Chapter 15

It was to be a quiet few days at the cottage. I had just finished a major rework of the client’s plans and schedules and agreed to it with their senior projects manager. I left them to it and would check on progress next week. My own schedule was, therefore, easy, and a few days quiet and relaxation would be just the ticket. I parked in the Lidl car park and picked up a few things to top up the cupboards at the cottage and also got myself a nice fresh white sourdough loaf.

As I packed the food in the boot of the car, my stomach growled. Well, a Wetherspoons pub was just over the road, and they do a rather nice ramen noodles, and well, it would be rude not to, so I locked the car and headed towards the pub. I stepped out on to the road.

DARK. BLACK.

I shook my head; I felt odd. My eyes didn’t seem to be working properly; everything was in black and white, and there was no colour. I walked across the road and began stumbling; I couldn’t feel my feet and so didn’t know when my foot had settled on the road. There was no feedback; how very odd. I realised that I could not feel my handbag either. I prodded my face; nothing.

I could not feel anything anywhere; my sense of touch appeared to have deserted me. My sense of sight was also awry: no colour, just shades of grey. The road seemed very quiet, hardly any noise. Was it me? I wondered. I said my name out loud; I could hear that, so my sense of hearing was working. I wandered towards the pub, but the door was locked. How very odd; perhaps they were not opening today. People were walking around, not interacting at all, just walking.

This all required extra investigation, I decided. It did occur to me that I may have had a small stroke, which is why some of my senses didn’t seem to be functioning properly. I knew that there was a walk-in medical centre in the precinct, so I headed there to see if they could help; I didn’t know what else to do.

As I entered the precinct, I saw a man walking in strange clothes, almost as if he were wearing animal skins – very odd in this day and age; people had stopped wearing real skins decades ago. What was particularly strange, though, was that he was in colour. Everyone else, everything else was in black and white, not him, though; he was in full radiant colour. I headed to him.

As I approached him, I realised that he was a good six foot tall and had a large frame. He had a beard and long hair, some of which was braided.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. I was keen to know why he was in colour whilst the rest of the world wasn’t. He ignored me, so I tapped his arm. “Excuse me, sir,” I said again.

He stopped walking and turned to me.

“You can see me?” he said.

“Well, of course I can,” I said. “How silly! Why shouldn’t I see you?”

“Well, you’re dead, of course, and the dead can’t see the gods.”

Dead? Oh, well, that was unexpected. I didn’t want to be dead; I had a quiet few days at the cottage to look forward to.

“Gods? What gods?”

“Oh, there are a few of us, but mortals can’t see us.”

“Well, I can, so obviously I am not a mortal or you are not a god. Which God are you anyway?”

“I am Byggvir, god of happiness and merriment.”

“Bugger? Odd name for a god,” I replied, trying to keep the laugh out of my voice.

“No, not Bugger, Byggvir; it is different. And you are Mica, but you should not be able to see me.”

“Well, I can see you, and I don’t want to be dead. You’re a god, so you say, so as you’re a god, you can make me undead. Thank you.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Of course it can; you’re a god, it can be any way you want it to be.”

“Oh no, that would displease Woden, and that is not something anyone would want to do.”

“Why, what would he do? You’re a god, so what could he do to you?”

“Do? Anything he wants, he is the King of Gods; his power is supreme. He could cast me away to here, the Underworld.”

The Underworld – that is where we were; it kind of looked like Bingley in Yorkshire to me, although a bit greyer than usual.

“If this is the Underworld, and who am I to argue, then why are you here? And why would being cast here be such an awful thing?”

“Because if you were cast here, then you couldn’t leave. I am not cast, so I can come and go.”

“And why are you here?”

“Oh, I come looking for sport and beautiful people to entertain me.”

“In what way entertain you dare I ask?” Knowing full well that I would not like the answer.

“Entertain in the ways of the bed, of course. Live mortals are so fragile, the dead less so.”

“And what do those that entertain you get out of it?”

“Well, er, pleasure, I suppose, and they might even get a bit of their colour back.”

“And I really hesitate to ask this: what happens when they get their colour back?”

“Well, they are undead again and can return to their realm, of course; you do ask such dumb questions.”

“Well, I am new to all this being dead malarkey, you see, hence the questions. And so, and again I hesitate, if I were to entertain you sufficiently, I would be alive again?”

“Well, in theory, yes, but I am a god, and I have been entertained by goddesses; I doubt that a mortal could sufficiently entertain me.”

“Ha.” He hadn’t met me before.

“You said I should not be able to see you, but I can, so obviously I am no mere mortal.”

“I have no idea what you are. You’re not a goddess.”

“How do you know? I could be in disguise.”

He laughed, a loud rolling laugh that came from deep within him.

“Shall we see?” he asked, pointing at the shop that we were standing outside of, Bingley Bed Boutique.

“After you, Your Godship,” I said. I wondered if the doors would open; the ones to the pub wouldn’t for me, it was as if it were all a façade.

The door opened and I followed him in. He looked around at the beds on the ground floor and shook his head.

“Let’s try the upper floor,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time. Crumbs, he was eager.

“Perfect,” I heard him say from half a staircase behind him. Well, when you’re dead, stairs two at a time is a bit much.

He was standing in front of an imposing four-poster carved wood, possibly oak, painted white; it was impressive, and so was his naked body. I must have blinked, but there he was, all muscled and toned; even his muscles had muscles. His dick was just about perfectly sized, not too big and most certainly not too small; no cherub features remained in him then.

I removed my dress and placed it on the simpler bed next door and then my bra and shoes; I too was naked, and I reckoned I stood up well in the buff.

“Lie on the bed, Byggvir, and ready yourself,” I said. I didn’t try sultry tones of voice; there was little point. I doubted that they really worked. He jumped and landed fair square in the middle of the bed and turned to look at me. I held my breasts and then ran my hands down across my stomach to my groin, my fingers sliding down my crease. I climbed onto the bed and turned to face him sideways; bending forward, I licked the end of his dick.

Interestingly, there was no taste, no aroma, not even much of a sensation. I knew it was there, but the sensual feedback was minimal; this was going to be harder than I thought. His dick was, unsurprisingly, intact, but then why should he mutilate himself? He was a god. I pulled his skin down his shaft and licked at the straining tissue attaching it to his dick. He mumbled something. Good, he felt that then. I rolled my tongue and pressed it at the hole in his glans and wiggled; he mumbled again. I licked around the rim of his glans, concentrating on the underneath, and he squirmed and mumbled.