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I've been having way too many ideas and writing basically nothing, and I feel like Word's formatting options are far too distracting. Too easy to fiddle with them for hours doing no work.

So yeah, this is just a place for me to actually start writing. Hopefully I'll get the first story up today.

As general themes, expect a lot of piss, scat, underage and of course, snuff.


Freya leapt from her longship, sword in one hand and shield in the other. Daughter of the chieftain, standing at 5'7 and strong as any man, clad in shining maille with her golden hair tied up into a braid, trailing behind her in the wind, one would be hard-pressed to believe she was only 15 years old. If you looked closely enough, you could see past her battle-hardened muscles and see the youth in her features yet untouched by time, the lingering childishness in her eyes - naturally, most of her foes did not live long enough to make such observations.

A throng of shieldmaidens clambered out behind her and gathered around. On both sides, more men and women are jumping off longboats much like hers, brandishing an assortment of axes, spears and swords. It was a sight that could strike fear into every English peasant's heart: a Viking raid!

With a terrible warcry, the Vikings began to advance towards the nearby town of Bolton-on-Sea.

The town was quiet, not a soul in sight; but this was to be expected. Their arrival was hardly covert. With no walls to hide behind, the townsmen have likely barricaded themselves in the church or monastery. The Vikings split into groups, the largest following Freya's father, the chieftain, who would lead the siege. The rest spread out into the town, clearing out the perimeter, pillaging whatever valuables there were and capturing any poor sods too slow to hide, taking them home as slaves.

Freya gathered her shieldmaidens and headed west. One by one they cleared out houses and stripped them of everything of value, but there was scarcely anything to take: no coins, no silver, no seeds, no tools, no men cowering under tables or hiding behind cupboards; only crude pottery and cheap cutlery.

Something didn't feel quite right. It's almost as if they were prepared for us - as Freya stepped into a crossway, she heard a splash, a terrible sizzle, and the echoing, agonized screams of her shieldmaidens, as if all at once - a cauldron of boiling oil had been hurled at them from a nearby window!

Freya quickly recomposed herself from the shock and heat. Ifra had jumped in front of her with her shield at the last moment, leaving her unscathed, yet Ifra was now writhing on the ground, screaming and developing ghastly boils, much like most of her brethren; only six or seven shieldmaidens were still standing.

A mob of men streamed out of nearby houses, Englishmen, grim-looking and holding weapons, easily close to a hundred in number: without a word they charged Freya and her girls. What they lacked in training and equipment, they made up in numbers; the shieldmaidens fought bravely, they fought ferociously, and one by one they were swiftly dispatched. As each shieldmaiden fell three or four men would drag her body away from the fight, stripping her bare before having their way with her.

Freya blocked strike after strike, her eyes frenzied with bloodlust. She was a born warrior; combat always gave her great excitement and thrill, almost erotic, and even in such grave circumstances she could feel her crotch growing hot and wet as she yanked her sword out of one chest and plunged it into another. With her arm raised high to lop off a head she felt something heavy smash into her shoulder, flattening links of her maille and crushing bone; her sword fell to the ground with a clang. Freya turned just in time to see a man wearing a blacksmith's apron and a bloodstained hammer in his hand, to see him bring that hammer down on her head.

With a sickening crack, the blacksmith's hammer smashed through Freya's skull, crushing her brain into pulp before lodging itself deep between her eyes. Freya's muscles spasmed for a second before slackening, her eyes rolling upwards, her expression locked in one that was part anger, part disbelief, part ecstasy. A wet stain quickly began to spread from her crotch, soaking through her linen trousers.

"Well then, that's the last of them." A man in knight's attire clapped his hands. "Quickly, men, rally to me! We shall join with the others and encircle these Viking bandits at the church, getting rid of them once and for all! No time to dawdle now - it took months to prepare for this ambush!"

Within minutes they were gone, leaving behind only a few still collecting spoils, or fucking the dead bodies of the shieldmaidens.

The blacksmith was still standing in the same place, holding Freya's body so that she would not fall to the ground. "She's a pretty lass, isn't she?" He spoke, as if to no one in particular.

"Was, John. She *was* a pretty lass, before you put that hammer through her head." A stout-looking man rummaging through pockets nearby answered with a smirk.

"Well, I don't mind. She's still pretty in my eyes." John the blacksmith gently laid Freya down on her back and undressed her with surprisingly deft hands. As he removed Freya's trousers, a brown smear between her legs was revealed, and a pungent stink wafted out.

"Hah! Your little lover shite her pants!" The stout man laughed.

"So did your uncle when he got trampled by that horse. I don't mind." John leaned forward and kissed Freya , tasting the mix of saliva and metallic blood on her tongue, looking deeply into her dead eyes; Freya did not look back. Everything about her was so perfect, so arousing: the muscular frame of her youthful body, the way her perky nipples were stiff in both arousal and death, the scent of unwashed sweat lingering on her smooth skin…

John felt his cock was about to burst as he guided it into Freya's pussy. It was harder than rock, harder than steel, harder and had grown bigger than it ever did in his life, even when he had his first woman when he was fifteen; he caressed Freya's breasts and thrusted. It was very wet, welcoming, and not just because of piss; she was clearly quite aroused when she died. Was it because of me? John thought, surely not, she only saw me for a split second… But still, maybe…

John kissed every inch of Freya's body as he fucked her, from her sculpted abs to her lightly-calloused feet, sucking on her toes and savoring the slightly sour odor. He forgot the world, forgot who he was and who he was, there was only him and this beautiful, fuckable body; it was nearly an hour before he finally sprayed his seed deep into Freya, settling in her lifeless uterus.

As he lay face-down on Freya, panting, he decided that he would fuck every and all of her holes, and that he would do nothing else, until her body rots or he fucks himself to death.

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