This Monday Samantha MacLeod is back with us, and so is her favourite Viking god Loki - in her brand-new story The Trickster's Song:
Long ago, Loki the Trickster tried to steal the golden apples of immortality. But why? And what did he plan to do with them?
Now, Loki’s mortal wife Caroline has just given birth to their first child. The sleep-deprived parents struggle to enjoy their first night out in months, but an old song gives rise to older memories, and Caroline finally hears the dark and heartbreaking story of why Loki attempted to steal Iðunn’s magical apples.
And what he lost in the attempt.
I found the boathouse by scent.
There were quite a few boathouses in the town; more houses for boats than people, actually. And then it dawned on me why Anya would take her husband to a cramped, dank boathouse. They must still share a longhouse with her family, or with his family, or with an even larger collection of relations. That would have made for an awkward wedding night, I realized, but the thought brought me no pleasure.
Light from a small fire flickered beneath the door of the very furthest boathouse. I paused long enough to take in Anya’s sweet, wild scent, mixed with an unfamiliar male tang. I debated opening the door, but decided that was far too common.
In a gust of wind and a swirl of flames, I materialized inside the boathouse. The interior was so crowded Anya and her husband were standing, and I appeared close enough to touch them both. She was naked, save her hair sprang, and her pale skin glistened in the firelight.
Her husband gaped at me, and I was forced to do a quick re-assessment. He was bare from the waist up and surprisingly attractive, with dark hair and a strong, young body that smelled of coal and iron; a blacksmith, then. He was clearly astonished to see me, but even in his moment of shock his eyes moved, assessing the situation. Not a dullard, then. Anya had chosen wisely, and it pained me.
Anya smiled at me, glorious in her nakedness. A fresh tang of arousal filled the boathouse, slicking the space between her legs and making my cock stiffen. “Hello, Fire-hair,” she said.
“Hello, Anya,” I growled.
I was sorely tempted to start fucking her now against the rough wood of the over-turned ship’s hulls. But someone touched my arm, and I turned. It was Anya’s husband, gently tracing his fingers along my forearm.
“Loki?” he said. “Really? Loki of the Æsir?”
He caught my eye, and something in his gaze made me hesitate. I expected shock, confusion. If he even guessed at what I’d done to his new wife, I expected a useless and possibly hilarious rage.
The look in his eyes was something entirely different. I changed my plans and brought my fingers to his forearm, mimicking his touch.
“And you are…?” I asked.
“Falur,” he said. His dark eyes widened, and he followed the progress of my fingers along his arm to his wrist. His pulse raced under my touch.
“Falur,” I said. “Would you like to learn how to pleasure your wife?”
He gasped a little as my fingers intertwined with his. “Y—Yes.”
I turned Falur to face Anya. Her cheeks were flushed, and the air was heavy with her scent. I brought Falur’s hand to the delicate curve of Anya’s belly.
“Lesson one,” I whispered, trailing Falur’s hand down her skin. “Touch her gently.” I brought his hand to the apex of her sex, where I could feel the heat pouring off her body. “Touch her right here.”
I brought Falur’s hand to the nub of her sex. Anya moaned with pleasure, and Falur gasped.
“Very good,” I whispered, my lips against his ear. “Gently, now.” I led his hand in a slow circle and Anya’s hips rocked against the thick muscles of his arm. “And slowly. The slower the better.”
She moaned again. Falur’s breath quickened. I decided the time was ripe to do something potentially foolish. I slipped my free hand around Falur’s shoulders and pressed my hips into his backside, letting him feel the full length of my erection be-tween his legs, ready to vanish if he protested.
He did not protest. He whimpered as he pressed his ass back against my hips, his head dropping into the cradle of my collarbone.
“Good,” I whispered. I pressed Falur’s hand against Anya’s sex and slipped my free hand down the front of his chest, down the hard ridges of his muscles. I had to use my magic to free his belt, but it only took a moment before I could wrap my hand around the full length of his cock. He was moaning and mumbling incoherently now, his hips rocking against my hand, his head thrown back against my shoulder.
“Touch her like you want to be touched,” I said, and my hand matched the rhythm of his fingers against Anya’s sex. I licked and kissed the exposed length of his neck, enjoying his taste and the feel of his racing pulse beneath my mouth.
He came a moment later, crying out in my arms. The boathouse filling with the salty tang of his seed as it spilled over my hand. Ah, I’d forgotten how fun men are! How delightfully straightforward. I wrapped both my arms around his waist as his legs trembled against mine. He blinked and stared around the boathouse as though he’d just woken from a dream.
I didn’t give him time to recover.
“On your knees,” I said, pushing his shoulders. “Your wife is not yet satisfied, Falur.”
He obeyed, but he shifted to face me once his knees were on the hard ground of the boathouse. His lips almost touched my pants, almost pressed against the head of my cock. By the time I realized his intentions, his hands were caressing the inside of my thighs.
“Loki,” he gasped. “I’ve always been...curious.”
I caught Anya’s eye. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips parted. She was supremely turned on by all this. She smiled at me as she very deliberately brought her fingers to her own sex, mimicking what Falur had just done.
Oh, how could I resist?
Buy The Trickster's Song at:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Born and raised in Colorado, Samantha MacLeod has lived in every time zone in the US, and London. She has a bachelor’s degree from Colby College and an M.A. from the University of Chicago; yes, the U. of C. really is where fun comes to die.
Samantha lives with her husband and two small children in the woods of southern Maine. When she’s not shoveling snow or writing steamy sex scenes, Samantha can be found teaching college composition and philosophy to undergraduates who have no idea she leads a double life as an erotica author.
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