Year 4 of captivity: The Eternal Light Cage, Grand Hall of Valhalla
She begins to learn "retaliation"
On the first day of the fourth year, just as the sun peeked over Asgard's dome, the gate of light opened earlier than usual—so early that the golden torches were still blazing fiercely, not yet extinguished.
It was not the usual forty-five naked Einherjar dropped inside.
It was only one person.
Odin.
He walked into the grand hall on his own two feet—no moving throne, no golden cloak, no Gungnir spear.
Only a plain black cloak wrapped around a once-mighty frame that had visibly withered.
His steps were unsteady, leaning to the left, as if his lower body still ached too much to walk straight.
White bandages soaked with dark-brown dried blood were wrapped tightly from his lower abdomen down to his knees, stained with fresh patches because he had changed them himself the night before.
His face was ashen like a long-dead corpse, lips cracked and dry, his single remaining eye bloodshot from sleeplessness and from nightmares bearing the name of the very child he had created.
In his right hand he held a tiny ring.
Pure virgin gold, only 2 cm in diameter, less than 3 mm thick, yet engraved all over with ancient soul-binding runes—runes red as fresh-flowing blood.
The light radiating from the ring was a cold, icy gold that froze the air around it into tiny snowflakes.
He stopped in front of the cage, exactly one arm's length from the transparent glass.
He said nothing for several seconds. He only looked.
He looked at Zetsumyo Freya suspended in the middle of the cage like a butterfly pinned dead—platinum-blonde hair reaching her knees, matted into stiff strands by dried semen; breasts swollen and covered in bite marks; lower belly distended, still holding yesterday's seed; and between her legs, the flesh that had grown exactly 6 cm long and as thick as an adult thumb, its glans purple-pink, always slightly parted in a slit that leaked silver fluid drop by drop.
Odin raised his left hand and tossed the ring through the small round hole at the bottom of the cage.
The ring fell onto the glass floor, rolled in circles, ringing out with a cold chime like funeral bells.
"Put it on."
His voice was hoarse, utterly stripped of the authority that once made the Nine Realms tremble. Only exhaustion, fear, and a trace of barely concealed madness remained.
"Put it on the thing growing between your legs.
Right now.
If you don't, today I will send in one hundred Frost Giants with half-meter cocks.
They will take turns for three days and three nights without stopping.
Until you beg to wear the ring."
Freya did not answer immediately.
She only stared at the ring spinning on the floor, her crimson eyes unblinking.
She knew what it was.
A sacred chastity ring, the kind once used to lock the virginity of goddesses before they were sacrificed in rituals to create new worlds.
It would automatically shrink, clamping the base of her flesh, completely cutting off the flow of silver fluid, sealing away even a single drop from ever escaping.
It would turn her own flesh into another prisoner inside her body.
She said nothing.
She lowered her head very slowly, her long hair falling forward to hide her face.
Then she stuck out her tongue—an unnaturally long goddess's tongue, crimson and glistening—and dragged the ring closer.
The sound of tongue against glass echoed clearly through the death-silent hall.
She took the ring into her mouth.
She pushed it down with the tip of her tongue, into her throat, then spat it back out, soaked in saliva.
Then, in one deliberately slow motion, she opened her mouth wider, gently bit the edge of the ring with her teeth, and bent her head as low as it would go.
The 6 cm shaft was half-erect, its glans parted, leaking silver drop by drop.
She wrapped her tongue around its base, pulled it downward, then used her teeth to place the ring just beneath the glans—exactly where the largest vein pulsed.
The virgin-gold ring sensed the warmth of living flesh.
It contracted on its own.
Keeeeeeeet…
A hideous screech of metal tightening.
In an instant the ring shrank from 2 cm to 1.2 cm, biting deep into skin and flesh, severing the flow of silver fluid completely.
Dark purple-black blood immediately seeped from the constricted ring, streaming down her thighs, falling onto the glass floor in heavy drops.
The shaft jerked violently once, as though strangled.
The glans swelled from trapped blood that could not escape, turning purple-black, veins bulging as if about to burst.
It trembled in agony, then fell still.
Odin watched the scene, the corner of his mouth twitching.
For the first time in four years, he smiled.
A hoarse, dry laugh—like a starving raven.
"Well done, my daughter.
Now you are nothing more than a hole for males to pour their seed into."
He turned away, limping crookedly, and disappeared beyond the gate of light.
Immediately, the forty-five Einherjar were dropped in.
Year Four officially began.
The shaft was now clamped at its root by the golden ring; it could no longer release silver fluid.
It remained perpetually, painfully erect, the glans swollen from blocked circulation, purple-black, its slit parted but sealed shut.
Yet Freya had learned something new:
Pain can be turned into a weapon.
The first day after the ring was forced on her.
The forty-five rushed in as usual.
The first was Þrúðr—son of a minor god, 2.5 meters tall, muscles rippling, 26 cm cock with an apple-sized glans, dark red from over-engorgement.
He stepped forward, seized Freya's hips with hands that cracked her pelvic bones, then thrust straight into her vagina from the front, so hard her whole body was lifted several centimeters.
Freya did not moan.
She only stared straight into his eyes, crimson and emotionless.
She took a deep breath, then used the abdominal control she had secretly trained throughout the third year—after being filled thousands of times—contracting in a special rhythm, pushing the clamped 6 cm shaft upward, rubbing it hard against Þrúðr's lower abdomen, right above his pubic bone.
Just one rub.
The burning-hot glans touched his skin like iron fresh from the forge.
Þrúðr shuddered violently, eyes rolling back, mouth open but soundless.
He came far earlier than intended, golden-divine semen shooting deep into her womb in powerful jets that instantly swelled her lower belly.
But the instant he climaxed, the ring-clamped shaft convulsed wildly.
All the suppressed pain, the pent-up heat, the pressure locked for hours surged as a terrifying wave along the warrior's abdominal skin—like a thousand burning needles stabbing into his organs.
Þrúðr screamed, the sound shattering in his throat.
His 26 cm cock shriveled instantly, limp as a rag, slipping out of her along with the last spurts of semen.
He staggered back three steps, clutching his belly, face pale, sweat pouring.
"What… what rubbed against me… it's hot as the fires of Hel! It's burning my guts!"
Freya smiled—the first smile of the fourth year.
A cold smile that revealed two small, sharp white fangs.
She had found a way to fight back even while locked.
From that day on, the entire fourth year became a true nightmare for every Einherjar sent in.
Whenever someone entered her from the front, she used her abdominal muscles to rub the shaft against him—harder, longer, hotter.
Some warriors came instantly from a single rub, then collapsed on the spot, their cocks permanently shriveled, their souls gravely wounded.
Some tried to endure, but the longer they endured, the harder she rubbed, transmitting the ring's locked agony into their bodies until they vomited black blood and fell to their knees begging to pull out.
On some days she made seventeen of them collapse at once just by rubbing.
On some days she forced one man to climax eleven times in five minutes because he could not withstand the heat of the clamped flesh.
She was no longer passive.
She turned every thrust into a blade returned to its wielder.
Day 365 of the fourth year.
Odin had completely lost patience.
He sent in a special one to "punish" Freya for still resisting despite the ring.
His name was Kári.
A notorious Einherjar in life—2.6 meters tall, shoulders wide as Valhalla's pillars, muscles like boulders, long black hair matted with dried blood, golden eyes gleaming with madness.
30 cm when erect, thick as Freya's forearm, glans the size of an orange, purple-black, always leaking thick golden-divine precum like holy honey.
He stepped into the cage alone and laughed—a laugh that boomed like thunder:
"Today I'll turn that pretty mouth of yours into my personal semen jar, little monster."
He did not wait for the other forty-four.
He charged alone, huge hands seizing her blood-crusted platinum hair, yanking her head back until the vertebrae in her neck cracked.
Then he thrust.
30 cm rammed straight into her mouth—no slowness, no mercy.
The glans reached her esophagus, forcing her to swallow until she choked, her throat visibly bulging in the shape of his cock.
Tears streamed from suffocation, saliva mixed with blood running from the corners of her mouth.
He pounded hard—each thrust driving so deep she felt her throat would be pierced.
His hips slapped against her face with sickening wet smacks.
Freya did not resist.
She waited.
She waited until Kári was about to come.
He roared, eyes bloodshot with sick ecstasy:
"Swallow it all! Everything! Swallow for me!"
Golden-divine semen erupted like a geyser, so much it overflowed from her nose and the corners of her mouth, streaming down her chin and breasts.
But at that exact moment.
Freya did something she had never done before.
She gathered all the remaining rune power in her body—the last fragments of memory from the nine goddesses melted into her blood—and focused it on the virgin-gold ring.
In her mind flashed the memory of the goddess Lofn, goddess of forbidden love, who knew best every kind of chastity ring and lust-sealing curse.
She whispered in the oldest tongue known only to the nine murdered goddesses:
«Virgin gold can only bind virgins.
I am no longer a virgin.
I have been defiled thousands of times.
Your curse expired long ago.»
A tiny crack sounded—too soft for anyone but her to hear.
The golden ring split with a hairline fracture only 1 mm wide, yet enough for a single microscopic drop of silver fluid to slip through.
At the same instant, she contracted every abdominal muscle, every last ounce of strength, forcing the clamped 6 cm shaft to bend despite the ring, driving its glans straight upward into Kári's navel.
Kári laughed louder, thinking she was spasming in pleasure.
Then he felt it.
Something hard as steel and hot as the fires of Hel stabbed into his navel.
That single escaping droplet of silver shot like an ultra-fine arrow, pierced his skin, burrowed into his belly, and spread instantly.
Kári froze.
His eyes rolled white.
The 30 cm cock still mid-ejaculation suddenly went limp, slipping from Freya's mouth along with the remaining semen.
Three seconds.
First second: his skin turned corpse-green.
Second second: his soul was sucked out as a thin silver thread from his navel, flying straight into the 6 cm glans, swallowed whole by her shaft.
Third second: his body withered instantly—skin shrunk over bones, eyes sank deep, black hair fell in clumps, his cock shriveled into a dried scrap the size of a little finger, dropped to the glass floor and shattered.
He collapsed.
The desiccated corpse hit the cage floor with a dry clack, then crumbled into fragments like an overfired clay statue.
The golden ring on Freya's shaft cracked again—wider, longer.
It no longer gripped tightly.
Just one more time—one final drop of silver—and it would shatter completely.
Freya raised her head.
Fresh blood, golden-divine semen, saliva, and silver fluid streamed from her face down her neck, her breasts, dripping onto Kári's dried remains.
She looked straight at Odin.
For the first time all year, he had appeared outside the cage to watch the "punishment."
He stood mere steps from the glass, knuckles white gripping his seat, eyes bulging, lips trembling.
Freya smiled.
The widest smile yet, baring full rows of sharp white predator teeth.
"Day one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.
The first one has truly died.
Ninety-six years remain, Father.
I will kill them one by one.
Until only I remain… and my sisters waiting outside."
The golden ring trembled on her shaft—as if in fear.
The red runes on it faded, as though their blood were being drained.
Odin took one step back.
Then another.
He turned, limping faster than ever, and vanished beyond the gate of light.
The gate closed.
The remaining forty-five were never dropped in again.
The fourth year ended.
Zetsumyo Freya had learned how to kill even while bound.
The golden ring was now only a matter of time.
One final climax, one final drop of silver, and it would shatter.
And when that happened,
the cage of eternal light would no longer be a prison.
It would become the birthplace of a queen.