The last I heard, Ulf was in Ireland with my faithful friend Aedan. How I miss both terribly. I miss a lot of things.
I miss the old Emeline, the woman who didn’t bend to the will of a kingdom that has taken so much. Emeline killed those who wronged her because she is who she once was.
This Emeline has the world upon her shoulders. And this Emeline is drained of the spirit that made her me.
“I will leave you to prayer.”
“Come here, Jethro.”
He looks at me, eyes wide, but knows better than to disobey an order. So he walks toward me. I step out from behind the pew, and when he approaches me, he bows in servitude.
“I am not your queen, yet you still bow?”
“I bow because your beauty brings me to my knees, my Queen.”
Sweet words are wasted on me, but when I think about Loki, and how the only man who can help him is nowhere to be seen, an anger washes over me, one which is sure to ruin me come morrow. I have been faithful to Skarth, and for what purpose?
Has he returned to me?
No, he has not.
I do not know how to teach Loki the ways of the Vikings because I am not one. I fear for him immensely, and for that, I not only hate the Lord, but I hate Skarth the Godless as well.
He abandoned his family.
He abandoned me.
I am holding on to a ghost, a memory of the man I loved because that’s all Skarth will ever be.
A memory.
“You wish to anger me, hugrekki?”
A startled gasp escapes me as I’ve not heard his voice in so long. But now he decides to speak? He speaks because he knows what I plan on doing to spite him. If I had known this, I would have done so much sooner.
“Let us make the most of it, then.”
Before Jethro can ask what I mean, I lift the hem of my dress, exposing my bare womanhood to him. I don’t allow him to speak, for I need his mouth for other purposes. Gripping his long hair, I press his face to the junction of my thighs and make clear what I want as I thrust my hips.
His beard scratches me just how I like, just how Skarth’s once did, but he can burn in the burrows of hell for all I care.
Spreading my legs wider, I never let go of Jethro’s hair, which I use as reins to control the way he licks and sucks me. He is rather talented with his tongue, and as he grips my inner thighs, sure to leave bruises, I relish the feel of being wanted without an ulterior motive.
Men can engage in sex for pleasure, but we women cannot, as we are seen merely for men’s pleasure and to carry their seed.
This fact has me almost suffocating Jethro between my legs because this is sex without attachment. Something which a woman cannot do, especially when that woman is a queen. However, I can bed whomever I want because I cannot have the one I want.
As I feel my orgasm approaching, I wonder if this may be the cure for my ailment of a broken heart. Sex without feeling is what most men do. It is time for us women to fuck like men.
“Allow me to bury my cock inside you, my Queen,” Jethro says as he pulls away, his face slathered in my arousal. “I wish to serve you in every way that I can.”
“Hugrekki, you will not!”
And this is the reason I yank Jethro up by his hair and drag him over to the altar, where I bend over it and expose my arse to him. He enters my sex swiftly, and I gasp at the intrusion because it’s been so long.
He is well endowed, but Skarth was always more man than I could handle—in more ways than one. Nevertheless, I enjoy the feel of a man inside me and lose myself to the depravities I commit in this place of worship as I peer up at the crucifix in front of me.
Jethro is not gentle, but I want more. I am used to more, for not only was Skarth a passionate lover, but Ulf was as well. I remember the time we loved one another equally. I don’t think I ever felt more loved than at that moment.
