You have heard the stories of the hero Beowulf? Yes, the one who slew the monster Grendel.
Hmmm? Grendel's mother did taste your hero's sword, but not as the tales would have you believe.
Yes, she killed everyone who slept with him in Hrothgar's hall, but what was the death of a handful of mortals compared the loss of a beloved son? The bloodshed was nothing, less than nothing to her, but she knew it would be something a true hero could not ignore.
She was right.
He entered her lair, used the golden cup won with her son's blood to light his way. She rose out of the waters to meet him. Gleaming in the dark. A treasure more tempting than cold metal. A braid of water-dark gold trailed behind her. Sometimes it flicked like a whip. Sometimes it curled and coiled like serpent. Water ran off her body in sheets of gold, leaving ivory skin and ripe curves in its wake. If your hero wondered at the trickles and splashes of gold that marred the smoothness of her skin, he did not ask. Perhaps he did not want to know. His blade was a breath away from her throat, but your hero did not strike.
What did he do?
He listened to her whispered promises of future glory, listened while she took his sword between her palms, listened while she stroked hard iron into quicksilver that melted away like ice in a flame. The useless hilt fell from his fingers as she claimed his cup and then his lips. He trembled at her kiss.
A lash of her braid cleared her poor son's corpse and sparkles of gold that were his bed from a raised stone slab. Your hero retreated as she moved closer, backed up until his knees hit stone. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders. They looked so delicate but were strong enough to push him backward against the stone
Coils of gold snaked out of the treasure littering the floor. They curled around his wrists and ankles, held your hero tight against the stone. She stripped him. Her long braid lifted, wrapped snugly around his prick. He grunted and strained as it gripped him, the strands at the end teasing the head of his cock. He came with the urgency of a man who has not known a woman's touch in many nights and wasted his seed against the barren stone.
By the time his sword rose again, hard and keen between his legs, he was begging. Begging as his hips thrust into empty air. Begging for her to take him into her heat. She let your hero plead for a long time before she climbed onto the stone, straddled his hips. When she lowered herself onto his prick, he thrust up into her. Aching. Eager.
He shouted, bucked up hard into her, when the lash of her braid brushed against his opening. Your great hero whimpered as her thick plait pressed into him, stretched him. Tremors ran though him as it inched deeper. Deeper. She felt his prick twitch inside her and smiled a slow, lazy smile.
At first, she just rocked against him, watching as he bit down on his lip when she started swyving him. His body was strung tight under her, and he shook his head, struggled against the bonds until his wrists and ankles were raw. Until he'd bitten his lip bloody. Until he was sweated and shaking from exhaustion. He never asked her to stop.
Her golden nails left light scratches down his chest, and he hissed as they began to seep blood. She licked at his wounds, started riding him. Perhaps she made some sound then, something soft and needy, something he forced from the lips of one of his mortal bedmates, and his lips curled into a smug smile. She was not pleased. His body jerked as she swyved him harder, her plait twisting as it thrust into him.
He moaned deeply. Your hero actually blushed, the flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck to his chest as he struggled to part his legs wider, to press back more firmly into her thrusts.
You don't believe me, do you? Don't believe your great hero whimpered and blushed and bled like a virgin on her wedding night?
But he did.
He also gave a sharp cry, hips jerking as he spilled into her. By dawn, he was too hoarse to cry out, too sore to ride his mount back to Hrothgar's hall with her son's head and a false tale of her demise.
Your hero would never do such a thing? Never let a monster live?
But he did.
His lies kept me and my golden treasures safe. His lies made him a king. When they gave his body to the flames and the sea, my kiss was the last to touch his charred lips.
Of course, you don't believe me. I did not expect you to, and I was right about you, as I was about him. After all, a hero's lies shine brighter than a monster's truth.