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Candles burned in every window, and their golden light glittered on the snow. The penultimate night of Jól had arrived, and with it the sense that the Wheel of the Year was hesitating, needing one final push. This night was sacred to Freya—god-queen of love, fertility, and magic—and perhaps she had not been adequately honored. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. All the cats of the village Hjalmark took to hiding, which appeared to be an ill omen when cats were, of course, Freya's favorite animal. Tracks in the fresh fallen snow suggested to more credulous folk that the landvaettir, spirits of the earth, were unimpressed by the sacrifices made to appease them. The sun had reached a standstill in the sky, and there were those who said, in hushed tones, that its rebirth was somehow stunted. That it would require Freya's intercession to make things right.
Glytta may have only been eleven years old, but she had better sense than all that. Her father, Tormund, always took a skeptical eye to the old myths, much as he loved to join in the gatherings and the telling of tales, full up on boar-meat and pleasantly warm from the mead. She had two younger sisters, Gia and Gunndis, eight and six years old respectively. Her mother, Brynjolf, had joined the ancestors after Gunndis was born. She remained a misty memory outside of the stories her father told of her beauty, her cutting humor and keen intuition. That's what Glytta felt she had inherited, although others looked at her and guessed that Freya had played favorites among the children of the village. She had golden hair, bright as though lit from within, yet at such a northern latitude that was hardly remarkable. The brown of her eyes, however, held the mystique of rune-carved wood, the promise of mischief, a token of deeper, older knowledge than that possessed by some blue-eyed ingenue. More alluring still, she had the figure of a girl about to shed her innocence, from the limber tone of her legs to the ephemeral flatness of her chest, bearing just the initial hints of second-growth. Pair the enchanting beauty of her face with a pert, supple feast of an ass, and the image was complete. Glytta seemed the very archetype of the maiden, who even in full winter dress turned the minds of boys and men and some women to thoughts of what she might look like completely naked.
In midwinter, the veil between the spirits and the living was said to grow exceedingly thin. Odin had already completed his Wild Hunt, back on the second night. During the sixth night, Glytta had joined with other young girls of the village in games of Seidr—the prophetic rites, also sacred to Freya—only to receive confusing dreams. She had expected a vision of her future lover, only to have a carousel of them pass through her mind. At first, it had been Ragnar, handsome and bearded with hair like fire, but he was her father's friend, not to mention already married. Then the visions had conjured up Olafur, her uncle's broad-shouldered servant-mate, who was even less likely a candidate. On subsequent nights, she had lurid dreams of Magnus, the warrior-raconteur, and Einar too, the hunter of wolves, solitary and gruff. Most perplexing of all was the fact that these were not the kinds of visions one shared with their sisters. They were not chaste visions of love, like frolicking in fields at midsummer, but rather deep and carnal and strange, as though their human faces were only masks laid atop animalistic urges. In dreams she played the doe and they all took turns playing buck, with unspoken tension rising between them in the precious daylight hours.
She worried that her eyes would betray her, if she looked at them too long. She grew intensely aware of them watching her, in turn. The beguiling power of her own beauty was not lost on Glytta, but in the context of the Jól festival she felt more keenly than ever the potential it had for making her own visions come to life. Much as her father might disbelieve the whole notion of a wyrd guiding the steps of men, Glytta admitted that it might govern the flight of girls—the flight into the arms of lovers, as prophesied in dreams. She wondered whether she was filtering out the safer choices, those beardless boys, in the haze of morning hindsight. Boys could be cute, but they were ever so boring. The kindling within her own body seemed to agree, as it was strength bonded to danger that excited her the more frequently.
Her dreams, Glytta conceded, may have been no product of Seidr but instead the reflections of her own desires. 'Magic' was just a convenient word for the processes beyond understanding, and every spell powerless except as a mirror, held up to magnify the craving. Dress them in ritual, and love-pangs became divine, ordained, sweet blessing and guidance from on high. As the shy sun disappeared behind the snowy hills, Glytta imagined herself as a rune cut into living stone. All the real magic was inside her already. Was she not beloved of Freya? The land had produced her; the sea would receive her; and in between, by candle or by firelight, she could weave a spell of her own intentions and bewitch the men she really wanted.
Family connection mattered not at all. So Ragnar was her father's friend—had she not seen him looking at her like he wanted to throw her down, and by his passion melt her curiosity, like an icicle dripping in spring sunlight? Olafur, tall of stature, low of rank—he could prove his bravery in her chamber too, fulfill her dreams by means unspeakable, distinguish himself forever after in a maiden's wet memories. All the supposedly ill omens of the Jól time obtained in Glytta's mind new meaning: setting the stage for a reckoning in flames, some secret ritual to honor Freya made all the more devoutly between girl and man. Einar and Magnus and other men of the Four Clans, how much more wisdom had they, compared to the boys never blooded, without axes, without ships, no mettle tested by strife? The men's brawn no longer scared her. She found herself wanting the confusion of her dreams solved by filthy clarity. Only eleven years old, tilting into young womanhood, Glytta realized on the eleventh night of Jól that she wanted very badly to be ravished in the dark.
The numbers proved an irresistible coincidence: eleven years, eleventh night. The festival had begun in sorrow (Mother's Night without a living mother) and progressed now to a joy that felt impending, unstoppable, fixed in her wyrd. Some scribe among the Disir, maybe—the collective of female ancestors, goddesses, and protective spirits—wrote her story by means of those tracks in the snow. Laid down by men or landvaettir, who knew, but the sense of her becoming lined up with her very first ovulation. Such was the mystery in the sea within herself, but the effects of its alchemy served like mead to lower what remained of her inhibitions. The faces from her dreams returned to her mind's eye after sundown, and her distant gaze betokened a wish that she could never speak aloud.
“Pray tell, Glytta. What troubles you?” Her father was kind to ask, and he always seemed keenly aware of her moods, if not shrewd enough to guess the reason for them.
“Nothing, Father. I feel—a strange joy. So much at times that I can barely breathe!”
“That's Freya's blessing for you. We've buried the sun a final time, after all, and you know of the feast tomorrow. That must be the source.”
“Father, you don't even believe—”
“Well, I do and I don't. Best to play along. Maybe something will come of it, you know. Going through the motions until you make your own magic.”
“I think you've had too much mead.”
“Never!”
Only during the fourth turn of dancing in the Great Hall did another girl approach Glytta with a twinkle in her eye. This was Karlotta, twelve years old and blossoming nicely, with her long blonde hair in ringlets, her eyes blue as glaciers. She pulled Glytta aside and spoke in hushed tones, looking meanwhile over her shoulder at the boys dancing and the men drinking.
“You've been chosen. Will you come with us later?”
“Chosen—for what? Come where?”
“The special rite. It has no name. No one's meant to know about it, but it's all in line with the Seidr! I'll come get you later and lead you there.”
“I haven't agreed yet,” Glytta said, cautious.
“No, but you're going to.”
“Who else...?”
“Hallbera will bring Irpa. There will be four others I don't even know.”
“Four other girls?”
“No,” Karlotta answered, grinning, without specifying further.
“It's an honor, I suppose. Is there a reason I've never heard of this rite before?”
“Yes. A good reason. You'll see.”
“What am I expected to—”
“All in good time, sister-friend! We'll guide you through it. I was chosen last year and—mmn. The memory still burns.”
With holly and ivy threaded through their hair, the girls continued to dance for another hour, full of good cheer. A log, soaked in wine and carved with runes, burned merrily in the hearth. All through the rest of the evening's festivities, Glytta found herself wondering what the rite entailed, and what it meant to be “in line with the Seidr.” The nameless joy suffused her body and left her in a state of excited confusion, this nerve-wracking anticipation for what lay ahead. Karlotta had given her just enough to pique her curiosity and no more, with a tone of voice that hinted at hidden pleasures, something as sweet as it was secret. Four girls and four boys, presumably, engaged in some impromptu acts of worship. She wondered vaguely whether that would be enough to fulfill her prophecies, let alone her desires.
As it turned out, Glytta didn't have to wait long to discover the truth. Karlotta came to get her as promised, furnishing her father with an excuse about “girls' night,” some ritual related to Freya, from which his daughter would return much the wiser. Several men and women had already absented themselves from the Hall, pleading fatigue or fullness, wishing to get ample rest before the final feast on the twelfth night. Some of those withdrawals had been strategic, and the excuses given were little white lies, all with an end-goal of meeting up with the quartet of girls out in the wild. Glytta followed Karlotta for what felt like a mile, surrounded by the moon-lit stillness of a winter's night.
They arrived at an isolated cavern, stocked with several casks of mead, knitted rugs, and strange red paintings on the rock walls. A modest fire already burned in the center of the chamber, with smooth wooden seats—like humble thrones for kings and queens of the forest—and a few modest pillows piled up on all sides. Two jugs, meant for the carrying of aromatic oil, stood well apart from the fire. Glytta and Karlotta were last to arrive, as Hallbera—thirteen years old, brown of hair, with a very pretty smile—and Irpa—the youngest and most flexible, with fire-red hair—could be seen dancing slowly together, lit by the flames. They were wearing much less than Glytta remembered, virtually topless in what looked like the lacing of their dresses.
Their audience comprised four men, and when Glytta recognized who they were it shocked her through the sheer coincidence. Four of the very same men she'd entertained in her dreams: Ragnar, Olafur, Magnus and Einar. They were seated on the wooden thrones and closely watching the gyrations of the maidens, only meeting each other's eyes in a flash of shared admiration. Here were two—make that four—of the most beautiful daughters of the village, caught up in a secret rite where the masculine (Holly) would meet the feminine (Ivy), all under the auspices of the fertility goddess.
“This is—” Glytta began.
“This is it!” Karlotta finished. “There's never been a need to name it. Nor any need to do more than dance, if you don't want to. Let her spirit guide you. I know what I'm going to do.” By way of elaboration, she went over in front of Ragnar and removed her furs. Underneath, she had worn a simple stitched dress—which she proceeded to remove as well, leaving only a lacework shift, much like the other girls. The warmth of the cave and the exertion of dancing demanded that they all strip down, and the men were reclining to enjoy the show. They still had their boots on but all of them already possessed the spire that girls their age were keen to learn about, which they had in fact collectively provoked.
“You're the guest of honor this year, Glytta!” Irpa volunteered, like she knew more about it at ten years old than motherless Glytta did at eleven. “Join us?”
Her joining was never in doubt. The moment Glytta realized what they were up to here—what it entailed—she knew that she was going to justify her inclusion and make the most of the opportunity. She pulled off her furs and her dress as well, down to the lacework undergarments, then joined the other three girls beside the fire. Hallbera partook of some mead before passing the goblet back to Olafur, and Magnus idly played the beat on a hand drum, setting the rhythm by which the girls were honoring Freya. Four girls like springtime in winter, like the turning of the wheel, danced with slowly increasing suggestiveness. Leaving all shyness behind her, Glytta freely exposed her body in front of Ragnar: the miniature hills of her barely-there breasts, the perfect, delectable mounds of her ass, the tempting preciousness of a smooth little cunny, every part of her signifying a readiness for love.
“Kisses first, then the oil?” Irpa said, as if to confirm the process of the ritual this year. A specific recipe had never been laid down, allowing for the girls of each cycle to decide for themselves. Undoubtedly Freya would approve, when the only requisite was dancing, keeping the Disir in mind—and as much passion as they could bear.
“Sounds right to me,” Hallbera said in reply. She nodded to Karlotta, who passed on the instructions to Glytta.
“First we go around, each bestowing a kiss on our honored men, if you like. None, or one, or all four. Then we'll—mmn. Play. In front of them. Slippery like seals.”
“Play...?”
“You'll see!”
When the drumbeat stopped, each girl halted the pelvic revolutions, the turns of their dancing, and stood before one of the men. Glytta wound up in front of Einar, the black bear, the hunter, with his aura of aloofness traded now for total attentiveness. He merely smirked at the little blonde in front of him, and she preceded all the other girls in terms of leaning in to kiss him first. Irpa looked well-pleased by that omen and turned to kiss her man as well, feeling Magnus lightly squeeze her ass when she went for it. Karlotta kissed Ragnar, and Hallbera kissed Olafur. The ritual proved to be the death of jealousy, in that they soon rotated for the second kiss. Only Hallbera held off from kissing the other men, as she had a particular preference for Olafur. Instead she turned around in front of each and let them kiss her body—the back of her legs, the sumptuous mounds of her ass, the small of her back, with their beards tickling her skin.
In a daze, Glytta kissed every man presented to her by the turns of the rite, four drumbeats carrying her to each hunter and hero. Magnus was second, and he stole similar liberties with her body, feathering his fingers lightly between her legs—and finding a gleam of 'sweet mead' already soaking her little cunny. Olafur knew of Hallbera's preference for him and so kept his kiss with Glytta somewhat chaste, lips like pilgrims meeting, yet something in his bigness, his aroma, and his welcoming avuncular aura made Glytta want to stay there and soak it in. At last she kissed the mead from Ragnar's lips, sucked it from his tongue, thinking remotely of her father—his best friend—while she did. His grip on her slender hips, and the light squeeze he administered, suggested that he wanted her to stay. However, the rite of the oil beckoned to the girls, as an intermediate stage between the communal kisses and further demonstrations of their passion.
“Freya's favorite,” he whispered to her, seconds after the kiss.
“Just a rumor,” Glytta said, gratified nonetheless by his mentioning it.
“Hardly. Look at you. Come back that I might look longer, and closer.”
“I may.”
As maidens about to offer a part of themselves in sweet sacrifice, something they could never get back, the four girls removed all that remained of their clothing. They huddled together outside the circle, causing all four men to peer back and watch what happened. Hallbera—the previous year's guest of honor—carefully tipped one of the jugs over Glytta and poured a thin stream of the aromatic oil down her body. Then she and the other girls moved to rub it in with their hands and their bodies too, sharing the 'sacred' lubricant until they were truly gleaming all over, suggestively slippery. Irpa took on the most directly erotic pose of all four, bending down between Glytta and Karlotta, as though simulating a spitroast, encouraging the other girls to kiss her and check the inflamed quality of her young cunny with their fingers. Girls, half-drunk and laughing, slick with oil and bearing thoughts of improvised sex-magic, moved together and writhed, putting on a display of nymph-like debauchery. None but Hallbera were even of marriageable age, yet the girls were making themselves available in no uncertain terms, stirring a telltale rise out of their audience.
This was where and how and why fertility was applied, moving from the abstract to the real. Beautiful young girls, the most beautiful and playful of the village, brought into hot seclusion with the most virile men, skipping the line of betrothal, bypassing the informal vows of marriage with something sweeter and deeper, more ancient than the trees. This was provocation of masculine maturity by the taut, young, flexible feminine. This was Freya smiling, with one hand pointed up and the other hand busy somewhere lower down.
In descending order of age, let us remove the guesswork: Hallbera ended up in Olafur's lap, grinding purposefully on the standing stone of his cock, the moment after he lost his own furs and brandished it for her—rigid, upright, princess-throne. They got to it a minute after he kissed her so ravishingly, hands oriented on her hips, aiding the effort of spiking herself on his length. Karlotta moved over to Magnus, but he spun her around and planted his face in the deliciousness of her twelve-year-old cunny, put his nose and then his tongue into the shining invitation of her ass in turn, got her squealing from the attention. Glytta returned to Ragnar and let him have the closer look he requested—landing her legs over his shoulders and making a seat of his bearded face. The way he lavished her young pussy exploded all her Jól cheer and joy into a ferocious kind of pleasure, gathering all the sparks of her maidenly heat into a unified fire. His tongue proved relentless, an explorer, a seer, a teacher. She felt it delving and sliding and then felt nothing but ecstatic shivers radiating out from his touch. His hands upon her—how many did he have? Only belatedly did Glytta realize that Irpa was touching her too, from behind, helping her to hold the face-sitting pose, while Irpa—flexible, redheaded, ten years old—got Einar's fingers inside her oiled-up little holes.
Even the sagas might struggle to get all the details straight. Freya, pray lend poor storytellers your focus, if not your magic. Glytta's experience turned euphoric, pleasantly distracted by Irpa's touch only for Ragnar's oral worship to mine a burst of joy, sending an intoxicating euphoria all through her body. She writhed and moaned in the grip of it, the first resounding climax of her life, only to slide down in the wake of the peak, with a new craving taking shape. Through the fire of her own first orgasm, past the sensitivity that followed it, Glytta understood in full force the desire of animals, the estrus, the rutting heat. Looking at what the other girls were up to, and thinking back to the entanglements of her dreams, those imagined promises of rapture, now the desire flared up in her for the stiff, obvious answer. Ragnar had a stubbornly hard cock right then, twitching against the soaked pink slit between Glytta's thighs. She and the rest of the girls saw how far Hallbera had gone, and a mass of catching-up ensued.
Glytta, eleven years old, achingly beautiful of face and body, wiggled down on her throne of choice. She spread her legs around Ragnar's bulk and kissed him, feeling his hands wander, toying with her sex and aligning it with his prick. He need not even have done that much: the alignment felt so intuitive and right, pushing his tip into place, then relaxing into the invasion. That was his sword of flesh and there was her sweet little sheath and all this was nature taking its course, hot and raw, helped by the oil and secured by the flow of her blessing, that precious liquid mined by the pump of his cock inside her. Ragnar's grunt, his grin of approval, his contrast—hairy and strong—against her smooth, delicate, flexible reception, everything swung into place, like stars meeting horizon. It struck some chord of spider-silk within her, something that could be played all night without breaking. The percussive music filled her brain. Clapping, sliding, squelching, moaning, rhythmic and high-pitched, a set of young girls getting drilled to heavenly tears by the most experienced maiden-fuckers of the village.
She rode him like a horse—to exhaustion. Glytta insisted on taking it hard, churning her hips and squeezing down on his pillar, watching the change in his expression as she impressed him with her fervor. On and on she went into a second spell, hotter and higher and deeper than the first, just the most bone-deep satisfaction following on the heels of her latest peak. Now the drumbeat played out in the slaps of his hand on her little naiad ass, offset by Karlotta's squeals when she got railed—bent over one of the thrones—clear to starry-eyed communion with Freya.
Some girls learned about fertility by doing, making it real through the congress of bodies, and Irpa at all of ten years old best embodied that learning process. She wound up contorted between Magnus and Einar, linking up with the other girls and the other men, letting them turn her into the temporary center of attention. She ate creampied cunny (Karlotta's) and had her ass well-plowed by Einar, before Magnus took a turn with her little pussy. Only Hallbera rolled through one position after another with Olafur, having the big guy pound her from above and below, sideways and face-to-face, overcome by the string of starburst peaks until she was shaking in relief.
Glytta ended up having her own first taste of cunny—the mixture of sweet oil and cream and cum, gleaned from Irpa's little slit. The sight of that made Magnus and Ragnar switch off, going from Irpa's mouth back to Glytta's needy pussy, teaming up to drill it by turns, honoring Freya by making the eleven-year-old cum around their cocks again and again. Slowly the wheel turned until Glytta was taking more attention of all kinds: kissing the other girls, their mouths juicier with each rotation, carrying the flavor of cum and nectar. Einar got up in her before long, placating Irpa all the while with his mouth and fingers, in fact letting the youngest girl seat herself on his face again while Glytta rubbed up and down, worked herself upon his pole. Everything spun by the rules of orgy, with one monogamous pair to offset the polyamorous action everywhere else.
Cold as it was outside, in the cavern it became remarkably hot. Glytta, naked and slick with oil, found herself sweating—and the sweat of the men gave this wicked tang, to where she'd gladly lick it up from their bodies. She discovered the oral instinct within herself, that is to say, any time she was presented with adorably swollen cunny or a twitching upright cock or sets of testes like Odin's pride, she seized upon them without being asked. Her mouth opened automatically. She spread for three men in sequence only to be denied the anticipated finish, right at the point when she expected it. They were teasing her through the withholding, giving her one influx of serenity after another, cascades of pleasure, only to hold back from firing their own contributions inside her.
Time slowed to the point of meaninglessness. Passion was brought to a series of triumphs, in that all four of the girls were obtaining that 'knowledge of the goddess' again and again, spikes of joy incited by each cock thumping inside them, the drumming and swirl of their rough fingertips, the honey-dripping names, the mead on their breath. Positions—tried and true or improvised and new—brought them to different colors and flavors of orgasm, working away the heightened sensitivity until everything was purified into craving and fulfillment.
Glytta restrained Einar playfully with both hands on his shoulders, only to swivel into position atop him and impale herself on his cock. Unable to hold back from enjoying another round with her, Ragnar positioned himself behind Glytta and sought with his oil-slick fingers to open her other hole—the 'alternative' choice that Irpa had been making so frequently and eagerly. Ambitious for her first night of communal intimacy and yet, there she went, Glytta of the golden hair, of the bewitching little butt, having it broadened and opened and fucked. The simultaneous crush made her squeak and huff and give the most momentary notes of protest, only to adjust to it and find herself lifted, mind blanked by the rush of pleasure. Having each hole filled made the other tighter, more sensitive, feeling every vein and ridge and promising throb of cock, railing her from two directions. While Ragnar and Einar teamed up on her like that, stuffing both of her primary holes and watching her drool, listening to her mermaid song, Irpa and Karlotta also teamed up—on Magnus.
He'd have all new stories to dress in metaphor and myth, retelling the lurid tale of two daughters of the gods choosing a lucky man to 'attend' with their busy, talented mouths, provoking his soul front and back. He rewarded their effort by pounding each girl—ten and twelve—to a series of joyful orgasms, listening to the trill of their moans and giggling breakdown afterwards, only to withstand the cunnic spasm on his veteran dick and keep going. Some truly historic loads had been saved over the eleven days and kept in readiness for this shared harem of maidens—really, little sluts—brought out now and ordained through ancient, pagan means. He sauced each girl's face with precum and let them duel it out, post-fuck sucking, jerking his cock in preparation to anoint them both.
Glytta meanwhile had nearly reached some point of apotheosis, fucked so hard and so well that she felt like they were turning her into a star, to join some constellation, carried off like an eternal victim of the Wild Hunt. Her eyes kept rolling back until it looked like she was having a divine fit. She had gotten perfectly slick through the doubled-up wreckage of her holes and flipped over several times, giving them license to cycle through all three of her openings, praising Freya all the while—with blessed practice rather than hollow words. Here was the treat in secret, the rites better than any blood sacrifice, an informal history played out again on this eleventh night. The guest of honor was fittingly eleven years old herself and tripping to double digits in orgasms, pleasantly wearied out by the time they—at last—baited her with the promise of being filled.
“You want it, Glytta?” Ragnar twined her hair up in his hand like flax, holding her position firmly while he and Einar went on drilling. “Seed for your little fields?”
“Hnngh!! Yes, yes, please! Please, do it, please, fill me! For—mmnh! For Freya?!”
“No, this right here? This is all for you.”
He came first, blasting a voluminous load against what felt like the deepest part of her body, soaking her preteen pussy with cum. He held her impaled on it, anchored, cock pulsing inside her. Realizing what Ragnar had done, Einar hurried on to his own release, taking twenty full-fledged thrusts through her tight little anal ring and unloading well beyond it. An auspicious gift, thick with cream, the drippy state of Freya, smiling—such was the metaphor for a girl of eleven so well fucked and inseminated. Deep, sweet relief mingled with profound, glowing happiness, like the confirmation that certain dreams were prophetic indeed.
Unsurprisingly, Irpa and Karlotta had similar success milking a load from Magnus at last. He shot four ribbons across each girl's face, remarkably (or randomly) equitable about it, with latent drops given as catch-them-if-you-can. Hallbera embraced her lover and laughed remotely. The only bittersweet facet was the knowledge that this would be her final participation in Freya's nameless eleventh night party.
Glytta emerged from the sweaty press of bodies as a new girl entirely, at the advent of her womanhood, not even twelve but gratefully experienced in the ways of making love. Her affection spilled over to the other girls, Karlotta in particular, and as a foursome they gave a ritualistic farewell—kissing errant cum back and forth. Yet in truth that was just one more improvisation rather than a hard and fast rule. Such had only been the first round—two more transpired, hot as lava, destructive and creative, before the girls' night of Jól was over.