Legends of Lust

by Autumn Bardot

  Sigurd moved to the other side of the platform and drew his long blade across the links binding her left wrist. Brynhild thought the attention he paid to gently removing her chain mail had changed somehow, the tedious process now proving to be both pleasurable and frustrating. Each inch Sigurd removed warmed her body despite the cool autumn weather.

  Sigurd straightened his back, his eyes wide with amazement. “Karlvagn.” He touched the pattern of freckles shaped like a ladle on her forearm. “How many other constellations are on your skin?”

  “All the ones that guide man.” She held up her right arm.

  “There is the goddess Freya’s.” Sigurd traced the freckles forming a smaller ladle, then gazed at Brynhild’s naked leg. “Here is fiskikarlar.” He tapped the three large freckles in a row above her knee. “Our gods are clever to devise such a map.” Sigurd set a quick kiss on fiskikarlar.

  Brynhild gasped, his lips on her skin like a gale blowing through her body, a storm gathering inside her.

  He jerked up. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Brynhild tried to control her breathing. “I suggest you pay equal homage to the other constellations.”

  One side of Sigurd’s mouth lifted in a rakish grin. “Of course, Bryn.”

  She suppressed a smile. She was Bryn now, was she?

  Sigurd lowered his head to her left arm, his beard tickling her skin as he kissed Karlvagn. This kiss was slower, more deliberate. His lips made full contact. No longer Odin’s shield maiden, she was now a mortal woman with a woman’s yearnings for a man. Her skin tingled, her body as charged as the air awaiting the first lightning strike. Sigurd returned to the other side of the platform, his head hovering over the freckled fiskikarlar. One eyebrow was cocked, not from waiting on her permission but with admiration.

  Bryn sucked in air with anticipation. Sigurd set his warm, calloused hands on either side of her thigh and lowered his head.

  The first lightning strike jolted her body the moment Sigurd’s lips brushed over the freckles on her thigh. The jolt drove deep inside and scorched the valley between her legs. Her bottom clenched when his tongue flicked across the constellation.

  Sigurd lifted his head, his pupils dilated with lust. Bryn grabbed his head and pulled him forward and over her body. Sigurd kissed her and she parted her lips so he could explore her mouth. He tasted like a warrior: of mead and pine and strength and valor.

  “You taste like spring,” Sigurd said before thrusting his tongue back inside.

  The kiss deepened, grew insistent, two fearless warriors sporting, testing limitations. Bryn knew no limits; her lips and tongue met each parry. When his tongue wrestled hers, she wrestled more. When his teeth nipped at her lip, she nipped back.

  Breathing heavily, Sigurd’s round biceps flexed as he lifted himself up. “Is there something more I should know about Odin’s punishment?”

  “Why? Are you afraid?”

  “Never.” Sigurd narrowed his eyes. “Are you?”

  Odin had condemned Brynhild to a mortal life with a mortal husband. So far, Sigurd seemed to be the perfect man. Fear? She was eager to see how this all played out. “The only thing I fear is that you won’t kiss me like that again.”

  Sigurd dropped his mouth to hers, this time his hands wandering up her bare arms and over her chainmail-clad torso.

  Sigurd rose up again. “I’ve work to do.” He picked up his discarded sword, pulled off her left boot and sock, and cut through the chain mail on her left ankle. Each inch of skin he freed he kissed.

  Bryn’s sighs distracted him, as did her outstretched hand reaching for his cock. Sigurd was glad she couldn’t reach it. He was so horny he was certain to explode if she did. He freed her shin, then licked her from ankle to knee. He moved to her right leg and did the same, this time his tongue moving over her knee and up her inner thigh.

  The lust storm raging inside of Bryn made her squirm as lightning bolts rumbled through her. No matter what part of her body he touched, each kiss warmed the valley between her thighs. Even her chain mail felt hot to the touch. She wanted him to hurry. To slow down. To never stop.

  Sigurd moved over the apex between her legs and exhaled. His hot breath permeated the chain mail and wool and copper thatch of curls that protected her virginity. To Bryn, his breath felt like a föhn, the warm wind blowing down a mountainside. But instead of drying her valley it made her wet. Sigurd exhaled again and Bryn moaned, her head rolling from side to side.

  Sigurd’s föhn wafted a third time, her valley now steamy with desire.

  “Remove the rest of my chain mail.” Bryn’s voice was part command, part plead.

  “With pleasure.” Sigurd straddled her, his knees at her hips, and sliced the chain mail between her breasts.

  Bryn reached out and pressed her hand against the tunic to feel his solid cock.

  “Easy now, Bryn. I need steady hands.”

  Bryn didn’t care. The loose tunic and pants allowed for an almost unhampered opportunity to determine his impressive length and girth.

  Sigurd stopped slicing and kissed her, his tongue more insistent with her every stroke.

  “This is a challenge I don’t think I can win,” Sigurd said coming up for air.

  “You surrender?” Bryn’s left hand slid between his legs, annoyed by the layers of wool preventing a real grasp of his tight sac.

  “Never.” Sigurd resumed cutting, his attention fixed on freeing her torso despite Bryn fondling his sac and the smooth skin behind.

  Sigurd was a warrior, used to fighting for an entire day without rest or food, but this battle made him weak. Bryn pushed away the tunic and moved her palm up and down against his rigid shaft. She was pleased by his heated desire, evident even through the wool pants.

  “By the gods, Bryn, how am I supposed to free you when you’re doing that?”

  “Afraid you’ll spill your seed in my hand and not my valley?”

  “I fear nothing, least of all a shield maiden so eager for cock she can’t let go.”

  Bryn pumped faster. As in battle, Sigurd centered himself, thrusting aside all distractions, and focused. A man’s lust is not easily conquered.

  But Sigurd was no ordinary man.

  So while Bryn’s hand worked his cock, Sigurd concentrated on his task. The woven chain mail crumbled away to reveal Bryn’s pert breast, which was shaped like a wide chalice, a small nipple sticking out like the nob in the middle of his shield.

  Sigurd lowered his head and, with the tip of his tongue, traced the circumference of her areola. Bryn moaned and dropped his cock. Sigurd’s lips brushed across her rigid nipple and then latched on and pulled it into his mouth.

  Bryn’s arms wrapped around him and smashed his face against her breast. The storm descended into her valley, each tug on her nipple spinning the whirlwind ever faster.

  “I am defeated,” she whimpered while Sigurd sucked her breast and caressed her thigh.

  Sigurd lifted his head. “Not until you see the heavens, Bryn.” He sliced the links on the other side and stopped often to taste her tongue, suck a nipple, or puff his warm breath into her valley.

  Bryn swept away the pieces of chain mail at her sides and clutched Sigurd’s buttocks, which flexed as she massaged them.

  Sigurd released the left breast, as perfect as the right. “Now I know why you’re called shield maidens. Two cover your body.” He latched on to the left, his hand rolling the right nipple between thumb and forefinger.

  Her shield maiden duty felt like lifetimes ago. “I belong to Freya now.”

  Freya was the goddess of love and fertility, and the sorceress concerned with fleshly pursuits.

  Sigurd’s body stretched out over Bryn’s, his mouth and hands wandering from her lips to her breasts. Bryn’s hand moved over his back, firm muscly ropes stretching from hips to shoulders. Not one ounce of extra flesh could she feel, his every muscle battle honed for endurance and strength.

  Sigurd tore his lips away from the heat of h
er mouth, picked up his sword, and gazed at the beauty before him. Bryn’s chest rose and fell, ragged breaths matching his own. He sliced away the links at her navel, loosened the chain mail and peeled it from her slim body. Now all that stood between their pleasure was a girdle of fused chain mail. The greatest gift was yet to be unwrapped.

  He stopped slicing at the pubis to admire the freckles making up another constellation. “The Mouth of the Wolf. Very fitting.” He peeled away more chain mail, the first glimpse of her copper coils making his cock jerk. He brushed across her damp thatch and felt her shudder.

  “Get. It. Off,” Bryn urged.

  A six-inch swath remained. Two layers welded over the entrance of her valley. Sigurd stood and stretched his arms, his gaze traveling up and down Bryn’s nearnaked body.

  “What are you doing?” She lifted herself up on her elbows.

  “Savoring the moment.” With a fluid movement, Sigurd drew his tunic over his head. Next he removed his boots and trousers. His cock stood ready and poised to conquer Bryn’s cunt. Sigurd hefted his sword and touched the tip. “Needs sharpening.” He removed the small whetstone wrapped to his belt, spit on it, then drew the blade tip across.

  “Afraid the dull blade will knick me?”

  “I don’t know fear, Bryn.” He didn’t dare look up, his composure almost gone. “But I know my sword.”

  “Seems like a blunt weapon.” Bryn pointed to his cock.

  “Blunt and effective.”

  Suddenly Bryn’s eyes widened. “Are you married?”

  “Never found the right woman...until now.”

  She smiled and her heart warmed with the first twinges of love. “Do you want to know the rest of Odin’s punishment?”

  “Already guessed.” Sigurd felt the blade’s edge. “Ready?”

  “I’ve been ready since my right arm was free.”

  Sigurd lowered his sword between her legs and sliced, teasing away the iron chastity belt bit by bit, the scent of her valley escaping through the chinks. He paused mid-way to suck Bryn’s nipples, her squirming and pleading swelling his cock even more.

  Sigurd snipped away the last of it and dropped the sharp, jagged fragments onto the floor. Then he lowered his face to her copper valley and tasted her dew.

  Bryn sucked air through her teeth and her legs snugged around his back.

  Sigurd burrowed deep, found her nub, and tongued it well, polishing it like any beloved weapon. His fingers climbed up her ankles, over her legs, and across her stomach to grab hold of each pink bud.

  “This is an ambush,” Bryn said, her body awhirl, her valley drenched with lust. The pleasure was sharper than any blade, more overpowering than any warship.

  Sigurd lifted his head, his beard glistening with her lust. “Then I’ll change maneuvers.” With speed and agility he shifted his body and hers, and Bryn found herself sitting astride him, his solid cock awaiting her command.

  Bryn rubbed her cunt over his length as Sigurd drew her close and suckled her breasts. Back and forth she glided over him, her thoughts only on the whirlwind centered on her clit.

  Sigurd groaned. Her wet cunt slithering across his cock was more excruciating than a knife wound. Yet again, he called on his warrior training, willed himself to concentrate and check his eruption before he taught this virgin how to fuck.

  Bryn’s breath was coming in quick loud pants that fluctuated in tempo and pitch. She was lost to sensation and Sigurd knew better than to rush her journey home, knew the best way to make her his own for a lifetime. He suckled harder and Bryn whimpered, slid faster, then let loose a war cry. Sigurd shifted ever so slightly, pushed past her virginity, and sunk into her womanhood.

  Bryn cried out, a deep guttural exhalation. She was air and light and wind and heavens and her body was without boundaries. She rode Sigurd’s cock. Each plunge kept her aloft and gave her more bliss than she’d ever felt as a Valkyrie.

  Sigurd’s victory was eclipsed by his own uncontrollable lust. He gripped her ass and guided her rhythm.

  “Better . . . than . . . riding . . . a . . . horse.” Her breasts jiggled with each plunge. She spread her thighs, each fall onto his cock pushing him deeper, each thrust bringing her closer to the Northern Lights above.

  Sigurd was a berserker now, his mind in a lust trance, his cock ramming into the maiden with a single aggressive purpose. His fierceness catapulted Bryn skyward and her body shook with ecstasy again, which in turn hurled Sigurd into joining her. Together they rode homeward.

  Bryn fell atop him and her face nuzzled into his neck. “I am conquered.”

  Sigurd swept her copper hair away from her face and kissed her salty forehead. “And here I thought you had conquered me.”

  “Then we are both victorious.” Bryn crossed her leg over his. “I will teach you many runes for sailing, warring, philosophizing, speech-making, and healing if you like.”

  Sigurd hugged her tight; the wisdom of a Valkyrie was great. “Will you marry me?”

  “I couldn’t possibly marry anyone else.”

  The story of Brynhild and Sigurd doesn’t end here. In fact, their story has enough deception, betrayal, jealousy, and magic to be worthy of any best-selling novel. The thirteenth-century Völsunga Saga dishes it all. There are also plenty of Norse poems about their romance, and composer Richard Wagner took their story to a new level in his opera cycle, Der Ring des Nibelungen.

  GOOD MEDICINE

  “He’s all yours now.” Momma lifts her wrinkled hand from the hospital bed and points a bony finger at the latest doctor.

  The doctor looks up from the clipboard and flashes me a heart-stopping grin. Damn! My own doctor is a Filipino woman half my size. Momma scores a gorgeous black man with a killer smile and swoon-worthy liquid brown eyes. He’s got a clean-cut low fade and a short beard. From the way his scrubs hang from his broad shoulders and his biceps peek out from under his sleeves, I know he lifts weights. Lord, have mercy. I need a doctor like this.

  “Hi. Liyana. I’m the daughter.” I extend my hand. Every time I visit Momma there’s a different doctor assigned to her case. Momma has seen all kinds of specialists. None find a reason for her wide assortment of complaints. Her pain, sometimes a sharp stab, sometimes a lingering burning sensation, travels from stomach to head to heart to big toe. And back again. Maybe this doctor will understand. There’s nothing physically wrong with Momma.

  “Dr. Nkosi.” The doctor clasps my hand. His grip is smooth, strong, and warm. Comforting and confident. “Your mother was just telling me all about you.”

  “She ought to be telling you about her symptoms.” I look past him and at Momma, who looks all too pleased with herself.

  “I told Dr. Nkosi you work too hard,” Momma says with pride. “Always helping our people. Never taking a day off.”

  That’s not true. I only work half a day Saturday and take off all Sunday. My workweek is long though. I’m an estate attorney. Wills, trusts, probate, that kind of stuff. I also volunteer my legal services for a nonprofit organization that helps African immigrants and refugees. I love showing the high-school-age children how to apply for all the educational programs they are eligible for. My husband, Michael, is a workaholic too, a successful real estate developer currently gentrifying downtown. We don’t have children yet (there’s still time) but our spacious home in the foothills is ready for a pool and a swing set.

  “That husband of hers. Ooooooh.” Momma shakes her head. “Bad news.”

  “Momma, please.”

  Momma dislikes Michael. Always has. Says he’s not trustworthy. Says he has a roving eye. Momma’s right about the roving eye. But Michael only looks. He doesn’t touch. Hell, I take a long look when a sexy man walks by. Or stands in front of me in scrubs.

  Dr. Nkosi looks down at the clipboard. “Your mom has TB nodules on her lungs from when she had it as a child. The state requires several tests to determine it’s not a reoccurrence before we can release her. Standard procedure. We should have the results in ab
out a week. During that time, I’ll run some other tests.” He sets down the clipboard, moves around the side of the bed, and takes his stethoscope from around his neck. “Sometimes not finding anything terminates the curse.” “Momma!” I rub my temples. “You told him?”

  “Of course I told him.” Momma breathes deeply while Dr. Nkosi checks her heart.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m so embarrassed. “Momma really believes a woman cursed her.”

  “A witch with black muti,” says Momma.

  Muti is medicine. Black muti is poison. White muti heals.

  Dr. Nkosi puts the stethoscope around his neck again. “You don’t believe in muti?”

  “I believe that she believes.” I cannot believe I’m having this conversation. “Can you refer me to someone with white muti?” I roll my eyes.

  Dr. Nkosi gives me a look somewhere between pity and compassion. “Muti is powerful. Do not scorn the old ways.”

  Dr. Nkosi has more years of education than I do, so I figure his statement as a physiological understanding of the link between body and mind, not as a cultural ideology.

  “When did you come to the US?” I ask.

  “Same time as you.” He holds Momma’s small wrinkled hand in his big one. “Try to get some sleep, Thadie.” His intimate gesture and use of Momma’s first name strikes me as odd. Maybe he has a way with grouchy old women.

  “It’s good to meet you, Liyana.” Dr. Nkosi comes around to shake my hand again. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

  “Do you like him?” Momma says after he leaves.

  “I like him if you do.” I raise the bed, fluff her pillow, and help her get comfortable. “Do you want to watch TV?”

  “No, my mind is too busy for that nonsense.”

  I kiss her too-cool cheek. “I’ll bring your housecoat.”

  “I don’t want that thing. Bring my blanket.”

  I know which one. It’s a brightly colored Zulu print purchased from a vendor at a craft fair. My phone beeps. “I have to go. I’ll stay all day tomorrow, I promise.” I told the center’s director Momma came first this week.