A Tale of Norse Horror - part 1 (incomplete)

Nå som romanen er død, eller rettere sagt, er i hendene til veritable mumier, den livshatende kulturelle klasse på venstresiden, setter jeg meg fore å gjenopplive romanen. Det er jeg alene som har den kraften i dette landet, for i alle mine lange år har jeg ikke møtt noen som er som meg, som vet det jeg vet, og har mine lyster og inklinasjoner. I løpet av et skrekkelig øyeblikk gikk det opp for meg at jeg er den eneste som skriver visse ting på hele planeten. Det avslørte et kort internettsøk. Som en morsom sidedetalj fant jeg på et tidspunkt på sexhistorier jeg postet på et afrikansk(!) forum, og fikk beskjed om at jeg måtte være mer sofisitikert. What gives, man?

Ja, romanen er i sannhet død, men tro det eller ei, det er ikke bare venstresveklingers skyld. Mediet har blitt forbigått og overgått av det levende bilde, som har alt potensiale til vandrende skulpturer i de mest forbløffende landskap. Hvordan matcher man det? Vel, ved å vende seg innover, noe et blikk eller en kameralinse per definisjon ikke kan gjøre. Det er mer. Munch uttalte at fotografiet kom til å være maleriet overlegen, den dagen man kan ta fotografier i helvete. Det kan man forsåvidt gjøre. Jeg så nylig en goprovideo der en ukrainsk soldat ble knivstukket til døde av en Asiat, der det var såpass til kamp på kniven at de bet etter hverandres fingre. Må sørge for å skaffe den videoen på et vis. Har ikke sett hele, og har ikke noe ønske om å gjøre det, men det er et viktig tidsdokument. Uansett, litt som Munch etterspør fotografier tatt i helvete, må jeg, som har tenkt å gjenopplive romanen, skrive ut fra helvete. Dette er det jeg alene som kan. Dette representerer mitt forsøk på å bli en moderne og norsk utgave av Marquis de Sade. Av norske inspirasjoner har jeg den uforlignelige Ken Jensen, som igjen var inspirert av American Psycho. Interessant nok gjør den boken, og Sade, ingenting for meg. For det første synes jeg at psykopaten forkledd som forretningsmann er en klisje, og jeg har en for svak mage til å lese Sade. Nei, for meg handler det om forsterkningen av følelse, og en utforskelse av galskap. Sadismen og torturen, og det nødvendige sølet, er detaljer, nesten en distraksjon. Og nå som du skal lese dette: Hva er vel litt tortur mellom venner?

Som jeg har vært inne på i min aforistiske tid: "Det handler aldri om hva det handler om." Som symbolist sier jeg noe med noe annet. Så hva handler det om da? Det er min mest smertefulle hemmelighet, som bare skal avsløres ved det endelige selvmord/slakt i offentlighet.

Dette er et pågående skriv som skal hjelpe meg fra skrivesperre via tanken om oppmerksomhet. Av detaljer. Jeg skiftet synsvinkel, fra en slags nøytral tilskuer som blir utsatt for galskapen per proxy, til den mannlige gjerningspersonen. Med det plasserer jeg en form for narsissisme på meg selv, fremfor å være et offer. Kanskje kan det hjelpe meg og være en nøkkel? Nå skal du høre en hemmelighet. Jeg håper med dette at min lykke kan være gjort. I første omgang, selge noe, og tjene en slant eller to. Psykologisk sett vil det være til stor hjelp. Så, ære og berømmelse endeløs, det jeg har lengtet etter hele livet, men aldri smakt fliken av. For jeg har lidd og lidd og lidd, og en mekanisme i universet er at da er du eslet store ting på et annet område enn det du mistet, litt som sanser forsterkes av sanser fravær. På et tidspunkt må gudene tilgodese sin store sønn. En annen ting, som snart ikke er en hemmelighet mer, jeg er faktisk en gal mann. Alle anklager er riktig. Du vet bare ikke hvordan og på hvilken måte.

Jeg elsker det norske sprog, men siden nordmenn er et bondsk folkeslag som ikke forstår seg på tenkning, kunst og kultur, må jeg skrive på engelsk. Det er i anglosfæren at dette håpet som er mitt glimrer.

The girls are paraded through the leering crowd. Only some do not laugh. Those would be their families. Dressed in the best attire, shining white linen gowns, the small group is brought before the high priestess, dresses and braids having been yanked by countless hands. Five in number are those who are made to face her underneath a large oaken tree, rooted by the bank of a slow flowing river.

“I see you have made yourselves ready. Good.”

She is the most beautiful woman I’ve seen. Tall, proud, and with platinum blonde hair, falling all the way past a formidable bosom, the weight of her breasts only held back by large silvery brooches in a circular pattern. Her visage carries all the marks of the aristocracy. A tall forehead, an elegant nose, and equally sized lips of perfect shape. On a blanket on the grass there are placed various objects. Bronzen jars. Staves. Ritual runes and daggers. Next by is a big wooden tub that seems misplaced. Wreaths of flowers have already been prepared.

I find myself at her side as her Jarl and husband and must dress the part. For the purpose I’m adorned in a silver embroidered red kirtle and a deep green cloak.

The priestess retrieves one of the jars and a large brush. Dipping it in the container, she splashes water over the heads of the girls.

“In the name of the gods, I hallow thee,” she proclaims to each of them, nervous young ladies all.

Having done the rounds, she approaches some of the onlookers standing next to us, a maiden of Saxon origin and her betrothed. They’ve just recently been brough close to this peculiar scene, where lingering expectations and fear seems to charge the very air.

“Valborg is my name, and I rule this place,” she says. “You will observe closely. And then I’ll speak to you about a small concern that has been raised. It’s probably nothing, but I’ve heard one of you is a follower of the Christ-god.”

I couldn’t help to notice her light blue eyes, appearing like small pieces of sky, the short while she looked in our direction. A sudden small moment, or a gesture. No matter how familiar, she’s able to startle me still. Sometimes it seems like the flow of time has ceased, and she’s truly standing in Wyrd. Her dress snaps as she abruptly turns towards the crowd, raising her arms.

“The maidens that stand before us will be given to Freyja. There’s no changing this course now. And this, I’m sure, is something many of you would like to watch.”

Almost simultaneously, the crowd erupts in expectant sights and small cheers, while the gathered maidens quickly look down, hands meekly folded in their laps. The priestess directs her heavenly gaze at them.

“You’ll be humiliated in public, and then you will be handed over. Husband, undress.”

I’ve found no strength my equal. The cloak is loosened. Even as it swirls to the ground, I open my kirtle, letting it too fall. As the clothing comes to rest and I stand naked, the familiar rush only outrage and attention can give is oncoming. A throbbing feeling, like firm lightning. Swinging from one side, then the other, my manhood almost instantly stands erect. Long and lance-like, with a big, mushroomy head, already pointing hungrily in the direction of the girls. I know how it must affect the quarry. There’s a reason I’m the consort of such a powerful woman.

The intended victims, in turn, let out small, girly screams, cupping their mouths with their hands, while the crowd is hushed at this powerful display. All save for one girl, who lifts her head and looks to the crown of the tree. I follow her gaze. There, up among the sturdy branches, corpses swing gently in the wind, half-way mummified and half-way skeletonized. Most of them seem to have been females, their teeth and lower jaws grinning white where the skin has retreated. I quickly count nine of them and note how the Saxon-tainted couple now stare at the same thing. They were so concerned about what was happening on the ground level, to see what was right above their heads.

“Sigrid, step fourth towards my husband Argud and I.”

Out of the line of young maidens, a girl with a long, blonde braid comes. She arrives submissively before us nobility, and it is apparent she’s trying to not look at the phallus marking her as a target.

“Sigrid, do you understand why this is happening to you?”

“M-my parents sold me out, and … and …”

“Yes, Sigrid. Your parents couldn’t pay their debts, and so they sold you. Now they will watch you lose your maidenhood and be lifted by Thors oak. For you are a maiden, are you not?

“I have never known a man.”

“Kiss me on the lips, Sigrid.”

The girl steps up to the priestess, angles her head upwards, and they kiss. Valborg cups her face, as the union of their lips last and last. Finally, their mouths part, and the girl averts her eyes from the confronting gaze, to just look down.

“Kneel.”

The girl immediately falls to her knees. The priestess grabs at her hips and gruntingly hoist up her skirt, revealing as the last piece of clothing slips away, her bright golden pubes.

“Kiss my cunt.”

The girl gently eases her face forward, letting her entire field of vision disappear into this golden form of womanhood.

“Ah!” exclaims the priestess, and after some time. “Have you done this before?”

“Yes, with my mother.”

“If not for her general idiocy, I would call her a wise woman. More maidens should be brought up this way.”

The priestess lets her dress fall and the girl called Sigrid gets up.

“I can’t believe you’re going to hang me.”

“Take my hand, child.”

Sigrid takes hold of the offered hand, and is walked off somewhere into the crowd, being led as if in a trance. People come rushing to see what will happen, and I notice my Saxon counterparts are inadvertently brought along under the pressure of moving bodies. Someplace or another she is stopped, and having followed, I now gently rub her shoulders, the girl’s brow looking very thoughtful now, while Valborg lifts and lets go of her big braid, making it fall all the way along her back.

“We’ll try to make this as easy for you as possible,” says Valborg. “But that depends if you obey. Now, get down and stand on all fours.”

“Be brave, girl,” someone shouts from the crowd. Probably one of her kinsmen.

“I will”, she whispers.

And so, to the eyes of a hungry mob, poor Sigrid let knees and hands, which are all already shaking, hit the wet grass. There, she retains a protective stance, her back arced as if belonging to a startled cat.

“Pull your dress up,” says Valborg, while exchanging glances with I who is her husband. I’m already preparing for what’s to come with my hand.

Sigrid reaches for the edge of her skirt and starts pulling nervously at her clothing.

“Hurry up! We haven’t got all day!”

Blushing profusely, Sigrid pulls her dress all the way up, letting the folds of the white fabric come to rest over her back, as a consequence revealing a rounded, milk white butt to the eyes of onlookers in the hundreds.

“This is blasphemy,” whispers the Saxon girl.

Valborg lifts her rose-painted wooden shoe and places it on the girl’s lumbar, pressing down hard. Forced into a swaying position, Sigrid’s pussy and asshole swings up and become clearly visible for the audience in broad daylight. I can’t help to notice the blonde pubic hair underneath her plump symmetrical slits. The man called Argud and her lover-to-be gets down on his knees. “Gotta taste the cow,” I conclude, and put my face directly into the presented female butt. There, I savor the goods while breathing heavily, knowing full well the fact I have a mustache makes it all the more embarrassing for the girl. Sigrid moans loudly and hides her face in her hands, as I taste all her private parts in turn.

Emerging from this brazen infringement upon the girl’s personal space, I move to an upright position. From there, I start smacking her, hard. From above and below, the flat of my hand comes swinging, impacting the tender skin of her butt, over and over.

Whap! Whump! Wham!

Sigrid receives the punishment with quiet dignity, raising her head and closing her eyes. That much I can see as she tilts her head sideways in some sort of indignation. Having left red imprints of my hand upon spotless, alabaster skin this way, I grab her by the shoulder, holding it firm, while I place the head of my manhood at the opening of her girliehood, and then start pushing with unrelenting force. The resistance is formidable by credence of innocence. The lips of her vagina bulges inward, and then outward, but except for the tip of my penis, no headway is made. Then, there’s a clicking sound, and she’s forced to receive me in a single, firm stroke, all the way to the hilt.

“OWWW!"

She raises her upper body to the sky, sway in her back, her hips being held firm by the man who just took her virginity, I too leaning all the way back to somewhat the same heaven, in the utmost sign of triumph and pleasure. And we cry out together.

“AAaaaahhh!” I involuntary declare to this achievement.

“Uhn … Uhhn … Unnnnnnnhhh!” voices Sigrid, her struggle futile against the intrusive treatment. The warmth is significant. The tightness too, and I must make sure my fight against sweet liberation is not likewise made futile. Not now. Not in public.

And then the crowd even I fear erupts in gales of laughter, hollering, taunts and cheers, all the tension, the hardships of daily life, and the oppression from their overlords being released in a single instant, by taking it out on one of their own.

“Fuck her! Fuck that whore!” shouts the women.

“Do her good! Fuck her!” shouts the men.

“FUCK HER!” their voices boom in unison.

My pulse race out of wild fear. And I start fucking her. No room for tenderness, feelings, or concern, even if I wanted there to be. The energy of the crowd makes sure of that. They clap and dance and shout for our every move. Any attempt to forestall or pause for a single moment would probably mean they’d tear us both apart, in some bout of bloodthirst and disappointment. Instead, I make sure to use long strokes and slow thrusts, as to not completely destroy her female parts. The outer lips are seemingly tauted to the limit, and resist me on the way both in and out. Gradually increasing the tempo, my hands have left her hips, and I let my nails dig greedily into the tender skin of her buttocks, watching her intimate parts be exposed and pumpingly abused. Her breath goes in great heaves, shuddering through her entire body. Watching, I can see how for one moment my manhood is dry and with force having to struggle to make headway, and the next it comes out glistening wet. Her body has betrayed her at last. She seems to notice, and lets out a moan that could remind of pleasure.

I shift my grip and grab her by the hips once more, sending myself with all my might thumping and thudding towards her girly butt, slamming into it with such force I sometimes feel the hardness of her bones. The crowd goes berserk, but even so, the continuous violent impacts can sometimes be heard over their shouts and screams. They have taken to dancing. In a blur, I can see some of them leaping through the air before us, on occasion also across us. I pay it no mind, and concentrate on doing it harder, on using every ounce of my staying power and strength. And I make it last. In all the madness, my manhood has been overwhelmed into numbness, the opulent pleasure and the tightness of an unused cunt having had an inverse effect.

Harder. Greater. Stronger. No limits now, and I fuck her like an animal, beating away at the anvil with a sledgehammer in the hands of a mad god. Each of my movements sends us reeling, but somehow, someway, she manages to keep her balance. Through a haze of intense pleasure, my eyes fixate upon her long braid, which has fallen over her shoulder to coil itself like a golden snake in the grass. At last, she can’t take it anymore, and she topples forward, face first towards the ground, giving out a final whimpering protest. That is my cue to act. My hand shoots forward and I quickly grab her braid at the base, reining her in with full force. Her head, neck and upper back is yanked backwards, and I realize I can see the white of her eyes turned towards me. Only the white, for her eyes have rolled back up into her skull. Mouth open, she hisses and wheeze, finally letting out an ungodly scream. And it just doesn’t stop.

“Aaoo … AaaaOOO …. Woa … Woa …. WOaaoooo!” she screams in disbelieving protest and continues this way. “WAAAAAAAAAARrrrGH!”

I let the living gold of the braid I’ve caught her by slide through my hand, letting her fall much like the dead weight of an anchor, before pulling tight and holding her back again, preventing her from planting face first in the grass. My intrusive jabs become shorter and more evil, but not less intense. Since her upper body can’t move by my pull, her lower body receives the motion, and I watch in fascination how her knees leave the ground to my hardest thrusts. The crowd has fallen to a hush when she opens her mouth again.

“D … D … DADDYyyyy” she lets out, and then the shaking takes over. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so they flail and sweep unevenly across the ground. My stamina to move is finally spent, so I must watch in breathless fascination as she continues to struggle with herself, beating at the ground and whimpering towards the heavens. I let go of more of her braid, and finally her brow reaches the ground in utter submission, and it is in this position she hides her head under her hands, trying to screen herself from the forces that is upon her, that a man can trigger but not fully know.

“What a little slut,” I can hear Valborg say.

Only now do I notice the gushing blood, covering my manhood and streaming down her tights in an unlimited way.

It can be about my pleasure now.