Story Shorts


The Victory Dance 

Dressed in a red oval neckline wool tunic and blue wool apron dress, she stood watching alone as the bitter cold snow beat against her face.  Though wrapped in fur pelts fashioned into a cloak with a hood, she shivered.  The brass circlet she wore on her head felt like ice and her hands had grown numb with the cold.  That didn’t matter to her one bit.  It was hell, the waiting. 
     She stood this way, bracing the elements, every day since she’d heard that her beloved, the king, was on his way back home with another victory to celebrate.  And celebrate they would.  Not only with feasting and merriment, but with love making that lasted for days, locked away in their bedroom in the palace.  The servants would leave food and wine outside the door as they were not to be disturbed.  
     It’d been two full moons since she’d seen him last, her beloved.  Her body ached for him and she longed to hear his voice.  Every night she whispered his name, softly chanting, praying to the gods for him to return safely to her.  Around her neck she wore his symbol, a Viking dragon pendant, between her breasts and close to her heart.  She wanted no other, only he could satisfy her.  Her tastes were wild and extravagant, matching his own.  Their lust and love for each was so intense, some envied it while others feared it.  He was ruthless with his enemies but fair and kind to his court and subjects.  No one dared interrupt them or speak ill of either one, not even in jest, for fear the king and queen would hear of it and have them killed.  They made no apologies for who they were.  Though the queen was not liked by many in the palace, she’d born the king ten sons, a feat not done by any other queen before her, earning the people’s respect and no one could deny her right as queen.  The king saw to that.
     After what seemed an eternity, she spotted the soldiers and their triumphant king in the distance.  Her heart beat faster as she lifted her tunic and coat and broke into a run.
“No my queen, you must wait!”  Her ladies called behind her but she just ignored them.
Faster and faster she moved easily through the snow even though she was weighted down with the fur coat she wore.
     The king pulled the reigns of his horse and stopped as he watched his beloved queen running toward him in an unladylike manner.  It didn’t matter to him, only that she loved him as much as he loved her.  He laughed as he ordered his men to make way for the queen.  He eased off his horse, wincing as the cut on his right side stung him.  He stood proudly as she approached him at last.

     Covered by a cloak of fur pelts held together by golden dragon head shaped clasps over his green wool tunic and furry animal skin boots, the king cut a dashing figure.  Even with his windblown strawberry flaxen hair that hung past his shoulders and slightly dirt smudged face, he was indeed handsome.  His beard was long, blonde with bits of gray and red mixed in and braided into two braids, one on either side.  His body, broad shouldered with arm muscles hard as steel and the strength of ten men to go along with it despite his mature age.  His legs were chiseled works of art rivaling that of an Adonis.  
“My lord, you have returned to me,” she said slightly out of breath as she stopped short in front of him wanting to jump into his arms but realizing it may not have been the proper thing to do.
“Indeed I have my lady, I will always return to you, not even death shall keep me from it,” he beamed as he grabbed his queen, his hands on her perfectly round bottom, pulling her to him for a kiss.
She threw her arms around his thick neck, breathing in his musky scent as he gently picked her up, wincing slightly.
“My lord, you’re hurt!” she cried.
“Aye woman, just a scratch, tis all, nothing you can’t heal with your good lovin,” his voice deep and playful despite his discomfort.
She clasped her hands on his shoulders, “Put me down sir, so that I may attend to you properly.”
“Not before I’ve had my victory kiss woman!”  He grunted as he let her down, pulling back her fur hood to reveal her raven hair.  She stood out among the flaxen haired women in their territory and not just with her hair, but with her dark skin.  Most women with brunette hair bleached it with lye often resulting in red or red-gold colored hair.  The king adored her dark hair that she wore gathered into an elegant knot in the back of her head.  Though most married women covered their head, the king allowed the queen to go without a headdress, so that he could admire her lovely dark, curly tresses.  He also treasured her dark brown skin, smooth and soft to the touch.  
     She was an exotic beauty, purchased in Egypt and brought as a slave to his land by two druid priests who taught her the arts of magic.  He found her on one of his journeys and rescued her from the sadistic priests who also used her as a sex slave.  They often punished her by tying her up and flogging her when she refused to comply with their sex rituals.  She was quite spirited and the moment the king saw her eyes, eyes that were green in color, sparkling like emeralds against her dark skin, he knew he had to have her.  He brought her home and announced to his father, the old king, that this was the woman he would marry.  
     His father knew well enough to let his son have his way or there would be hell to pay, especially in matters of the heart.  Since he was the only heir to the throne, the old king gave him his blessing.
     The king looked at her now, those eyes beckoning him as her full lips enticed and enflamed his loins.  With one hand around her waist and the other cradled around her soft hair, he kissed her good and hard.  The king’s men all turned their heads away in respect of their king and queen.  The happy couple lingered a bit in that kiss before the king finally released the queen turning her away from him to give a swift pat to her behind.  She gasped and giggled like a school girl.  Then he lifted her up onto his horse.
“Now this, my lads, is the proper way for a wife to greet her husband, queen or not!” he laughingly boasted.  His laugh was full and hearty and the queen smiled; her heart full of love and pure joy at his safe return.
“To the castle men, the feasting awaits!” He roared.  Turning to the queen and patting her thigh, “I shall save the best feast for last my love!”  He winked and the queen’s body trembled with expectation.
     The queen patched up the king with an ointment made of her special herbs and she bandaged his side lovingly before going to the feasting hall.  The eating and drinking heavily lasted for a couple of hours before the king picked up his queen and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her off to their bed chamber.
     Their bed chamber consisted of a large four poster bed with wool sheets and fur skinned covers, a huge fire place and a huge wool rug mixed with furry animal skin.  Once there he set her down and removed her apron dress and tunic, her nakedness moved him.  Even after birthing ten sons, the queen’s lovely shape was still intact.  Her skin glowed in the firelight.  Her slender waist gave way to her curvy hips with thickly muscled legs and shapely calves.  A low throaty, lustful sound came from the king as roughly slipped out of his own clothing almost ripping them to shreds.  As the queen started to move toward the bed, the king stopped her.
“No, just stand there, let me look at you,” he bellowed.  He wanted to savor her, this moment forever.  Then he remembered the drinking horn of blood from the battle kills. 
The horn, topped with brass depicted Viking lovers kissing at the base and the tip was topped with brass in the shape of a dragon’s head.
     He quickly retrieved the horn, taking only a sip, letting some of the liquid drip down his chin to his smooth tanned skin.  The queen’s eyes lit up with pure lust.  She licked her lips as she watched the blood trickle down his skin.  She dared not move until he told her too.
     Seeing the wild look his queen’s eyes, the king beckoned her with his finger and she rushed to him, growling as she licked the blood from his chest.  He moved her back a bit pouring blood onto her breasts.  Smearing the blood of his enemies on each other was the part of the ritual known to the king and queen as the “Victory dance”.  The queen, blood soaked, danced sensually for the king, touching him, teasing him, grinding her body seductively against him.
     He fondled her breasts, throwing the horn to the floor and sucked her dark pointed nipples.  She pulled from him, turning her backside to him, gyrating in a sensual dance against his swollen cock which throbbed eagerly.  The king bent her forward, undoing her raven hair from its knot.  He yanked her hair pulling her against him roughly as she continued to grind her hips against him. 
“Damn you woman, no more teasing, on your knees!” He ordered.  He couldn’t stand it anymore, he wanted her, needed her, missed her, loved her.
She quickly obeyed, getting on all fours on the soft rug by the fire, hoisting her butt in the air as easy access for her king.  He dropped to his knees behind her rubbing his hands over her smooth bottom now slick with blood.  His member heavy and throbbing sought her entrance.  He took her slow at first then pounded her hard with quick thrusts till she screamed and clung tightly to the rug below.
     Flipping her onto her back, he pushed her legs up and licked the insides of her thighs making his way to her cream filled center.  The taste of her excited him all the more, but he refrained from release so he could continue to tease and please her.  Using his fingers as well as his tongue, he probed her insides bringing her to orgasm so many times that she lost count.  
     Completely soaked by blood and her juices, he climbed up her body, keeping her legs over his shoulder and shoved the bulbous head of his cock inside.  Deeper and deeper he pushed himself inside of her.  There was no other who made him feel this way.  She excited him in ways he couldn’t comprehend.  He was as thrilled with her as the day they met some twenty years ago.  

     The queen writhed gloriously beneath him, matching his stride, urging him on with her hips, tightening her legs around his neck.  He rode her this way, wild and hard, changing positions, laying her on her side, letting her ride him as he rubbed her clit with one hand while twisting her right nipple with the other.  She loved the sensation in both breasts but favored the right one.  More intense was the right side. This dance would continue for three days straight with only a few breaks in between for sleeping, eating, drinking and bathing each other.  
     On the final night as she lay against the king’s broad chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her, she thanked the gods for bringing him home and even more so for the “Victory Dance”.