The Bride of Slepnir
#8 of Random Stuff
There was a thick fog over the land on the day a strange sort of thunder came rolling across the valley. Cyra had been walking up the hills toward her cottage when the sound first caught her attention. The Elf stopped and squinted her smooth, pouty face, brushing away an amber lock as she tried to see what the source of the sound was.
Up the rolling grassy hills to the foot of the mountain, where two great towers of rock sat like an open gate. From there, a titanic shape could be seen in the white veil. It was so big she at first dismissed it as any kind of solid object, but when it came down there was another bleat of thunder. Her plump lips fell open with the realization, as a wind whipped her thin dress against her and the garment clung to the precise shape of her petite, perky breasted body.
A titanic creature emerged from the fog. Before her eyes a giant hooved leg came, followed by another and two pairs behind that. A horse of giant proportions was stepping down from the heights, passing between the rocky passage of the mountain. Two eyes appeared, whiter than the deeper parts of the fog. There could be no mistake that she was looking at none other than Slepnir itself.
Cyra was so awestruck that she could no longer move a muscle as she watched. Its hooves trembled the ground even as she trembled looking at the beast. It would have been a remarkable specimen even if not for its size. Its coat was a uniform white, bulging with muscle. Something else was swinging in between the six legs, its flared head bobbing in time with the beast's steps. Behind that, a set of balls that could have wrecked a castle.
The world seemed to drop away around Cyra and the Elf could focus only on the mystical creature. Was there something behind those cloudy eyes? All other questions in that moment were trivial to her mind. The wind came again as Slepnir snorted, tussling her hair over her face and prompting her to absently swat it away. To the giant horse, even the eldest of the forest's trees were nothing. It trampled them beneath its hooves as one would walk over any of the small flowers in the alpine meadows of the region. The Elven woman was even less significant and just as rooted to the grass in wonder. One of the great hooves cast a shadow over her and hung in the sky for only a moment that stretched out greatly in her mind. But inevitably it descended. In an instant, the Elf was crushed. The curves of her petite body were pulverized and flattened, meshing with the grass beneath.
The cock bobbed along over the site, oozing with cum that fell and splattered thickly over the flattened Elf and filling the shallow depression into which she had been squashed. The strong musk chased away the floral perfume she had been wearing and would ultimately lead some of the other villagers to discover her. Despite how badly Cyra had been flattened, her small perky breasts still had some spring to them. The soft pale mounds were still perky as they sat like miniature mountains overlooking her pancaked body and glazed in the cum of Slepnir.
Cyra's death, however untimely she may have found it, was not taken by the townsfolk as a tragedy. The visitation by Slepnir was touted as a good omen and it was decided that the horse had chosen her as its bride in eternity.
At the site of Cyra's meeting with the beast's hoof, a statue of gold was laid over her remains. It depicted Slepnir standing proudly with its dangling erection and testicles, hung over a rendition of Cyra. The horse's faithful bride was nude on all fours, a perfect recreation of her pouty face as it appeared in life now looking in the direction the horse had gone before disappearing back into the fog from which it came. The sculptor had given her a much larger, pendulous set of breasts than she had in life all the better to nurse the many foals she would birth in the afterlife.
The statue made a fine centerpiece that adventurers visiting the area would ponder over in future times.