Wilde Irish Strawberries
A Viking Shield-Maiden discovers Wilde Irish Strawberries and love near Wexford, Ireland.
**********
Wilde Irish Strawberries
**********
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.
**********
A Clash Of Swords
**********
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.
**********
A Sign of Submission?
**********
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.
**********
The Finngaill
**********
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.
**********
The Game is A Foot
**********
