Clash of the Shieldmaidens

[Hoborobo]

Clash of the Shieldmaidens - Part I


The fjord lay cloaked in the ghostly embrace of dawn’s mist, its obsidian waters lapping against vertical cliffs that loomed like the weathered skulls of forgotten titans. The mist curled around the ruins of stone fortifications, rising into jagged crags and melting snowcaps. Meltwaters streaked down the mountains into the fjord below, their gurgles heralding the coming of spring. A chilling wind howled through the sacred stone circle perched on a rocky outcrop, a mournful wail carrying the whispers of fallen warriors. Within the circle, the elders of the local Norse clans stood in stoic silence, their fur-clad forms shrouded in haze, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Their weathered faces betrayed a hunger, an almost animalistic craving for the ancient ritual about to unfold on the fur-draped platform at the circle’s heart. Today, they would bear witness to an ancient tradition, a sacred trial to decide the favor of the gods.

Freya stepped onto the platform, her fur boots sinking into the pile of pelts, each step a deliberate claim to the sacred ground. At twenty-four, she was the light of the coastal clan, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders like a radiant sunrise, glinting defiantly in the pale light. Her ponderous breasts threatened to spill out of their bindings as she walked, fighting the restraints of the leather thongs wrapped around her torso. Her nipples strained against the meager binding, their firmness a testament to her youthful vigor. Her muscular frame, honed by years of wielding axe and shield, rippled with hidden power—lean arms, taut abdomen, and flared hips that promised both strength and fertility. A short leather skirt ended mid-thigh, revealing the bare skin of her long, toned legs down to her fur boots. Her ice-blue eyes burned with a mixture of confidence and contempt, her full lips curling into a sneer that dared the world to challenge her. Freya’s heart swelled with pride as she stopped in the middle of the platform, the weight of her destiny pressing against her chest. I am the prophecy incarnate, she thought, her mind ablaze with certainty. No woman can rival my beauty, my body, my strength.

Freya was a legend along the shores, her feminine grace and sexual prowess spoken in whispers by the men of the fjords. Her body was sculpted by the gods themselves, they said. From a young age, Freya was never content with helping the village women with chores in the kitchens and tanning pits. Instead, she was allowed to join the boys for their training. Soon she could best even the older boys; she swam faster, ran farther, and dropped them quickly in sparring sessions. When she blossomed into a young woman, she quickly became the target of all single males, and some married ones, in a wide radius. A previously flat chest and lanky limbs quickly filled out into audacious curves and lithe muscles. Potential suitors lined up at her dwelling with family heirlooms and trophies of the hunt, so numerous that most had to be turned away at the door. Those who Freya accepted into the warmth of her bed could never keep up with her stamina, and she changed mates as quickly as she changed bedsheets. Wives and girlfriends occasionally came knocking as well, trying to settle jealous grievances. No grievances were ever successfully settled; most women were intimidated on sight and the few that dared go further scurried away after a brief display of Freya’s physical dominance. Yet, as the years passed, the steady routine of lavish gifts and fleeting trysts gnawed at her. Is this all I am? A prize to be ogled and fought over?


The ancient prophecy changed everything, lighting a new path for Freya. A shieldmaiden of radiant beauty, bountiful breasts, unmatched strength, and supreme sexuality, destined to unite the clans, vanquish rivals, and conquer foreign lands. It’s me, Freya had thought, her chest tightening with exhilaration, No other woman fits the prophecy’s words. Freya was certain that her name would be etched in the stars above the fjords.
Freya’s certainty was unshakable. It had never been shaken, that is, until the events of last night. Memories of the previous evening flooded into Freya’s mind as she stood on the platform, her fists clenching.
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Freya spent the previous day traveling to the gathering site with the elders, a traditional Nordic feast that preceded religious ceremonies, their pace quickened by anticipation of her ascendancy. Freya’s party was not the first to arrive, a bonfire was already raging, its flickering flames danced across unfamiliar faces. All the clans had sent their representatives, she realized. An event of this magnitude had not happened in living memory.


As Freya neared the fire and the orange light illuminated her visage, she felt the gazes of the crowd falling on her. She defiantly stared back at a few old men closest to her, who quickly averted their eyes to hide their barely repressed lust. The wandering eyes of lechers was a feeling she was all too familiar with. Let them feast their eyes, she thought, on their future queen. When she looked around again, her village elders had already scattered around the campsite, conferring with old acquaintances in hushed tones. She noticed a subtle shift in their demeanor, from anticipation and repressed excitement to apprehension with a hint of nervousness. Before she had a chance to question them, a low murmur rippled through the crowd. A new group had arrived.


The newcomers, a dozen strong, wore thicker pelts and gaudy bone trinkets, marks of the inland mountain clans. As they approached, Freya’s eyes narrowed, picking out their weathered, scarred faces, until at last a feminine visage emerged, a stark contrast to the others. The feminine visage was smooth and youthful, and she looked about Freya’s age. She must be the youngest village elder in the entire Nords, Freya thought, her brow furrowing. Though this new woman was heavily bundled with furs, her face was strikingly beautiful. Freya couldn’t help but stare. The newcomer’s emerald-green eyes pierced through the darkness as they scanned the gathered attendees, stopping when they settled on Freya. The two young women held their eye contact for a few seconds, until the crowd returned to life around them and the shuffling of bodies blocked their view.

Later at the feast, Freya asked her elders about the young female elder. The elders’ hesitantly glanced at one another, none daring to be the first to answer. Freya had to ask again before the chief elder spoke in hushed tones of prophecy passed down by the mountain clans, something about a destined “maiden of the mountains” who would lead the mountain clans down to claim the riches of the coasts, unite the clans and lead the Nordic people into glorious battle. Freya’s blood boiled. Who is this inferior wench they dug out of the mountains? she thought. My prophecy, my destiny, and they thrust this pretender against me? The mountain clans’ audacity was an insult, their champion a fraud who couldn’t hope to match Freya. This pretender, this usurper of her prophetic fate, would learn the folly of challenging a goddess incarnate.

Freya excused herself and rose from her seat. She prowled between the tables, seeking the piercing green eyes from earlier in the evening. Near the bonfire, she found her quarry—a dark figure striding purposefully towards her from the other side.

Freya and the other woman stepped closer to the light of the bonfire, dancing sparks clearly illuminated their faces. The other woman was no longer wearing her thick fur hood. She had fiery red hair that cascaded in soft waves, framing a long oval face with high cheekbones. Her green eyes shimmered, vivid emeralds piercing into Freya’s sapphire blue eyes, reflecting embers that sparked up towards the night sky. A petite, upturned nose complemented full lips pressed together in determination. Her porcelain skin was unblemished, carrying hints of a tan that had faded during the darkness of the past winter. Aside from red hair and green eyes, the redhead’s face shared many traits with Freya’s: almond-shaped eyes, defined cheekbones, small noses, lush lips. Perhaps Freya’s jawline was more angular and the redhead’s more rounded, but those were minor differences between two strikingly similar faces of extraordinary beauty. They were even the same height, above average amongst already-tall Nordic women, so their eyes were locked together at an even level. She’s beautiful, Freya admitted grudgingly, but not as beautiful as me.

Freya didn’t remember who spoke first, but the conversation quickly devolved into a quarrel. The woman had also just heard about the coastal clan’s version of the prophecy. The prophecies were similar, foretelling the coming of a near-mythical shieldmaiden with the body of a goddess. In each version, specific details were enough to make an wizened elder blush, mentions of “mammoth mammaries to shame mountains” and “a fertile womb to seed dynasties”, along with other, more vulgar descriptions. Her perfect fit to every specific detail made Freya completely certain that she was the destined shieldmaiden. Freya began to recite lines from the prophecy from memory and explain to the newcomer how she fit every detail, only to be interrupted by the red haired woman doing the same. They talked over each other, their debate quickly turning into insults hurled back and forth.


With the verbal argument going nowhere, Freya sought to end this farce quickly with physical intimidation, and stepped forward into her rival. This was Freya’s favorite tactic against jealous wives and girlfriends. The bold ones who weren’t cowed by her looks would yield to her imposing physical traits without fail. To Freya’s surprise, however, the redheaded woman mirrored her movement and stepped forward into Freya at the same time. Freya’s breath hitched in her throat as four breasts suddenly pressed together beneath heavy furs. She had expected the other woman’s breasts to cave, like so many had wilted before. But beneath the thick layers of clothing, she felt as if her breasts had run headfirst into a stone wall. Before Freya could react, gnarled hands emerged from the shadows to grab the woman across from her, and she felt rough skin gripping her shoulders and arms to pull her back. Elders from both clans had pried them apart, halting the confrontation before it could escalate. Freya was hustled back to her tent, where she was told that the elders had agreed to an ancient combat ritual at dawn, a clash of shieldmaidens to earn the gods’ favor.
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As the morning mists retreated back to sea, Freya stood at the center of the platform, watching a figure approach, with bright red hair visible even from this distance. Freya had thought today would be the greatest day in her life, marking her anointment to lead the clans. Instead, she now found herself a willing participant in a fallacious trial, to be watched by the eyes of lecherous old men. She wondered if the gods were toying with her, as they are wont to meddle with the fate of mortals. Her mind replayed last night’s confrontation, the fleeting moment of chest-to-chest contact, and how, even through the thick layers of clothing, she thought she could feel the size and firmness of breasts that could challenge hers. A shiver of doubt flashed through her, but her deep reserves of confidence quickly calmed her nerves. Impossible. No one can match me, my beauty and strength is written in prophecy. She was the most beautiful, sexual, powerful woman in all the clans. Freya stood taller, her breasts thrusting defiantly, her loins twitching with anticipation. I’ll crush her and prove I’m the destined one.

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Across the platform, Sif emerged from the mist like a specter of flame, her crimson hair a blazing torrent that spilled over her shoulders, catching the dawn’s glow as if lit by some inner inferno. At twenty-four, Sif was the fire of the inland mountain clans. Her bountiful breasts bounced as she walked purposefully, barely held in place by leather thongs creaking under the pressure of her nipples, each peak a bold declaration of her vigorous sexuality. Her body was a chiseled masterpiece, forged in the crucible of mountain winters—sinewy arms, a chiseled midriff, and powerful thighs that exuded grace and vigor. A small fur pelt wrapped around her waist, exposing her long, lithe legs down to her fur boots. Her emerald-green eyes smoldered with a blend of hatred and resolve, her lush lips twisted in a grimace of disdain. Sif’s heart pounded with pride as she stepped forward, her destiny a fire in her veins. I am the mountain goddess’s chosen one, she thought, her ego towering like the crags. No woman can stand up to my body, my beauty, my strength.

Sif had reached mythical status among the inland clans, her feminine charms and fiery sexuality told as fireside tales across the rugged mountains. As a child, she scorned the women’s tasks of foraging and tending hearths, instead shadowing boys onto the mountain hunting trails and was soon outclimbing, outwrestling, and outlasting all of them in the mountains. Reaching womanhood, her sinewy frame and angular limbs bloomed into taut muscles and impossible curves that turned heads from ridge to valley. Suitors from distant peaks trekked perilous paths bearing their finest animal pelts and largest hunting trophies, vying for her hand. Most were rejected at the village gates. The ones she invited into her furs found her sexual appetite insatiable, their stamina crumbling after just a few minutes. Sometimes their spurned wives or lovers also made the trek, seeking a lover’s revenge, but none came close to getting retribution. Most quailed when they saw her; the bold ones fled nearly as quickly, humbled after brief one-sided confrontations.

But the thrill of conquests faded, leaving the monotony of mountain life. Is this my fate? Endless suitors and petty fights?, she wondered. An ancient mountain prophecy, etched by long forgotten shamans in mountain caves, reignited the fire within her. A mountain maiden of unrivalled beauty, breasts to rival the crags, and supreme sexual prowess will lead the clans, sweeping down into the coasts and uniting the entire Nord. Sif felt the words sear into her soul, each phrase reflected in her own existence. It’s me, Sif had thought. No other woman could fit the prophecy so perfectly. My name will echo through the mountains. The prophecy was hers, she believed with every fiber of her being, a divine mandate from the mountain gods themselves.

As Sif walked up the stairs to the platform where her blonde rival already stood, her mind flashed back to the events of the previous evening: the initial meeting, the dueling prophecies, and finally their brief chest-to-chest contact before they were pulled apart by the elders. Their argument was hazy, but Sif could vividly recall the feeling of Freya’s breasts against hers, and how large and solid they felt even through their thick tops. The memory brought goosebumps to her smooth forearms. No, the prophecies spoke of my unmatched beauty and strength. I’ll break her. Her confidence once again established, the goosebumps vanished as quickly as they appeared. She was sure that the coastal clan’s version of the prophecy was a blasphemy, an affront to Sif’s very existence, and Sif vowed she would strike down Freya’s claim with the raw power of her body.

Sif met Freya at the platform’s center. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken challenge. The elders’ murmurs faded, their leering gazes flickering back and forth from one statuesque beauty to the other. Freya stepped closer to Sif, her breasts swaying slightly, a deliberate taunt. Sif mirrored her, her own chest thrust forward, their bodies inches apart. The platform seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to the space between their curves.

The elders’ drumbeat began, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the arena, echoing off the cliffs like the heartbeat of the fjord itself. Freya and Sif shed their fur cloaks, the fabric pooling at their feet to reveal bodies clad only in leather thongs wrapped around their chests and short skirts that barely covered their hips. The crowd’s murmurs died, swallowed by the sight of their unveiled forms. The hunger in the elders’ eyes was palpable, a silent chorus urging the women to clash, to bare their souls in flesh.

The mist fully parted, revealing Freya’s spectacular form and outrageous curves in stark clarity. Gone were the thick clothes of last night, replaced by leather thongs wrapped around her torso and skirt that bared her curves to the dawn’s light. Sif’s breath hitched, a jolt of shock sparking through her. Freya’s breasts, massive and proud, strained against the thongs’ thin straps, their rounded peaks thrusting forward, nipples sharp beneath the hide. Her toned arms and taut abdomen were lithe and smooth, her powerful thighs radiated strength and allure. Sif’s pussy pulsed, her arousal a shameful fire she buried beneath her scorn. The coastal woman’s body was fantastic, a reflection of her own—but inferior, she told herself. Her breasts, Sif knew, were unmatched, their heft and firmness a gift from the mountains, destined to outshine this pretender’s.

Freya’s gaze locked onto Sif’s body, her ice-blue eyes widening for a fleeting moment. Stripped of her heavy furs, Sif’s fantastic figure was exposed, showing her audacious curves. Her leather thongs creaked under the weight of breasts that rivaled Freya’s own, nipples boldly visible against the thin leather hides. Her chiseled frame, sculpted by mountain hardship, radiated raw strength—sinewy arms, a carved midriff, and toned thighs that promised sensual power. Freya’s clit twitched beneath her skirt, arousing feelings beneath her hatred, stirred by the sight of Sif’s body. This inland warrior was no pushover; her body was a challenge to Freya’s own. Yet Freya’s confidence surged, her chest swelling with certainty. Her breasts, she was sure, were the prophecy’s: full, unyielding, the true mark of the destined shieldmaiden.

“You dare stand here, mountain whore?” Freya spat, her voice low and venomous. “Your pathetic breasts might fool these old fools, but they’re nothing compared to mine. The prophecy speaks of my body, my power. Crawl back to your crags.”

Sif’s lips curled into a sneer, her green eyes blazing. “Coastal slut, the prophecy is mine alone—breasts to shame mountains, not your pitiful anthills. I’ll crush you and your clan’s delusions before the sun rises.”

Freya laughed, a sharp, cutting sound. “Look at you and your false confidence. My breasts could smother your tiny mounds in a heartbeat. The gods chose me, and I’ll prove it by crushing you into these furs.”

Sif stepped closer, their nipples nearly brushing through the leather. “Keep boasting, blonde. My breasts are the peaks of legend. I’ll have you begging for mercy, your pathetic body shattered beneath mine”

The elders raised their gnarled staffs, and the drumbeat surged, its rhythm a call to war that pulsed in the women’s veins. The ancient ritual forbade steel, demanding a clash of flesh alone—a primal contest of beauty, strength, and fertility between two shieldmaidens—to determine whose body bore the gods’ favor. Freya’s muscles tensed, her thighs flexing, her fingers curling into fists as she circled Sif, each step a predator’s stalk. Sif mirrored Freya’s movements, the soles of her boots gripping the pelts, her hips swaying with lethal grace, her green eyes never leaving the blue pair. The mist clung to their skin, a cold caress that heightened the heat of their rivalry, their sweat mingling with the salty air, their scents—sweet, musky—intertwining in a silent challenge. Every glance was a spark, every breath a bellows stoking the inferno of their mutual loathing.

Freya stopped circling and took a step forward, thrusting her chest outward, her massive breasts quivering. Her leather thongs strained as her nipples swelled, twin spearpoints eager for battle. Sif’s lips peeled back in a feral snarl as she took her own step forward, her chest jutting out, her nipples hardening into rigid peaks that threatened to tear the leather.

Without warning, Sif lunged, her hands seizing Freya’s shoulders with a vice grip, fingers sinking into flesh. Freya clamped back, hands digging into Sif’s arms, muscles bulging as she met the redhead’s force. Their bodies slammed together with a resounding thud, a fleshy thunderclap that reverberated through the stone circle. Their huge breasts collided, firm titflesh compressing under the impact, nipples stabbing through the leather thongs with a snap like a whipcrack. The initial contact caused a supernova of sensation—raw electricity surging through their bodies, sparking a fire in their loins. Freya gasped, her eyes widening as the redhead’s breasts resisted her own, unyielding, equaling her own strength. Sif’s lips parted in a stifled moan, her pupils dilating as the blonde’s firm nipples pierced hers through the leather, straps creaking together under the strain. The elders’ drums pounded faster, a relentless cadence that drove the women deeper into their frenzied state.

“You call those tits?” Freya hissed, her face inches from Sif’s, their noses brushing, breaths hot and ragged, mingling in a haze of rage and arousal. She shoved forward, her breasts grinding into Sif’s with a squelch of sweat-slicked flesh, the leather thongs slipping, exposing slivers of bare titflesh that burned at the touch. “Mine are flattening yours, you red-haired bitch. I’ll crush your pride and leave you broken.”

“Dream on, blonde cunt,” Sif snarled, her voice a guttural rasp, her lips grazing Freya’s in a fleeting, hateful brush that neither acknowledged. She pushed back, her breasts rolling against Freya’s, nipples catching and bending inside the leather, the friction a torment of ecstasy. “Your glands are weak, already softening. I’ll grind them to nothing and make you beg for mercy.”

Their muscles strained, legs braced wide on the pelts, boots planted into the fur as they locked into a titanic struggle. Their breasts mashed, sides swelling as flesh fought for space, the slap of tit against tit a relentless percussion that drowned the wind. Freya’s blonde mane tangled with Sif’s crimson locks, their cheeks pressing, sweat dripping into their cleavages, lips hovering dangerously close, each breath a taunt, each moan a challenge. The leather thongs slid lower, baring more of their breasts, the raw contact of skin sending jolts through their cores. Freya’s ego burned, her breasts were a fortress she would not let fall, yet Sif’s matching firmness was a maddening affront, an insult that threatened her identity. Sif’s pride soared, her tits a bulwark against Freya’s assault, but the blonde’s unyielding strength was a dagger to her existence, a rival who dared to equal her.

Sif twisted her hips and shifted her legs, trying to unbalance Freya, her hands grappling the blonde’s shoulders. Freya’s stance widened to maintain her balance as she countered, her hands sliding to Sif’s waist, fingers digging into the redhead’s hips, pulling their breasts tighter with a thud that shook their frames. Their nipples, nearly exposed as their thongs continue to slip, grated with a scrape that elicited moans from their throats. Their bodies trembled with the effort to dominate their foe. Sif’s legs flexed, her thighs quivering as she used her lower body strength to drive forward, her breasts mushrooming against Freya’s, the pressure crushing both sets of breasts. Freya’s back arched, her breasts resisting, her nipples spearing Sif’s titflesh, each thrust a desperate bid to push Sif back. The squelch of sweat-soaked flesh, the grunt of exertion, the snap of leather fraying filled the air, a cacophony of warfare that echoed off the cliffs.

“Give up, sow,” Sigred growled, her voice raw, her fingers sinking deeper into the blonde’s shoulders, yanking their chests so close their ribs ached. Her breasts rolled, nipples bending Freya’s, the leather tearing further, baring the entire underside of their tits. “Your tits are softening, I can feel it. Submit, and I’ll spare you further shame.”

“Never, whore,” Freya spat, her hands tightening around Sif’s hips, her breasts shoving against their rival pair, nipples piercing the redhead’s glands with a stab that drew a sharp cry. “Yours are failing, crumbling under my strength. I’ll make you cry for mercy, and the gods will laugh at your ruin.”

For endless minutes, they battled, their breasts locked in a grinding, crushing duel, flesh quivering, leather-covered nipples warring in a dance of torment and ecstasy. Sweat poured down their bodies, mixing with the mist, their skirts clinging to their swollen pussies, betraying the arousal mixed with their hatred. Their movements were a ballet of violence—pushing, pulling, grappling—each seeking to crush the other, to force a surrender that neither would give.

The elders’ drums continued to pound, the cliffs amplifying the thuds and moans of the combatants. Their massive breasts, locked in a crushing duel, quivered under the relentless pressure, their leather thongs fraying, the hide stretched to its limits by the thrust of their swollen nipples. Sweat poured down their sculpted forms, glistening and evaporating in the morning air. A gust of wind swept across the sacred site, its chill a stark contrast to the heat of the battle.

The leather thongs, pushed beyond endurance, suddenly gave way with a sharp crack, the hide snapping like brittle twigs under the force of their grinding breasts. Freya’s thongs tore first, the straps ripping free, baring her huge breasts in their full, glorious heft, their rounded peaks quivering, nipples erect like spearpoints, flushed and rigid against the cool mist. Sif’s thongs followed, the leather shredding with a pop, springing free breasts that mirrored Freya’s, nipples thrusting boldly forward in the chilly spring air. The sudden exposure drew a collective gasp from the watching elders, the drummers pausing their rhythm to take in the scene themselves.

Time stopped as Freya and Sif took in the view of each other’s bare breasts in stunned silence, both women experiencing a volatile cocktail of emotion: shock, jealousy, anger, lust, hatred, and, for the first time, doubt.

Freya’s breasts rose like cliffs from two sides of a fjord, massive and unyielding, their creamy expanse stretching the skin taut with glistening sweat. Each globe swelled with audacious heft, perched high and proud without a hint of sag, defying gravity as if supported by the hands of invisible gods. At their crests, stiff pink nipples stood proud, thick as spear points, thrusting forward with confidence, their feminine color deceptive hiding their firmness. Encircling each nipple, dainty pink areolas formed small halos, their size a striking contrast to the grandeur of the surrounding breastflesh. Sif stared at a naked form straight out of fantasy, her breath catching, mouth parting in stunned disbelief. Never had she beheld such a sight. Sif’s view of her own breasts were restricted to when she looked down, seeing only the top half of massive mounds that rose suddenly from her collarbone, or an occasional glimpse of a watery reflection of her perfect form in a hot spring. Is this how others see me? Sif wondered, her cheeks reddened with jealousy, her loins moist with lust. The goddess blessed my breasts to reflect her own divine image. She does not give blessings to soft coastal wenches.

Sif’s tits matched Freya’s in every way, looming like twin peaks guarding a sacred valley, vast and unbowed, their alabaster slopes shining with sweat in the morning light. Each orb swelled with majestic weight, thrusting without any sign of droop, as if they were sculpted by Loki himself to mock the earth’s pull. At their peaks, rigid pink nipples stood defiant, thick as forged arrowheads, protruding with defiance, their soft hue disguising their hardness. Delicate pink areolas framed each nipple, their small circumference noticeable amongst the splendor of the surrouding titflesh. Freya’s eyes widened as she watched Sif’s breasts undulate with the redhead’s diaphragm, slowly processing what she was seeing. Freya had only seen her own breasts from above, the upper hemispheres of two giant globes suspended in the air, or a rare glimpse of a rippling reflection of her perfect form when the fjord waters were calm. ‘No wonder men can’t help themselves when they see me,’ Freya thought, as her face flushed with envy, a fresh stain spreading on her leather skirt. The gods forged my breasts to perfect form. They do not forge perfection twice.

The steady beat of the elders’ drums returned, bringing their silent reprieve to an end. Freya put away her doubts and refocused on her rival. “Do you like what you see, inland slut?” Freya taunted, shaking her breasts slightly as she closed the gap between them, her nose brushing Sif’s, their lips so close their breaths mingled. “My tits are the prophecy’s own, forged to crush you. Submit to me, or I’ll turn bury your nipples beneath your breasts and make you weep.” Freya shoved forward, her bare breasts slamming into the redhead’s with a thud that echoed like thunder, their flesh mushrooming, nipples pushing to areolas, forcing a sharp cry from Sif’s throat.

The sudden pressure on her tits snapped Sif back to reality. She crushed back, her breasts rolling against Freya’s with a squelch of sweat-slicked flesh. “Dream on, coastal whore,” Sif growled in a low guttural roar, her lips grazing Freya’s in a hateful flicker, their emerald and ice-blue eyes locked in a duel as fierce as their bodies. Her nipples caught against Freya’s and both sets bent painfully, eliciting a low moan from the blonde. “Your pathetic nipples are wilting already. I’ll grind them off your breasts and make you beg for my mercy.”

The women’s bare titflesh collided again with a slap. The skin-to-skin contact of bare titflesh sent a spasm of pleasure through the two women, only to be punctuated by the sharp pain of stiff nipples stabbing into an equally hard set. Their fully exposed nipples fenced with brutal precision, each thrust and parry causing moans they couldn’t suppress.

Sif’s battle instincts took over as she stood on her toes and lifted her breasts above Freya’s. With their nipples fully disengaged, Sif thrust her stiff rods into the blonde’s breast flesh from above. A guttural cry escaped Freya’s lips, her pupils dilating as Sif’s nipples painfully stabbed into her glands. Grimacing her teeth, Freya countered by lowering her center of gravity, freeing her breasts from the redhead’s attacking spears. As Sif’s nipples pointed upwards in the air, Freya rolled her breasts violently from below, drilling her own hard rods into Sif’s breasts from below. Sif’s gasp was a ragged sob, her body trembling as Freya’s nipples pierced her underboob. In response, Sif lifted herself up even higher, leaning forward and rolled her breasts downward, once again engaging her nipples with her opponent’s breast flesh. Freya and Sif continued their nipple attacks from above and below for a few minutes, until Sif decided the advantage of attacking from above was no longer worth the strain in her calves from standing on her toes.

Sif suddenly twisted, her hips pivoting, trying to unbalance Freya, her bare breasts sliding across the blonde’s with a squeal of slick flesh, nipples scraping against the other pair and bending equally. Freya countered, wrapping her hands around Sif’s back to maintain her balance, her breasts shoving Freya’s back with a thud, nipples pressing into the redhead’s areolas. Sif quickly reciprocated Freya’s action, wrapping her arms around the blonde’s back in a mutual bearhug. They grappled in this position, arm muscles straining, thighs flexing, fur boots sliding on the pelts as they stumbled around the platform. Their bare breasts were perpetually locked in a caged deathmatch between their arms, their groans a guttural melody that cut through the fjord’s whispers.

Their bodies rocked, sweat flying, the platform quivering under their ferocity as the battle raged back and forth. Their breasts were burning inside the prison created by their locked arms. Using their legs to push and hands to pull, they crushed their breasts together with ferocious power. Fully committed to a full-on frontal assault, both Freya and Sif felt like their breasts had crashed into a stone wall. Facing unyielding resistance in the forward direction, their breastflesh spilled outward to the sides, only to be met by the inward crush of their elbows and forearms. With nowhere else to go, their bountiful breast flesh could only surge upwards and downwards, their cleavages almost touching their chins. The previously impossibly deep valleys between their breasts was now a short thin line that extended from the middle of their clavicle to the midpoint between their chins. Breaking eye contact, the women tilted their heads downward to look at the strange shapes their breasts were forced into, accidentally brushing their lips and bumping their noses together.

As they breathed in the sweet scent of each others’ exhales, Freya’s tongue suddenly flicked out, licking the top of Sif’s left breast and tasting sweat, a provocative taunt that sent a shiver through her rival’s frame. Sif retaliated, lightly biting Freya’s left breast, leaving fleeting teeth marks that sparked a moan. Their mutual arousal that neither would admit was evident on their faces, but neither woman was willing to take the next step. Tongues reluctantly returned to their mouths, and eyes again pierced each other in a duel of wills. Their sexual excitement faded as they returned to their confrontation, fueled by a base need to dominate, to shatter the poor imitation of their own perfection.

“Feel that, you mountain bitch?” Freya gasped, her voice raw, her breasts crushing against Sif’s, their nipples between their compressed breasts twisting in a knot of agony and ecstasy. She leaned in, her bare titflesh flattening Sif’s, the pressure so intense their breasts their ribs creaked. “My firm tits are breaking yours. Surrender, or I’ll crush you until you break.”

“Never, you coastal cunt,” Sif sobbed, her voice a trembling growl, her breasts resisting Freya’s, their nipples crushing with a force that sent jolts through both their cores. She tightened her arms and shoved back, her titflesh rolling so hard into Freya’s that the top of their breasts wrinkled. “Mine are stronger. I’ll smash your weak mounds and make you scream my name.”

The strength in their arms faltered before their tits did and the arm-locked shieldmaidens were forced to relax their grips. The immense pressure in their tits subsided and both women took the chance for a short reprieve. The peace was short-lived; without using their arms, they pulled their breasts back slightly and slammed them together again, the slap a thunderous roar, their pink nipples crushing together savagely. They pulled back and slammed together again and again, arms hanging weakly at their sides as they waited for their muscles to regain their strength.

After a few minutes, their arms had mostly recovered. Freya’s hands slid to Sif’s ass, fingers digging into the firm flesh beneath the fur skirt, pulling their chests and skirt-covered hips into each other.. Sif copied Freya’s grip, grabbing two handfuls of ass flesh beneath Freya’s leather skirt, pulling their lower bodies together, taut belly to taut belly, toned thighs to tone thighs, their wet skirts pressing together, fluids squishing between the fabrics.

Their breasts faced off across the valley formed by their torsos, nipples pointing accusingly at other pair. Their pink nipples, fully exposed, stood rigid, and with a shared, unspoken challenge, they aligned their breasts with precision. Freya’s eyes narrowed, her hard nipples aimed like daggers, while Sif’s lips curled, her own hard nipples poised like lances.

Without warning, Freya’s breasts suddenly surged forward, her nipples bending Sif’s in a surprise strike. Freya’s advantage was short lived, however, as the redhead’s nipples quickly recovered their shape and speared back. They leaned back slightly, their bare breasts hovering in contact, then thrust forward again, their stiff nipples stabbing into each other, eliciting a sharp cry from both before their nipples slipped past each other into their enemy’s exposed areolas.

Their pink nipples were engaged in a deadly duel, each woman targeting the other’s areolas with surgical intent. Freya’s nipples speared Sif’s, brushing past her rigid tips to pierce her areolas, eliciting a sharp moan from the redhead. Sif countered, her nipples thrusting back, stabbing Freya’s glands before scraping into the bumps on her pink areolas, tearing a ragged cry from the blonde’s lips. They pulled back, realigning, their breasts quivering, sweat dripping, then lunged again, stiff nipples clashing like flint striking steel, pushing against the other set until disappearing into mounds of compressed titflesh. For another ten agonizing minutes, they crushed their breasts together, their two pairs waging a hidden battle sight unseen beneath inside their fused breasts, nipples stabbing painfully into each others’ areolas. As the battle raged, their cries steadily rose in a crescendo that drowned out the elders’ drums.

Their arms burned with lactic acid, strength again sapped by the intensity of their crushing holds. The two women gradually pulled their breasts back, gasping in frustration as their rival’s erect nipples emerged into view, seemingly even bigger than before. They aligned their nipples together again, this time forcing them to meet head-on. Freya pulled her body back slightly, then speared them directly into Sif’s. Sif gasped from the sudden pain, then reared her own nipples back and thrust them into Sif’s, eliciting a similar gasp. Freya and Sif moved their hands below their own breasts to support them, excess breastflesh spilling around their fingers. Using their hands to rotate their breasts like heavy siege engines, they aligned their nipples the best they could, pulled back at the same time and thrust their pink spears forcefully into each other like jousters from the southern kingdoms. The nipples compressed evenly, and as their aim was sure, had nowhere to go except backwards into their areolas. What was originally four stiff rods now were now four fat buttons. The loudest cry so far escaped from their mouths, evidence of the immense pain and pleasure they were inflicting on each other. Undeterred, the shieldmaidens stepped back, compressed nipples immediately rebounding to original size, took aim with their hands, and crashed tips of their nipples together again.

After a dozen rounds of direct nipple-to-nipple collisions, Freya’s left nipple pushed back her rival’s right nipple while maintaining its own shape. Just as she was about to gloat, Freya realized her own right nipple had also yielded to Sif’s left, the stalemate a maddening reflection of the equalness of their breasts.

“Did you feel that, coastal cunt?” Sif taunted, frustration evident in her voice. Her left nipple stabbed Freya’s right nipple again, the contact a blaze of heat that threatened to overwhelm the blonde. “My stiff nipples are piercing yours. Surrender, before I push your weak rods into your ribs.”

“In your dreams, mountain bitch,” Freya snarled, her own left nipple thrusting back into Sif’s right, sending a stimulating sensation straight to the redhead’s core. “My hard nipples are crushing yours. Beg for my mercy, before your soft nubs turn to mush.”

In a state of heightened arousal, Freya and Sif felt their crushed right nipples roar back to life. Both women looked down at each other's recovered nipple, pursing their lips in displeasure. Nonplussed, they again pulled their breasts back, carefully aligned them, and stabbed their nipples together, repeating the action another ten, fifteen, twenty times. Each contact forced a quiet moan from both mouths, and a small pulse of liquid from both pussies. Failing to reach a desired conclusion, the nipple fencing ended with a shared cry. Their breasts still too evenly matched, their nipples quivering but remained unyielding. They stepped back, panting, their bare breasts red and throbbing, nipples now flushed bright pink, bodies glistening with sweat.

Without a word, their eyes locked in mutual defiance, the breast battlers widened their stance, put their hands around the back of each other's necks, and pulled back as far as they could. Freya’s chest heaved, her breasts swaying hypnotically, then she lunged forward, slamming her bare titflesh into Sif’s with a thud that shook the platform, the impact a shockwave that tore moans from their throats. Sif staggered back, before composing herself and countering, pulling back and slamming her breasts into Freya’s with a resounding smack, their titflesh mushrooming equally, nipples disappearing in the collision. They repeated the assault, pulling back as far as they could and slamming together a dozen times, each thud a thunderclap, their breasts quivering, swelling outwards, the bruising contact leaving red welts on their skin. Sometimes a vicious strike from Freya would send both women stumbling a few steps in Sif’s direction, then a hard hit from Sif would move both battlers back the other way, their hands never releasing their hold on the back of their rival’s neck.

The slamming slowed, their breasts becoming sore and swollen from the battering. They released their clinches and shifted tactics, circling, their bare breasts swaying like pendulums. Freya swung her chest to the left, her breasts arcing, colliding with Sif’s from the side with a smack that sent sweat flying, their nipples scraping in the lateral crush. Sif quickly mirrored her, swinging her breasts to her own left, the slap of titflesh a percussive blast, their nipples scraping past the other pair. They swung their torsos back and forth, their breasts clashing side to side countless times, each smack a burst of pain and pleasure. Sif reached out and grabbed Freya’s forearms near the elbows, and Freya returned the grip. Now in tighter quarters, their sideways breast impacts became less powerful but more frequent. The rapid percussion of smacks and thwacks reverberated from the platform, beating a rhythm faster than the drums of the elders. Once in a while one woman would land a lucky blow, her hard nipples piercing into the side of her opponent’s breasts at precisely the right angle to inflict maximum pain, eliciting a cry that broke the staccato rhythm of flesh hitting flesh.

The shieldmaidens’ physical stamina was at their limit, and their side-to-side swinging slowed. They stepped back, panting, their eyes locked in a silent vow of mutual destruction. With a shared nod, they retreated to opposite ends of the platform, their bare breasts heaving, nipples somehow still hard as daggers, sweat dripping from their udders. The elders’ drums pounded, the mist parting as if the gods themselves cleared the stage. Freya’s chest swelled in rhythm with her breath, her ego unbowed, her clit throbbing with anticipation. Sif’s breasts heaved as she inhaled, her pride unbroken, her pussy pulsing with resolve.

They charged, their long legs pounding the pelts, their breasts bouncing with each stride, then slammed together with a violet crash that shook the stone circle, a fleshy explosion that echoed like a thunderclap in the mountains. Their bare titflesh mushroomed outwards to their limits, nipples stabbing deep into each other’s glands, the impact a cataclysm of pain that tore screams from their throats. They staggered but did not fall, clutching each other’s backs, their breasts crushed, swelling to their sides, their clits throbbing, their bodies trembling with the force of the collision, mouths spitting venom into each others’ faces.

“Your tits are nothing!” Freya roared, her voice a frenzied cry, her breasts still pressed against Sif’s, nipples grinding underneath. “Surrender, you weak-chested whore! I claim the prophecy!”

“Your breasts are finished!” Sif shrieked, her breasts resisting, nipples piercing back, “Admit defeat, you soft-breasted slut! I’m the chosen one!”

The final fifteen minutes stretched on for what seemed like eternity. They grappled, their bare breasts locked by their arms in a final, grinding duel, flesh quivering, nipples warring in a finale of torment and ecstasy. Freya’s breasts surged forward, flattening Sif’s for a fleeting moment, but Sif’s counter-thrust would crush Freya’s breasts for a brief second. Then the fight was level again, their breasts resisting each other evenly, their nipples twisting together in a stalemate. Their legs propelled them around the platform in a hypnotic dance, each shieldmaiden seeking to topple the other onto the furs. Lunging, twisting, stumbling like a strange four-legged animal, their upper bodies locked in place while legs flailed all over the place, their breasts were compressed to their limits the entire time. They lurched back and forth, legs sometimes flailing wildly off the ground, but, miraculously, neither grappler could cause the other to fall.

The constant rubbing of their long, bare legs, relentless pressure in their tits and nipples, and frequent bumping of their skirt-covered groins nearly sent them over the edge. Freya’s pussy throbbed relentlessly as she held back the orgasm building in her loins. Her skirt had soaked through long ago, and now was uncomfortably damp and cold. Sif’s pussy pulsed fervently while she kept her orgasm at bay. Her fur pelt had absorbed her feminine fluids to its capacity, and now the wet fur felt abrasive on her thighs. Both combatants had long forgotten about the audience of elders around the platform, who had just borne witness to the birth of a new tale that would be passed down through the ages.

The drumbeat reached a fever pitch, the cliffs amplifying the thuds and moans, a crescendo that signaled the phase’s end. Freya and Sif broke apart, stumbling back, their bare breasts red and throbbing, nipples still dangerously stiff, bodies glistening with sweat, mist and fluids. Their chests heaved, their ice-blue and emerald-green eyes blazing with undimmed hatred, but also a flicker of reluctant awe—and something darker, a hunger neither would admit, born of their stalemated breast battle. Their skirts clung to their hips, translucent with arousal, their clits pulsing beneath. The elders’ staffs lowered, their faces impassive but eyes gleaming with delight, savoring the spectacle they just witnessed. The breast fight had not proven either woman to be superior, a result that intensified their rivalry, their bodies too evenly matched to crown a victor yet.

“This isn’t over, you coastal cunt,” Sif whispered, her voice husky, her bare breasts battered but defiant, her clit throbbing with pent up lust, her veridian gaze a promise to win the next phase of their battle. “I’ll fuck you into these furs next.”

Freya’s lips curled, her naked breasts reddened but proud, her clit aching for battle, her ego unbowed despite the stalemate. “Try it, you inland whore,” she rasped, her eyes locked on the redhead’s, a vow of dominance in their cerulean depths. “My pussy will break yours.”

The drums fell silent. The mists returned, swirling thicker than before, shrouding the platform in a veil of secrecy. The fjord’s black waters churned, whispering of the primal war yet to come, where their most sacred weapons would clash, and one would rise as the destined shieldmaiden to lead the clans.

[UltimateZeroStar]

Very interesting set-up so far. The ritual should be interesting, if it's what I think it is. Freya's got a fascinating backstory but it seems like she isn't as fulfilled as she projects. So this battle might be just the thing she needs. On the other side her challenger (I didn't see a name yet) must be her equal on multiple levels. I wonder if there can only be one Shieldmaiden? Will the loser be able to accept that?

Either way, I'm excited to see where this goes! Freya seems like she's never been on the losing end of things and I like the threat this new maiden represents.

[JB57]

Really great start! This is right up my alley. I hope the next parts have more detail.

JB

[apenman]

Nice start. Excellent writing!

[indris]

A good start.

[herbert3000]

I absolutely love the setting!

[UltimateZeroStar]

The 2nd part is really interesting. Sif and Freya are equally matched, a new expierence for both of them. It seems like they're both having a good time though. Perhaps there's a bit of doubt for both of them facing down an equal but maybe that's part of the prophecy. Maybe there are two Shieldmaidens instead of just one?

To me it seems like no one can win, lol. They're equally matched with similar backstories, it's almost too even. Something has to shift the battle but I'm not sure what they could do. My favorite sequence is when both bras snapped and each woman had a moment to admire the other's breasts. A moment of fear and introspection across both of their faces.

I'm guessing we're moving on to a full sexfight next. Surprised they're going to do this in front of all of these people. (Elders) This duel has a unique feeling with the setting being so public. I actually can't decide who to root for. If they were both humbled, I wonder what that would mean for the prophecy. Ideally they would see eachother as equal, especially since they can't hide their attraction to eachother. I doubt Freya and Sif will ever find a Lover as good as eachother. Really, Really good so far! Excited for the climax!

[JB57]

Excellent work! Really well written and very evocative! I can't wait for the next part.

One observation: in one of the passages, it says the women are barefoot but in another it indicates they are wearing fur boots. Could you make this consistent?

Looking forward to part 2!

JB

[Hoborobo]

Excellent work! Really well written and very evocative! I can't wait for the next part.

One observation: in one of the passages, it says the women are barefoot but in another it indicates they are wearing fur boots. Could you make this consistent?

Looking forward to part 2!

JB

Good catch, it's fixed now. They were barefoot in the first draft of the story, then I decided to give them fur boots because 1) it's cold and 2) two girls fighting wearing nothing but fur boots is hot

[JB57]

Good catch, it's fixed now. They were barefoot in the first draft of the story, then I decided to give them fur boots because 1) it's cold and 2) two girls fighting wearing nothing but fur boots is hot

I agree that two girls fighting with nothing but boots on is hot, though we are not there yet in the story! But it also occurs to me that they are almost naked - being cold isn't really a factor! So, let's just go with girls fighting naked except for boots is hot! ;-)

It was not a hard catch for me. When I read well-written stories like this, the picture unfolds in my mind's eye and a good description is essential to that. I've had stories nearly ruined for me because the author doesn't describe how the characters get from one stage of undress to the other or is inconsistent or difficult to follow in the description!

Hope the next part is up soon.

JB