Year 4 of Imprisonment – Eternal Light Cage, Grand Hall of Valhalla
The only day in 1,460 days when no one entered.
For the first time in exactly one thousand four hundred and sixty unbroken days and nights, the light-door at the top of the cage did not open.
No clank of chains lowering naked bodies.
No clatter of armor plates.
No fresh, knife-sharp stench of divine semen slamming into her nostrils.
No panting, no growling, no sick moaning, no wet slap of flesh against flesh.
Only silence.
Absolute silence, terrifying silence, silence so complete that Freya could hear every drop of silver fluid falling from the flesh between her thighs onto the crystal floor:
drip…
drip…
drip…
steady as the heartbeat of a monster sleeping deep in her belly.
She still hung in the same position that had become part of her bones and flesh over the past three years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days:
kneeling with thighs forced to their absolute limit, knees fifty centimeters above the floor, her entire weight suspended from hips permanently deformed and a cervix stretched into a living tube of meat.
The virgin-gold chains had eaten into skin and bone; swollen garlands of crimson flesh had grown around each link, oozing yellow pus whenever she moved even a millimeter.
Wrists wrenched so far behind her back that her shoulder blades jutted outward like the broken wings of a fallen angel.
Her throat was crushed so tightly that every breath whistled like wind through a cracked flute.
But today, no one came.
Odin had given the order in a voice that rarely trembled for the All-Father:
"Give the monster one day to recover its strength."
He was afraid.
After the final night of the third year (when the first jet of silver fluid had punched a hole through Young Váli's belly and charred Hróðr's left testicle to coal), he knew he needed time.
Time to rethink his strategy.
Time to find a way to bind what was growing between her legs.
Time to ask himself whether he was still the one holding the reins… or had already become the prey.
Inside the cage, for the first time in nearly four years, Zetsumyo Freya closed her eyes.
She allowed herself to remember.
Not the shredded fragments torn apart by daily pain, but to remember clearly, coldly, slowly (like a torturer reviewing every cut he had carved into another's flesh).
She remembered the second year.
The year the nub learned to "drink."
Flashback – Year Two: The Nub Learns to "Drink"
The second year began the very next day after the first, without a single second of rest.
The number of "instructors" rose from 30 to 40 per day.
They were no longer frightened, wide-eyed boys.
Odin had chosen Einherjar who had died in the old Ragnarok: bodies hardened by centuries of war, cocks twenty to twenty-five centimeters long, noses long accustomed to blood, death, and battlefield lust.
They entered the cage with empty eyes, reduced to the most primitive instinct: mate and destroy.
At that time, the nub above her pubic bone was only the size of a peanut, fresh pink, slightly pointed, pulsing weakly like a newly formed fetal heart.
But it had changed.
It no longer merely warmed when semen was shot into her womb.
It learned to suck.
The very first day of the second year.
Forty men were lowered at once.
They lined up like an army awaiting orders.
The first was Magni, eldest son of Thor: fiery red beard, over 2.4 meters tall, twenty-four-centimeter cock as thick as Freya's tiny wrist at the time.
Without a word he stepped forward, seized her hips until her pelvis cracked, and drove straight into her cunt (no warning, no lubrication, no mercy).
She did not cry out.
She only stared into his eyes with unblinking crimson.
When Magni came, the hot golden flood shooting deep into her womb, she bore down (very lightly, just enough for a portion of the semen to flow back out and run down over her mound).
The nub convulsed once.
She felt it clearly: a hair-thin thread of heat drawn backward through her skin, sucked straight into the nub.
It swelled (just 0.1 millimeter), but she knew.
It had drunk.
Magni was still inside her when he suddenly screamed, clutched his groin, staggered back three steps, face ashen, sweat pouring.
His cock shriveled in agony, as though crushed by an invisible fist.
"What… just sucked me?" he roared, voice cracking with panic.
From that moment, Freya began to do it on purpose.
Every time someone came inside her (vagina, ass, or mouth), she bore down in a secret rhythm only she knew.
Semen spilled out, flowed over her mound.
The nub drank.
It drank a sliver of soul, a sliver of strength, a sliver of lifespan from the man.
Some collapsed after their third orgasm, eyes rolled white, cocks limp as dead worms, a piece of their soul torn away forever, leaving them mindless husks for the rest of their days in Valhalla.
Midway through the second year, there was one especially memorable day.
Day 180 of the second year.
Odin lost patience.
He ordered all forty released at once, no more taking turns.
They fell upon her like wolves starved for centuries.
Three claimed her three holes at the same time: one in her cunt, one in her ass, one rammed down her esophagus.
The remaining thirty-seven used hands, mouths, anything to pour more semen onto her body, her hair, her breasts, her belly.
Freya hung suspended in the center of the cage, body shaking with every frenzied thrust.
Blood and semen poured from every opening, from the corners of her eyes, from the corners of her mouth.
When the three main rapists came simultaneously, she bore down harder than ever before.
Golden semen gushed out like a fountain, flooding down over her mound and onto the crystal floor.
The nub went berserk.
It sucked.
It sucked so hard the air in the cage screamed like a vacuum.
All three men collapsed as though lightning-struck, large chunks of their souls ripped away, eyes white, cocks permanently shriveled to half their former size, never to rise again.
By the end of the second year, the nub had grown to 2.3 centimeters, unnaturally hard and hot.
A distinct glans had formed; a narrow slit had appeared, constantly weeping clear fluid that smelled of cold metal.
Freya had learned to control it, in part.
When she wished, it hardened, veins rising beneath the thin skin.
When she wished, it shrank and hid, as though it had never existed.
It had become a living organ with its own consciousness, its own hunger.
Back to the Present – The Only Day of Rest
Freya opened her eyes.
Crimson eyes looked down at the flesh that was now nearly 5 centimeters long after the final night of the third year: pointed glans, deeper slit, always half-open like a black eye watching.
It still quivered with the memory of being fed to fullness.
She whispered, voice hoarse from a throat long unused to full sentences:
"Year two…
You gave me fourteen thousand six hundred loads.
I drank every drop.
Not one was wasted."
A soft laugh escaped her throat, echoing in the empty cage (cold as metal scraping bone, as a blade being sharpened on stone).
"Year one, you taught me pain.
Year two, I taught you fear.
Year three, I taught you death.
Ninety-six years remain…"
She slowly raised her head; matted, blood-and-semen-crusted platinum hair fell across one eye.
She stared through the transparent cage wall straight at Odin's empty throne.
He did not dare appear today.
He was hiding somewhere in the palace, clutching his groin sewn shut with golden thread, trembling from nightmares named after the very child he had created.
"Ninety-six more years, Father."
Her voice was soft as wind, yet it made the crystal walls vibrate.
"I will be big enough.
Big enough to tear this cage apart with the very flesh you have fed.
Big enough to tear every last one of your males apart (piece by piece).
I will make all of Asgard remember:
the ultimate weapon you created to destroy demons…
is the greatest nightmare of all males."
The flesh between her legs gave a long, powerful throb of agreement.
Silver fluid dripped to the floor, hissed black smoke, and ate a deep hole through the crystal.
It was growing.
With every passing second, it grew a little more.
Every memory of pain, every drop of stolen semen, every stolen fragment of soul was nourishment.
Freya closed her eyes again.
She did not sleep.
She was only counting.
Counting every second of this single day of rest.
Counting every heartbeat of the living flesh between her legs.
Counting every breath of the hunger that remained undiminished after nearly four years of being force-fed to bursting every single day.
She counted until the first moonlight of the fourth year filtered through the cage, bathing everything in deadly silver.
The light-door opened again.
The clank of chains resumed.
Forty-five new figures were lowered.
Taller, fiercer, larger cocks, eyes still empty but now tinged with fear they could no longer hide.
But this time, Freya was no longer the passive one.
She opened her eyes.
Crimson irises blazed like twin blood moons.
The flesh between her legs rose to full erection, glans flared, slit gaping like a laughing mouth.
She smiled.
The smile of a monster that had learned hunger, learned killing, and learned patience.
The only day of rest was over.
The next 1,460 days of hell had only just begun.
And Zetsumyo Freya's hunger was no longer the hunger of a caged child.
It was the hunger of a queen about to awaken.
A queen with no womb to bear life,
only a length of flesh that knew how to drink blood, how to kill, and how to take revenge.
She whispered (loud enough for all forty-five newcomers to hear, loud enough to make Valhalla tremble):
"Come.
Today I will drink deeper than yesterday."
The flesh gave one final throb, then pointed straight forward, silver fluid dripping, smoking black.
The game had changed.
And the hunter was no longer Odin.
The ninety-six-year countdown would truly begin tomorrow.
But today,
today was still very long.
And Freya was very, very hungry.