Bride of Grendel

Viking Lore Erotic Tales

vol. 2

by
Gwynn Jones
 Sigrun stared out her tiny window at the snowflakes falling fast and thick against the dark outline
of the woods. It was almost time. Soon she would be free of this place — free of this life entirely. She
shuddered at the thought of what lay in store for her, what thing, lurking somewhere within or beyond
those woods, would soon have her in its terrible grasp.
She looked at her room — her cell. A fire blazed in a small hearth, keeping the place warm
against the harsh elements. The walls of the turf hut were thick. At first she had thought she might
burrow her way out, tearing fingernails in the process of digging away at the wall, until she realized that
the turf covered a layer of stones. It was like she was housed in a burial mound. She was as good as dead
as soon as she had arrived, the newest wife of the great king — the latest sacrifice to the terrible monster
that haunted his mighty hall.
She heard the scrape of bolts at the door.
Unferth. The heavy door swung open and a hooded figure ducked inside, shaking snowflakes
from his cloak. His eyes met hers and then dropped to the floor.
“Wealhtheow, your highness.”
“Wealhtheow is not my name.”
“It is your title, and I must call you by it.” He closed the door behind him, shed his cloak, and
stepped toward her. “We don’t have much time. Tonight is the night, the darkest night. Tonight he comes.”
She smiled, not without some bitterness. “I’m glad of it. This is no life. I’m ready to be done with
it all.”
“Ready to be done with me?”
“Do we have any choice?”
He took her in his arms, pressed his lips to hers, buried his face in her neck. “I wish we had.”
“Then we will have to enjoy this moment, if it is to be our last.”

Sigrun dropped her shawl and unclasped the brooches that fastened her dress. Unferth pushed
the fabric from her shoulders, revealing the creamy white flesh of her breasts, the rosy tips. He took a
breast in his mouth, sucking and pulling at it. The feel of his beard against her skin and his hot mouth on
her tit, the tug of his lips and tongue on her sensitive nipple, sent a charge running through her. She felt
herself getting wet. She let her dress fall to the floor. His hand went to her, fingers gently massaging her
moistening cleft, his palm against her clit. She could not help but sigh as her body reacted to his touch
and her nerves began to tingle with pleasure. He rubbed harder, and her sighs became moans. He slipped
two fingers inside her, and her moans became a gasp.
He laid her down on the pile of sheepskins and furs that served as her bed. Still fucking her with
his fingers, he covered her neck and breasts with kisses, sucking her nipples until they were so hard, they
hurt. He dropped his mouth to her clit, sucking and licking it until it too was hard and swollen. His
movements were slow and steady, like he wanted to prolong the pleasure, to savor her for as long as he
could. But she could feel the pressure mounting, felt her body tensing as his teasing lips and tongue
brought her closer and closer to a climax. He gradually increased the intensity, pumping her harder with
his fingers, relentlessly working her clit. Soon she was writhing under him, her body arching, her pelvis
thrusting up to meet his mouth and hand. She could feel sweat springing up on her belly, drenching her
loins along with the gushing juices of her cunt. She was right at the edge. When he slid his other fingers
into her, filling her with the better part of his hand, he sent her over.
She let out a cry, her body shuddering with the force of the orgasm. He raised his head and
planted his mouth on hers, his lips and beard wet with her, salty and sweet. She arched against him,
wrapping her legs around his. This first climax only left her wanting more, her body singing. She nipped
at his lip with her teeth. He fumbled with his trousers, freeing his hard cock, rubbing it against her.
“Take me,” she whispered, “take me now.”
He pressed the head of his penis against her hot, wet lips, dipping just inside, pausing, moaning
softly at the feel of her. “So beautiful, so perfect,” he whispered, before plunging the full length of his
shaft deep into her, as though he wanted to bury himself in her womb. Her body already primed, the feel
of his full, hard member thrusting inside her immediately triggered another wave of bliss.
“Harder,” she gasped, “fuck me harder!”
He did. He rammed himself into her, pumping faster. She wanted nothing less than complete
oblivion, and as Unferth fucked her and the orgasms overwhelmed her, she lost herself in the sensations.
She couldn’t have counted how many times she came, or if it was one long, extended, rolling, mounting
orgasm that finally reached its peak when Unferth climaxed, himself, drilling into her, a hoarse sob
escaping from his mouth as he pulled out and squirted a spray of semen across her belly.
He collapsed beside her, and they lay together silently for several minutes.
“You could have come inside me this time.”
“What?”
“What fear of impregnation now? The king my husband gives me away tonight. And I’m likely to
be dead before morning.”
Unferth sat up, a pained look on his face. She thought she could see the shine of tears in his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it must be this way.”
But must it? She wondered. Must it, really? Why couldn’t this man take her away from here, right
now? Sneak her away, thwart King Hrothgar, leave him to face the anger of the monster, himself. But he
would not. She’d never imagined, really, that he would. She’d had no illusions when he first took her in his
arms that this warrior would ever love her enough to defy his king.
Unferth was Hrothgar’s right-hand man, the warrior who sat at his feet, who enjoyed his greatest
confidence, who did all his dirtiest work. This affair was no betrayal, even; Hrothgar was an old man who
had long since lost either the interest or the ability to dally with women. He apparently did not care
whether anyone else dallied with the maidens he made his fleeting queens, and she suspected that he
might even have directed Unferth to play the lover. She had asked him, after the first time they made love,
whether it hadn't been important that she remain a virgin.
“If the monster wanted virgins,” he’d replied, “It wouldn’t keep taking Hrothgar’s queens.”
Perhaps, she had wondered, the old king wanted to keep up appearances, in case the creature was
somehow mindful of its victims’ state of womanhood.
She had not minded. Unferth had been kind — as kind as could be expected from a battle-
hardened warrior in the service of a cruel and selfish king — and Sigrun was in fact grateful for the
pleasure and solace he had provided her. She was glad to have felt what it was to be a woman before she
died, even if it had been at the hands of the enemy. For he was the enemy, however tenderly he may have
treated her, however ardently he may have come to love her.
“It is growing dark.” She stared at the tiny window. “You should go.”
They both sat up. She wrapped herself in one of the furs from the bed. He set his clothes right
and gathered up his cloak. He turned to her, dropped to his knees beside her and took her face in his
hands.
“I wish — Wealhtheow — Sigrun — I just wish it could be different. You will haunt me forever. You
are special. Precious. Like none of the others. I am so sorry.”
He kissed her. She allowed it for a moment, but then she pulled away.
“You must go.”
He stood up. A tear ran down his cheek. He looked at her, at her dry eyes and calm face, and
shook his head.
“You do not cry. You have never cried.”
“What good would it do?”
He left. She heard the bolts sliding shut. She sighed. She climbed out of the bed, shedding the fur
and stretching her naked limbs, relishing the shaky feel of her muscles, the languidness of her nerves
after sex. She must appreciate these sensations while she still had them. She went to the small hearth,
where a basin of water stood warming by the fire. She dipped a cloth into the water and sponged herself
clean, wiping away the stickiness of sweat and cum. She pulled her dress back on, carefully fastening and
arranging it, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. She brushed and braided her long hair. Then she
sat down in a chair by the fire and waited for them to come fetch her.

King Hrothgar belonged to a line of great warriors and powerful kings. As a younger man, he had
deposed one of his brothers to become the ruler of the region, and he had ruthlessly expanded that rule,
forcing countless chieftains to submit to his overlordship. As he grew older, he decided to commemorate
his accomplishments and remind everyone of his power by building a great and lavish mead hall. He
called it a monument to the peace he had brought to the land; many saw it rather as a monument to his
tyranny. He carved out a new settlement, a space at the edge of the wilderness, a wild and beautiful
prospect ringed by forest and crags and moors, overlooking the sea. It was a formidable location for a
formidable structure, a massive hall with a roof of shields cast in gold. It was allover carvings,
intertwining vines and beasts, dragon heads rearing up from under the eaves. No one would disagree that
Hrothgar's hall Heorot was the greatest structure of its kind. But the monument to peace would enjoy
very little peace, itself.
Some said it was the specter of Hrothgar's bloody climb to power, come to haunt him. Others
suggested it was merely a matter of location. Hrothgar had encroached too much on the wilderness, they
said. And now the wilderness was come knocking. Whatever the cause, the result was horrifying. The hall,
so shining, so new, filled with Hrothgar's loyal men and delighted visitors come to see its glory, was
invaded in the dead of night by a terrible creature, a ravening stalker that tore down the doors and
slaughtered Hrothgar's men.
Grendel.
For one long, harrowing autumn, the monster terrorized Heorot, striking randomly but
repeatedly, sometimes killing several men in a single attack, at others emerging only briefly, to quietly
crush a single unfortunate's skull before disappearing back into the shadows. Then, on the night of the
winter solstice, after a season of unspeakable horrors, the truly unspeakable occurred: the creature stole
Hrothgar's own beloved wife.
The king was devastated, the people appalled. They searched the woods, the crags, the moors for
any sign of her and found none. They mourned for her, and they mourned for themselves. And then, as
days passed and stretched into weeks, they realized with no small measure of bewilderment that the
monster had stopped its attacks.
Some thought it odd when Hrothgar remarried in the late spring, so soon after his terrible loss.
Others wondered at his choice, a relatively nondescript young daughter of one of Hrothgar's subject
chieftains. He did not seem particularly fond of her, even. But when the winter solstice came and the
monster returned, carrying off the screaming young queen into the dark night, it was hard not to
appreciate the crafty king's foresight. And so a grisly tradition was born.
Every spring, Hrothgar took a new bride from among his people. Every bride was given the same
name — Wealhtheow. It meant "foreign servant," a nod to the service the girl performed for the sake of
her people — really, for the sake of her king and his hall — and to the fact that once chosen, she stood
apart. Sigrun personally thought that the naming was cruel and dehumanizing — and that was probably
the point. The queen would enjoy the remainder of the year as the closely-guarded consort to the king,
until she was sacrificed to the monster on the solstice, the longest, darkest night of the year. The survivors
could then rejoice in the return of the light and another year's peace bought with a maiden's blood. If
anyone had dared suggest to Hrothgar that maybe he ought to move his abode to another, less monstrous
place, he had ignored the advice.

Sigrun was not surprised when she was chosen. She had never quite fit in. She was a foundling,
discovered by a farmer in his pig stall, of all places, when she was just a baby. Whoever had left her there
had left no clues to her identity other than a rune stick inscribed with her name. But she was a beautiful
baby, and the farmer, having no wife or children, decided to raise her as his own. She grew into a
beautiful child, tall, fair, with hair so pale blonde it seemed white, and bright, icy blue eyes. The little girls
all shunned her. She spent most of her time alone, wandering in the woods. The boys were in awe of her.
When she was twelve, a particularly confident, handsome young fellow attempted to steal a kiss. A pair of
ravens descended on him out of nowhere, driving him away and pecking his face so badly that he was
decidedly less handsome from then on. The other boys kept their distance after that.
When she turned sixteen, it was rumored that the old farmer had gotten it into his head to marry
her, to turn his foster child into his bride. She was achingly beautiful by then, so beautiful that few men
could keep their wits about them when she was nearby. Whether the farmer, who had always been a
perfectly fine and honorable guardian, had indeed succumbed to this temptation, no one would ever find
out. Before he had the chance to make public his intentions, he was found dead in the woods, gored, it
appeared, by what must have been a very large and vicious wild boar. She lived alone after that, tending
the farmstead and keeping to herself. Those were peaceful times. But when Unferth came to the area
scouting for the year's Wealhtheow, the local chieftain's wife convinced him to get rid of the bewitching
foundling before more harm was done. Sigrun had no one to defend her. She was alone in the world. She
could see no good reason, herself, why she shouldn't be the sacrifice. So now here she was.

She stared into the flames. The warmth of the fire was making her drowsy. She let her thoughts
drift over the past months as Hrothgar's queen. If he had ever made any pretense of marriage to his
sacrificial brides, he had given it up by the time it was Sigrun's turn. It was Unferth who made the
arrangements, Unferth who escorted her to Heorot. There was a wedding ceremony, and the denizens of
the hall showed a sort of wolfish good cheer. Everyone drank heavily. When Hrothgar retired to his
bedchamber, Unferth followed with Sigrun. She wasn't sure what to expect — would the king consummate
the union? She disliked the thought of the horrible man's fingers on her flesh, his mouth against hers. The
thought flashed through her mind that she might just be strong enough to snap his neck, if the
opportunity presented itself. But perhaps that was why his man Unferth was here as well. And one
shouldn't underestimate the reserves of strength left in old warriors. No, Hrothgar would probably be
hard to kill. But the opportunity would not present itself. Hrothgar burrowed into the furs on his bed and
swiftly fell asleep. Unferth waited a while with Sigrun — she realized it was just a matter of appearances,
her following the king to his bed on their wedding night — and then escorted her outside to the turf prison
that would be her home.
Unferth had been her companion ever since. When she was allowed outside, he accompanied her.
She was never allowed into the woods — too dark, too dense, too easy to lose oneself in them — but she
could spend hours on the open expanse of the shore. She loved her walks on the beach, the wind whipping
her hair around her face, the vastness of the water making her life seem small, reassuring her that maybe
it would not be such a hard thing to give up. One day, when Unferth for some reason had allowed her to
walk beyond the sandy flats and climb up onto a rocky outcrop, she stood at the edge of the sea cliff and
considered casting herself into the water, breaking herself on the rocks below, then and there. Why not
rob the King of his sacrifice? Why not chose her fate and let the sea have her, instead of the monster?
Unferth had let her get ahead but was now approaching. She would have to do it now, and she was on the
verge of taking the step, allowing herself to fall, when he called out.
"You could escape this way, but you will die, and he will take another bride. The creature must be
sated. You will buy your freedom at the cost of another maiden's life."
She paused, and he was there, breathless, taking her by the arm, folding her in his arms, holding
her tight and close. She knew that he wanted her, that he found her beautiful. She had seen it in the way
he looked at her. Now she felt it in his embrace. This was something she had never felt before. She
preferred the thought of the cold sea — but she could not countenance the thought of another girl having
to die to replace her. She resolved then that she would let herself be Hrothgar's sacrifice, but not for his
sake, nor for his cursed hall. She would sacrifice herself for the sake of the other prospective brides. And
until then, she would take Unferth's embraces. She would take his love.
He led her off the cliff and back to the beach below, to a narrow sea cave with a sandy floor. He
took her face in his hands, and she noticed that his fingers were trembling. He bent to kiss her. His lips
were warm on hers. He was surprisingly gentle, kissing her softly, moving from her lips to her cheek to
her neck, pausing at her ear, taking her earlobe between his lips, making a sigh escape from hers. No one
had ever touched her in this way — hardly anyone had ever touched her at all — and it felt good.
He laid his cloak on the sand and laid her down on top of it. She was surprised and somewhat
unnerved when he lifted her skirts and buried his face in her nether reaches, but the feel of his lips and
tongue on her made her quickly lose any sense of embarrassment. He knew what he was doing, and
though she did not know what she was supposed to do, or how she ought to expect it to feel, she could tell
that she did not need to do anything, that she could simply take what he was giving. She allowed herself
to sink into the sensations.
She dug her hands into the cool sand and listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the
shore. The tickling, trilling feeling that Unferth was creating in her loins reminded her of the feeling she
often got, before all this, when she was still free, when she would walk alone in the forest and find herself
in some deep, dark place, or some bright, sun-speckled spot, and suddenly feel a rush of overpowering
pleasure run up her spine, like some invisible presence had just washed over her or run a long finger
down her neck. Her senses became confused, intertwined. The waves filled her head, and though she
knew that it was Unferth who was kissing and sucking at her, that those must be Unferth's fingers sliding
inside her, it seemed like the sea itself had slid into the cave, was sliding fingers, or tendrils, into her, too.
She was hot and wet. Unferth felt warm on top of her as he pulled himself up and pressed his
shaft against her, probing her opening with its tip. And yet something else, cold, serpentine, seemed to be
wrapping itself around her, around her wrists in the sand, around her legs, slithering and reaching. The
waves became louder in her ears. Unferth pushed himself into her, taking her maidenhead, breaking
through. Even though she was well primed, it hurt — it felt hot, searing, as he sank the full length of his
long, hard cock into her virgin pussy. But the cold tendrils, the sea-tentacles, as she imagined them,
cooled the pain as they wrapped around her limbs and penetrated her, too. The waves roared in her head.
The sea-presence enveloped her, enfolded her and filled her. She felt Unferth's heat, his body against her
and his shaft sliding in and out, thrusting deep and deeper, but she could not tell where she ended and the
sea-tentacles began. She felt like she was losing consciousness, losing herself in the sound of the
pounding surf and the all-encompassing sensation of the sea wrapping around her and twisting itself
inside her. She felt herself panting, her body arching. And she thought she heard a voice, not Unferth's,
not her own, whispering in her ear.
"The lost one, the lost one," it whispered, "You are the bride, you are the one..."
She could barely catch the words, could barely tell whether she was hearing them, because at
that moment, like a huge wave breaking on the shore, her body exploded into orgasm. All her senses were
swept into a single shattering release, a moment of blissful oblivion.

They returned to that cave many times in the months that followed, but it was never the same as
the first time. The feel of the sand and the sound of the waves reminded her of the sea-presence that had
taken her, but the presence itself never returned. Sometimes she felt a little like it was somewhere nearby
though, somewhere at the edge of her awareness, waiting.
And so the summer had passed, and then the fall, and the weather grew cold, and the snow blew
in, as the days grew ever darker. The walks on the beach ceased, and Sigrun found herself spending
longer hours shut in her cell, counting the days until Grendel would come for her. Unferth's visits did not
alleviate the agony of being confined. He gave her precious moments of distraction, but it was not enough.
She ached for her freedom. She did not fear what was ahead, because she was too desperate to escape
her present condition.
She stared into the fire and heard the words "the lost one, the lost one" repeating over and over
in her head. Yes, she was lost. She would be dead soon. The monster Grendel would probably tear her to
pieces. Would he eat her? Probably. She wondered whether it would be very painful, getting torn limb
from limb. She wondered why she wasn't in fact out of her mind with terror over the prospect. Surely
there were some who would choose even this buried-alive life, any life, over certain, terrible death. But
apparently she was not one of them. Maybe if she'd really thought there was any hope for her, she'd have
felt differently. She wasn't sure. At least she wasn't out of her mind with terror.
It was dark now and had been for a while. The sound of the door bolt sliding roused her from her
reverie. It was Unferth, but he was not alone. Two other warriors stood behind him. She felt a flash of
scorn. Did they think she would struggle? Try to run away? But many of the yearly Wealhtheows probably
did, poor maidens desperately afraid of the horror that awaited them. Curse them all, every one of them
who served Hrothgar and remained at Heorot, for subjecting those innocents to this. But she would not
struggle, she would not run. She stood up and took Unferth's arm. She looked the men in the eyes, and
they dropped their gaze, unable to meet hers.
"Right then, shall we go to the hall?"
The revelries at Heorot were already underway. Hrothgar sat in the high chair set on the dais at
the head of the mead benches. He had probably been drinking since midday. He raised a mead horn to
Sigrun as she entered the hall and proceeded to his side.
"Wealhtheow! My queen! We greet you. Join us in our feast."
"I thank you, but I have little appetite."
"Understandable, my dear." This he said in a lower voice, for her alone. His cold, shrewd eyes
looked her up and down. "At least you're not weeping. Good girl. Brave." He drained his horn. "Unferth,
fetch my queen a drink."
Unferth left and returned again shortly with a golden mead cup, which he handed to Sigrun with
a slight bow. The liquid inside looked thick, almost syrupy, and smelled spicy-sweet. He bent towards her
ear.
"Drink it. It will numb you, make you sleepy. When it comes, it will not be so bad — you will be
calm — you won't feel —” he faltered.
“Really? Have you tested it yourself?” She knew he meant well, but she was immensely irritated
by Unferth at the moment. “Besides, I'm already calm. I want nothing to numb me. I will keep my senses
about me for whatever is to come.”
He nodded and set the drink aside. “As you wish.”
Sigrun looked around the hall. There were very few women. Those who were present looked
stony-faced, frightened or indignant. Some stole quick, furtive glances in her direction. Their eyes showed
sympathy and shame. Some of the men also looked ashamed, green in the face, unable to meet her gaze.
Others leered. All of them drank heavily. The women gradually disappeared from the hall, some casting
angry glares at the men as they slipped out. Most of the warriors seemed intent on drinking themselves
out of their wits. She thought they ought just to have a sip of her drugged mead, if they wanted so badly
to numb themselves to their hateful tradition.
It was growing late, and Hrothgar rose from his seat. He turned to Sigrun.
“It is time for me to retire, my dear. You must stay here.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Best of
luck to you, my wife. Maybe this will be the year he doesn’t show.”
Hrothgar left the hall. Those men who had not already passed out bedded down along the walls,
leaving an empty passage from the great doors down the length of the mead hall and to the dais where
Sigrun still sat. Unferth and a few others remained awake, sitting off to either side of her. To make sure
that she did not try to run, she guessed. She sighed. How long now until it came?

In spite of herself, she dozed off, she did not know for how long. She slipped into strange,
confusing dreams. She wandered foreign landscapes and made her way through labyrinthine structures.
She seemed to slide through the branches of an enormous tree that was everywhere and everything. She
saw stars and ice and fire. She found herself at the edge of a milky pool. She stretched out her fingers to
touch the surface, but something else reached out and pulled her in.
She felt herself caught in the coils of smooth, gliding, serpent-like beasts. They tickled and
caressed her, and she thought of the sea presence with its cool, probing tendrils. But these creatures held
her suspended, arms and legs outstretched, in what seemed like a sphere of pearly light. She heard voices
but could not make out what they were saying. Someone approached her from behind, wrapping an arm
around her waist, dropping a hand to touch her between her legs. She felt a snap of electricity, a charge
running through her at the touch. She felt like her body was enveloped in a humming, vibrating field of
energy that made her hair stand on end and her nipples stand erect.
Her arousal grew intense, so intense that it was like she was throwing off crackling charges of
energy, herself. She felt herself expanding beyond the boundaries of her body. The serpents were surging,
spinning, pulling her so that she arched into a deep back bend. Her head was inverted, her vision
obscured by her swirling hair. With her arms and legs still spread wide, she felt as though her entire
expanding being was centered on her tingling, humming sex. She felt a burning need to be filled. It was
like a hunger, like her sex was a mouth that needed to be fed.
She felt hands on her hips. Something pressed against her, teased apart her lips. Yes, she wanted
to cry out, Yes! Fill me! She strained to take it inside her, quivering, frustrated by the coils that held her
fast. Her juices were gushing. Her mysterious lover continued to tease her, dipping just inside, rubbing
the tip of his shaft against her, never quite pulling away, but refusing to plunge in completely. She groaned
in a strange combination of agony and ecstasy. She felt sparks coming off of her body. She thought she
might just explode in anticipation. Just when she was quite sure that she would, he finally penetrated her.
She thought that she might scream from the pleasure of the release as waves of orgasm rocked through
her and pulsed out from her. All of her senses were filled with the orgasm, and then it seemed like
everything was consumed in a blaze of bright white light.

When she woke, the fire had died to a soft glow, and the hall had grown cold. Everyone was
asleep, her guards included. How easy, she thought ruefully, it would have been for Unferth to have
spirited her away from here during this quiet time before the monster came. But he too was asleep, never
having intended to attempt any such escape. What had awakened her? It was a sound that had done it.
Not the sound of the doors crashing in, but a sound from somewhere outside. Movements. Something
moving along the side of the hall, something scraping along the outer wall, drawing slowly closer to the
front. The hairs on her neck prickled. This was it. What would she do? Should she try to fight it? She had
heard that the warriors of Heorot had quickly learned, when Grendel first began his attacks, that no
weapons had any effect on the monster; his skin was impervious to every blade, spear, or club that they
tried against him. The sound was getting closer to the door.
No one had bothered to throw the massive bolt; Grendel had burst through too many times for
anyone to think that there was any way to keep him out. So now, instead of a great crash, she heard the
low creak of the door slowly swinging open. Sigrun tensed in her seat. She caught her breath at the sight
of a huge, clawed hand wrapped around the edge of the doorframe. The seconds seemed to stretch for an
eternity as she waited for the creature to step into the hall. When the massive thing finally emerged from
the shadows, she gasped. It was easily eight feet tall, with huge shoulders, thick, muscled arms, and legs
like tree trunks. The light was too dim to see its features clearly, but its eyes glowed green, flashing
around the hall. It moved forward down the center, glaring at the sleeping warriors to either side. She was
struck, strangely, by how gracefully the monster moved, swiftly and silently. It must have been dragging
its claws along the exterior walls, intentionally creating that noise that had woken her before.
Halfway down the length of the room, Grendel’s eyes finally landed on Sigrun. The monster
paused, as though appraising her. Their eyes locked. Her breath was coming quickly, but she refused to be
afraid, refused to seem afraid. Grendel snorted lightly. Then he looked around the room and let out a
massive roar. It was a bloodcurdling sound, and the warriors awoke in confusion. Sigrun, remarkably,
found herself laughing. The monster wanted to make sure he had an audience, wanted to make sure the
warriors did not sleep through his theft of their queen. It was a short laugh, though.
Once he had gotten everyone’s attention, Grendel bounded to the dais and swept Sigrun from her
seat. His claws dug into her arms as he lifted her up and swung her over his shoulder, but they did not
break flesh. From the corner of her vision, she saw Unferth charging toward Grendel, swinging his sword.
He hacked at the monster’s side, but the sword bounced off without leaving a mark. Grendel knocked
Unferth away. Sigrun lifted herself up, bracing herself against Grendel’s back — his one arm was wrapped
firmly around her legs, holding her close against him — so that she could see. While Grendel carried her
back through the hall and towards the doors, Unferth crouched by the dais, watching, not moving again.

Free of the hall, past the other buildings and away into the woods, Grendel swung Sigrun off his
shoulder and carried her cradled in his arms. He moved quickly and agilely through the forest, out across
an open space of moors and over a treacherous, craggy region where winding trails twisted down steep
rock faces to a dark, evil-looking lake. She knew that the night’s darkness did not help the prospect, but
she doubted that it looked any less forbidding in the daylight. They reached the shore of the lake, a
narrow stretch of rocky shelf where cliff and water met. Grendel set her down. Dark water lapped at their
feet. Now what? He wrapped one great arm around her, holding her tightly to his side, lifting her up onto
her toes.
She looked up at his face. She could see it more clearly now in the moonlight. It was almost
human, but not quite. The mouth was a little too broad, the nose too flat, almost muzzle-like, but also not
quite. The skin seemed leathery, the hair — fur or hair? too hard to tell — covered more of his cheeks than
any man’s beard would. The ears were pointed. When he opened his mouth slightly, she saw that the teeth
were sharp. He was looking at the water. He looked down at her, then looked to the water again, and then
took a breath. She realized with a slight shock that they were going to go into the lake.
She took a deep breath just as Grendel jumped in.
It was so dark, she nearly panicked. It was also very, very cold. She thought she might die, if not
by drowning, then from the shock of the cold water, but she also found herself wanting very much to live.
Grendel was swimming strongly and steadily toward something. She felt something brush past her in the
water, and she held tighter, though Grendel’s grip on her was more than secure. She had closed her eyes,
but as her lungs began to strain, she opened them again and saw, miraculously, a light glowing just ahead.
The light also revealed the shapes of the sea creatures brushing past, great serpent-like things circling
them. She saw two snapping viciously at each other, but none of them attacked Grendel. The light grew
stronger just as Sigrun felt herself growing faint from lack of air. It seemed to be coming from an
underwater cave in the side of the cliff. Grendel swam into the cave, through the opening and then
upward. Sigrun thought her lungs were going to burst and was about to take in a long, deadly breath of
water when they broke through the surface.
Grendel pulled her from the water and set her gently on the floor, but she spent several moments
gasping and sputtering before she could gather herself enough to look around. When she did, she was
surprised by what she saw.
It was a huge cave, beautifully vaulted. The walls glittered with gemstones. A fire blazed in a
massive hearth on the far side, opposite the pool from which they had emerged. She wondered how the
smoke vented out, but she also saw arched openings to other caves and passages; there must have been
tunnels and chutes that led all the way to the surface. The floor was too smooth — polished-seeming — to
be natural; the arches and walls, too, were so regular — this was no untouched, natural cave. This was a
work of architecture. She realized that pillars that she’d thought to be stalactites at first glance were in
fact columns and were intricately carved with flowers, vines, and dragons. A huge stone table, also
elaborately carved, stood near the hearth and held glowing gold goblets, bowls, and platters, all sized to
fit very large hands. A massive sword hung on the wall beside the fireplace. Some people had suggested
that Grendel began his attacks on Heorot because he was jealous of Horthgar’s magnificent mead hall;
those people were clearly wrong. Grendel’s subterranean lair put Hrothgar’s monument to shame.
Sigrun realized that she was shivering violently. The cold night air followed by the icy water had
chilled her to the bone, and her heavy clothes were soaked through. Water dripped in rivulets from her
hair and her dress and was pooling on the floor around her. Grendel was watching her closely. He picked
her up again and carried her to the fire, setting her on her feet beside the warm hearth. With a clawed
finger he pulled her shawl from her shoulders and then pulled off the brooches holding her dress. The
sodden clothes slipped to the floor, leaving only a thin, lightweight shift. Sigrun bent to pull off her boots
and stockings but planned to keep her underdress on. It too was soaked, cold and clinging to her skin.
Even beside the blazing fire it would take a while to dry, and she continued to shake from the cold.
Grendel grunted impatiently.
Sigrun had been so distracted by the swim, the hall, her soaked and frozen condition, she
suddenly realized that here she was, alone with the monster in its lair.
She looked at the creature in front of her. He was huge, hulking — but he held himself upright.
She had heard descriptions of a hunched, misshapen being. She could well imagine Grendel crouched and
animal-like, moving swiftly in his attack, and she could imagine that his sheer size and the terror he
provoked might impress witnesses with memories of him more ghastly and monstrous than was actually
the case. Aside from his size, he seemed almost — but not quite — human. She could not decide whether
it was light fur or thick hair that covered most of his body. He was barefoot, impervious, apparently, to the
winter cold, but he wore a short skirt of skins around his waist. His torso — some had suggested he was
covered with scales, and this was why no weapon could bite his flesh — was covered, she saw now, with a
coat of finely wrought chain mail under a sheepskin vest.
And then there was that not-quite-human face, and the eyes looking down at her from it. Those
eyes — green, almost catlike in the flickering glow of the fire — were not the eyes of a mindless beast.
Sigrun saw intelligence in those eyes. And they were clearly scrutinizing her. Grendel was looking at her
thoughtfully and deciding, it seemed, what to do.
Sigrun was still shaking. She did not want to appear afraid, so she did her best to meet Grendel’s
gaze, to show that she was not shaking with fear, that she was not cowed by him. He dropped his eyes,
looking at her wet shift. She thought she saw him shrug slightly, and then he took the underdress in his
hands and tore it open, pulling it off of her and freeing her from the soaking fabric. She immediately felt
warmer with the heat of the fire against her bare skin, but she was still shivering. She wrapped her arms
around her chest, both to help warm herself and to cover her bare breasts. Grendel nudged her closer to
the hearth. He pulled off his sodden sheepskin vest and shrugged out of the chain mail, revealing a
massive, muscular chest. He stepped away, disappearing into a nearby alcove, and returned with the skin
of some large, furry beast — a very, very large bear, perhaps? Or a tremendously large wolf. It looked like
the fur of a tremendously large wolf. He set it on the floor by the hearth and then lifted Sigrun off her feet
and set her down on the pelt. It was soft, so soft, and felt unimaginably good against her bare skin.
Grendel knelt beside her. She could feel his breath on her shoulders. It was warm and smelled
surprisingly nice, like apples and fresh-mown hay. This was certainly not what she had expected. She had
expected his breath to reek of carnage. And fish. Rotten fish. What was more monstrous than the stench
of blood and rotten fish? No, Grendel’s breath smelled clean and sweet, not monstrous. Life was full of
surprises, she guessed. He poked a finger at her hair, tugging at one of the braided tresses that now hung
loose, wet, and disheveled at her ear. Yes, she realized, her hair was wet and would dry better if she took
it down. She unwound the braids that she had carefully wrapped around her head earlier in the evening,
back in her turf cell, and unbraided them. Her hair fell around her shoulders and down her back. To her
surprise, Grendel ran his fingers through her hair, his claws working like a comb. He hummed
appreciatively.
“Hmmmm… beautiful…” his voice was deep, low, more growl than speech, but she heard the
word clearly and was amazed. What was this thing, and what did he want? As a child, she’d heard stories
of giants and trolls, beings as ancient and powerful as the gods, who lived in other worlds but sometimes
crossed over to the realm of men. There were porous places, places where the borders were thin — the
wilderness places that men were right to steer clear of. Places like the wild, beautiful spot where
Hrothgar had built his hall. Was Grendel one of these beings?
He bent his head toward hers, burying his nose in her hair at her neck. The feel of his warm
breath on her neck sent an unexpected trill down her spine. He placed a hand on her back, cradling her,
and lifted her arm, still held across her breasts, with the other. He was warm, very warm. His wet hair
had dried quickly and felt downy soft as it brushed against her. Her shivers eased as her body finally
warmed up. Her muscles relaxed, but her nerves still seemed to be in a heightened state. She had refused
to be afraid, but there was no escaping the edgy rush of nervous response to everything that had
happened. The excitement was coursing through her veins, and every sensation seemed amplified by it.
Recovering from her hypothermia only made this other response more apparent. The tactile pleasure of
the fire’s glow, the fur against her skin, and Grendel’s warm presence made her body feel like it was
melting, even as her nerves were singing. When he bowed his head to her chest and ran his tongue —
rough, warm, and catlike — between her breasts and up her throat, it sent a shiver through her body that
made her hair stand on end.
He pushed her down so that she was lying on the pelt, sinking into the thick, soft fur, and he ran
his tongue around her breast. He circled it slowly, edging toward the nipple, and a sigh escaped her lips.
He took her entire breast in his mouth — the thought flashed through her mind that she hoped he didn’t
take a bite with those sharp teeth of his — but the feel of his huge, strong tongue and lips sucking and
pulling at her made her forget her worries. His hand was wrapped around her back, his thumb resting
beneath the curve of her other breast, the claws digging slightly into her skin. It was almost painful but
also felt strangely good. It sent another thrill through her. He pulled back from sucking her breast and ran
his finger, pressing lightly with the curved claw, around her nipple and then down her belly. She just about
jumped when he reached her mound and twined his finger in her soft hair. He traced a line across her
pelvis, from one hip bone to the other, and she couldn’t help moaning. Was this monster teasing her? And
her body was exploding in response, aching for something more.
He pushed her legs apart and bent his head to taste her juices. She caught a sweet smell — was
that her? She believed it was — like she was gushing ambrosia — what was this creature doing, to make
her react this way? He dragged his tongue along her lower lips and all the way up — that rasping tongue,
it sent charges through her! Then he plunged his tongue into her. It was thick and long, filling her like a
cock, but it was more agile, too.
“Oh! Ahhh!” she gasped and moaned as he twisted his tongue inside her, pulling it out and
plunging it back in, probing her with it, finding out the most sensitive spots and then lingering on them.
His lip grazed her clitoris all the while, adding to her mounting frenzy until she was sure that she was
going to come at any moment. As though sensing that she was on the verge of climax, Grendel pulled his
tongue out of her and began lapping at her clit. His rough tongue pressing directly on her sweet spot was
too much to withstand, and within moments he had her. A loud cry tore from her lips. She would have
doubled over with the strength of the orgasm that swept through her, if his hand had not still been firmly
holding her chest. His grip on her added something to the intensity of it. She was hardly done coming
when he sank his tongue back into her, working the interior wall behind her humming clitoris and sending
her into spasms all over again. He pulled away and paused for a moment, watching her panting and
gasping for breath.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and he turned her over onto her belly. He looped a hand beneath her
stomach and pulled her ass up. She felt his finger parting her cheeks and then his tongue running the full
length of the crack. She was too spent to tense up over this particular intrusion; her body was still
crackling with the aftershocks of the last orgasms, and there was something so immensely pleasuring
about Grendel’s tongue, it had the same effect here as everywhere else. She sighed as he pressed the tip
into her small, tight hole, and gasped as he pressed a little further in. He stopped there, flicking his
tongue in and out, in and out, until she felt a sudden need to feel it go deeper. She pressed her knees into
the floor and pushed her ass upwards to meet him. He responded by sinking much of the length of this
thick tongue into her.
“Ohh! Ohhh!” She dug her fingers into the fur as a shudder ran through her body. He held her
firmly and delved his tongue even deeper. He pulled it out, teasing the rim again, and then pushed it, all of
it, in. She felt herself wracked with spasms of pleasure. He held his tongue inside, twisting it, pulsing it.
Her body was out of her control, responding entirely on its own, orgasms radiating through her from deep
inside her. He pulled out his tongue and flipped her back over, her face flushed, her body bathed in sweat.
“More,” she panted, “give me more!”
He was kneeling over her, breathing heavily, looking down at her with hungry, glittering eyes.
She could see the muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling beneath the thick hair. He pulled off the skirt
of skins that circled his waist to reveal his stiff, throbbing member. She gaped at the size of it. It was
longer than her forearm, and thicker. The swollen head was the size of her fist. She realized now in a flash
why Grendel kept stealing Hrothgar’s queens. He wanted a bride for himself. And if the icy plunge to the
cave didn’t kill them, then getting fucked by his massive, inhuman cock did. That thing would split a
woman in half, would tear her apart.
Well, there were worse ways to go.
It was better than getting eaten. Or maybe that came later.
These thoughts barely had time to cross her mind — and she must have been giddy, because they
did not particularly bother her, either — before Grendel was rubbing the head of his gigantic prick against
her. She was incredibly wet, slippery wet. She wondered if there was an aphrodisiac in Grendel’s spit,
because all she wanted was for him to penetrate her again. She was certain that it could not but destroy
her, and yet she wanted to take that enormous thing into her — but how could it possibly fit?
She lifted her knees, opened them wide to accommodate Grendel between them. It was a good
thing that she was limber. He pressed, and she opened to him. The tip of his cock pushed past her lips and
into her. She groaned at the feel of its massive girth, but she took it. He paused, moaning — hesitant,
perhaps, to impale her completely? She wondered if he stopped fucking his brides once they were dead,
or if he made a gory mess of them until he was satisfied. She hoped that he would go with her until he
came, and that she would survive long enough to feel it.
“More,” she whispered, “more!”
He caught up her ankles and held them together in one hand, holding her legs against his chest.
Then he pushed himself deeper into her. He went slowly, inch by inch. She felt herself widening,
stretched, straining — it hurt, felt dangerously like her flesh might split, but also felt so good she could
barely stand it, the pain and pleasure intertwined in a single intense sensation. He let go of her ankles,
spread her legs again, her feet resting on his shoulders, pressing her knees toward her chest as he
penetrated further. How deep was he? She looked at his monstrous cock between her legs. He was only
halfway in, at best. He pulled out a few inches, and then pushed back in. He did it again, slowly, and then
faster. She felt a gush of silky wetness as her body responded to the friction, as her cunt opened to his
massiveness and took him in. She cried out with every thrust, as he began pumping harder and deeper.
She felt like she was losing herself in the feel of Grendel within her. Like that first time with
Unferth in the sea cave, when that strange, twining, pulsing presence had taken her so completely that it
was as though she had become one with it, or like the strange dream she'd had just before Grendel's
appearance, she felt herself opening and expanding beyond herself. It did not hurt now as he pushed
deeper and spread her opening ever wider. She felt like she could take him completely, could take
anything. She felt transformed. She thought she heard the whispering voice of the sea again, inside her
ear, inside her head: "the lost one, the lost one is found," it said. "The lost one is the bride, the only one..."
Yes, she thought, she had been lost, lost in a world where she had never truly belonged. And now she was
found.
Grendel had very nearly penetrated her completely, but a few precious inches remained. He
pulled out and turned her over onto her hands and knees, then took her again, from behind. He pressed
her shoulders toward the floor, so her face and chest rested against the fur, with her ass still tilted up to
meet him. He plunged into her, deep, so deep that she let out a cry. She could feel his pelvis against her,
his gigantic balls swinging against her thighs. He sheathed the full, tremendous length of his shaft in her,
thrust once, twice, and then held himself inside, held tightly to her hips, while her body exploded into an
orgasm that seemed to make the walls shake around them. As she reached the peak of her climax, he
began thrusting, hard, extending her orgasm and raising it to inexpressible heights. He let out a roar,
shooting his seed deep inside her and then covering her back and legs with cum as he pulled out, still
ejaculating.
After his last spasm, he sank back on his knees and lifted her into his lap. He was shaking — so
was she, but she felt a rush of tenderness for her spent beast. He licked her cheek, pressed his nose
against her face. With clawed fingers he caressed her hair. She fell asleep in his arms.

Sigrun had never given much thought to who she was, or who her parents were. She knew only
that she did not know, and that therefore she had never quite fit. And in most respects, she knew no more
about her identity now than she ever had. But she felt different, somehow more certain of herself now
than ever before. She did not know where the voice had come from, and yet she trusted what it said. She
strongly suspected that no normal human woman could have survived her encounter with Grendel. She
wondered if any of the previous Wealhtheows had even survived the water. It was an almost impossibly
deep plunge, the more she thought about it — and she could well imagine that any woman who had taken
the drugged cup would not have had her wits about her enough to even hold her breath. But Grendel had
persisted. And she had survived.
She had not merely survived. When Grendel took her, she felt a change, felt herself expanding
into something she had not known that she was. She had felt a sort of quickening. She felt stronger now,
more aware, more alive, more powerful in every way. And it continued. Every time she mated with the
monster, she expanded further, grew in strength, became what she truly was — whatever that might be.

In the early days of Hrothgar's hall and Grendel's terror, witnesses sometimes caught sight of the
massive, misshapen-seeming figure stalking across the moors. Then things changed, right about the time
the monster lost interest in taking Hrothgar's queens and returned to terrorizing the king and his men.
Now the occasional viewer who dared to venture that far into the wilderness saw not just the monster, but
sometimes a female figure by his side. Who was it, they wondered? His mother? Who else could it be?
But they were wrong. It was his bride.
 Keep following the adventures of Sigrun Frostdaughter
in the Viking Lore Erotic Tales!

Sigrun’s romance with the monster Grendel has transformed her, but now that Grendel has taken to
attacking Heorot and killing Horthgar’s warriors, he is undergoing a transformation, as well. Her beloved
beast has become a danger to everyone, himself included, and Sigrun will find that her time with him is
destined to be only the beginning of her path.
Find out what happens next in Bride of Grendel 2: Night of the Bear Man!

by Gwynn Jones