Because I am currently up to my neck in Viking mythology for my WIP, here's a excerpt from my short story about Norse witchcraft, The Grief of the Bond-Maid - which, unusually for me, is mostly fantasy with a bit of M/M/F sex.
When she blinked the tears from her eyes it was daylight, and they were kneeling breathless under an ordinary ash tree in a narrow stone enclosure, and Bjarni was standing up from the headless corpse of a week-dead wizard. There was no yawning gulf beneath their feet. The runes on her skin were only ink, not fire. Sjofn lifted her tear-streaked face to Thorkell and without thinking, kissed him: hard and fierce and frantic with relief.
His response was instant: he rose to his feet, pulling her up against him, and pressed his kisses hungrily upon her lips. He only stopped when Bjarni came up behind her, and then he pulled away enough to grin – a grin like the sun coming out through clouds. Both men were laughing: she was laughing now too. Bjarni’s arm swept round her to clap Thorkell on the back and suddenly Sjofn found herself sandwiched between the two men as they embraced, hot and sweating and loud with delight, their words all boasts and praise and exultation. She craned her neck so she could look over her shoulder and kiss Bjarni too.
His eyes flashed. Swiftly his hands cupped her bare breasts, squeezing her like he thought she might be about to vanish. Both men were pressed up against her, their big hard bodies like a protective fortress, and now their breathing was turning quick and shallow again, the joy of victory changing to something else. Sjofn gasped as she felt their arousal.
‘Wait,’ Thorkell insisted. ‘Not here.’ He took possession, scooping her up in his arms and turning away toward the gate in this, the innermost circle. Sjofn circled a forearm about his neck and relaxed into his chest as he bore her away. She watched in dizzy wonder the granite boulders marching past her vision, until shadow gave way at last to warm sunlight and he carried her out into the meadow. His steps were quickening: she could feel the haste in his pulse. But he lowered her to her feet gently and kissed her lips one more time before he started to tear at the fastenings of his clothes.
‘After strife, joy,’ he grinned.
She twisted in his one-armed embrace. Bjarni was striding down the dark track they’d left in the grass, bare-chested now, his own armour and clothing littered to either side where he’d discarded them piece by piece. Red hair stippled his chest like flecks of blood; Sjofn reached out and ran her eagerly fingers through it. He was slippery with the sweat: they all were. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her like he was drinking from a mead-cup.
‘Sjofn ... slayer of wizards. Our warrior-witch.’
From behind, Thorkell gripped her hip with one hand and slid the other under her, searching out her hot wet places. She gasped, and Bjarni caught her breasts again. There was no hesitation this time, no pause for negotiation, none of the slowness of seduction. But she understood how they felt, what they needed: they had fought to the edge of exhaustion and the brink of death, and now they were half wild with joy and the need for release. She felt just the same - Thorkell found her slippery and eager for his touch, and he groaned with delight.
Pinned between the two men, Sjofn was lifted right off the ground as Thorkell sought entry for his stiff cock. She clung to Bjarni’s neck, mewing as Thorkell worked at the awkward angle. They found some kind of grace only when Bjarni reached in from the front, took the other man’s erection in his hand and guided it inside her. Then Thorkell lowered himself into the grass and lay back, his big hands on her waist, holding her above him, settling her astride his shaft. Each thrust of his hips pushed him deeper into her. Bjarni knelt before them, touched with wonder the dark lines of the serpent marked on her skin, then stooped to lick her breasts and suck at her nipples, and slid down even further to lie on his belly between Thorkell’s spread legs. She felt his lips on her thighs and her pubic mound. He parted her labia with his hands and licked at her clit and she nearly wrenched herself off Thorkell’s impaling column, so exquisite was the shock. As one man lifted her up and down on his cock, the other gave worship to her sex. She looked down into his eyes and he arched his brows at her.
Suddenly he was no longer licking her clit, but nuzzling lower. Thorkell swore in delight and Sjofn’s physical loss paled under the realisation that Bjarni was sucking his balls, was licking at the root of his cock as it thrust into her sex. She squealed. Bjarni took this as admonition and rose again to lick at her clit, and this time it was too much to bear: she began to fall down the long slope of orgasm, and her cries wrought upon Thorkell to pound even faster into her, until he was crying out too and spurting hot and deep inside her.
When they had both quieted, Thorkell shifted his hips and pulled out, laying her back supine upon his torso. She looked down her body and saw his engorged cock jutting up between her thighs, the flushed skin glistening and wet. The next instant Bjarni took that long weapon right down his throat, sucking the spilt cream, and she felt Thorkell’s moan of satisfaction through her whole body.
Then it was Bjarni’s turn. Kneeling up over them, he stooped to kiss Sjofn and she tasted her own tang, before he kissed Thorkell over her shoulder. His own cock was as stiff as a spearshaft, and when he put it to her open sex it went in eagerly, its passage eased by the slick of Thorkell’s seed. ‘Oh yes,’ he grunted.
Bjarni’s cock rooted deep inside her. Thorkell’s hand sought out her sex-lips and spread them, rubbing her clit between two fingers. His other hand tugged at her left nipple. Pounded between such a hammer and such an anvil, she had no chance to resist: she came again, weeping with terror that there should be such pleasure in the world, before Bjarni emptied his horn inside her.
Then they rolled slowly apart and lay tumbled in a row, grinning. Sjofn shut her eyes, feeling the sweep of fingertips as they lazily stroked her; her head swimming with the scents of crushed grass and fresh sweat - and her heart, at last, full of peace.
The Grief of the Bond-Maid is currently available in this paperback anthology: Cast the Cards
Amazon US
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