Freya was far from whole, but she was getting there. Her hate for the man who murdered her son spurred her onwards always. It fueled her determination, her drive, her magic. Of course there were things she had to maintain in preparation for her vengeance. Maintain her weapons, keep them sharp. Maintain her body, keep it strong. Maintain her focus, keep it on track. Maintain her mind, keep it engaged. Of course that mean maintaining some habits which she had utilized up during her exile, habits that were hard to break.
Isolation was a lonely thing, she discovered that after being stranded in Midgard. But while she happily maintained her distance from men, from gods and all other inhabitants, it left her with limited options for companionship when the need arose. Fortunately her magics provided an alternative to physical interactions. And with her hideout offering complete privacy from the outside, she could perform these sexual acts wherever and whenever she chose. Her animal companions sometimes watched, maybe out of curiosity, but they never bothered her.
It was a simple act, undressing out of her clothing and summoning a gathering of vines or roots to seek out her body and deliver her much needed release. Her favorite spot became on the River bank, listening to the water feeling the breeze through her hair as said roots encircle her limb and breasts before plunging into her pussy, or ass, sometimes her mouth if she was adventurous. Her magics always reflected her mood, which meant they were always gentle as she laid in contentment. She could lay there for hours, sometimes fall asleep cradled in her plants. On a few occasion as she would actually use her bed in her hut, the vines crawling through the window to give her sweet relief before turning in for the night. She would always finish those nights with a gratified smile, her vines treating her better than her ex husband did.
But these nights, out in the cold harsh fimbulwinter, she never sought comfort or pleasure. Just release as she clawed at the snow and dirt, her vines pounding her roughly from behind. Her magic mirrored her mood, which lately was spiteful and angry. So her plants would coil around her legs and hips and torso and pound her pussy and ass as hard as they could, sometimes driving more than one tendril at a time to stretch her body out. She took the pounding fiercely, her eyes always staring ahead as she used this sexual act to vent her frustration, picturing the man who killed her son each time. She thought about all the things she planned to do to avenge him, the vengeance she will wrought. She thought about the one time she made the mistake of inviting that man into her bed, the disgust she felt on that act of weakness now. She curled her fingers into fists as her vines tightened their hold around her body, increasing their thrusts into her until they unleashed their sap and juices inside her crushing walls. She would fuck these plants without ever making a sound, save for the growl upon her own release as she allowed a single moment to exhale before channeling her hate into fuel once more.
No matter what, the Ghost of Sparta will die by her hand.
Comments