Divine Bodies

Erotic Short. The god Freyr expects good work from his priests, but gives good rewards.

Longer erotic short commissioned by Theo!

Featuring transness, divinity, magical HRT, size differences, come inflation, consensual nonconsent, somnophilia, gangbangs, stomach bulges, come inflation, public humiliation, power dynamics, nature imagery, gender expression and embrace of gender identity as faith and worship!

Breeding kink and dirty talk about pregnancy included but no actual pregnancy. Terms used for Esben’s genitalia are tits, cock, cunt — this story delves into effects as of HRT throughout, so please bear that in mind.

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The sun was just beginning to rise when Esben woke up, shifting under the blankets on his bed pallet, and he pressed his face more solidly into the back of Kottr’s scruff, pressing his nose into the wiry grey of his fur, wrapping his arm around the hound’s belly.

Kottr yawned, making a squeaking noise in the back of his throat as he stretched out his legs as far as he could, and then leaned back into Esben’s body, shoving his hard skull up into Esben’s chin.

The fireplace was still crackling away quietly, almost down to the end of its fuel, and Esben lifted one hand away from Kottr’s thick fur, flicking two fingers toward the pile of logs in the trough beside the door. One of them lifted up immediately, levitating smoothly on the air, and slid into the fire, sending a satisfying puff of new sparks up around the spit.

Most of the light in the room came from the fire itself, a little more light coming in from the chimney’s gap, that light paler and not as warm. Esben was underneath a layer of four blankets, although Kottr, owing to the thickness of his fur, had elected to burrow under only the uppermost one, laying on top of the others.

Esben didn’t want to rise just yet, and as he shifted his hand, pulling at the flow of magic on the air, he set a pouch of water to pour into the kettle, a few nettle leaves and berries inside, and then the kettle floated merrily through the cool morning hair, settling itself neatly on its hook over the flame.

Kottr yawned again, silently this time, and Esben scratched his chest, pressing his fingers into the thickness of his fur. He had gotten Kottr as a young dog, given to him when he’d healed the daughter of a woman some days’ rowing upriver — he’d been six months old, the last of their dog’s litter, and the first time he’d seen Esben use magic, he’d been very frightened indeed, had barked and howled at the floating cloak.

He hadn’t, Esben didn’t believe, realised that the cloak was under Esben’s control: he had posed himself immediately between his new master and this frightening cloth attacker, and ripped the bottom hem quite to shreds.

Esben hadn’t blamed him, of course — and once Esben had repaired it, it seemed like the different colour cloth at the hem was on purpose. He’d received a few compliments on it.

“The full moon has waned, Kottr,” said Esben, scratching Kottr’s ear, and Kottr looked at him with interest, brown eyes shining in the dismal gloom. “I shall make my pilgrimage to Freyr’s shrine today, and lay my offering there.”

Kottr rolled onto his back, and pawed at Esben’s shoulder.

“Is that some statement of understanding, or do you want a piss?” asked Esben.

Kottr rolled off of the pallet and, tail wagging, pawed at the door.

Esben laughed and stood from his bed, pulling on a pair of loose leggings and an undershirt. It was spring, and the air was beginning to warm, the snow starting to thaw away from the land outside and leaving a grey-white slurry behind in the grass, but the air was still cold, and there was a bitterness in it.

Nonetheless, he did not wear his heaviest tunic — he would only grow too hot in it later.

He loosely wrapped his belt around his middle, checking that his knife was sheathed where it ought be, and then he slipped on his boots, his cloak.

“Are you staying in bed, Hundr?” asked Esben, and Hundr stirred in his favourite bed, which wasn’t actually a bed at all — it was a fish trap Esben hadn’t been able to repair, the wicker too damaged after an elk had trodden on it, but Hundr had liked it very much even before Esben had lined it with a ruined shirt, and now it was his favourite place to sleep. Hundr opened both eyes reluctantly, chirruping from the back of his throat and purring when Esben slid his palm over the top of his wide head, marked over as it was with battle scars and scabs.

Hundr refused to move, and Esben left him in his place — he would stir by the time Esben had broken his fast and drunk some morning tea, and would no doubt begin his patrol of the nearby farmsteads, sowing his wild oats.

As Kottr walked down to the end of Esben’s plot, nestled between two more defined farms, Esben followed after him. Troels and Estrid and all of Troels’ brothers were on the western side, and Svend and his family on the other. They had offered him more land than he had, when first he had been walking through with his goats and Hundr on his shoulder — he had requested only the portion of land they’d given him when he’d first offered his services as healer, but they had heard of him already.

They’d been a little frightened of him, truth be told, and he hadn’t been intimidating at all those years ago, a young man with no hair on his face, his every feature still seeming so much more youthful, his voice still high, but they hadn’t treated him as the boy he had appeared as — and certainly hadn’t treated him as a woman.

He hadn’t wanted to take advantage of their desire to please, and he did think that was for the best, so many years on — they respected him now without fearing him for no reason. Fear didn’t always serve a man.

As Kottr took his morning piss against the fencepost, Esben let free his goats from their little barn, and his little brood of hens, too, that they could move about more freely. He would ask Revna, one of Svend’s youngest, to check on them before he made his journey, in case he was gone a few days.

He unparcelled the last of the boar he hadn’t put up to cure, and that got Hundr to jump up from his basket, coming to settle beside him at the fire. Kottr took half of the parcel raw, but Hundr, a far more demanding and sophisticated eater, waited for Esben to cook the meat over the fire before he ate any.

“The full moon has waned, Hundr,” said Esben as they shared a piece of pork meat, and Hundr looked up at him with wise eyes and frazzled whiskers. “I might be gone a few days.”

Hundr put one paw on his knee, and began to knead into the fabric there, looking up at him lovingly, until Esben dipped his head and butted their heads together.

It was not that he disliked his house, nor the animals with whom he lived, nor the modesty with which he lived. Esben had never wanted for luxury, and even before he had ever met a great, tall beast of a man-not-man with gold shining in his hair and his beard, he had been confident in his command of magic, had been born with skill enough to improve on.

The pact he had made was not one that made great demands of him, he did not think, particularly given the great extent of the rewards it garnered, and yet part of him, at times, wondered what it would be like, to live with someone in his house — another man, perhaps, a shield brother who might touch him, be touched, a man with a good cock to play with.

The thought made his own cock stir between his legs, and he pressed the heel of his hand down against it, humming lowly as he rubbed his heel back and forth over the jut of the nub through his clothes, feeling heat flood downward —

But no.

Why bother, when he could have so much more by the day’s end?

He left the door on the latch, painting a handful of symbols on the air before the entrance. It wasn’t as though he had to — Kottr would dissuade anyone who came close to the house bar young Revna, and if anyone came seeking his services, they would leave their message with either Svend’s wife, Gertha, or with Estrid.

He only hoped they didn’t, because a few months back, someone had come urgently about a sickness in a village some ways north whilst he was making his journey and upon returning home, he had had to waddle home and then commission the services of one of Svend’s horses to ride, which had been uncomfortable indeed. No one had commented on the state he had arrived in, too frightened to say any word against him when they needed his magic so desperately, but they had all noticed, had all looked, and that they said nothing almost made it worse.

Hundr clambered up onto Esben’s shoulder and Kottr walked on his other side as Esben walked out of his own yard an hour or so later, a pail of milk in his arm and a sack of eggs in his hand.

“Good morning,” he said as he stepped into the main part of Svend’s yard, and immediately one of their sons rushed to relieve him of his burden, taking the pail and the eggs both.

“Good morning,” said Svend, standing from where he was sitting on the bench with his wife and some of his daughters. When Kottr walked up to him, he bent to scratch the hound’s ears. “Your pilgrimage is at hand, priest?”

“That it is,” said Esben. “Might I trouble your Revna to check in on my goats tomorrow and the next day, if I do not return before tomorrow’s eve?”

“Revna,” called Svend, and Revna rushed out from the house, beaming when she saw Esben and nodding eagerly. Esben liked Revna very much — a young girl of nine, she did not speak at all, having badly bitten her tongue as a toddler, so that a good bit of it was missing.

Esben’s goats liked her best, and Hundr and Kottr loved her to pieces.

“And we’ll feed Kottr, of course,” added Svend. “And Hundr, if he deigns to grace us with his presence.”

“Who can predict the movements of our mighty jarl?” asked Esben dryly, spreading his fingers in a sweeping gesture, and Svend laughed. Hundr, apparently sensing that he was being mocked, hopped down and went up to Revna, letting the little girl scoop him up in her arms, although he was so big and so heavy with feline muscle that he looked quite ridiculous, near as big as the girl was.

Esben heard the slight nervousness, the eagerness to please, in Svend’s voice; equally, he felt the gazes of Svend’s eldest sons on his body, looking at him.

They saw his beard, short and neat as it was, and the hardness of his jaw, his cheekbones, but they had seen other parts of him too — some of them watched him swim when he did so in the moonlight, creeping in the woods to watch him undressed, and Esben knew without ever having checked that they touched themselves to thoughts of the priest next door, imagined the pinkness of his cunt around their cocks, fantasied about pinning him beneath them.

Esben made eye contact with one of the eldest, Olf, a tall and strapping young man with a wolf carved into the handle of his knife, and Olf retreated like a wilting flower, ducking his head down and not meeting Esben’s eye.

How he expected to fuck anybody with an attitude like that, let alone a priest his own father was afeared of, Esben had not the slightest idea.

Esben wondered what any of them would do, if they knew their spying on him was not so secret as they thought, if they knew Esben had heard them from time to time, speaking of Esben’s rosebud tits and his little cock, every one of them aching to touch him, aching for Esben to lower his standards and touch them.

Troels’ sons, two of them, were a little more confident, but that was embarrassing in itself, how they fought for Esben’s attention, each of them shouldering the other to lean into Esben’s gaze — and really, they were each of them too young, and far too stupid to housetrain. Troels’ brothers were somewhat more appealing, each of them huge and fat and rippling with muscle, but they knew precisely how attractive they were, and that sort of thing was inconvenient.

There was only one man Esben really wanted in his house, and none of these young things, as pleasant as he expected their cocks were if you liked that sort of thing, really measured up.

Esben didn’t know what he’d do if he let a young man into his house and found himself treated as a wife — kill them, probably, although that wasn’t proper at all. None of Svend’s boys, nor Troels’, could really be taken as a husband, although Esben did sometimes fantasise about letting them follow him down to the lake to bathe.

In those fantasies, when he realised they were watching him, he went to lie upon the beach, still quite naked, and feigned to fall asleep — one of Troels’ brothers was ordinarily there in the fantasy, usually Bjorn, and he would lead the way down to the lake’s shore, gesturing for the other boys to follow him.

It would always be a group of them, five or six of them, and they would look curiously at his naked body, at the thick hair that grew on his chest, between and around his tits, down his belly, the thicker thatch of hair on his thighs and over his mound. They would some of them touch his hair, nervously, delicately, frightened of waking him, and then another of them would become a little more confident and take a handful of one of his tits, cupping it in his palm or gently squeezing, pulling at, a nipple.

In his “sleep”, Esben would sigh, and convinced that he was well and truly unconscious, Bjorn would impatiently shove his thighs apart to get a good look at his cunt.

“This is big,” he’d say, taking Esben’s cock between thumb and forefinger and rolling it between them, and Esben would moan low in his throat whilst forcing his eyes to remain closed. Bjorn would laugh then, and shove two fingers lower, pushing his outer lips apart to better examine where he was pink and wet.

“Maybe in comparison to you,” would say one of the others, and they’d laugh very quietly, trying to stifle the noise.

“Bigger than a woman’s,” would say Bjorn, and sigh. “Fat cunt that this is, seems a shame to let it go unploughed.”

This would be too far for what Esben had wanted, against his agreements — he wanted only for them to touch him, play with him, admire him, not actually fuck him, but in the fantasy he would find that he could no longer open his eyes or open his mouth to protest. His limbs would not obey his instructions, and when Bjorn lifted his hips, he could do nothing to struggle free, to demand they release him: Bjorn’s cock, when it pierced him, would be so large as to make him whine as it was shoved inside him to the root.

“Fuck,” Bjorn would hiss. “He’s tight, wet, too. Fucking treat. Never been pregnant, I bet — we’ll sort that out.”

“Bjorn!” the others would protest. “You can’t just — you can’t just fuck him as he sleeps, he’s a priest — ”

“Don’t be a milksop,” Bjorn would tell one of the youngest. “Freyr doesn’t give his priests pretty holes like this with the want that they should go unplundered. One of you fuck his arse.”

They would pass him between them, then, an unconscious fucktoy free for them to play with as they wished: Bjorn and one of the others would flood his cunt and his arse both with hot come, leave it dripping out of him until other cocks slid into his holes, and meanwhile the others would play with and suckle at his tits, at his cock. One of them would shove his cock into his throat, and he’d cough and choke, but remain “asleep” still powerless, until the sun was dawning and they decided to leave him there.

Come would be leaking out of him, dribbling down his chin, out of his cunt, his arse, and they’d rub it into his skin, into his own cock, into his tits.

Only when they were gone would he be able to “wake”, and see the golden shimmer of his god standing over him, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

For no reason at all that Esben could bother to name, he picked one of Svend’s boys — Olf — and dropped the fantasy, minus the divine appearance at the end, into his head. Olf was twenty-something, and Esben watched the expression on his face as he digested what he thought had come to his own mind from nowhere at all, watched his hand go down to shield the abrupt stiffening of his cock under his tunic.

He was blushing furiously as he rushed off to wank himself off like a young man half his age, still surprised whenever his cock abruptly came to life and demanded his attention, and Esben felt himself smile.

“Thank you as ever for your help, Svend,” said Esben.

“Thank you for the milk and eggs,” said Svend, and Esben gave a neat bow of his head as he turned on his heel to go.

The village was not a large one, a nameless collection of a half-dozen farmsteads with Esben’s plot of land in the middle of them, and Esben liked living here, liked that everyone knew his name and either feared him or desired him — ordinarily, a mix of both.

People watched him as he passed by, his cloak around his shoulders and his satchel resting on one hip, Kottr padding along at his side. He walked proudly when he accompanied Esben somewhere, even when Esben walked to another village — Esben had never had need of his protection, but Kottr liked to give it, and sometimes growled at strangers who passed too close to Esben on any one pathway, and raised his hackles at them.

Esben liked how it looked, anyway, when he came into a new settlement with Kottr by his side — Esben wasn’t intimidating from a distance, not until someone realised who he was, but Kottr was a bestial thing, his big bear’s head a little higher than Esben’s hip, and people were cautious about him from the get-go.

Kottr walked by his side out of the village, walking over the stone bridge over the river. He became somewhat cautious, when Esben turned off the main path through the great forest and took a pathway mostly trodden by deer and boar, and not by man.

Kottr walked with him for a mile before he realised where Esben was going, and turned back.

Esben had grown up in woods like this one — he’d been born in a little house in the midst of a forest glade, and while there had been other people within the wood’s boundaries, they’d each of them been some walk away, closer to the edges of the trees. He was happiest underneath wide tree canopies like this one, the undergrowth thick under his feet, and thick it was — snow was still gathered at the bases of some trees as he walked down the path, mostly melted away where the sun dappled in through the trees.

Esben had an even, deliberate gate — he walked neither fast nor especially slow, but kept a constant rhythm, picking his way through the thickness of the plant growth beneath him. Despite the snow, a few flowers were beginning to blend in with the grass, blooming up from where the ground had been hard and cold.

It wouldn’t be for too much longer.

As he had walked this far, Esben had glimpsed other animals in the woods — he had seen deer move by in the distance, or seen the signs of elk having passed through in their grooves marked on one tree trunk or other; he saw birds flying overhead or saw squirrels and rabbits pass by.

As the trees around him grew taller, gathered together more densely on his either side, as the sun was blocked out more and more by the heavy canopy above him, Esben walked through darkening woods, and saw almost no sign of life at all.

Kottr never accompanied him once he walked down this path for any measure of distance. It unnerved him, set his teeth on edge and made the fur on the back of his neck rise up, so that he growled and snapped at the very air. It was no path meant for dogs — nor, indeed, a path meant for most men.

Esben remembered well the first time he had become lost in the woods, running after he had been caught spying on one of the lumbermen, a freeman Celt who rippled with muscle and had sworn at him in a language he couldn’t understand when he’d caught Esben spying on him.

He had gone down the path waiting for it to shoot off in one direction or another, but it had done no such thing, and he had run further and further down it, too afraid to turn back. He’d run until his lungs felt like they were bleeding, run until his thighs ached and his calves quivered, run, in short, until he couldn’t any longer.

On each side of him, the trees were growing taller, and Esben could see that their trunks were so wide around as to be impossible, their great trunks reaching higher and higher into the sky above. The air was thick and humid, hot in a way the air never was even at the height of summer, and there was a sweet and sultry scent in it, a dangerous perfume.

Strange music was sounding in the distance, the sort of music no instrument, no human voice, could hope to mimic or recreate, that once he left, Esben would never be able to recall, until he returned — trying to recall it would be like trying to carry water a mile in cupped hands.

You’d have to be mad to seek this out.

This was why Kottr had turned back, why anyone that tried to follow him would turn back long before they reached this point, because some squealing, desperate instinct in the very back of their minds, buried in the base of their spine, living in their blood and bone and heart, would tell them, “No. Not here. Never here. Not safe, never safe. Run.”

Esben breathed it in, and let it fill his lungs.

He stood there for a moment, felt it permeate him like mist swallowing a longship’s sails: like a ship in mist like that, he was swallowed in it, and sank beneath it as though beneath heavy waters. He raised up on his tiptoes, rocked in it a moment, toe to heel, toe to heel.

It filled him to the brim, sent him spinning blissfully, and then he kept walking.

The trees were so tall now, and so wide too, the canopy of leaves above his head so thick, that he walked in almost darkness: although he knew the sun was shining, he saw no sign of it and could not feel its kiss, and yet the air was damp and hot, caressed his skin with the feverish lust of a lover already thrice denied.

The grass was wet with nature’s sweat beneath his boots, and the sweet, sweet scent of the air grew thicker, more cloying, until Esben felt a little dizzy with it, hypnotised and envenomed.

Only then did the trees begin to open out.

They were still too big, so unconscionably big no human mind could properly comprehend them — their boughs spread so wide across the sky as to span whole continents, and they were so tall that just glancing up made his spinning head spin even faster. Light was beginning to show through, but the light and heat that he felt from above was not the sun he knew — this light was older and its heat was less familiar, and yet it reached for him and curled about his body as though it owned him.

Throughout all of this, the path remained, straight and unerring, and Esben followed it as he had all the times before.

Great shadows moved on one side of the path, and then the other — these shadows were bigger than any elk he’d ever seen, any longship, any mountain even, and accompanying their swift movement was a distant sound of snuffling and growling, hooves on the ground, snouts thrusting into the dirt, even the creak and shift of trees uprooted.

When Esben came to a final fork in the path, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth open, breathless and easy as he was with the drugged perfume of this strange valley, a boar was waiting for him, and this boar was so massive a beast it could easily devour him whole.

Swaying slightly upon his booted feet, aware of the sweat that glistened on his skin, Esben met the boar’s impossible eyes, its creamy-white tusks, looked at the bristles marked over its snout and brow, each of them heavy and wiry, as long as his arm. Some of them shone under the night as though they had been spun from gold.

The boar huffed out a sound, and Esben reached out, brushing the top of its snout, feeling the furnace-hot breath that snuffled out of its lips, its nostrils.

The boar turned and ran down the leftward path, and Esben, a staggering figure drunk on a godly philtre, followed its trail.

A part of him knew he ought be afraid.

This forest was not the one he had come from — this was an ancient place, magic thick upon the air, and that it left him so drowsy and so easily relieved of his senses was a warning in itself, but he had made this journey a hundred times since he was a boy of sixteen, and he knew well his way by now.

This was not meant for the likes of him, except that he was clothed in loaned divinity, and it let him make his way.

In anticipation, his nipples had become hard peaks under his tunic, and he felt his cunt grow fat and wet, his cock eager and stood to attention. The air felt even hotter and even wetter, the humidity all but carrying him on the air, it was so thick.

For all his mind knew what he ought fear here, this ancient and holy place not truly meant for the likes of him, his body knew that fear was a part of pleasure, and the pain of sacrifice a part of the divine.

When he came into the clearing, he could barely hold open his eyes, and he fell first to his knees and then upon his belly in the sprawling grass, dotted with bright buttercups and daisies, the ancient sun, far older than any sun he might be touched by elsewhere, beating down upon his back.

Many spectral hands began to pull and tug at his clothes before he had entirely fallen asleep, and he moaned softly, but made no protest: his limbs were so heavy not a one of them could move, and Esben made no attempt to lift his head as he looked up with drowsy eyes to his expected captor. He glimpsed a grin beneath a gold-burnished beard, saw the silhouette of horns poking out from a mane of thick hair. His breeches were pulled away from him, felt rough hands brush his sopping cunt, before he drifted wholly into pleasant dreams.

When Esben woke again, he was on his knees, and his arms had been tied behind his back, his forearms wrapped in twine and his hands gripping at each of his own elbows. He wasn’t always tied up, only sometimes, but now he welcomed it.

The cold stone of the shrine would have been hard beneath his knees, but it wasn’t, because the moss that carpeted it was very thick and wet with warm heat. Esben was tipped forward, his head barely raised, as though he were bent before an executioner’s axe.

“Think I’m going to execute you, little priest?” asked Freyr. His voice was wonderful, deep and musical and thrumming with impossible resonance, the sort that didn’t only make itself felt in only Esben’s rib cage but in his very flesh, in his veins, the bare swells of what tits he had left, his bones, his cock.

Freyr was standing in the place his statue ought have been, his own cock erect and glistening with wetness that made Esben’s mouth water.

“If you do, I imagine it will be via some method by which I’m quite happy to die,” said Esben.

Freyr laughed, a big belly laugh that made his cock bounce and his heavy chest ripple, and Esben swallowed hard, looking at his god hungrily, wantingly, as he always did.

“You always were a hungry thing,” said Freyr quietly, in a voice like hot butter, and it melted into Esben as though he were bread. As Freyr stepped closer, heavy feet moving over the mossy stone beneath them, his cock bobbed, heavy balls shifting against his thigh as he did, and as Esben watched, eager, he saw the eye of Freyr’s cockhead wink, a pearl of clear fluid dripping down the crease of his frenulum and dripping down onto the ground. Esben’s cunt clenched in sympathy. “My work sculpting this body of yours has only deepened that hunger, hasn’t it?”

“I certainly eat more,” said Esben in breathless agreement, and one of Freyr’s broad, heavily muscled hands came to cup Esben’s cheek, big enough that he could hold Esben’s whole head in his palm, if he really wanted.

He was bigger than any mortal man, when Esben came to pay his dues, but Esben knew that he could be bigger, that he could be nine or ten feet at the shoulder, if he really wanted, cock big enough that Esben had to hug it rather than invite it inside himself. Freyr was a healthy-looking man, bulk and brawn together, like a boar was: he was fat with muscle and blubber alike, and his chest and thighs and arms were bristled with curling hairs.

His eyes were an uncanny green, blending in with the forest behind them, but Esben knew they could be blue at times, could be brown or purple or grey or red, and knew most of all that they could go the same honeyed amber as aged mead, and twice as likely to render a man drunk.

Freyr traced the line of Esben’s jaw, harder than it had been, and his fingers were careful, gentle, as they stroked over the light, still-patchy growth of Esben’s beard, thickest on the sides of his head and at the base of his jaw, over his lip, with balder patches in between, on the actual planes of his jaw.

“You know your nose has grown bigger,” said Freyr. “Do you smell better?”

“I smell worse,” said Esben. “I sweat more.”

Freyr scrunched up his face, his own nose wrinkling, and Esben laughed to himself as Freyr’s big thumb traced the line of his nose, began to play a ticklish, sensitive line over his lips.

He was so wet now he was dripping.

“I don’t know if I do,” said Esben, knowing if he didn’t answer Freyr’s questions, that he wouldn’t get what he wanted, what he was desperate for: Freyr rewarded him by reaching down to his chest, taking each of his nipples between thumb and forefinger and tugging on them. His tits were more sensitive than they once had been, although they’d halved in size and flattened more against his chest, and Freyr twisted and tugged on them, sending electric thrills down to Esben’s cock. “I think I notice scents more — I feel more alive than I did. I don’t know if my nose is any more sensitive. Is there a reason you’re asking me?”

“Are you ungrateful, little priest?” asked Freyr, and kicked him backward.

It was no hard blow — with how large Freyr was, his feet included, Esben knew he could kick Esben hard enough to set him coughing out his lungs, and this was little more than a nudge that shoved him back from the mossy steps and helplessly onto his back, hands trapped beneath him as he fell back into the perfumed bed of spring flowers awaiting him.

“No, lord,” said Esben breathlessly. “Would you begrudge a priest who seeks to know his master?”

“It was my plan that I would be the one knowing you,” said Freyr, and took Esben’s cock between his thumb and forefinger, beginning to squeeze and tug on it the way he might his own in miniature, and Esben whined.

“You don’t normally talk so much,” he whimpered as Freyr squeezed tighter. “Have I displeased you?”

“Have you done something that should displease me?” asked Freyr, voice turning sweet and dangerous all at once, and grasped as Esben’s cunt more tightly, taking a handful of him by his outer lips and massaging the whole thing between his hands, making Esben’s cock jump.

“No,” said Esben. “No, lord, always — always do as I ought by you. Heal in your name, help people carry their children, help seed take root, mmm — ”

“Mmm,” repeated Freyr mockingly, and laughed. “My little Ebbe, doing his duties. And what men have you fucked since last I fucked you?”

“None,” said Esben, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and spreading his thighs apart: he was rewarded with a tighter squeeze that made him howl, which in turn made Freyr laugh, hairy belly jiggling with his mirth when Esben looked.

“And how many have you sucked into this godwhore’s mouth of yours?” asked Freyr, pulling on his cock as he slid two fingers from his other hand into Esben’s mouth, and Esben took them obediently, sucking them onto his tongue before Freyr pulled them back for him to answer.

“None,” said Esben. “Godwhore says fairly clearly who I’m for.”

“And how many men have you dreamed of touching you, hm?” asked Freyr, so that Esben went quiet. Freyr didn’t force it, sliding his fingers over Esben’s tongue again, pressing down on it and making Esben swallow around them, sucking them eagerly, tongue sliding over each heavy digit. “Hundreds, I expect — thousands. Is that what you want, little priest? Want a few cocks to satisfy you for every day of the year?”

“Mmmffmmm,” said Esben.

“Say again?”

“Nnmmmmfmms,” said Esben.

Freyr pulled his fingers back, looking at Esben in mock curiosity, heavy eyebrows raising.

“Not if I can have yours,” said Esben for the third time.

“Says all the right things, my little priest,” said Freyr amusedly. “I think perhaps he was Odin’s before he was mine.”

“I was never anybody’s before I was yours,” said Esben, and Freyr laughed.

“Don’t lay it on too thick now, boy,” said Freyr sternly, and slid three thick fingers into Esben’s dripping cunt. They went in smooth and easy, slid inside him and stretched him pleasantly, and Esben let out a reedy, eager noise, spreading his thighs apart and begging for more. “Touched this often?”

“Only nightly,” said Esben, and Freyr laughed.

“This fat little cock we’ve grown you needs to be satisfied,” said Freyr, tapping hard against the shaft of Esben’s cock with his thumb, and Esben shuddered. “What a little thing it was before, and how it’s grown now, like a mushroom cap growing out from the grass.”

“Please fuck me, lord,” said Esben, and Freyr squeezed one of his thighs.

“Good meat on you,” he said thoughtfully. “More muscle here, and on these arms as well — more on you in general. You’ll grow fatter with age, I expect, have a body more like mine.”

Esben felt a little ache inside him, a sort of wondering want. “Yes?” he asked.

“My priest,” said Freyr, voice sounding with a humming praise that made Esben squirm: it was possessive and pleased all at once, and then Freyr took him by the hair and hauled him to his knees. “You want it?”

“Please,” Esben said desperately, and Freyr grinned, and kissed him.

It was a biting, fierce thing, bruised his lips and threatened to cut him, and when Freyr pulled back from him, his eyes were a molten gold, his teeth sharper and longer, the bristles on his jaw thicker. Between their bellies, Freyr’s cock twitched.

“I wait for you,” said Esben. “I wait for your cock and only yours — and I do every deed I can in your name, and make my prayers, and the sacrifices I ought, blood and song and grain and chastity.”

“Is that what you think I want from you, little priest?” asked Freyr dangerously, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, the whole of the glade going from humid to crackling like the heavy air before a storm, threatening lightning strikes to come. “Chastity?”

“Isn’t it?” asked Esben, and Freyr laughed before he tossed Esben over the stone altar.

This stone wasn’t cold either, because Freyr had put a pelt down for him to lie over, and Esben pushed his face into the soft elk hair, spreading his thighs.

“Want it little by little?” asked Freyr.

“Yesss,” said Esben.

“Too bad,” said Freyr: he shoved his cock into Esben’s cunt in one heavy thrust, and Esben’s scream wasn’t the high thing it once was — it was lower, deeper, a wolf’s howl instead of a pup’s cry, and tears burned in his eyes as he was forced to stretch around Freyr’s fat and heavy shaft, buried so deep inside him that Esben felt his belly bulge with the movement.

Freyr’s belly, heavy and warm, rested weighty on Esben’s back, and his great hands grasped and pulled at Esben’s arse, dragging and massaging at the flesh, his thumb sliding over Esben’s hole.

He’d fucked Esben in the arse before, but not often — he did it when he felt Esben wanted punishing, when he wanted to fuck him but not let Esben take his pleasure from it, when he wanted to leave Esben sobbing and begging for his orgasm.

“If you weren’t such a handsome thing when you cried, priest, perhaps I wouldn’t torture you with such glee,” said Freyr, and pulled his cock back. He did it slow, dragging down so that Esben could feel it dragging against his inner walls, could feel himself trying to clench around it and keep it in him.

Esben opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was, it was dashed from his brains as Freyr slammed his cock home again, and he didn’t pause this time. His great cock was dragged back and shoved back inside him in a hard, punishing movement again and again, the heavy sac of his bollocks slapping against Esben’s own swollen cock with every thrust, his stomach bowing. Each hard movement of Freyr’s hips winded him, made him whine, and Freyr’s laughter this time made his cock jostle in his cunt, overwhelmed him and made him feel as though his brains would leak out of his ears, it felt so good.

“You wait for this, hm?” asked Freyr. “You watch that moon grow fatter and fatter, and think how I’ll do that to your belly once I have you again.”

Esben groaned, not even trying to talk, and Freyr continued bruising him from the inside. Each movement he made was an ecstasy in itself, and Esben felt the orgasm building within him, tension drawing tighter and tighter.

“Those are better too, since I started making a priest of you,” said Freyr.

“I like that you sing your own praises,” Esben managed to say, “but don’t you think it’s my job?”

Freyr laughed at that joke, seemed to like it very much, and rewarded him by lifting Esben by the hips and forcing his cock a final inch inside him, making Esben howl again as his cock pulsed.

It was like a waterfall within him, a gush of heavy seed, and Esben’s moans were coming unbidden now, uncontrollable where they eked from deep within his throat.

“How long have you been mine, boy?” asked Freyr, raking heavy nails down his back and making Esben moan incoherently, clenching down around his pulsing cock.

“Always,” Esben slurred out. “Always, always — ”

“No,” said Freyr, “since first you came to me, prostrated yourself on my cock, how long?”

“… Years?” asked Esben, not able to think in the moment, and Freyr chuckled.

“Long enough,” he said with a tone of finality, and dragged Esben back off of the altar so that his belly hung more down. Heavy come gushed into his womb, glugging and shifting in him, and already Esben’s belly felt heavy and tight and uncomfortable, but he knew more would come.

Freyr slapped the side of his belly, making Esben yelp: his hands grasped then at the swelling weight of Esben’s fattening gut, his thumbs playing over the favourite of his stretch marks there, all of which he’d put there.

“Your body is mine,” said Freyr. “You are mine, little priest — but this body is mine to play with, mine to improve, a vessel to spread my will. You agree?”

“Mmm,” Esben assented immediately.

“How many women in your village are pregnant?”

“Six.”

“You’ve spoken with all of them?”

“Four,” said Esben. “Marta doesn’t know yet, it’s her first; Liv won’t come to me until her husband returns from sea.”

“Is it his?” asked Freyr, slapping Esben’s belly more gently this time, enough to make it wobble, enough to make the come inside him slosh and bubble, and Esben whimpered, feeling the painful, aching stretch — it hurt, and it was good, a perfect pain.

“No,” said Esben, laughing at the very idea, although it made his swollen stomach wobble. “One of their slaves is responsible, I expect, the Celt with the red hair, if I were to bet money on it.”

“Tell him to fuck more women,” said Freyr. “If his seed is good.”

“Yes, lord,” said Esben. Sweat was glistening all over him, his body wet with it, and Freyr smeared his thumb through the sweat gathered at his lower back, used it to lubricate it before he slid it into his arse. “Too much. You’ll have me burst like a blackberry.”

“Only if I squeeze you,” said Freyr, and began to rock his hips again, still coming as he reached underneath Esben, forcing his swollen belly aside so that he could squeeze and tug on his clit. The other hand still working on his arse, sliding two fingers in.

Esben’s belly was so heavy it hurt, swinging underneath him, and he let himself sink into that wonderful pain as he sank back onto Freyr’s cock, felt Freyr’s rough hand pull at him.

Freyr didn’t stop until Esben had come, come whining and gasping on his cock, big enough that he looked ready to birth, let alone pregnant: all at once, then, Freyr cut the binds at his wrists and pulled his cock free, sliding a heavy carved plug inside him and flipping Esben onto his back on the altar.

Esben looked dizzily up at him, watched Freyr’s face as he grinned down at Esben’s belly, smile a heavy curve of sharp teeth. The little antlers poking out from his thick swathes of gold-brown hair had strengthened and grown out like tree branches, now showing strong and obvious on each side of his head.

“My fat little priest,” said Freyr with satisfaction, pressing and pulling at the taut, stretched flesh of Esben’s belly, making him sigh. “You have pleased me, you know, Ebbe. Since first I saw you, I knew you would.”

“I’m glad, lord,” said Esben, already thinking of his walk home, the way his clothes wouldn’t fit him, the way he would waddle — and he thought, too, of the walk through the village once he got there, the way everyone would want to look at him, and pretend to look elsewhere.

The men especially. The men —

“Want to fuck you,” said Freyr in a low rumble, and Esben blinked up at him.

“I wouldn’t,” he promised. “I wouldn’t — ”

“You can,” decided Freyr.

Esben blinked.

“Lord?” he asked.

It had been years since he had first come into this strange glade, over a decade — it had been at least five since the first time Freyr had fucked him, more than that, even, and never, never, had he been permitted even to touch another man, even to kiss him.

A handful of times, men had tried to touch him, had thought to touch divinity by fondling its mouthpiece, and of those men, all of them were now dead — and had died badly. It always frightened Esben somewhat, those rageful “accidents”, but it thrilled him too, made him feel…

“I have well-ploughed this furrow now,” said Freyr, patting his swollen belly. “No seed will grow here. Fuck as you please.”

“Men?” asked Esben.

Freyr blinked at him, looking curious. “You like women now?” he asked, and Esben shook his head. “Then yes, men. Fuck them, have them fuck you. Touch and be touched indiscriminately — this body is made for pleasure, to be pleasured. This cock,” he said, tugging on it and making Esben hiss, “is made to be sucked. You would be ungrateful? I give you this body, I tell you to use its splendours, and you would tell me no?”

Esben hurriedly shook his head, and his eyes fluttered closed a moment as Freyr began to play with the wooden cock stuffed in him, tapping its end, shifting it in its place. Esben felt weighted down by all the come bloating him, his full and heavy womb, and even more, he felt pinned by Freyr’s golden gaze.

“I wasn’t going to have my priest made pregnant,” growled Freyr in a way that made Esben shiver, “by some mere man, Ostman or Celt — and nor have I filled this womb with child myself, hm? My seed had served another purpose — and it has taken effect enough, now, that no other’s seed might plant itself in this cunt of yours, and undo all my work.”

“Not chastity for chastity’s sake,” said Esben blearily.

“You want some prick from that village of yours to plant his baby in your belly, priest?”

“No, lord.”

“You want those pricks, though,” said Freyr deliberately. “You want them to fuck you, toy with you, make a game of you — you want to show them how your god has taught you to take a cock, how to suck one.”

Esben felt hot all over, even more than he already had done, and he nodded.

“Good,” said Freyr, and then leaned over him. Freyr’s heavy belly pressed weighty against Esben’s own, putting pressure on it and making him whine, but in the same moment Freyr’s hand was gripping around his throat, tight enough to make his breath hitch. “But you don’t fuck them until their women are pregnant. Understand? You don’t tip them to you ’til their seeds are sowed, ’til their farm work is done, ’til they’ve performed their duties as they ought, yes?”

“Yes,” said Esben hurriedly. “Yes, yes, lord, yes — ”

“This is a gift I’m giving you,” went on Freyr, heavy cock sliding against Esben’s well-curved belly, his thigh, “a pleasure you might take for the work I do for you — and you still come to me, each month, still take me. Yes?”

“Yes, yes — ”

“And if I find your work has suffered, little priest, if I find that you have bewitched any man away from a fertile cunt with this handsome thing of yours, much as I do like it, I shall make you fill the gap,” threatened Freyr, and the skies were darkening above them now, their red and gold turning to heavy purples, and Freyr’s eyes were purple too, the little antlers a wide elk’s spread now, a frightening pair of branches either side of Freyr’s wild head. “I shall fuck every child you ought have been encouraging about you inside you, priest — I shall make you pregnant a dozen times over, until you are so gravid you cannot move but to cry and say your prayers, understand me? Until these tits of yours are fat and heavy and leaking milk like udders, until this belly is larger than I am, until your cunt is raw and open and desperate to labour — and if I find a dozen isn’t enough, I shall breed you some more. Yes?”

This last word thrummed with unspeakable power, made Esben feel like his heart was leaping into his throat, and he squeaked, voice cracking in the middle, as it sometimes still did.

He fervently nodded his head.

“You are mine before you are yours, priest,” said Freyr. “Let a thousand men play at fucking your sleeping body before the lake, if it suits you — but you will still be yours before you are theirs, and mine before that. I’ll fuck you pregnant if it suits me — I’ll use you as I wish.”

Esben came a second time, and when Freyr realised his cock was jumping, his cunt clenching around the plug Freyr had been playing with, he laughed, and the skies about them turned pink again.

“My favourite little mortal,” said Freyr warmly, abruptly jolly once again. “I would remind you not to forget what I can do to you, but it seems you wank yourself off to the recollection.”

“I can always use new material,” said Esben dreamily, and Freyr chuckled, pulling back.

“Very ripe,” he said, pulling Esben to sit up.

Freyr liked this part, Esben thought. The first time, he had tried to protest, argue that he ought not do so, that if anyone should help the other dress, it should be the other way around, but Freyr would hear nothing of it, and wouldn’t even now.

Freyr left the plug inside him as he pulled Esben’s shirt over his head, and laughed when it was tight around his middle — his tunic was a little less so, at least, but Esben did look ripe, even before Freyr pulled his trousers up to his waist, forcing Esben’s swollen belly up to belt it into place.

Freyr began to string him with bells, then, and Esben, embarrassed and heated with it all at once, lifted his arms to help Freyr wrap them around his arms, his waist, his ankles.

The string around his neck did not hold a bell but a carved boar, Gullinbursti, and Esben stared down at it, held the carved wood in his palm and stroked his thumb over the gold-painted bristles on its brow.

“You like it?” asked Freyr.

Esben nodded dumbly, aware that he was smiling, and Freyr tied the last of the bells in his hair.

“I have my own bells,” said Esben. “I could have worn them, if you wanted.”

“Now you have more,” said Freyr smugly, “and everyone will know you are arrived home, swollen with your worship’s reward.”

“I’ll tell them Gullinbursti fucked me with his own Gungnir,” mumbled Esben, and Freyr kissed him again: his mouth was half-animal, teeth large and sharp, tongue heavy and thick and dexterous.

“Want me to fuck you once more before I send you on your way?”

“The bells won’t jingle if you have to roll me home,” said Esben, and Freyr laughed.

“I shan’t use my cock, then,” he said, and pushed Esben back onto the altar, legs in the air as he bowed his head.

Esben’s whining cries mingled with the bells, and made strange music that carried on the air.

* * *

Svend averted his eyes from Esben’s swollen belly as he sat beside his fire, his whole body aching from the walk — his thighs and his calves from carrying all that weight, from waddling, and his belly itself aching wonderfully. They had all come out to see him when they had heard the bells jingling song, the more keen of their ears no doubt hearing the slosh of his belly like a half-full skin of water. Drunken and satisfied, he had walked past them all, but Svend had come to bring him some cured meat and buttered bread.

Kottr was sitting at his side, wagging his tail with his head on Esben’s knee, had rushed up to him as soon as he had heard Esben’s bells, and danced around him as he’d staggered home.

Wholly unhelpful, but adorable in its way.

“Your pilgrimage was a success, then,” said Svend.

“Always,” said Esben. “Thank you, Svend — kind of you to bring me a meal.”

“My wife thought you would be tired,” said Svend stuntedly. “You — you often are. Is there anything I can do to… to help?”

“If you see him,” said Esben, scratching Hundr’s head as the cat came to butt his head into his over side, “send over Troels’ brother, would you?”

“Which one?” asked Svend.

“Oh, it doesn’t really matter,” said Esben, unable to keep the smile from his face. “Either will do.”

FIN.

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