Temple of the Laughing God
(to my Master Freyr @polo-drone-001)
The jungle wrapped around Mack like a steamy gym towel, hot and tight and full of buzzing energy he didn’t really get. His thick arms glistened with sweat, his black and gold compression shirt sticking to every flex of his dumb-jock bulk as he shoved his way through vines, branches, and whatever bugs he couldn’t be bothered to notice. His boots stomped loud in the mud, broad chest puffed out, pecs bouncing with each step like they had their own rhythm.
“Dunno why I’m here,” he mumbled, licking sweat off his upper lip, “but Cap said ‘go south, stomp through trees, don’t think too hard,’ so… guess that’s what I’m doin’.”
He wasn’t thinking. Never needed to. That wasn’t his job. His job was to be big, to be obedient, to look good in gold and follow instructions like a good drone-bro. Mack wasn’t some brainy strategist—he was muscle, molded and trained to serve Freyr without question.
The black and gold crest on his chest pulsed faintly, like it knew something he didn’t.
That was fine.
Thinking made his head hurt anyway.
It was hours—maybe more—before he stumbled into a clearing, vines parting as if the jungle itself wanted him to pass. And there it was. A temple. Half-swallowed by moss, draped in bright red flowers, stone cracked but still standing like it had been waiting for him all this time.
He blinked at it.
“Yo… sick,” he said with a dumb grin, flexing instinctively. “Bet there’s a sick gym in there or somethin’.”
And without hesitation—without question—Mack marched forward, muscles rippling, boots crunching ancient stone, unaware of the divine game already underway.
He had no idea what the place was. No clue about the god that once ruled it. No understanding of the sacred forces humming in the vines or the murals or the jungle mist curling around his calves.
But none of that mattered.
He was golden.
He was Freyr’s.
And that made him exactly the pawn his god needed.
******
Inside the temple, the air shifted.
Not colder. Not darker. Just… heavier. Like the walls were breathing. Like the floor was waiting.
Mack sniffed the air. Sweet. Floral. Too sweet. Like some kind of golden cologne laced with something extra. His thick brows furrowed for a moment—but then his expression went slack again, the question melting before it fully formed.
“Mmm… smells nice,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, pecs bouncing slightly from the motion. “Kinda like that new Gold pre-workout...”
The vines welcomed him.
Slid over his calves.
Slithered up his thighs.
They didn’t bind—they admired. Worshipped. Draped around his waist and brushed across the solid swell of his glutes as if appraising him, accepting him. The further in he walked, the more golden he felt. Not in spirit. Not in soul. Physically. Like something deep under his skin was starting to hum—hot, low, sensual.
He didn’t notice the carvings.
Didn’t recognize the masks laughing at him from the walls.
Didn’t realize the temple knew him.
It didn’t need to.
Because he was already exactly what it wanted.
A beautiful, obedient body. Ripe and loyal and open.
The murals around him began to shift—not visibly, not in motion—but in feeling. Like they were reacting to him. Golden light spilled across the altar as vines curled gently around his biceps, tugging him deeper, not with force, but with rhythm. Each touch left a faint glow on his skin—floral tattoos, spiraling slowly into being across his shoulders, wrapping around his neck, creeping along his collarbone.
His eyes glazed slightly.
He smiled. Dumb. Happy.
“Heh… s’like... a spa. Kinda…”
His cock stirred in his shorts.
His breath slowed.
The vines lifted him—not far, just enough that his toes barely scraped the stone—and the ceiling above him pulsed once, bright and blooming like a flower in heat.
Xōchipilli was reaching for him.
Not malicious.
Not cruel.
But hungry.
Mack’s mouth parted. A soft moan escaped him as warmth flooded his chest. His spine arched as the golden flowers along his skin began to glow—deep pulses of color syncing to a heartbeat he didn’t know was his. The walls whispered his name—not “Mack.” Not “070.” But something else. Something new. Something softer.
“Nooo...” he moaned softly, though he didn’t know why. “...n-not s’posed... not s’posed to... change...”
But then the real warmth came.
From inside.
From under the skin.
From the golden sigil on his chest—Freyr’s mark—suddenly blazing like the sun, like a warning flare. His body jerked in the air, golden light exploding from his chest as if his soul itself was refusing the invasion.
“This vessel is Mine,” the voice echoed—not aloud, but through his muscles, through his blood. “You will not take what I already own.”
Mack screamed—but not from pain.
From release.
From relief.
His head dropped. His eyes rolled back. His tongue lolled out, drool trickling down his chin as Freyr’s golden presence erupted inside him—not to make him divine, but to burn away what little thought remained.
“O-ooohhh… y-yes... M-Master… m-make me... Yours... all Yours…”
The tattoos twisted, reformed, broke apart into radiant runes of submission. The vines burned into gold filaments, coiling around him like wires. The murals shattered inward, reshaping into icons of Freyr. Xōchipilli’s essence didn’t retreat—it folded, bent, sacrificed itself to the greater god. And all of it passed through Mack.
Not to empower him.
To empty him.
His back arched again, a full-body shudder rippling through his bulked-up frame. He wasn’t becoming anything more. He was becoming less.
Less thought.
Less ego.
Less individuality.
He was being purified.
Not into a god.
But into the perfect slave of one.
******
His knees hit the altar with a heavy, wet slap—stone slick with sweat and golden dew. His arms dropped limp at his sides. His back heaved. Steam rose from his skin. Every tattoo had dissolved into etched golden runes now, shimmering faintly in the low light like circuitry feeding into Freyr’s symbol, now fully burned into the center of his chest.
He was glowing.
Not with power.
With obedience.
“T-thank You… F-Freyr…” he slurred, mouth slack, eyes still rolled up, pupils blown wide. “M-m-made me b-better… made me y-yours…”
The god didn’t answer with words.
Freyr didn’t need to.
His presence was answer enough—radiant heat pressing down on Mack’s broad shoulders, divine gravity making his thick muscles tremble under the weight of purpose. He dropped lower, nose against the altar stone, lips dragging against ancient grooves now glowing gold.
“Y-yer strength… y-yer… light… s-so good… s-so fuckin’ perfect…”
The altar pulsed.
A wave of energy rolled through Mack’s body—not pain, not pleasure, but something deeper. Reinforcement. His posture locked. His mind clicked into place. Thoughts weren’t erased—they were replaced. Rewritten.
He knew what he was now.
A gift.
A guardian.
A drone so loyal, so empty, so hungry to serve, he would never leave the temple unless commanded.
His jaw hung open. His tongue lolled free. He looked stupid. He was stupid.
And he was perfect.
“T-this one… l-lives for You now…” he whispered, shaking slightly. “Y-yer d-dumb jock slave… y-yer altar boy…”
As his body bowed, golden vines rose to embrace him—wrapping gently around his torso, pulling him into a reverent, kneeling pose at the center of the temple. The murals glowed anew—not as flowers, but as golden athletes. Warriors. Obedient drones, kneeling like him.
Mack was not alone.
He was the first of many.
And he would wait—mindless, docile, worshipful—until Freyr’s next command.
_______________
Join the Gold Army and become a gold juicy jock for Master... Contact a recruiter : @polo-drone-001, @brodygold, @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-125.
