Some men had fetishes.
He knew that his brothers had their own. Hvitserk looked at bread the same way that Ubbe looked at Hvitserk and Margrethe in nights when they were together. Ivar looked to Lagertha in the same, sensual way but for entirely different reasons. It was not the woman but the violence that excited him so deeply.
For Sigurd, you were his fetish.
The bedframe was making a wretched creak with his wife pinned down with one hand on your neck onto the bed, begging him for sweet mercy as Sigurd's frantic thrusts became crazed. Desperate for more of your warmth, seeking out more of your body. He's too far gone with such a beautiful wife. The drooling tip of his cock knocks at the doorway to her womb, the balls slapping your ass tightening and full of cum. Sigurd's other hand cringes into your hips as he hit his end, spurting his milky seed into your soaked and well pounded pussy.
But the very second that he's wasted himself, Sigurd rolls upon the marital bed. He knocks off wooden cups staining the sheets with sweet smelling mead. Honey-moon. It was time for him to give into the more animalistic of his desires to produce an heir. Sigurd had full intention on doing so, grasping your hips and shimmying them up the bed while wiggling down. He delights in the fat of your sides like no man has ever. If you had ever been sure of anything, it would have been that weight excited your sweet Sigurd.
"Sig– Sigurd. I'm too heavy, I'll break you!" You throw out your complaints.
Instead of allowing you to escape, Sigurd thrusts his arms around your chubby thighs to hook and pull you closer to his face. He steadies you in place on top of his body, smothering in your decadent curves just like he loves to do. If your eyes would drop down to look at him past the soft rolls and natural curves of your body, you would barely be able to see his sweaty bangs. His tongue draws up between your folds in one smooth, merciless lick. The precursor to his frantic kisses and suckles against your lips. His nose digs into your lips as well, coating down in sweet slick and his own bodily fluids spilling down from your sweet walls over his beard.
"Then break me, sweet Freyja." Sigurd slurs between slick licks. In a smooth motion, his fingers enter your loved walls from behind and scissor up your cunt to stretch you out. You're still afraid to put your full weight on him, being the full figured woman you were, but he forces you to. You reach for his beautiful blond braids, tightening them around your wrists like fine reins. The pressure of the combination wells between your previously used walls– and in moments, you cum over his face in a humiliating spray of your own burning excitement. Hungrily Sigurd eats up your release, ignoring the fact that his own seed still soaks his fingertips. Then like clockwork, Sigurd rolls you back on your stomach to breed you yet again.
Honey-Moon was what it was. Weeks of nothing but pure fucking.
