hand stroking his long white beard.
Bryn. Not Brynhild. The shield maiden knew Odin’s tactic. The fiercest of all gods was about to deliver a terrible punishment.
Brynhild lifted her eyes to the ceiling, her attention fixed on the circular pattern of a million golden shields overhead, a military testament to Odin’s strength and power.
Odin leaned forward. “For what possible reason would one of my most courageous Valkyrie defy a direct order?” Odin’s voice rose above the ever-present clamor of battle-slain warriors, resounding off the walls of Valhalla.
The dead heroes stopped their sporting, drinking, and eating to hear Brynhild’s reply.
“You asked me to decide the battle.” Brynhild locked eyes with Odin. “I decided in favor of Agnar. King Hjalmgunnar is so old his ears are clogged with bushy white hair.”
“You knew my preference!” thundered Odin.
Brynhild blinked. It was true. Except she knew Agnar would make the better king.
Odin beckoned Brynhild forward. “Bryn, your insolence gives me no choice. I must condemn you to life as a mortal.”
Brynhild staggered back, her hand tearing at the chain mail she wore over her shirt and pants. “Anything but that.”
Odin looked out from under his wild white brows. “You will stay in Hindarfell and wait until a mortal warrior crosses the flames surrounding the fortress to marry you. Come forward, Bryn. Now.”
Brynhild took a deep breath and stepped toward his throne. Odin grabbed her hand, sticking it with a thorn he had concealed in his palm. She snatched her hand away, looked down at the brightred bead of blood. She had only seconds to speak her mind before the poison doomed her to a deathlike sleep. “Only the most fearless man will ever wed me!”
“So be it,” said Odin as Brynhild collapsed on the floor.
High atop a mountain a great fire raged year after year. Nothing dowsed Odin’s flames, neither rain nor snow extinguishing a single flame. Behind Hindarfell’s blazing walls, Brynhild
slept. Though senseless to the time and the chain-mail-fused wool stuck to her skin, her body remained lithe and strong; her face, young and beautiful; her feisty spirit needing only to be awakened.
Passing through a forest of spruce and pine one autumn morning, the warrior Sigurd stopped his horse to consider the mountaintop inferno. The flames rose high into the air, as though licking at the heavens. Suspecting it was no ordinary fire, he galloped toward the blaze.
“I think this fire merits a closer look, don’t you, Grani?”
Sigurd’s horse snorted his approval.
The path was steep and narrow, and often blocked with fallen trees, yet Sigurd pressed onward. At the top, he patted Grani’s neck.
“This is the work of the gods, maybe of Odin himself.” Sigurd made a lap around the blaze and discovered the castle was made of shields that blazed with fire.
“Something of great value is inside,” he said to Grani.
Grani agreed, her loud blowing a sign of the horse’s curiosity.
Sigurd circled again, this time looking for any breach or opening. He almost missed seeing a way in, as the crackling, hissing flames nearly concealed the gap between the shields.
“You’ll have to leap through the fire, Grani.” Sigurd clicked his tongue to start forward but the horse stomped his foot.
“Really? The fire is irritating? Come on, Grani. I’m sure there’s a bucket of oats inside for your troubles.” Sigurd turned Grani around and found a place where they could get a running start. “Let’s go.” He clicked his tongue again.
The fearless horse took off fast and leaped through the flames and into the narrow gap in the wall. The castle’s interior was untouched by the fire, no evidence of smoke or soot. Sigurd dismounted from his horse and walked through the chambers, impressed by the vaulted oak ceilings and the patterned stone floors. The furnishings were sparse, but the few carved chairs and tables were of superior quality. Round shields and kite shields of leather and metal hung on the walls, as did knives, long bows, flat bows, axes, spears, and helmets. A wide iron chandelier hung from the ceiling. Cups, cutlery, and plates were displayed in cupboards.
“Hello?” Sigurd’s voice echoed in the cavernous space. “Anybody home?”
The castle was silent—not even the sound of the fire raging outside penetrated the walls.
Sigurd found a bag of oats in the scullery for Grani, and then mounted the wide staircase to the second floor. The first chamber was empty. So was the second.
“What’s this?” Sigurd strode inside the third chamber.
A warrior dressed head to toe in full armor lay on a white stone slab in the middle of the room. A studded metal helmet fringed with chain mail concealed the face.
Sigurd pulled off the helmet. “What the—”
The warrior was a beautiful copper-haired maiden with rosy cheeks and slightly parted lips. Sigurd put his finger beneath her nose and felt the faintest breath of life. He fanned her copper mane over the slab, entranced by its silkiness and color. The maiden didn’t move. He studied the chain mail encasing her. It was so formfitting it seemed grafted to her body.
“Which god did this to you? And what did you do to incur his wrath?”
Sigurd drew his sword from the sheath and sliced the first link at the neck.
Brynhild’s eyes flew open. “Who are you?” The warrior leaning over her was tall and broad shouldered. His eyes, blue as a deep lake in the summer, peered out from beneath a heavy brow.
Sigurd removed his leather helmet and black hair tumbled to his shoulders. “Sigurd, son of Sigmund.” His beard was trimmed and his mustache long and thick.
Brynhild’s gaze traveled down the length of his brawny arm to the long sword in his hand. “You breached the wall of flames?”
“I certainly didn’t drop from the sky.” Sigurd scratched his beard. “Can you move?”
Brynhild rolled her head back and forth. “Only my head.”
“I can cut this chain mail away but it will require your patience.” Sigurd rotated his sword and leaned over to slice off another link at her neck. “Who are you?”
“Brynhild, I am a Valkyrie to Odin.” She frowned. “Was a Valkyrie.”
“Pissed off Odin, did you?”
“The god has an ego like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Well, he is Odin.” Sigurd worked downward toward her sternum. “He gave me Grani. Best horse I ever had.”
“He is often benevolent,” said Brynhild. “If he likes you.”
Sigurd looked up. “Guess he likes me.”
Brynhild smiled, the warrior’s manner putting her at ease. She also appreciated his steady hands and the care he took slicing away the chain mail that had merged with the lightweight wool beneath, which was plastered tightly to her skin.
“Mind if I take off my chain mail?” Sigurd glanced up. “This is going to take a while.”
“I’m tough.”
“You may be tough in spirit but your skin is as fragile as a mortal’s now.” Sigurd unclasped his wide leather belt, shrugged off his leather vest, and removed his chain mail. Wearing only boots, trousers, and tunic, he draped his armor over the chair. For such a large man he was graceful, his agile body built for battles and lovemaking. Despite the loose tunic, Brynhild knew he possessed a muscular physique.
Sigurd pushed up his sleeves, his forearms thick with black fuzz. “All right then.” He sat on the platform again and began slicing where he had left off, right down the center of Brynhild’s armor.
“Right arm first,” said Brynhild. The thought of the warrior seeing her naked breasts while her limbs and torso were covered made her very uncomfortable.
“Good idea.” Sigurd shifted about on the platform and severed the link at her wrist, which he noticed was as delicate and white as snow.
Brynhild watched as he sliced, relief flooding her body as he gently pried the chain mail away from her slender, pale forearm. When he removed the fused links at her elbow, Brynhild bent her arm and grabbed his hand.
“How can I show my gratitude for your breaking the chains and releasing me?”
“You’re still stuck.” Sigurd tapped the flat side of the blade on her upper arm. “Let’s discuss your gratitude when I’m finished.”
“Fair enough.” Brynhild released her hold, then wiggled and stretched her fingers. “They still work.”
“Not only that, they’re strong and soft.” Sigurd peeled away more severed chain mail.
Sigurd’s own hands were rough and calloused, a warrior’s hands that made Brynhild’s heart beat fast whenever he touched her.
“What’s it like?” Sigurd sliced his way toward Brynhild’s shoulder.
“Well, it’s a bit boring.”
Sigurd looked up. “Choosing who lives and dies in battle is boring?”
“Oh, that. You mean my position as a Valkyrie.”
They held each other’s gaze, blue and gray eyes recognizing a kindred spirit who had witnessed the horror and satisfaction of battle.
“Why do you stab one in the heart and another the leg?” asked Brynhild.
“It’s not the same. My actions are determined by weaponry and my enemy’s proximity. I act on instinct. A shield maiden chooses.”
Brynhild sighed. “My choice is instinctual. Age, skill, future, family; none of these matter when I attend a battle.” She laid her hand over her chain-mail-covered heart. “I feel the choice here.”
“Do you grieve for those that are doomed to die?”
“More often I feel grief for the men who must live to battle a lifetime of sickness, disease, hunger, cowardice, injuries, hatred, deceit, and infidelity.”
Sigurd peeled away the cut chain mail encasing her shoulder. “That’s life. A man must learn to cope with life’s troubles or suffer from the worst malady of all, fear.”
“You consider yourself a fearless man?”
“I like to think so.” Sigurd’s gaze roamed over Brynhild’s body. “Leg or left arm?”
“Leg.”
Sigurd removed Brynhild’s leather shoe and wiggled off her wool sock. Next he flicked at the taut links snugged tight around her ankle. A bright droplet of blood appeared.
“I nicked you,” said Sigurd.
“I don’t feel anything. Let me see.”
Sigurd touched it and transferred the scarlet bead to Brynhild’s outstretched hand.
“The fluid of mortality,” she said before wiping it on the chain mail.
“You would think the gods might have given us tougher skin to protect such a precious liquid.” Sigurd’s tunic whisked back and forth across Brynhild’s bare feet as he cut the chain mail on her leg.
Brynhild giggled.
“Ticklish?” He peeled away the links from her shapely calf.
“So that’s what it feels like.”
“Mortal skin is fragile but it does have its benefits.” Sigurd sliced higher and pried back the chain mail to expose several inches of her luscious thigh. He shifted about, concerned she would see the bulge made by his stiff cock.
“What’s wrong?” asked Brynhild.
“Nothing? Why?”
“Your breathing is shallow.”
“I’m fine. Never better.” Sigurd sliced and several links crumbled away. He peeled it back very slowly, his fingertips grazing her creamy skin.
His feathery touch felt better than the caress of a breeze. Brynhild sucked in her breath.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Brynhild touched his cheek. “Mortal skin is sensitive.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, it feels good.” Her face grew hot and she looked away.
Sigurd cleared his throat and pulled away more chain mail. He wiped sweat from his forehead—controlling himself was proving more difficult than not slaying an enemy. He wanted to kiss her thigh, lick her leg from ankle to—
Sigurd cleared his throat again.
“Other arm.” Brynhild pushed his sword left. She knew warriors like Sigurd were just as bold and aggressive with their lovers as they were on the battlefield. And why not? What woman would turn down a strapping hulk with the fortitude to fuck all night long?
Legends of Lust Page 19