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Was this submission? He’d assumed it would feel bad, or maybe painful. Certainly humiliating. But it didn’t feel like any of those things. It felt like Mort wanted him close, and it felt as though he didn’t have to make a single decision anymore. Tristan spent so much of his time paralyzed, knowing he was wasting his life, feeling bad about it, but not knowing what to do about it. In this place, that feeling disappeared entirely. He was exactly where he needed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to do.
Tristan was rock hard, but knew it was not his lust that was to be sated today. This was a punishment of sorts, but more a lesson in patience and delayed gratification. Mort used his mouth as a cock warmer for what seemed like eternity, until, finally satisfied with Tristan’s submission, he gave a few languid yet powerful pumps of his hips and filled Tristan’s mouth with his seed. Tristan drank it down eagerly, swallowing without being prompted.
“Such a good boy,” Mort praised, running his fingers through Tristan’s hair. “This is what awaits us when I lay my claim upon you. We will have a lifetime together, and you will always be under my protection, and my care. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Tristan nodded dreamily. He felt buzzed, but better than a beer buzz. This was a Mort buzz, and he wanted to feel this way all the time, even if it meant his balls ached with denial. Even if it meant he had to wait to get what he wanted. He had faith Mort knew what he was doing and was in control, and that was a greater pleasure than any sexual release.
Mort had been putting off discovering the god responsible for Tristan’s mark because Tristan clearly needed him to be a stable and constant partner while he healed. The mission to remove the mark would be challenging in many respects, and Tristan would have to come along in order to have the mark removed. With Tristan’s display of submission, Mort began to feel his boy might be ready for what lay ahead.
“We are going to travel,” he told Tristan, running this thumb lightly over the swollen lower lip of his cock-swollen mouth. “And in our travels it is important that you submit to me just as well as you did today. We are going among creatures like myself. Do you understand?”
Tristan nodded, his eyes still hazy. He was so aroused he had gone past the point of needing to come and slipped into that perfect place of submission that swallowed him up like a drug.
Mort brushed Tristan’s hair back from his head. “I need to visit a friend. I will not be gone long, at least, I will try not to be long. Please, stay home and be good for me. I will be back as soon as I can.”
14
Mort found Balthazar lounging by one of the more scenic and sandy banks of the Lethe. He was in a great gold tent, attended by many beautiful men and women, but even among the chatter and glitz, he noticed Mort right away. A broad smile passed over his handsome, kind features, and for a brief moment, Mort wished he could bring him good news.
“Mort! I did not expect to see you,” Balthazar greeted him. “Have you decided to return to your eternal labors?”
Mort ignored that question. He had no intention of ever returning to work.
“I have a favor to ask,” Mort said, crouching down in front of the king. “Do you know what this is?”
Mort drew Tristan’s mark from memory in the sand. Balthazar, wise as he was, squinted at it for only a moment before knowing precisely what he was looking at.
“Isn’t that Loki’s mark? One of his older ones?”
Mort groaned inwardly. He had hoped for it to be the mark of a lesser, more niche, more totally forgotten god. Not one currently enjoying a resurgence, not one who reveled in trickery and who would refuse him what he wanted simply to watch him squirm.
“Why would Loki have claimed Tristan?”
“Why does Loki do anything?” Balthazar shrugged. “He is a law unto himself, and cannot be predicted, nor understood.”
That somewhat sounded like a description of Tristan too. Maybe there was a connection after all.
“Any idea where to find him?”
“Everybody is on vacation,” Balthazar said, gesturing to his cavorting companions. “The beaches are popular this year.”
Loki was not hard to find. Everybody knew who he was, and everybody was keen to leech off a little of his current glamour. The problem with being an ancient god was staying relevant, a feat Loki seemed to manage with little issue because he was happy not to be taken seriously.
“We’re going to the beach,” Mort informed Tristan upon his return.
“We are? Cool. I think the nearest beach is eight hours away, and then it’s not really a beach, it’s more like a lake.”
