Year 3 of Imprisonment – Eternal Light Cage, Grand Hall of Valhalla
Three years.
One thousand one hundred and ninety-five days and nights without sleep, without rest, without a single second allowed to forget that she was being raised like a sacrificial beast.
The cage of light was no longer transparent as it had been on the first day.
Its inner walls were now scarred with deep gouges clawed by her own fingernails into her own thighs on the nights she tried to tear her body apart to keep from going mad.
The crystal floor was a map of dried stains:
• Milky white streaks from tens of thousands of ejaculations,
• dark crimson smears of goddess-blood,
• black streaks of the first silver fluid she had begun secreting in her second year, and over everything, long tear-like trails of her own dried tears.
The stench inside was thick enough to kill a mortal in three breaths:
the rancid reek of old semen crusted thick on the floor, the cold metallic bite of silver fluid, the iron tang of flaking blood, sweat, the urine of men who had pissed themselves in terror inside the cage, and beneath it all, the ever-smoldering odor of hatred that never went out.
Freya still hung in the same position, not a single centimeter changed in three years:
kneeling with thighs forced to their absolute limit, knees fifty centimeters above the floor, her entire weight suspended from permanently deformed hips and a cervix stretched forever.
The virgin-gold chains had eaten into her flesh; skin and muscle had grown back around them like crimson garlands of meat.
Wrists wrenched so far behind her back that broken shoulder blades jutted like wings; collarbones stood out like knives beneath paper-thin skin.
But her body was no longer that of a child.
Platinum hair reached her knees, matted into stiff ropes of dried semen and blood, never combed, never washed.
Her white skin was a canvas of overlapping bruises, bite marks from herself and from thousands who had entered, and pale scars from the light-whips Odin had tried in the first year before giving up as useless.
Her breasts had swollen into full, taut globes; nipples chewed ragged, always weeping pale blood from constant overstimulation.
Her cunt was no longer a childish pink slit; the outer lips were permanently everted, exposing swollen dark-red mucosa that constantly wept clear fluid mixed with blood.
And between her legs, what had once been a tiny nub the size of a little-finger tip had become real flesh.
Exactly 4.2 centimeters long, thick as an adult thumb, pale pinkish-purple, the glans slightly pointed with a narrow slit running its length like a half-open eye.
It was always half-erect, quivering faintly whenever anyone entered the cage, like a small predator scenting blood.
From that slit constantly dripped a clear fluid carrying a cold metallic smell; when it struck the crystal floor it hissed with black smoke and ate tiny holes through the glass.
Since the second year, Odin had increased the number of "instructors" from thirty to forty-five per day.
They were no longer tender youths.
They were Einherjar who had fallen in the old Ragnarok: bodies hard as stone, cocks twenty-two to thirty centimeters long, granted twenty-four hours of temporary immortality so they could ejaculate endlessly without dying of exhaustion.
They no longer entered trembling or afraid.
They entered with the empty eyes of the living dead, programmed only to rut.
In three years, Freya had learned one thing perfectly:
she had learned to feel exactly what was growing between her legs.
When her ass was penetrated, the flesh hardened fiercely, the glans opening wider, the slit dilating as though inhaling the scent of blood.
When semen was shot into her mouth, it jerked frantically, as though trying to spit something but not yet strong enough.
When semen flooded her womb, it clenched in perfect rhythm with every pulse, sucking the seed in like a second starving mouth.
And tonight, the final night of the third year, was the night of fate.
The light-door at the top opened with a dull hum.
Forty-five figures were lowered as usual.
But this time one was different.
He stood over 2.5 meters tall, shoulders wide as Valhalla's pillars, muscles rippling like a Frost Giant's, long black hair flowing like midnight, golden eyes burning like twin suns.
His name was Hróðr, the legendary Einherjar who had once single-handedly cleaved five fire dragons with his axe in the last battle of the old world.
His cock, when erect, was exactly 28 centimeters long, thick as Freya's wrist, the apple-sized glans dark purple-black, constantly leaking thick golden precum like divine honey.
Odin had chosen him as the "last man" of the third year, to teach Freya a lesson she would never forget.
Hróðr approached without a word.
One massive hand closed around her throat, squeezing until the golden chains screamed and the bones in her neck cracked as though about to shatter.
Then he spun her around and slammed her face against the transparent wall so that all of Valhalla (tens of thousands of gods and warrior souls) could see every detail of her expression.
He called another.
A smaller Einherjar, barely 1.9 meters, flame-red hair, emerald eyes, cock only 20 cm but purple and veined as though ready to burst.
Young Váli, reborn from a shard of the god of vengeance.
Hróðr's voice rumbled like thunder on a clear day:
"Together."
Young Váli stepped forward, seized her matted platinum hair, and yanked her head back until her throat was fully exposed.
Hróðr stood behind, huge hands clamping her ass cheeks hard enough to leave five crimson fingerprints, nails digging deep into flesh.
Young Váli did not wait.
He drove his cock straight into her mouth (no gentleness, no mercy).
Twenty centimeters plunged to the root, the head battering her esophagus, forcing her to swallow until she gagged.
Tears poured from suffocation; saliva and blood ran from the corners of her mouth.
At the same instant, Hróðr rammed into her unlubricated ass.
Twenty-eight centimeters tore her three-year-dry rectum apart; mucosa ripped into shreds, blood spraying in fine jets down her thighs to the crystal floor.
The two began moving in perfect, merciless rhythm (a machine of destruction forged to perfection).
When Váli pulled back to let her snatch a single breath, Hróðr buried himself to the colon.
When Hróðr withdrew, Váli drove back into her throat.
Relentless. Precise. Inhuman.
Freya no longer felt pain.
She only felt the flesh between her legs coming alive, breathing, screaming.
It hardened.
Harder than ever before in three years.
The glans flared fully open; the slit gaped like a real mouth.
Inside the slit, a tiny black-rune vortex spun like a light-devouring void.
Cold metallic fluid poured out, striking the floor with black smoke and eating deeper holes.
Young Váli groaned, voice breaking with pleasure:
"I… I'm…"
Hróðr roared like thunder:
"Together!"
Both slammed home one final time.
Young Váli erupted into her mouth; thick golden semen shot straight down her esophagus, so much it backflowed through her nose and mouth, streaming down her chin.
Hróðr erupted into her ass; the sheer volume instantly bloated her lower belly like a six-month pregnancy, skin stretched glossy, blue veins bulging.
And in that exact instant.
Freya's 4.2-centimeter flesh convulsed as though struck by lightning.
The glans opened to its widest; the slit became a true mouth.
Then it fired.
A needle-thin jet of silver fluid shot out with terrifying speed, ripping the air with a ghastly shriek.
It punched straight through Young Váli's abdomen, two finger-widths below the navel.
Young Váli let out a broken scream that shattered in his throat.
His cock went limp instantly, slipping from her mouth trailing the last of his semen.
He staggered back, clutching his belly, eyes rolled white.
"It burns… burning from inside my bones!"
His skin reddened in a flash, then smoked black.
A one-centimeter hole appeared where he was struck; black, foaming blood poured out, the stench of burned flesh spreading.
He collapsed, convulsing wildly, then went still, foam bubbling from his mouth.
Hróðr was still in the middle of his final spurt inside her ass, too slow to react.
Freya's flesh turned (as though it had a mind of its own, a separate living creature) and aimed at him.
Second shot.
A thicker, faster jet of silver fluid, flashing with black light.
It struck Hróðr's left testicle dead center.
Hróðr roared like a mortally wounded beast, the sound shaking the cage walls.
His twenty-eight-centimeter cock deflated instantly, slipping from her ass with a wet rip, dragging thick golden semen mixed with black blood and shreds of flesh.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his groin; the left testicle charred black, shriveled like a grape roasted in hellfire, smoking heavily.
Freya raised her head.
Fresh blood, golden semen, saliva, and silver fluid streamed from her face down her neck and breasts, dripping to the floor.
She smiled.
Her second smile in life (wider, sharper, revealing two full rows of predator-white teeth).
Her voice, hoarse from three years of abuse, nevertheless rang through the vault of Valhalla:
"Day one thousand nine hundred and ninety-five…
You have given me enough."
The 4.2-centimeter flesh between her legs quivered in satisfaction, leaking a steady stream of silver fluid that burst into cold black flames where it touched the floor.
It had learned sensation.
It had learned killing.
It had tasted male blood for the first time.
Far away on his lofty throne, Odin turned the color of a corpse.
His lips trembled; his remaining hand crushed the armrest until the wood splintered.
He knew.
He had created something that was no longer a weapon.
It was a true monster.
A monster in the shape of a goddess, bearing the cock of a demon, and carrying the heart of annihilation itself.
The third year of hell was over.
And the first flesh of Zetsumyo Freya had tasted the blood of males.
It had gained its second heartbeat.
And it was still hungry.
Very, very hungry.