Message-ID: <7534eli$9801191718@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Marsupalami" Subject: story-Ring of Fire Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: -- Celtic Readings http://www.celticfire.com/readings/index.htm Celtic Thistle http://www.geocities.com/SiliconValley/Park/1299 Ring of Fire The warrior had killed the dragon, Fafnir, and his evil dwarf brother, Regan. Truly they had been brothers, in blood, and in mind, for they held in their hearts the dwarves' love for gold, which ran fully in the blood of their father. Only their brother, Otter, had not been affected, for he found happiness in the hunt. This would be his undoing. As the gods walked about the Earth in the forms of men, Loki spied Otter in his animal form napping along the river, and for sport, killed what he thought was a dumb animal. For this the gods had to make a payment to Reidmar, Otter's father. the ransoms for their own lives was this.... Cover Otter's true body in gold, and you may go free. They found such a horde at the home of an elf, who had cursed the gold when it was taken from him. Only Loki, Odin, and Frey knew of the curse, and since the gold was not to be in their possession, they let it go to it's new owner, Reidmar, King of the Dwarves. Otter's body was cover with all kinds of golden, glistening treasures. Armbands, torcs, pendants, medallions, rings, chains, and golden armor and helms. Reidmar was pleased with this treasure, but his pleasure was short-lived, for his surviving sons worshipped the riches as much as he. Within the week, Fafnir's dagger blade was bloodied when he sunk it into his father's back, and his eyes glowed with a lust for riches. So strong was this lust, that his brother, a smith, took to the road out of the dwarves' kingdom quickly as possible. Fafnir's lust so consumed him, that he became something less than what he was. His own greed turned inward, and the magic that was within him turned on him, and he became reptilian. A dragon with a evil heart, that was only content to coil about the treasure the gods had brought to his father's kingdom. While Fafnir lay in his lair, Regan searched through the kingdoms of men for a warrior to slay his brother, for only then would the treasure be his. Within a few years, he found the child he would train for this task. He, Sigurd, was the son of a warrior who had found his way to Vahalla, and the last of the line of the Volsungs. Over the years, Sigurd would learn smithing, swordplay, horsemanship, and all the skills that make a great warrior. He was lucky enough to be gifted by Odin as his father was. Odin gave him a horse that would not shy, even from fire. As the youth on this day became a man, Regan knew it was time. The young warrior was golden, from his long, flaxen hair, across the soft planes of his handsome, regal face, brilliant blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and over the expanse of his mighty body, Sigurd was the epitome of what men of his standing strived to be. Regan called Sigurd to the smithy to tell him of his assignment that would give him fame over all the kingdoms. To slay the dragon that held the underground kingdoms in constant fear would be revered greatly, for no warrior had been able to do it. Sigurd was sure he was ready for the task, once he repaired damage to the unearthly sword that was gifted to his father by Odin. After preparations and a day's rest, Regan and his student headed north to the kingdom of the dwarves. The journey was long, yet, Sigurd stayed ready for anything, wanting to make his mark on the world. Within the day of their arrival, Fafnir was dead, outwitted by Sigurd 's ingenuity of hiding in a shallow pit, and piercing him in the underbelly as he went to the lake to drink at dawn's first greyish light. Fafnir's blood spilled down into the lake, and the horde was for anyone taking. The dragon was dead, and magical secrets of the dwarves were in his heart. Regan wanted this knowledge, and bade Sigurd cut the heart of the dragon so he could eat of it and learn. When doing so, Sigurd burned his hand momentarily from the juices that spit out from it. He took his hand to his mouth to cool the burn, and tasted the juices that were on him. He had taken in a taste of the dwarves' magic, and could hear the bird talking to each other in the trees, as clearly as if they were human. The bird's knew of the evil lust that was in Regan's heart, and indirectly told him of it. Betrayed by his master, he knew this old man deserved the same treatment as his brother. Regan came out from the dragon's lair, and saw the hatred in Sigurd's glaring blue eyes, and pulled his dagger. The sword that was still wet with the blood of the dragon pierced Regan, and his goldlust died, as did the lusty legacy that was once the dwarves' royal family. Sigurd claimed the gold for himself, and let the golden armor be his mark, for he would be easily recognized in it. As he rode about the world on his steed, which was of the bloodline of Odin's horse, Sleipnir, he fought for king's, trained young warriors, and let his fame grow. In one secluded corner of the world, he came across a fiery light atop a mountain ridge. He rode up to investigate. the heat became hotter and brighter as he got closer to the top. He and Sleipnir encountered a wall of fire, and the bravery of man and beast was tested. Curiosity won over in Sigurd's mind, and he urged the horse through the flames. They were rewarded with a calm silence and cool air. In the centre of the burned ring was a platform upon which a figure in chainmail and a helm was lying. Sigurd got off the horse and came closer to the figure. Whomever they were, they were still, but not dead. Sigurd removed the helm, and was looking at the rosy face of a woman in a peaceful sleep. She had masses of sunny, flaxen hair, and her lips were pursed as she slept. He then split the chainmail. It fell away and she was clothed only in a lightweight chemise. Her ivory flesh was easy to see though the diaphanous fabric. She had the tightly-toned flesh of a warrior. Powerful arms, tight, high breasts, and hardened thighs. Her eyes opened, wet with relief. Odin had kept this Valkyrie's promise. Only the bravest warrior alive could claim her, and this was the man. She sat up, rubbed her crystal blue eyes, and gazed for a moment into the warrior's. She was his, and he was hers, and he did not even know it. "I certainly did not expect to find a maiden here," said Sigurd. "I have waited too long for such a man. You were promised to me. It was the will of Odin." "We have something in common. If I was promised to you, I should like to know your name." "I am Brynhild of Lymdale. Once a Valkyrie, until, in my folly I took a man destined to live to Vahalla. The other lives on now. My punishment was to wait atop this mountain, but I have been granted my wish, and my binding with Odin is over. Who are you?" "Sigurd of the Volsungs. My deeds will known to you soon enough. I can see you wish to know more." "I do. Remove your armor, Sigurd of the Volsungs, so I might see you better." Sigurd did as ordered, covered only now with a fine tunic, and braies. The braies were bound with leather wrappings, and Brynhild could see he had powerful thighs. She came closer to touch him, to know he was real. She let her fingers scan his hard chest, over the hard planes of his face. She let her crystal gaze meet with his blue one, and pulled his head down to meet her own in a kiss of curiosity. Her lips were soft, pliable, searching. How long had she slept, waiting for a man's touch? Her hands searched downward, wanting to know of this man who had freed her from the ring of fire. Her touch roamed beneath his tunic, feeling the silky skin of his hardened chest, and she invaded his mouth with her wanton tongue, tasting the experience that was Sigurd. He tasted of mead and mint, as his breath was sweet. Brynhild was curious to know if the rest was as sweet. Sigurd relished this blissful search as Brynhild of Lymdale continued on. Her fingers drew light swirls about his chest, teasing as they headed downward to examine the core of him. She pulled him down to the stone, wanting to make him more comfortable, and laid him back onto the cool, grey platform. "I wish to learn more of you, for I know even the bravest of warriors has a weakness, as do men who are artisans, or rulers. It is women such as I who can drain you of this essence, if only for a short time." "Is that what you wish to do?" "I think I may. I do wish to taste of you, to draw yourself into me, but for now, the taste will do. There is time for the other later." Sigurd breathed deeply as he anticipated her actions. To taste of himself could mean several things, but her hunger was a simple one. She wanted to slake his appetite first. Perhaps it was to be a reward for finding her in this ring of fire the gods had created. He closed his eyes, and let her do as she wished. She loosened the waistcord from his braies, and his hardened lance sprung forth for her view. She smiled at its strength and pulsing. It grew before her eyes, and she rang her fingers up and down over its silkiness. She saw Sigurd jerk with surprise at this tender touch, and sigh as she wrapped her hand around it. She moved her hand up and down as she let the other roam up and down his thighs, and he shuddered slightly as she caught him behind the knee. She knew her actions were delighting him, and it was time to do as she had said. Sigurd was ready, but not quite when her warm lips enveloped his shaft, and he grasped at her sunny hair as she swirled her tongue about it. Slowly, she would move, up and down, teasing, but never going very far, but soon the rhythm changed, and she went faster, farther. Brynhild found it very hard to smile at his reaction with him in her mouth, but she very much wanted to. Sigurd bucked his hips against her, urging her to take him all, down into her throat, to release his seed into her warm, lively mouth. He grew ever wider, his shaft threatening to erupt, but never exactly doing that. His body was betraying him, not wanting to let go, even though Brynhild was doing her best to push him over that brink. She took him as far as she as she could, drawing up on the hard flesh, then plunging down, over and over as it filled with its own bit of life. It welled up, filling to its excess, and Sigurd's seed burst forth. He arched up, and pushed into Brynhild's warm recess, and she did her best to take in every drop. A sweat broke out upon Sigurd's as he let out his anguish in a simple hiss and sigh. Brynhild pulled away from him, and came up to face him. She smiled. ""Twas sweet, as I assumed." "I gave no clue to as such." "I knew. You are Odin's gift to me. I just knew..." -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |