A warped reality beneath the ruins of Valhalla
Valhalla now was nothing more than the shattered husk of a once-golden hall. The pillars of pure gold that had once touched the heavens lay broken, black scabs of dried blood crusting the marble floors, and the ashes of Ragnarok still drifted in the frigid air.
In the center of the blood-spattered great hall stood Baldr, the former god of light, now clad in black armor, a silver half-mask concealing the pallid half of his face. He stood upon the highest dais.
Thousands of surviving Aesir warriors knelt at his feet, their eyes bloodshot with hatred and exhaustion.
Baldr raised his right hand. Absolute silence fell.
"Freya will not die," his voice rang out, cold as the ice of Niflheim. "Nor will she ever be free.
She will be our blade, our furnace that burns our enemies, so that none of us need dirty our own hands with blood."
At that instant, the eight remaining treasures of Asgard, Gungnir snapped in two, Mjölnir shattered, the flaming Brisingamen, the ring Draupnir, the shield Svalinn, the cracked horn Gjallarhorn, Frigg's necklace, and the ring Andvaranaut, all blazed with blinding white light at once.
Baldr slit his own palm and used his fresh blood as a conduit. The divine power of the nine relics spiraled together and slammed into the tiny purple-black dimensional gate that had once imprisoned Freya.
The gate expanded.
Infinitely.
A living prison-dimension was born.
Walls of throbbing purple-black flesh.
A ceiling of thick mist reeking of semen and blood.
A floor of warm, velvet-soft meat that breathed like the womb of a colossal monster pregnant with all Nine Realms.
Every captured enemy, giants of Jötunheim a hundred meters tall, dark elves of Svartalfheim with oil-slick skin, ice horrors of Niflheim, traitorous Vanir gods, dwarves of Nidavellir who had sheltered Freyr, even mortal heroes who had once raised swords against Asgard, were stripped naked before the entire Aesir host.
Baldr personally carved the eternal lust-rune onto their bodies with the very blood of Odin he had preserved in a crystal vial since Ragnarok.
The rune blazed purple-black and sank into marrow.
From that moment on, the slightest spark of desire brought agony like being burned alive unless it was immediately satisfied.
Then they were hurled through the gate.
Baldr spoke only one short sentence, his voice echoing through the ruined Valhalla:
"That monster will do the filthiest work for us."
In the ninth year, the purple-black gate opened an average of 70 times per day.
A total of 25,565 openings in 365 days.
More than three hundred thousand living beings were thrown in, from hundred-meter Jötnar to proud Vanir gods, from dark elves to mortal heroes who once defied Asgard.
Not one survived longer than three hours.
The shortest record: 41 seconds, an ex-Valkyrie who tried to slit her own throat with her broken sword, only for the tentacles to flay her alive before the blade touched skin.
The prison-dimension had grown so vast that the concept of a horizon no longer existed.
The ceiling was a dense purple-black fog heavy with the stench of semen, blood, and incinerated souls.
The floor was warm, pulsing flesh that contracted endlessly, like the womb of a titanic beast in eternal labor with the Nine Realms.
Flickering columns of violet light blinked like dying stars, each flash marking another soul drained dry.
Millions of tentacles had evolved over nine years of devouring souls, each type perfected for exquisite torment:
• Colossal tentacles thick as Valhalla's pillars, covered in backward-facing razor scales, designed to coil around Jötnar. They squeezed slowly, each vertebra cracking with a deliberate "crack… crack…" before suddenly stretching the victim into an X and impaling them from anus to mouth.
• Filaments thin as spider silk with meter-long silver needle tips that could slip through every pore and capillary, injecting aphrodisiacs straight into the brain and pituitary gland, forcing continuous orgasm even while the body was being torn apart.
• Blooming flower-tentacles of raw red meat containing hundreds of tiny tongues that sang lullabies in the exact voices of the victim's long-dead mother, grandmother, or lover, all in perfect chorus, making victims sob and moan in delirious rapture.
• Tentacles that secreted hallucinogens a thousand times stronger than Alfheim's fairy mushrooms: victims saw their most beloved smiling, embracing them, whispering "I'll never leave you," while in reality hundreds of spears of flesh were punching through their organs.
• Transparent tubular tentacles that pumped scalding violet semen into wombs, stomachs, bladders, even brains through the nose until the victim swelled like a balloon, then sucked it all back out.
• Trumpet-shaped sucking mouths that clamped onto cocks or clits and sucked without pause for hours until the genitals were purple, swollen, and bleeding.
At the very center, upon a living throne hundreds of meters tall woven from millions of tentacles like a gigantic spiderweb, sat Freya, motionless.
She was completely naked.
Skin so white it was nearly translucent, purple veins pulsing visibly beneath paper-thin flesh like living glass.
Platinum-blonde hair cascading to her waist like a silver waterfall, every strand glistening with the fluids of nine years of constant licking.
Eyes without pupils, only twin bottomless voids that swallowed all light and soul. Those who looked into them saw themselves being torn apart in infinite variations.
Her 18 cm cock stood eternally rigid, the crimson glans glossy, forever dripping clear precum that formed a small puddle on the throne.
Her balls, swollen like two small melons, hung heavy beneath, swaying with every tremor of the dimension and making wet, obscene glug-glug-glug sounds.
She did not speak. Did not smile. Did not cry. Did not blink.
She simply sat, a living statue carved from the despair of the Nine Realms.
Each time the gate opened:
1. A dull "phut" echoed, millions of tentacles surged forward like a living tsunami.
2. Clothing, armor, skin, everything was ripped away in less than a second. The chorus of tearing fabric, snapping bones, and peeling flesh rang out like a hymn of death.
3. Baldr's lust-rune detonated. Violet runes blazed across victims' bodies. Man, woman, monster, god, all went instantly mad with need, eyes crimson, foaming at the mouth, clawing at their own flesh if the tentacles were not fast enough.
4. The tentacles obliged, slow, gentle, relentless. They thrust, sucked, licked, coiled, twisted, vibrated, filled, drained… while whispering in the voices of the victim's most beloved: "I love you," "Mommy's here," "Don't be scared, I'll be gentle…"
5. Victims climaxed hundreds, thousands of times, one recorded case reaching 3,217 orgasms in the final two hours. Each climax was a long moan, another gush of fluid forced back into their bodies to increase the eventual soul-harvest.
6. At the final orgasm (usually the 999th or 1,337th), millions of tiny suction pores on the tentacles opened at once. A soft "phap." Soul and life-force were drained in a single heartbeat. The body instantly withered, skin shrinking over bone, eyes sinking, mouth frozen in a grotesque smile of ultimate satisfaction.
7. Desiccated husks rained down with continuous wet thuds, piling into mountains hundreds of meters high before other tentacles pulverized them into purple dust that fed the ever-growing prison.
The only sounds that ever filled this dimension were:
• Moans of ecstasy mixed with sobs of despair.
• The ripping of flesh and snapping of bone.
• The wet glug-glug of semen being pumped in and sucked out.
• And very rarely, a final scream when a soul realized it had been deceived for hours.
All of it formed a wordless, endless symphony of death.
Day after day.
The ninth year was still long.
And upon the highest living throne, Zetsumyo Freya sat motionless,
her bottomless black eyes fixed on the gate as it opened for the 25,566th time,
waiting for the next offering.
She had not blinked once.
She had not smiled once.
Until this day, day 347 of the ninth year.
The gate opened for the 19,247th time.
A tiny golden-haired girl was flung inside like a leaf in a storm.
Lýsa, youngest daughter of Njörðr, blood sister of Freyr.
True age 327, but her body had developed only to that of a mortal girl of fourteen or fifteen.
Golden hair like summer sunlight in Vanaheim, reaching her waist, tangled and filthy from being dragged across stone for three days.
Eyes the icy blue of frozen lakes, now red and swollen from crying.
She still wore the pure white robe of a Vanir priestess edged in gold, now torn and stained with dried blood at shoulder and breast.
Baldr's lust-rune had been carved into the smooth skin just above her pubic bone three days earlier, a perfect circle of purple-black runes. Now it flared to full life.
Lýsa collapsed onto the wet, warm meat floor. Her legs trembled uncontrollably, knees buckling.
Between her pale thighs, the white robe was soaked through, clear fluids streaming down to her ankles in shining trails.
She clutched her belly and sobbed, voice cracking with terror and forced desire:
"No… I've never… please don't… I don't want this… I'm still… still a virgin…"
For the first time in the entire ninth year, Freya rose from her throne.
Each step she took sent a faint earthquake through the dimension.
Millions of tentacles silently parted, forming a straight, pulsing purple-black path to the girl.
Freya walked slowly. Her platinum hair floated in a wind that did not exist, her eternally rigid cock swaying with each step, her heavy balls slapping softly together.
She knelt before Lýsa, knees sinking into the warm flesh floor.
Her pale, slender hand gently lifted the girl's chin. Her thumb wiped away hot tears.
Freya's voice was soft, impossibly gentle, impossible to believe it belonged to the demon who had slaughtered hundreds of thousands:
"Shh… don't cry.
Your big sister won't hurt you."
and a final liberation that shook the entire prison like a second Ragnarok
Freya cradled Lýsa in her arms as though the girl were a fragile glass doll on the verge of shattering. The child weighed almost nothing; only the violent tremors and the burning breath against Freya's neck proved she still lived.
A colossal living bed rose from the flesh floor, dozens of meters wide, soft as the womb of a goddess pregnant with the universe. Its violet velvet surface rose and fell slowly, tiny purple veins pulsing beneath, radiating heat and the thick scent of millennia of accumulated lust.
Freya laid Lýsa on her back. Her pale fingers slowly peeled away the last scraps of the torn white robe. The fabric dissolved into purple mist the instant it touched the floor.
Lýsa's body was revealed fully beneath the deathly violet light, so beautiful that even the emotionless demon of nine years paused for one heartbeat.
Small, budding breasts like young peaches, pale pink nipples trembling and erect from cold and stimulation.
A waist so narrow Freya could encircle it with one hand, skin smooth as Vanaheim silk.
Long, snow-white legs pressed tightly together in shame and involuntary desire.
Between her thighs, the final secret of ancient Vanir blood:
Lýsa was a complete hermaphrodite.
A virgin pink slit, so tight only a little finger could fit, clenching frantically, clear fluids running in rivulets down to her ass.
Just centimeters above it, a dainty cock no longer than 9 cm when fully erect, the rosy head glistening, leaking large drops of precum.
Two tiny balls drawn up tight, swollen nearly double from Baldr's rune locking away all release.
Freya lay beside her, one arm cradling Lýsa's head against her breast, the other hand gently stroking from neck to the glowing rune on the girl's flat belly.
Four slender tentacles, no thicker than a little finger and tipped with soft velvet buds, approached silently:
• Two slid into Lýsa's untouched virgin slit, torturously slow, secreting warm golden lubricant that stretched her hymen without tearing it. The tips swelled gradually from pinky-size to wrist-thick, spinning to find her tiny G-spot, then vibrating like a thousand bee wings.
• The other two coiled around her pink nipples, suction mouths opening, hundreds of tiny tongues licking and sucking gently like a nursing infant, while injecting stimulants that made the nipples throb with painful hardness.
Lýsa let out a long, high-pitched cry that shattered through the prison. Her whole body arched like a drawn bow.
Forty seconds later, her first orgasm in life crashed over her.
Her eyes rolled back white, mouth gaping soundlessly.
Her pussy clenched wildly, squirting thin streams that splashed across Freya's belly and breasts.
Her little cock jerked violently, clear fluid dripping in heavy drops, but Baldr's rune held firm, not one drop of semen was allowed release.
The tentacles did not stop.
They slowed just as Lýsa thought she could breathe, then accelerated the instant she gasped.
Third orgasm: Lýsa sobbed, clutching her belly, pussy leaking in steady streams.
Seventh: She began begging in a broken whisper, "It hurts… too much… let me go…"
Twelfth: Her mouth hung open, drool running down chin and neck, eyes unfocused, only able to whimper.
By the fifteenth, her little cock was purple from prolonged denial, her balls tripled in size, shiny and ready to burst. Each press against her G-spot made the cock jerk, shooting clear precum in thin arcs but never true release.
Eighteenth: Lýsa was nearly unconscious, body convulsing uncontrollably, tears and pussy juice mingling on her cheeks.
Twentieth: Her body seized as if struck by thousands of volts. Her pussy gushed endlessly, her cockhead slapped against her own belly, balls trembling on the verge of explosion, yet still locked.
Freya pulled Lýsa tightly into her embrace, letting the girl's head rest against her full, milk-white breasts where dark purple nipples stood rigid from her own arousal.
Her left hand stroked the sweat-soaked golden hair; her right slid downward.
Three long, warm fingers plunged deep into the spasming little cunt, curling hard against the G-spot.
Her other hand wrapped fully around the tiny cock, one hand was more than enough, stroking fast from root to glistening head, thumb grinding the sensitive ridge.
"Shhh… good girl… big sister is here…"
Freya's voice was a lullaby, yet her abyssal eyes remained cold.
Lýsa wailed, arms flinging around Freya's neck, clinging like a drowning child.
Freya kissed her forehead, then whispered hoarsely into her ear for the first time with real emotion:
"I will break the spell for you… just this once… can you endure it?"
Lýsa nodded frantically, tears streaming, voice a broken sob: "Please, sister… I'm dying…"
Freya closed her eyes.
A terrifying surge of purple-black divine power flowed from her palm into Lýsa's body. The violet rune on the girl's lower belly blazed blindingly, then shattered into millions of fragments of light swallowed by the prison.
Baldr's spell was completely destroyed.
At the same instant, Freya drove all five fingers deep into the girl's womb, forming a small fist that twisted inside her. Her other hand clamped the base of the tiny cock and stroked with machine speed.
Lýsa screamed, a sound that tore the fabric of the prison-dimension itself.
The entire realm shook as if a second Ragnarok had begun.
Dying violet columns flashed wildly.
Millions of tentacles draining other victims froze for one heartbeat in terror.
Lýsa's pussy convulsed catastrophically, squirting a column of clear fluid meters into the air like a geyser.
Her little cock jerked again and again, finally, for the first time in her life, granted full release.
Thick, hot, white semen shot in powerful ropes, splattering Freya's face, Lýsa's golden hair, the distant ceiling, the demon's full breasts, even the living throne hundreds of meters away.
She came for nearly two full minutes, each spasm shooting another torrent, her balls gradually deflating, trembling from overwhelming ecstasy.
When the last spurt fell, Lýsa collapsed completely in Freya's arms, panting as if her lungs would burst, body drenched in sweat, pussy juice, and her own semen.
Freya gently kissed the girl's trembling lips, licking away a bead of cum at the corner of her mouth, then whispered in a voice that for the first time carried true warmth:
"You are mine.
From now on, no one in the Nine Realms may touch you except me.
Not even Baldr."
All around, the millions of tentacles quietly resumed their soul-harvesting work.
But at the center of the prison, for the first time in nine years, a living being remained alive, fully released, and cradled in the demon's arms like a priceless treasure.
Lýsa lay in Freya's embrace, chest heaving weakly, icy-blue eyes slowly regaining focus, staring up at the demon with terror, insane adoration, and gratitude deep enough to offer her very soul.
And far within the bottomless black eyes of Zetsumyo Freya,
a tiny, almost imperceptible spark of light,
for the first time in nine years,
had just been kindled.
It had only truly begun.