by M J Marstens
A moment passes before I hear the God of Lost Shits, I mean Ships, boom in an infuriated voice, “There’s no godsdamn toilet paper!”
My face cracks open in mirth.
“Yes! Go Dev!” I whisper as I hurry back to my room.
Visine was only part one of Operation Chocolate Thunder. But, to really get their goat, there’s a part two.
Or, a number two, if you will.
While I sat through a torturous dinner-slash-orgy-to-come, Dev was supposed to clear the entire palace of toilet paper.
Mission accomplished.
6
Khepri
Ra’s heels click across the prison floor briskly as I follow him to secure the new prisoner. I stare off to one side because if I were to stare directly ahead, I’d be blinded, either by the prima-donna, eighties crimping he has going with his hair, or the sequinned hem of his robe. Ra invented the term flamboyant.
Behind me, I see Raiden right on my tail and I purposefully slow down so that the bastard has to, too. When Ra is present, we walk in rank. Ra, the Tallest and Douchiest—only because his boots have six-inch heels and he’s an epic asshole—is first and I follow him. Then, Raiden, who is second-in-rank, followed by whichever guards Ra has tasked to help with this project.
They are nameless, faceless gods who metaphorically suck Ra’s cock—apparently, according to Raiden, I eat his ass. As a shit god, I fail to see how this is supposed to offend me. I toss another smirk over my shoulder and quickly stop to brush a non-existent piece of shit off my pant leg before straightening up again. Raiden curses as he stumbles to a stop, trying not to trip over my bent ass.
Yeah, fucker, kiss that.
I quickly start walking again as Ra pivots around just in time to see Raiden push himself up off the floor. The Japanese god looks like he wants to lunge at me. I’m filled with glee.
Try it.
“Raiden-Sama!” Ra snaps. “Can you not march today?”
Raiden glares daggers into my back as he replies, “Apologies, Warden of the Worthless Ones.”
Ra sniffs, as if truly offended, and stomps off.
Of course, we follow, but I don’t dick around with Raiden anymore. My stomach is churning with concealed rage for what Raiden called Ra—not because I’m upset on Ra’s behalf. The self-absorbed bastard is gonna get what’s coming to him, mark my words. No, I’m pissed on behalf of the prisoners.
Fuck, if we’re being honest, I’m pissed on my behalf, too.
I’m sick of being treated like a piece of shit—ironic, I know—and of everyone being held in this jail being treated like crap simply because they are half-human. As if they could help it.
Raiden’s such a micropenis. All his comments about me taking it from Ra stem from his desire to burn his mouth on the sun god’s dick himself.
Ra knows the real score. Fuck, he’s the one keeping it. These demigods are powerful—they just don’t know it. Ra specifically crafted this jail to drain them of their powers. The sun fucker is afraid of them—and he should be. He’s still got a decent percentage of the solar worship because of human obsession with the pyramids and stuff. But if he wasn’t siphoning powers, would he really be that strong?
When I finally free the Demigodling, I’m going to annihilate Ra. I think he’d look amazing trapped in a solar storm for the rest of eternity.
Hopefully, Raiden will be indisposed at the time to make my job easier. He’s the only god working at the jail that I honestly think would be able to foil my plans. But, I’ve still got a few more days of working out the kinks before I attempt to spring out Nut’s son. As long as no new problems arise. . .
Ra stops at the elaborate employee entrance to the Back Hole. Prisoners? They see a regular prison, but the employee entrance? You would think you were entering a godsdamn palace, not a prison, when first walking in. Of course, it’s decorated in sun symbols and Ra statues—his own little Temple of Doom. For some reason, lots of gods like to give evil a pretty face. They think that makes it better or something.
Waiting there are Anubis’ bitches—seriously. The jackals are his female lackeys. They have long necks and tall pointed ears that stick straight up. One of them whines when they see Ra. See, I’m not being snide about them being a bunch of females dogs—just honest.
And that’s where I see my biggest fucking problem yet.
Her.
She stands in the concrete and iron holding cell for new prisoners. She’s tall for a woman—almost as tall as Raiden and me, but likely taller than Ra. For some odd reason, this fills me with smug satisfaction. The woman’s hair is long, hanging down her back nearly to her waist, and is a glossy chestnut in color. Her skin is fair, indicating she’s a northern goddess of some sort, and her eyes are a soft grey-blue mix, like a cloud in the early morning just before the sun kisses it and turns it a pale gold.
When those eyes meet mine, she wrinkles her little button nose and purses her full red lips to give me a scowl that makes my dick harder than advanced calculus. Fuck—this one is definitely going to be trouble. Behind me, I hear Raiden’s quick intake of breath and I sniff the air before a smug smile turns my lips upward.
So—Mr. Roboto likes her, too.
My beetle senses are acute, even in human form. I can smell a pile of shit ten miles away—don’t act like you’re not impressed—and everything in between, like pheromones. If Raiden has a hard-on for the new inmate—not that I blame him—it just gives me something else to use against him.
Truly, his attraction amuses me. Raiden-Sama is much too “honorable” (read total dog turd) and too proud to act upon this new desire. Because he’d never stoop to touching someone with mixed heritage.
I nearly laugh out loud. This must be killing the rule-following bastard. What doesn’t amuse me is the scent of Ra’s attraction on the air—that nearly makes me puke.
In all my time here, I’ve never smelled Ra’s pheromones—thank fuck. He wasn’t attracted to any of the guards, let alone the inmates. We are all beneath him and not worthy of his sunny pecker. But, whereas Raiden will bury this shameful temptation, I know Ra will seek out this woman and try to personally destroy her for making him feel something—even lust—for a ‘creature’ (dickwad sun god’s word, not mine) of her status.
Son of a hippo, I think my breakout timeline just ramped up.
Ra is eyeing her with menace. Nothing new, but I understand the deadly intent behind it. The sun prick hasn’t made any particular prisoner his personal target except the Demigodling. And, now, her.
I try not to groan at this new headache.
It’s going to be a true pain in my ass to keep Ra off of hers the next day or so while I try to rework an escape plan. I hope Thoth has his thinking cap on to help me figure out that final booby trap. For now, I’ll have to intervene—strategically.
At this point during a normal intake, Ra would have already turned his back on the new inmate, effectively giving him or her his middle finger. Of course, with her, he does no such thing. It’s going to take everything that I have to divert his attention.
But, I’ve got a trick up my sleeve where Ra-fuck is concerned.
He saunters over to the glaring beauty and I realize that I’m silently pleading with her to act submissive—which is definitively a lost cause. There’s nothing compliant about the gorgeous vision in front of me and, in truth, I think that’s what attracts me most. She has a fire that I doubt even Ra or the Back Hole can put out.
And I hope she fucking incinerates this hell hole if I don’t first.
Ra reaches out a hand to trace the curve of her cheek and I see her flinch imperceptibly. I loosen my stance so that Raiden doesn’t see my muscles tense—I won’t give him anything to use against me, but by the gods, I long to smack Ra’s hand away.
“So, you’re Thor’s troublesome human daughter,” Ra drawls menacingly, still touching her. “What was your name again? It was a mouthful. Hmm, perhaps that’s what I’ll call you—Mouthful.”
&nb
sp; Ra’s leer intensifies, but my new fascination just smirks.
“Yeah, Sigrdrifa is a mouthful. It actually means ‘Valkyrie of Dick-Slaying’ in Norse, but Mouthful works, too. I do have a mouthful of teeth that can easily replace my penis-chopping ax,” she smarts-off with a sassy grin. She follows the grin up by using her tongue to trace over her top teeth.
Fuuuuuuuuck, I’m going to give this woman an earful when we’re alone about acting obedient. I refuse to think about wanting to give her a mouthful—that makes me just as bad as Ra (fucking shudder). The sunny douche seems stunned by Thor’s daughter’s snark and his soft touch suddenly becomes cruel and biting, if her wince is any indication.
“I will teach you some manners, you whor—”
I clear my throat.
“Lord of Iunu1,” I interrupt with the utmost respect, bowing forward slightly, “do not forget your business with Atum.”
Ra’s startled gaze flies to mine and he momentarily forgets the new inmate and his would-be wrath at me for intervening.
“What business?” he barks.
I cringe melodramatically.
“Oh, Great King of the Universe, I must have forgotten—and for such, I must be beaten—but Atum is trying to gain back his powers from you. Even as we speak, he is finding other gods to support his cause. It’s a despicable plot to overthrow your rule,” I moan.
Behind me, Raiden snorts at my theatrics. Even the woman looks at me askance, but Ra eats up my shitty performance like a scarab gobbles up crap. A dark scowl mars his brow as he turns from the new inmate.
“Take this ... insubordinate prisoner away.”
Raiden jumps in immediately.
“I can punish her for her insubordination.” If possible, his dick tents even harder in his uniform.
Ra’s face hardens, his hooked nose scrunching.
“No. I will deal with her when I return.”
Ha ha. I know exactly what kind of punishment Raiden wanted to give her, and now he’s shit out of luck. Good.
Ra must have seen the hint of desire Raiden tried to hide. I’m not the only one who sucks at acting.
With a snap, Ra vanishes.
Good fucking riddance.
Time for Khepri to be in charge ... but this means I have to be an even bigger asshole to … whatever her name is.
“What is your name?” I demand gruffly.
“Fuck off,” she snaps right back.
“Thor named you Fuck Off? Not very traditional, but it has a nice ring,” I comment sarcastically, putting on the asshole song and dance that’s expected of me. “Alrighty then, Fuck Off, follow me. Raiden, you follow Fuck Off.”
I grin manically at this new offense to the Japanese god until I realize that this will let Raiden stare at her ass the entire march back to her cell. Then, I scowl.
“Actually, Fuck Off, you walk with me. I don’t trust you.”
I tug her hand until she stumbles next to me. A zing of electricity zips through my flesh at our contact and I nearly groan. Gods help me to get through the next few days, I pray to no one in particular.
And, as always, no one answers. When you’re a god, prayers don’t work. No supernatural figure is gonna swoop in and save my ass.
I’m on my own in this shithole.
No, you’re not, my dick reminds me. Now, you’ve got her.
What the hell?
Her?
No.
I just met her—I definitely don’t have her.
Yet, my dick says.
Fuck me.
My heart speeds up. I quickly let go of her hand and brusquely growl at her to keep up.
I need to get in contact with Thoth immediately. My timeline just moved from a couple of days to now.
Shit gets real when your cock starts talking to you.
7
Val
I stumble over my own two feet trying to keep up with the man I assume is the head guard. His looks are reminiscent of Ra’s, the warden, but different. Whereas Ra has the classic Egyptian looks—long black hair, black eyes, dark eyeliner, bronzed shiny skin, etc., etc.—the head guard really only sports the black eyeliner.
His eyes are a startlingly deep blue against the rich contrast of his skin, which is many shades darker than Ra’s and the other guard behind me who’s dressed in samurai silk. The head guard’s hair is black, but it is cropped short to his head. His lips are full, like Ra’s, but don’t hold the same sadistic sneer that makes my skin crawl.
In fact, for all his bark, I swear that I could see something else dancing in his eyes ...
Interest.
Mischief.
Warning?
I don’t freaking know, but it’s nothing like what I saw in the Back Hole’s turden—I mean warden. A lot of things don’t scare me, Dad made me run lightning courses as a kid and that knocks a lot of fear out of you, but Ra terrifies me. He has a manic look that screams unhinged, and everyone knows that it’s the Kim Jong-Il’s that are the most dangerous. That type of deranged unpredictability mixed with an absolute lack of empathy equals death. Lots of death.
Or getting a mouthful while you’re on your knees in some dingy corner of The Rectum.
No, thank you.
I’ve got to think of a way to make myself less attractive to Ra.
The head guard—I’m going to call him Bi-Polar for that whole hand-holding, dropping thing—takes a sharp right without warning. My brain doesn’t compute the move initially and my legs keep marching forward until I feel a slight tug on the back of my shirt—another Animaniacs tee, this time with Dot on it. It was my sister’s so it’s washed and faded to the point that it’s practically white. And I had to cut a whole out of the bottom so it’s been converted into a crop top. But still, it’s hers and I always feel like I can do anything when I wear it.
I look behind me to see the ninja guard pulling me in the direction that Bi-Polar went.
“This way,” he commands curtly.
His eyes rove over my face almost . . . hungrily, but he seems the most put out by my presence. Possibly even more pissed than Raw-Eggs for brains who runs the place. When I don’t move, he places a hand on my elbow and the same crazy tingle that I felt with Bi-Polar starts humming underneath my skin at Kung Fu’s—as I’m dubbing him—touch. My eyes fly to his in shock, and he drops the façade for a moment. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the man on the inside that probably never sees the light of day if the stern scowl perpetually etched on his face is any indication.
For some inexplicable reason, I’m drawn to this enigma wrapped up in a god.
“Do you ever sumo wrestle?” I suddenly blurt out, my mind briefly envisioning him in the scantily clad uniform of the fighters. He’s definitely not built like a stereotypical sumo wrestler. He’s thin and I can see the bulge of biceps underneath his sleeves.
I can’t be sure, but I think that my little fantasy has properly done justice to his tightly bronzed ass cheeks. Of course, I can’t be sure unless I see them in real life ...
Earth to Val!
What the hell is wrong with me?!
Does the Egyptian underworld fuck with your mind so much that you lose it within seconds of being here?
I don’t check out gods—and I sure as hell don’t check out gods who work at The Shit Pincher.
Behind me, Bi-Polar has come sauntering back. He’s slick as oil, but there’s something menacing in his expression when I glance up and find his eyes locked on the spot where Kung Fu is still touching me. But, he plays it off well, laughing even.
“Did she just call you fat, Raiden-Sama?” he taunts.
“Fuck off, Khepri!” Kung Fu—apparently Raiden-Sama, although I like my name better—snaps.
“Are you telling me to ‘fuck off’ or are you talking to her?” Khepri, a.k.a. Bi-Polar, continues.
Bi-Polar doesn’t wait for an answer, but wrenches me from Kung Fu’s grasp instead. Kung Fu grabs me right back. They engage in a mini tug-of-war with me as the rope. I should be a
nnoyed but all I can think about is both of their hands touching me at once and my body immediately goes into overdrive.
“Let go!”
“I’ve got her, you let go!” Bi-Polar growls. Damn, that growl sends warm sunshine straight down my spine to my—
“I had her first.”
“You don’t get anything first. You get it when I say you get it. And you don’t get to touch her,” Bi-Polar yanks me again so that my cheek smashes into his hard pecs. His nipple digs into my forehead like a rock.
I wonder if he’s the kind of god who’s into nipple play.
Kung Fu pulls me back and digs his other hand into my hips. I can feel something hard press into my back. Is that his knife in its sheath or …
The hallway fills with testosterone. And gods’ testosterone is intense. It’s a feral thing, especially when the gods are feeling possessive. It creates a wild cloud that can lead to war, murder, or orgies on a prison floor.
The prisoners around us start to hit tin cans against the bars. Some chant, “Fight her!”
Others scream, “Fuck her!”
The two gods move closer, going nose to nose as they argue with one another. I end up smashed between them, one hand pressed against Bi-Polar’s abs and the other twisted behind my back, smashed between me and the chiseled planes of Kung Fu’s chest.
The two shout at one another, but I can’t hear anything. I’m drenched in testosterone, reeling from it. My body feels like it’s on fire and, then, out of nowhere, the orgasm of the century crashes over me. Heat slides from my lower regions up my spine and makes my eyes roll. My knees buckle at the force of it and it takes everything inside of me not to cry out like a whore working for her money.
Holy hades. Did that just happen? Valhalla take me. It did.
As if that weren’t humiliating enough, both men immediately release me and I do collapse to the ground—a puddle of endorphins at their feet. Kung Fu clears his throat, but Bi-Polar stares at me with hooded eyes, his nostrils flaring widely like … Like he can smell what just happened.
