Wilde Irish Strawberries

Wilde Irish Strawberries

A Viking Shield-Maiden discovers Wilde Irish Strawberries and love near Wexford, Ireland.

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Wilde Irish Strawberries

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A few weeks ago, I took a midsommar walk to a nearby woodland. Along the edge of the forest were a large cluster of flowers with white petals and bright green toothed leaflets. I happily recognized them as wild strawberries. They may have ripened, and I returned carrying a small woven basket to collect them.

I still felt like a newcomer in this strange land of grass and trees, arriving only three years ago at the trading village of Veisafjǫrðr. After the raiding of Irish monasteries slowed, several such trading villages were established on the coast of Ireland by my fellow Norwegian Vikings. This gave us a more permanent presence, allowing us to over-winter in Ireland, rather than returning to Norway. While my home in Veisafjǫrðr was well defended, the same was not true of the wild countryside, so I carried my sword with me.

I was in luck, and soon my basket was half full of ripe strawberries. They were small, sweet, and intensely aromatic, and I stopped several times just to smell them. Then, footsteps! I laid down my basket, drew my sword, and turned to face the sound.

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A Clash Of Swords

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It was an Irishman! Thankfully, there appeared to be only one. He was not very tall, and looked like most Irishmen I have encountered, thin, shabbily dressed, and dirty. He wore his hair long, unlike Viking men, who shave their hair in the back and leave it shaggy at the front. I held up my sword and measured my opponent.

Some local Irish chieftains recognized the value of trade, and the quality of the finished goods produced by our craftsmen, so they tolerated our presence. But many were still hostile and considered us invaders of their country. Fortunately, most Irish chieftains were constantly fighting with each other, rather than uniting against us.

The Irishman put down a cloth sack he had been carrying, and wielded an old iron sword, thus revealing hostile intentions. Although his blade was thicker than mine, it was no match for my steel sword. We stood this way for about a minute, rocking side-to-side on our feet, feeling out the grass for good footing.

Irishmen are like the cursed mosquitos that lurk near the edges of the mudflats near Veisafjǫrðr. There is rarely just one. I trusted my fighting skill to handle a single Irishman, but in my long linen dress, I would never be able to outrun several of them. I decided it best to take down this one before others arrived. I charged!

CLANG! The unmistakable sound of steel on iron as I struck with my sword. My blow had the added force from my charge, and his sword arm gave way. But he was light on his feet, and retreated several steps. I intentionally double-slashed the air between us, making a whooshing sound, showing off my well-honed swordsmanship, in hopes he would flee. But he did not.

He began circling me, using his greater freedom of movement, and I had to be careful not to trip over the hem of my linen dress. I lunged at him multiple times with my sword, but he easily stepped aside as he parried my blade. He began cursing at me in that horrible gibberish of a language used by the Irish.

The Irishman then attacked me, probing for a weakness, slashing, and stabbing high-and-low, forehand-and-back. I am well trained and practiced in swordsmanship, and anticipated each of his movements. Then I saw my chance. While our blades were engaged to my left, I jabbed the pommel of my sword right to his chin. Making contact, he instantly dropped to the ground. I advanced and stood over him, my feet straddling his prone body, with my blade at his throat.

He still held his sword, and began to move it, so I stepped on his wrist, forcing him to empty his hand. He looked up at me with pleading emerald-colored eyes and I snarled back at him. Now what? The easiest thing would be to finish him off right now. Would he have any value as a thrall? Probably not. He didn't look very strong, and might be more trouble than he was worth.

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A Sign of Submission?

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He was at my mercy as he brought both hands together in the manner that the Irish use to pray. Although tinged with dirt, he had a handsome face and smiled at me, so I relaxed a bit. Then, in a flash, he reached under my dress and grabbed my ankles. He quickly pulled himself beneath me, scooting over the ground like a crayfish between my legs, trying to escape behind me.

Beneath my dress, he sat up, and I considered plunging my sword into his back. But I valued the welfare of my dress more than the life of this cursed Irishman, and dared not stain my dress with his blood. Then his lips pressed against the front of my thighs. Was this a sign of submission, or an Irish trick? His head wiggled beneath my dress and kisses rose higher on my thigh. His hands slid softly up the back of my thighs, and he pulled his face into the triangle between my legs.

He was breathing hard, through his mouth, and I could feel his hot breath against my hairy mound. His nose nuzzled against me as his hands continued higher, cupping my arse. I wondered what he was up to, but found his efforts strangely arousing, so I tilted my hips forward. He began lapping at my Kunta, his tongue moving quickly and darting over and into my swollen lips, flicking side-to-side, probing, tasting, penetrating! I writhed against the unseen power of his tongue.

No Viking man had ever placed his mouth against me in this manner! Such direct contact between a mouth and a Thviet is shunned. He is defiling his mouth, an organ made for better things. As he continued, my brain and body were filling with munuth, love thoughts. Can there be sex without penetration? I began to feel flush, and tingles from below reached all the way to my brain. I was aware of such feelings, not unlike when a Kokkr rubbed gently against my Kunta. But the Irishman was doing this with his mouth!

His right hand slid around to the front of my hips and began rubbing against my inner thigh. It felt so wonderful! So tender and soft! His hand slid higher, touching the warm flesh of my Kunta, and I shuddered from the sensations. I could feel his fingers exploring the slick wetness, even as his tongue continued its work.

This was so new and exciting, and felt so good, I could bear it any longer. I tossed my sword aside, and with both hands grabbed the back of his head beneath my dress. I pulled him tight against me, spread my legs wider, and began rubbing myself against his face! His fingers found my wet opening and easily slid inside. I gasped!

As his left hand caressed my right arse cheek, his fingers were moving in and out of me like a tiny Kokkr, and I was grinding my Kunta against his face! So many pleasurable sensations at once, from so many places! Then, an intense burst of erotic pleasure hit me, as his tongue grazed that special place, and began swirling around it.

My inner muscles contracted, squeezing against his fingers. My legs felt weak, my mind lost in sexual bliss. I leaned back further, still holding his face against me, and felt his fingers withdraw. I pushed him downward, wanting... no, needing... to feel his magnificent tongue within me. His nose slipped between my folds as his tongue entered and began flitting like a hummingbird. Oh! Oh! Oh! My insides wildly convulsed and a gush of fluids flew from me into his mouth.

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The Finngaill

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We stayed like this for a while, his tongue moving gently over me, lapping at the fluids on my skin. I pulled up the front hem of my skirt, grasped the hair on the back of his head, and threw him down on the ground before stepping back four paces and picking up my sword. He stood up, turned away from me, and walked over toward his cloth sack. I wondered if he might be trying for his sword, but he went right past it. He picked up his sack and sat down on a fallen log, then reached inside to pull out a whitish block of what looked like cheese. He waved for me to come and sit with him.

Holding the block of cheese in one hand, he extended his index finger and ran it over the cheese as if wanting to slice it. I had a small knife with me, pulled it out of my belt pouch, and handed it to him. He used it to make a few cuts, handing me a slice of cheese. One of the things we traded with the Irish was their cheese since they controlled the countryside and had the dairy cattle. It tasted good.

He tapped his chest and said, "Éamonn." I assumed it was his name. I pointed at him and said, "Éamonn", and he nodded. Then, I did the same and told him my name, "Elin."

Éamonn dipped into his sack and pulled out a large piece of bread. Tearing off a section, he added a slice of cheese and offered it to me. I took it and nibbled at it while he did the same for himself. It was a good stout oat bread, and tasted quite nice paired with the cheese.

Éamonn then pointed at me and said, "Finngaill." I had heard the word before. The Irish called all the Norwegian Vikings by that name. I nodded. As we ate, he pointed to the trees and grass and flowers and said other words, which I assumed were Irish names for those things.

When we finished, Éamonn stood up and offered me his hand. I accepted and he gently pulled me up to a standing position. He took my other hand, and began singing a lively tune. He started moving his feet and it looked as if he wanted to dance. I tried to follow his movements, but he was quite agile, and his feet were incredibly fast. With both hands joined, we started spinning in a circle, going ever and ever faster. Oh, wonders! I had not felt such simple fun since I left Norway three years ago.

I tripped over the hem of my dress and fell, and he was unable to prevent me from landing in the soft green grass. I lay there looking up at the blue sky and puffy clouds, and we both started laughing.

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The Game is A Foot

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Éamonn went over to my strawberries, picked up the basket, and brought them to me. A wicked thought came over me, so I sat up and leaned forward, touching my ankle. I gasped out a silent "Oww", and grimaced, as if I were in pain. He set down the berries and knelt between my extended legs. He gently picked up my right leg and touched the ankle. I flinched, but not from pain. I spread my legs, bending both knees, which caused my dress to ride up and expose my lower legs.

Éamonn moved closer and began massaging my ankle with his hands. He looked at me, I nodded, but his gaze returned to my ankle. This would not do! Grabbing the fabric of my dress, I gently pulled it toward me, exposing more of my legs to him. I watched his eyes shift as he pretended not to look. Damn it! He was playing games with me while I was playing games with him! I pulled my dress even further, the retreating fabric now fully exposing my Kunta to him.

I watched Éamonn's eyes flit between my ankle and my Kunta. He knew what I was trying to do, but wouldn't give in. Enough of this! I unbent my knees, and extended my foot, rubbing it over the front of his trousers to confirm his interest, if not his actions. Sitting up, I pulled my dress partway down, covered my legs, and then laid back in a huff.

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A Recipe For Strawberries

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The damned Irishman moved beside me, and knelt, picking up a strawberry. Two can play this game. I looked away, as if not interested and pressed my lips tightly together. He reached across me and held the strawberry against my lips, and began laughing. I grinned and started laughing as well. We understood each other, and it was time to end our mutual game of teasing. I snapped at the strawberry with my teeth, but he pulled it away, before returning it to my hungry mouth. So ripe and sweet and full of flavor!

As I lay on the grass, Éamonn picked up two more strawberries, and placed them on my dress, right over my breasts. In their inverted position, the strawberries looked just like engorged and erect nipples! He swung his leg over me and straddled my hips. He leaned forward and extended his tongue to barely touch one of the strawberries. His tongue seductively moved over and around the two strawberries, only occasionally touching them, but hinting at what was coming. Beneath my dress, my own nipples, equally untouched, pressed upward toward him.

Éamonn opened his mouth and drew in one of the strawberries, but did not lift his head. Instead, his tongue pressed against my dress until it located my hidden berry. His tongue firmed, and he began tracing the curved contours, right through the textured linen fabric! The roughness and warmth felt so wonderful against my nipple. Then, he started sucking on it and I shuddered with anticipation.

Éamonn leaned back, leaving a wet spot in his wake, and opened his mouth slightly, using his tongue to move his captured strawberry to his lips. Pressing both lips together, he crushed the berry between them, allowing a tiny red dribble of juice to flow down his chin. I so much wanted to pull his face down to me and lick the sweetness from him!

I watched as Éamonn picked up the basket of strawberries and began laying a string of them down the front of my dress. He started with my exposed neck, leaving another berry every few centimeters. As he moved down my torso, I guessed where the track was heading, and I was right. He returned to my exposed neck, gently pressing his tongue against my skin, and circled the berry several times before sucking it in. It sent tingles through me, and left me sad he had placed only a single berry there.

Éamonn worked his way down my torso, licking, kissing, nuzzling, and nibbling on the strawberries. It felt so wonderfully erotic! He paused between each strawberry and looked up at me, smiling. I never wanted it to end, yet at the same time, I wanted it to end! I needed to cry out, "I'm READY! Take me now!", but did not know the Irish words. How can I tell him?

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Lightning Bolts

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I stared intently at Éamonn as he gobbled a berry on my lower stomach, then quickly pulled my knees up, spreading my legs. As I hoped, he leaned back and undid his trousers, exposing a modest Kokkr. He began stroking it, it grew larger, and I almost feared he would cum without me! I pointed to my Kunta and he nodded. He moved closer and I felt his Kokkr touch. He began rubbing it against me, moving up and down, spreading me apart.

Taking my wetness as his own, Éamonn slid the head of his Kokkr into my opening, stretching my tightness, and my inner muscles clamped down on him. I arched my back and tilted my hips, clearing an easier path for him. He pushed in deeper than before, thrusting his hips forward. He began pumping his Kokkr into me, in a slow and steady rhythm. I looked up at him and our eyes met. Though he did not look anything like Thor, he was sending lightning bolts through me!

Low pitched moans accompanied each of Éamonn's thrusts. I stared at his face, saw the intensity in his eyes, and heard him panting through his gaping mouth. Guttural noises escaped from deep in his throat. He moved his hips around, entering me at slightly different angles. It was glorious!

My stomach tensed, I could barely breathe, my lungs unable to keep up. I could no longer control myself, and grunted loudly, timed perfectly with his thrusts. My hips began bucking against Éamonn, our combined efforts pushing him deeper inside. My orgasm was building. I could feel it. I knew it. He read my face, my moans, my laboured breath, and he knew it too.

This was so unlike anything I have known, where the Viking man is in charge and takes the lead, and I am expected to follow. Éamonn allowed me to respond to his thrusts and his efforts. He was not fucking me, instead, we were making love to each other!

My pussy clenched and unclenched against his now throbbing cock, he groaned, then came inside me. At the same time, it drove me over the top. Waves of pleasure broke over me, the sensations rippling through my body.

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The Fede Ring

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Éamonn collapsed onto me, and I lay there, looking out at the Irish countryside. When there were no battles, it was so peaceful here. Unlike Norway, Ireland was a land that did not try to kill you. A land of green grass, plentiful rainfall, clear blue skies, gentle winds, and puffy white clouds.

Éamonn rolled off me and onto his side, and I turned to face him. He removed a ring from the pinky finger of his right hand and handed it to me. It was silver, but rather small. Looking closer, the face of the ring showed two hands joined together, as if in friendship. I tapped my breast twice with my left hand, asking it he was giving it to me, and he nodded. Éamonn pointed to a ring just like it on his left hand and smiled. I slipped the ring onto the finger of my left hand, and reached out my hand to him. He did the same, and our hands joined together, just like on the rings.

Despite our differences, Irish and Viking, we did not have to fight each other, and we could become friends, or even more. Yet earlier, I wanted to kill him! The emotions overwhelmed me! I felt like crying, and did, unable to hold back my tears.

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The Broken Embrace

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Éamonn tapped the center of his chest, then brought his hands together. His bent fingers touched, and his thumbs dropped down and met. I looked at his hands, and saw he had formed them into the shape of a heart. Then he touched my long golden hair.

He paused a moment, then put everything together. He said my name, "Elin", then touched his chest, formed a heart with his hands, pointed at me, and then touched my hair. Separated as we were by different languages, he had just told me, "Elin, I love your hair!"

He repeated the same motions, silently saying, "Elin, I love your eyes." Then, once again, touching my lips this time, to say, "Elin, I love your lips."

Éamonn reached behind my head and leaned closer, drawing my lips to meet his. We kissed, tentatively at first, then with more passion. I closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth, the softness, and the gentle sensations. Not just physical, but something more. Something much deeper.

Opening my eyes, I looked over his shoulder into the sky and saw black smoke rising in the distance. Veisafjǫrðr! My village was under attack! I broke our embrace, and pointed to the smoke. Picking up my sword, I ran toward my home. Glancing over my shoulder, Éamonn was right behind me, carrying his sword.

Reaching a small hill overlooking Veisafjǫrðr, I saw it burning! Éamonn pointed to my village and said, "Weiseforthe." In the nearby waters were scores of black ships. The Danes had come! Éamonn pointed to the ships and yelled, "Dubgaill!" He must know of them too.

I put my left hand on Éamonn's chest, then waved back towards the woodlands, hoping he would return to his people. He shook his head no, grabbed my hand, and pulled me toward Veisafjǫrðr. As we ran together towards the village, the distant clash of steel swords mingled with the screams of my fellow Vikings.

THE END

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Author's Notes:

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The Fede ring that Éamonn and Elin exchanged has existed for over two thousand years, beginning as described, with two hands clasped together in friendship. This ring was modified in the 17th century by Irish jewelers, who added a heart to signify love, and a crown to signify loyalty. Together, these virtues form the perfect relationship, one based on friendship, love and fidelity. It is now called a Claddagh Ring, a symbol of Ireland, known across the globe.

The village portrayed in this story is Wexford, on the southeast coast of Ireland. You can see how both characters spelled it at the time and try your hand at pronunciation. In addition, several anatomical names are included in this story, taken from the Old Norse language. You may have already guessed a few of them have carried forward into modern slang.