The moon hung fat between the pines, torches flickering in the cold wind. Stone circle loomed in the clearing, our village’s hidden heart. Everyone gathered, but my pulse raced like it was just us. Neighbors from every hut, yet this felt stolen. I adjusted my wool cloak, fibules glinting. Spotted Leif, the young rower, by the outer ring. Lean, knees scarred from boats. Our eyes locked over the passing horn. Hydromel burned my throat. Drums thumped low. He stepped closer, breath quick. His thumb wiped foam from my skin, lingering on my elbow. Tiny spark. Around us, hands brushed necks, cloaks slipped. But his gaze—hungry, new. Sigurd, my hearth-mate, nodded from afar. No jealousy. Invitation. Leif’s fingers grazed my wrist. Firm. Pulse jumped. The völva’s chant rasped, seiðr weaving visions of swelling hips, thrusting loins. I didn’t pull away.
His palm slid to my waist, under wool. Trembling. Innocent cockiness. I covered it with mine, pressing. He exhaled sharp. Drums sped. Vigdis laughed nearby, but my world narrowed to his heat. Sigurd neared, hand on my shoulder, then Leif’s arm. Three breaths mingled. No words. Lips met—mine to Leif’s, tasting mead and salt. Sigurd’s callused fingers traced my neck. Cloaks fell. Skin pebbled in night air. Torchlight danced like prying eyes through blinds. Every rustle of leaves, crackle of fire—too loud. Village huts close beyond trees. What if a stray sound carried? Delicious dread. Leif’s mouth on my throat, clumsy eager. I arched. Sigurd unlaced me slow, exposing breasts to chill. Nipples hardened. Leif sucked one, tentative. I moaned soft—hushed it quick. His cock strained against tunic, hard ridge. I gripped it through wool. He bucked.
The Contact
I dropped to Sigurd’s cloak on warm earth. Legs parted natural. Leif knelt, eyes wide. Sigurd murmured, ‘Go.’ His lips trailed my belly, beard scratching. Tongue flicked my clit—wet, raw. I bit my lip, stifling gasp. Drums muffled my whimpers. Around, flesh slapped soft, sighs rose. But here, intimate risk. His fingers probed my slick folds. Two, curling. I dripped on his hand. Sigurd fed me his thick cock, salty pre-cum smearing lips. I sucked deep, throat full. Leif shed tunic, cock springing free—veined, throbbing. He nudged my entrance. Thrust in slow. Tight stretch. Filled me. I clenched, riding the burn. Sigurd watched, stroking himself. Leif pounded harder, hips slapping mine. Sweat slicked us. My cunt gripped him, milking. Orgasm built—coiled tight. I came hard, walls pulsing, biting Sigurd’s thigh to silence cry. Leif grunted, pulled out, spurted hot ropes on my belly. Sigurd took his place, slamming deep. Fucked me through aftershocks. His cum flooded me, thick, claiming.
Drums faded. Bodies untangled. I wiped cum with cloak edge, heart hammering. Leif trembled, spent. Sigurd draped arm over us. Völva passed, staff tapping earth—blessing. We dressed quick, laces fumbling in dying torchlight. Moon dipped west. Cool air bit bare skin. Stepped from circle, feet silent on pine needles. Crossed paths with Vigdis, her eyes knowing, lips curved. No words. Slipped into shadows toward huts. Village slept? No, they stirred too. But our triad—secret within rite. Door creaked open at home. Collapsed in furs. Pulse thrummed. Grinned in dark. Tomorrow, Leif rows beside Sigurd. Smiles exchanged. No one says. Balance held.