Bride of Grendel 2: Night of the Bear Man: A Viking Lore Erotic Tale (Viking Lore Erotic Tales Book 3) by Gwynn Jones Page B
Authors: Gwynn Jones
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hearth was so deep, the back wall of the fireplace was obscured in shadows. The flames blazed high, orange and blue in the front, though they seemed almost blueish green farther back. The fire never needed replenishing. It just burned.
This was one of the many mysteries of Grendel's lair. It was an awesome space, a finely wrought work of architecture laced with intricate carvings, a labyrinth of rooms and passages opening off of the main hall and winding deep into the earth. She had thought that there might be some passage upward, some interior way out to the cliff tops above, but she had yet to find it. All of the passages seemed to go downwards, instead. At first she had explored only as far as she dared, afraid of becoming lost, but eventually, as the halls became familiar, she suspected that she had followed every passage to its end and seen it all.
She had stumbled upon caverns completely lined with glittering gems and crystals, vapor caves with hot springs, and great vaults with glowing phosphorescent pools. She had discovered treasure chambers filled with gold, jewels, and weapons. She had found rooms whose walls were covered with inscrutable runes. This was an ancient place, and it must once have housed many more inhabitants than it did now. Grendel could not have been the architect of such wonders — could he?
Grendel. The monster. For more than ten years he had terrorized Heorot, the great hall of the mighty Hrothgar. That king who had enjoyed a long warrior's career of resounding successes, who had subjugated all the territories within his reach, had been brought low at the very moment he had thought to celebrate his triumphs and live out his remaining days in peace and prosperity. Hrothgar was reduced to human sacrifice to keep the monster at bay. Every year at the winter solstice, he allowed Grendel to take his queen. And every spring he remarried, so there would be a new queen to sacrifice come winter. Sigrun had been one of those queens. But unlike all the others, who had apparently died of fright or cold or drowning before they ever reached Grendel's cave, she had survived. She had survived and thrived.
She shivered at the memory of the first time Grendel had taken her, how the touch of his tongue had set her on fire, how she'd been certain that his enormous, monstrous cock would kill her, yet she had wanted it so badly, all the same. That first time had transformed her, she knew it. And every time her sweet monster took her, every time she took him into her, felt his thick, huge shaft inside her, filling her and transfixing her, she felt herself opening up further. It was like her orgasms opened her to another world, another state of being. How she had survived, how she could respond this way, how her sex could be so monstrous itself to consume a cock so terrifyingly huge as Grendel's, remained a mystery to her. But when he slid it into her, burying it to the hilt, allowing her to writhe against it or pounding her with his thrusts, it was sheer bliss.
Grendel's grudge against Heorot was something of a mystery, too. Sigrun guessed now that those who had suggested it was a matter of location — that Hrothgar had simply built his hall in an unlucky, monster-ridden spot — were correct. But she thought, additionally, that it was a matter of protection. Grendel was no wandering moor stalker who slept in the woods; he dwelt in this remarkable hall, and Sigrun suspected that it was his duty, real or imagined, to protect it. Hrothgar had built too close to someone else's citadel.
Luckily for Hrothgar, Grendel had gotten distracted by his fixation on the king's wives. Now that he had finally enjoyed a successful bride theft, however, his fixation on Heorot had returned to one of unadulterated animosity. Sigrun had done nothing to dissuade him. What
This was one of the many mysteries of Grendel's lair. It was an awesome space, a finely wrought work of architecture laced with intricate carvings, a labyrinth of rooms and passages opening off of the main hall and winding deep into the earth. She had thought that there might be some passage upward, some interior way out to the cliff tops above, but she had yet to find it. All of the passages seemed to go downwards, instead. At first she had explored only as far as she dared, afraid of becoming lost, but eventually, as the halls became familiar, she suspected that she had followed every passage to its end and seen it all.
She had stumbled upon caverns completely lined with glittering gems and crystals, vapor caves with hot springs, and great vaults with glowing phosphorescent pools. She had discovered treasure chambers filled with gold, jewels, and weapons. She had found rooms whose walls were covered with inscrutable runes. This was an ancient place, and it must once have housed many more inhabitants than it did now. Grendel could not have been the architect of such wonders — could he?
Grendel. The monster. For more than ten years he had terrorized Heorot, the great hall of the mighty Hrothgar. That king who had enjoyed a long warrior's career of resounding successes, who had subjugated all the territories within his reach, had been brought low at the very moment he had thought to celebrate his triumphs and live out his remaining days in peace and prosperity. Hrothgar was reduced to human sacrifice to keep the monster at bay. Every year at the winter solstice, he allowed Grendel to take his queen. And every spring he remarried, so there would be a new queen to sacrifice come winter. Sigrun had been one of those queens. But unlike all the others, who had apparently died of fright or cold or drowning before they ever reached Grendel's cave, she had survived. She had survived and thrived.
She shivered at the memory of the first time Grendel had taken her, how the touch of his tongue had set her on fire, how she'd been certain that his enormous, monstrous cock would kill her, yet she had wanted it so badly, all the same. That first time had transformed her, she knew it. And every time her sweet monster took her, every time she took him into her, felt his thick, huge shaft inside her, filling her and transfixing her, she felt herself opening up further. It was like her orgasms opened her to another world, another state of being. How she had survived, how she could respond this way, how her sex could be so monstrous itself to consume a cock so terrifyingly huge as Grendel's, remained a mystery to her. But when he slid it into her, burying it to the hilt, allowing her to writhe against it or pounding her with his thrusts, it was sheer bliss.
Grendel's grudge against Heorot was something of a mystery, too. Sigrun guessed now that those who had suggested it was a matter of location — that Hrothgar had simply built his hall in an unlucky, monster-ridden spot — were correct. But she thought, additionally, that it was a matter of protection. Grendel was no wandering moor stalker who slept in the woods; he dwelt in this remarkable hall, and Sigrun suspected that it was his duty, real or imagined, to protect it. Hrothgar had built too close to someone else's citadel.
Luckily for Hrothgar, Grendel had gotten distracted by his fixation on the king's wives. Now that he had finally enjoyed a successful bride theft, however, his fixation on Heorot had returned to one of unadulterated animosity. Sigrun had done nothing to dissuade him. What
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