Page 19 of Last Thrall of Asgard

The beast appeared as if made of gleaming metal, for its mane and bristles were gold. It shined so brightly, like Heimdall or the city of Asgard, that I knew the stories were true—Gullinbursti, Freyr’s golden boar from the dwarven brothers, Brokkr and Sindri, could light the way for its rider in even the darkest night.

I was thankful the boar was saddled, for those bristles looked sharp enough to pierce through my trousers. Freyr gripped the golden mane without trouble and launched himself up into the saddle, which was large enough for two.

“Remember,” he said, reaching a hand to me, “now, you must follow my lead.”

Every step shifted the object within me, and I braced myself for how much more I would feel it after I accepted Freyr’s hand. He swung me up behind him onto the boar’s back, and the jostle turned my next moan into a bitten off whine. “Wh-where are we going?” I shuddered as I clung to him.

“Alfheim, remember?”

He spurred the boar forward through the wood, and we moved at such speeds, with any other rider, I might have feared a collision with a tree. Every bump and leap made me aware of the object again, and I nuzzled Freyr’s back as I allowed myself to enjoy it. Growing hard again was slightly unpleasant on horse—no,boarback—but at least the golden bristles weren’t as sharp as I’d feared.

We barreled forward, around the waterfall and out of the thick trees to the edge of Vanaheim. I knew it was the edge because I could see the stretch of Yggdrasil’s branches in place of a horizon, and we strode forward onto one. It wound upward, forking in two directions, one that connected to another branch and one that led to Yggdrasil’s base. We turned onto the first branch, heading higher and higher, until it seemed as though we passed through a veil, like a magic portal, and on its other side was the continuation of that branch into the landscape of Alfheim.

I bore the discomfort of my hardening cock and the ecstasy of the jostling device, and lifted my head to take in the new scenery. Vanaheim had been beautiful, but Alfheim, home of the light elves, was like some fairyland made of colors mere mortals weren’t built to see.

Every tree and bush and other plant life along the path we raced upon was in full bloom, and their flowers glowed with iridescence. There were more waterfalls, more mountains, much similarity in places to Vanaheim, but the colors, the magic of this place, was even more breathtaking.

When we finally exited the new tree line, the village we crested toward was equally colorful and enchanting. All the buildings, homes and halls, seemed to have windows of colored glass, or maybe crystal, reflecting the sunlight with even more radiance. The people too, the elves, were as beautiful as Freyr.

Not all were slender like in the stories. They covered all variety of litheness, muscles-mass, or rotund wonder. They had all manner of skin, hair, and eye color as well, some pale and golden like Heimdall, some strikingly dark, some with hair as red as Loki’s or as green as Freyr’s eyes.

And we were headed right toward them, toward the village, with all attention turning to the realm’s king and the mortalgripping his waist—with a plump cock and stretching device inside—

“Ah-ah!” The cry escaped me unbidden, as the object grew within me for the first time, like the swell of a cockhead. I fell limp against Freyr’s back as a tingle travelled through me.

“That is the first,” he said. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Walk?

He brought the boar to a stop in the middle of the village square and dismounted, expecting me to follow when all eyes were on us, and many elves were coming forward to greet and bow to their king.

Freyr at least offered me a hand down, and it took all my strength to keep my grunt upon landing from becoming another moan. At least the length of my tunic hid the strain of my cock.

Several of the nearby elves cast curious glances at me, knowing instantly, I imagined, that I was no Vanir or Aesir, but a mortal. None said anything, however, and some nodded in greeting to me too, while Freyr bowed in kind to greet his people.

“Hail!” One elf came forward, right up to Freyr to take the reins of the boar. He was lovely, young and handsome, with medium-dark skin, black hair, and eyes that seemed more violet than blue. Eyes that flicked with hard scrutiny toward me. “You bring a mortal to our kingdom?”

“Courtesy of our wiliest brethren.” Freyr laughed and patted the young elf’s shoulder.

There was more than friendship in the possessiveness with which the elf looked at Freyr. And in how he frowned at me. “Should I be worried, Fricco?”

Fricco? One of Freyr’s nicknames, which seemed a rather informal and purposeful use in front of me.

Freyr laughed again and squeezed the young elf’s shoulder, though if he noticed the longing directed at him, he hid it well.

“Not as some latent threat, dear Ravnur!” Freyr assured the raven-haired man, which was fitting given his name meantraven. “Loki mourns as we all do and means to make up for his slights.”

“As we mourned for you, my king,” Ravnur said with a subtle but unmistakable brush of his cheek against Freyr’s hand.

If Freyr noticed that either, he hid it just as well and removed his grasp from Ravnur’s shoulder. There was sadness in his voice again. “Can one truly mourn what is returned to you? Only for what one loses forever should tears be shed.”

“Or what one never has,” Ravnur muttered, but before I could be on the receiving end again of his eyes’ violet fire, Freyr swept me away.

It was said Freyr was beloved by his people, whether home in Vanaheim, his kingdom in Alfheim, or among the Aesir in Asgard. But he had only ever loved one.

As he led me down the central road of the village, the object within me swelled again.

“Ngn,” I grunted, too loud and gratified sounding to be covered with a cough.

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