When I am invited to this thing called “Cuddle Dungeon,” I am thinking perhaps my English still not so good, or maybe these are very strange peoples. Dungeon is prison underground and full of many unpleasant things—rats and bad smells and moist coughing noises. Cuddles is soft and warm times before or after sex. I would not think to put these things together, but these modern peoples do.

My lover, Flidais, tries to say is ironic, a kind of joke, but I am not understanding. So she shrugs and says, “Is Scottish,” which she says about everything I do not understand. But she also says this for things she does not want to explain. Like who invited her to bring me to Cuddle Dungeon: “Some Scottish lad.”

Is very confusing being old Slavic thunder god in modern world, but is good that there are new kinds of dungeons, I suppose. Is consistent with technology culture obsessed with upgrades. They upgrade everything now: even dungeons.

We join line in wet city of Edinburgh, down narrow cobbled alley between old brick buildings where there are stairs leading belowground. Man at front of line holds out hand, and Flidais gives him tickets she buy somewhere before. Man looks at me and laughs and says, “Ye have no fookin’ idea what you’re doing here, do ye?”

I point to downstairs door. “Am cuddling,” I say, and he laughs again and says stream of words in Scottish accent so thick I am not understanding.

I ask Flidais as we go down, “Why does small man laugh at me? What is going to happen?”

“I don’t know, Perun,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. I want to be surprised. I want something new.”

She is old Irish goddess of the hunt, maybe older than me. We do not speak of our many years, of our boredom with routine. We seek new experience instead and see if humans can surprise us. Is very long battle, fighting boredom. Is why when Flidais saw me in leather shop in Prague with the Druid named Atticus she thought we should try leather for sexy times, and I agree very fast because is novelty for me. But leather clothings is only outward sign of a certain kind of play, Flidais tells me. There is rules and behaviors and many, many toys. All we have now is the clothes: We have leathers under long jackets that cover us up, and other peoples in line are covered up too.

I am hoping is much fun behind door. Already going down steps I feel more alive. Anticipation is sweet thing. I am wishing staircase is longer just so I can anticipate for longer time.

Door is metal and loud creaking on hinges. When we open we hear people laughing. Also screaming. Maybe some moaning too, and thumping music. Wall ahead is white and padded like marshmallow room. We have hallway to walk down, and lights get dim as we go. Bright near door, a bit darker down the hall. But wall stays white and fluffy on all sides.

Screaming and laughing get louder as we go, and Flidais looks at me with smile on face. She enjoys anticipation too.

We turn corner and find selves in another hallway going both directions. There are doorways but with no doors in them on either side. Is like maze.

“Which way?” I ask, and Flidais shrugs again.

Choice is made for us when very large and broad man emerges from doorway to our right and charges, yelling battle cry. Is bigger than me, and is naked except for black mask around eyes and black leather around groin. His body is oiled and jiggles very muchly, and his arms spread wide like he is coming for crushing bear hug. We run away but join the peoples we hear laughing. In place where good times are to be had, is fun to be chased and not know what is happening.

Flidais darts around corner into twisty passage and I follow. After three turns it is dead end and we turn around, smiling. We take two or three steps back the way we came, sneaky moving, thinking maybe running oily chubby man will pass us by. But then he turns corner and crashes into fluffy wall, out of breath.

“There you are!” he says, straightening up. He does not have Scottish accent. Sounds more American. “Thought you’d lose me, eh?” Flidais giggles at that. If she had not wanted him to see us, he would not have. “Why’d you run? I just wanted to dance for you.” He makes oontz-oontz-oontz noise, puts hands behind head, and thrusts hips in time to his own music. His flesh ripples and flaps around and is so unexpected we lose our good manners. Flidais laughs so hard she sinks to floor, unable to stand, clutching her middle and her eyes all scrunchy and teary at the edges. I am almost same, roaring louder than I have in many years: I have to stagger back and lean against wall for support. I know Flidais has never laughed so hard since being with me. Cuddle Dungeon is already worth price of admission.

Funny dancing man finally has mercy and stops thrusting hips. “Right,” he says, smiling very big smile at us. He is not offended by our laughs; is what he wants. He takes couple of deep breaths. “I’m Paul. I’m going to be your guide and take you to the shop in case you need any last-minute items, and then you can go from there to the main play area. While we walk I can go over the house rules—even if you already know them—because failure to abide by them will get you thrown out.”

We flick tears away from eyes and thank him, and I hold out hand to Flidais to help her to her feet. She is wearing tight thing called corset under her coat and cannot bend so well.

“Please lead on, Paul,” she says.

“Right! This way, please.” Once we turn corner behind him, he says important rule speech from memory over his shoulder and is very serious now, no more smiles.

“Consent and safety are of prime importance in everything we do here. Do not touch anyone without their express verbal consent or you will be asked to leave. Likewise, if someone touches you without your express verbal consent, report it and they will be asked to leave. Do not talk to a sub without their domme’s permission. Watch all the scenes in the dungeon you like, but if you want to play yourself and be watched in turn, make sure you have your safe word settled and, of course, red is the universal one. If either of you says that, a dungeon master will come to make sure everything’s okay.”

He says more things like this, but I am already unsure what he is talking about. I hope Flidais knows. He says “dungeon” a lot and says no pictures are allowed but nothing about cuddles. At least is easy to remember not to touch other peoples. I am here for Flidais only.

Soon we go through door and white marshmallow walls end. We enter room with black walls that must be shop. There are many things on walls made of black leather and metal, and there are shelves with items I have never seen before and do not know what they do. But there are peoples there who know these things and also know exactly what they want. Like us they wear not much clothes, except they do not have coats covering them up. Paul points to right side and says the counter there is coat-check area, and door past cash register is entrance to play area; then he tells us to enjoy our evening.

A man with many piercings in face and chest stands at the coat check, with bands of spiky leather around his neck and wrists. He also has tattoos on most of his skin; these disappear beneath tight pants like rock star wears.

We take off coats and hand them to him. His eyes linger on me more than Flidais, so I assume he must like men, because Flidais is goddess in all senses. Other eyes in shop see what I see: She is most beautiful. But since I am also god I get my looks too. I am very hairy and not so beautiful, but peoples have different tastes and some of them like muscles. I am told American word for me is beefcake, though I am not made of cow flesh and am also nothing like frosted sugar pastry.

I am wearing collar with a metal ring in front. Flidais takes chain out of coat pocket before man hangs them up and clips one end to my collar. Tonight, she says, I am her pet. She also takes small money purse from pocket.

Coat-check man asks for our phones and we say we have none. He does not believe at first, but Flidais points to her clothes and mine. She has black corset under bust and nothing above it except fulgurite talisman dangling between breasts to protect from my lightning—when I am excited my touch can be electric in literal way. Below hips is thin bikini underwear and then thick-soled boots with many buckles up to knees. I have harness across chest and back that makes letter X under my collar and then a leather jock with front that opens as needed. “Where do you think we’d be hiding them? I don’t even have a place for my purse.” Man admits we have zero pockets and no phone-shaped bulges and gives her ticket for coats.

We turn and see many heads in shop look away from either my backside or Flidais’s. We both chuckle at this. But I think we are both excited too. There is much skin on display, many curves and cleavages, silvery studs and spikes on black leather wrapped around so many soft lines and hard edges, attractive on all shapes and skin colors. These clothings are made to be seen.

Flidais leads me to place on wall where different whips are hanging. She buys a kind called a riding crop, with money from purse, but nothing else.

“Crop is for what?” I ask, but she does not answer question. Instead, she says for rest of evening I should not speak unless she gives permission first. Is part of the experience, she explains, and so I do not ask about all the other things I see.

We go through door to play area and the music changes. Is not slick thumping electric pulse anymore but loud angry metal guitar. And this is where the screaming is.

Room is very large and dark, with only lights coming from kind you see in dance clubs—cones of rage-face red and urine yellow and fake raspberry blue shining down on scenes.

A slim woman dressed the exact opposite of Paul welcomes us. She has leather on entire body except for eyes and happy place. There is zipper over her mouth, but this is open to allow speaking.

“Is this your first time in our dungeon?” she asks Flidais in Scottish English, ignoring me. My lover nods and woman points at lighted scenes, naming them. “We have a standard bondage table there, a punishment bench, a jail cell, a set of bondage chairs next to it, and on the back wall on the other side of the center stage is a row of stockades of different kinds. On this other wall we have lockdown systems and pillories and a couple of bondage horses. You’re welcome to use anything not currently being used by others.”

Much is being used already. Some men, some women, bound to these things with steel clasps or rope, are being tickled, slapped, pinched, and more by partners. They make many noises above loud music, but this treatment they are wanting. And other peoples are watching.

Zipper Woman says, “I was also told to tell ye she’s not here yet but will be once the center-stage scene begins. She’s always here for that.”

“Thank you,” Flidais replies, and I forget my instructions.

“Who will be here?” I ask, and Flidais flicks my chest with crop, stinging my nipple.

“Do not speak!” She watches me to see if I will respond, but I keep mouth shut. Satisfied, she turns to woman and says, “When will the center-stage scene begin?”

“Soon,” she says.

“Okay. I think my partner and I will be playing.”

“Great. Ye have settled upon a safe word, haven’t ye?”

Flidais looks back at me. “Perun. You may answer. What’s your safe word?”

“What is safe word?”

“We will be playing and having a good time, but if it stops being a good time for you, or if you want or need to stop for any reason at all, you say the safe word and I will stop and let you go. And the observers will make sure I do.”

“Let me go?”

“I’m going to tie you up, Perun. I think you’ll like it. So what’s your safe word?”

“Um.” I try to think of something I would never say during sexy times. “Beefcake.”

Flidais looks at Zipper Woman and she nods, satisfied. “That’s good.”

“Who will be here later?” I ask Flidais, since she has not told me to be quiet again. But my question earns whip from crop and new command to be silent. Maybe person she waits for will be part of our play later. Maybe is surprise for me so she does not want to say.

Flidais says farewell to Zipper Woman and tugs gently on my chain. We walk around stage to left, taking in scenes, and some peoples who are watching turn to watch us. Flidais must turn down many invitations to play with us as we circle the stage. Is very polite.

When we get to far side opposite door, perhaps small bit to right, Flidais points with riding crop to strange wooden posts with cuffs and straps hanging from them. No: not cuffs like police have. These are wider and black steel. I remember now: Word is manacles.

“Let’s begin,” she says. “Stand in front of that, facing me.”

I feel my excitement start with only these words. The anticipation has been building, and now I am thinking most of our play will be anticipation too.

Since I am tall man, Flidais must adjust this thing to fit me. She must bend and stretch to do this, and some peoples are attracted. They begin to drift our way, leaving other scenes to watch what we do.

Flidais places my right wrist into manacles so my arm points northwest if I am person lying flat on compass. My left arm goes into other manacles pointing northeast. More manacles near floor lock around my legs above the ankle. My limbs are like chest harness now, shaped like X.

As she does this to ensure I cannot touch her, she is constantly touching me, her fingernails tracing with light pressure my arms and legs. And she tells me how I will be teased and turned on in front of all these people—more are gathering to watch—until I am ready to explode. But I must not—I cannot—until she gives me permission.

This happens mostly like she says it will. Mostly.

She opens front of jock and my arousal is very much plain. But her fingers never touch me after that. Is all talking and touching with riding crop. But not having control—the anticipation and surprise of where I will next be touched, and how, with a sting or a caress—is much more exciting than I would have thought. And I did not expect to have peoples watching or to see on faces how much they like it, and this feels good to me also.

While Flidais brings me to edge and keeps me there, I glimpse peoples behind watchers moving about on center stage. Short time later, strange man pushes to front of watchers, dressed in suit, no leather on except maybe shoes. He is not in Cuddle Dungeon for sexy times and does not look interested in me or Flidais or anyone. All the naked hotness is very boring to this man with white mustache all waxy at tips. He clears throat and says to Flidais, “She is here now and watching.”

“Thank you,” she says, turning her head only little bit to answer. He pushes back through crowd and disappears.

“Who—” I begin, but crop whacks me before I can say more.

“Never mind that now, Perun,” Flidais says. “I think you’ve been very good and deserve to let go now.” She drops the crop and presses herself against me, uses her hands, and is so different, so wanted, that I feel myself building to point of no return. Sparks light in my eyes, and electricity makes hairs on my body stand up. “Don’t you want to lose control? I want you to. These people want you to. You have permission. Come on.”

Is only seconds and shiver of ecstasy lights up spine, everything tightens, muscles clench, and then—nothing. Or, rather, something but not orgasm. Muscles go slack and I slump as much as manacles allow. They are in fact all that keeps me standing. All my strength is gone and head spins like pinwheel, colors firing in vision but all blurs, no shapes.

“Got you,” Flidais says, but does not sound like she talks to me. I feel her at my right leg, undoing manacle.

“What happens? Something wrong.” I try to remember safe word. “Cake!”

“Yes, we’re finished playing. Time to go hunting.”

Right leg free, my knee tries to flex and buckles. Other manacles keep me standing. Vision clears enough to see Flidais working on left leg, but blotchy like looking through window in rainstorm.

“Hunting what?”

“Hunting whoever just siphoned your energy at the point of orgasm.”

“Was it strange man in suit?”

“No, that was Aloysius MacBharrais, the Scots wizard.” She says like I should know the name. “He’s the one who told me there was a problem here.”

Left leg is free and I wobble like walking on noodle. Muscles do not want to work. Flidais notices. “Am I going to have to carry you?”

“I should maybe lie down and eat whole chicken. Maybe five.”

“No, Perun, we have to go after her,” she insists, unlocking left arm. I try not to fall, but I topple forward. Flidais pushes me back to post.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to lock knees and stay upright. Legs tremble beneath me. “Go after who?”

“The mad nymph who did this. She’s trackable now. She’s one of my daughter’s.”

“Fand sent nymph here?”

“No, I doubt that. She simply fled Tír na nÓg after Fand failed to overthrow Brighid, and she found a way to live in the iron world.”

The woman with zipper mouth comes forward and asks if I am all right, if we need help.

“Maybe,” Flidais says. “Help keep him standing for me if he needs it when I undo this last manacle.”

Zipper Woman puts shoulder underneath my left arm. “What happened?”

“He’s just having an episode,” Flidais says, which is true but hardly whole story. She undoes other arm, and I would have fallen except that she and Zipper Woman hold me up. Never have I been so weak. “We need to get him to coat check. I have some medicine in my pocket.” I am thinking this must be lie. How could she have medicine for this? But I stagger to coat check with their help, past the stage and peoples who continue to do sex under lights and loud music.

Vision clears more, but I do not see this nymph. I want to ask Flidais more but do not think is good time when Zipper Woman can hear.

Pierced tattoo man gives us coats, and Flidais takes small glass bottle out of pocket and removes cork. “Drink this,” she says.

Is like chocolate sludge with alcohol and maybe handful of sand. I choke it down, cough a few times, eyes watering. And as I look down I see I am not so excited anymore. Penis droops like very sad snake. I put it away and close up flap of jock.

“Better?” she asks, nodding her head to give me hint at right answer.

“Yes,” I say. “Much better now.”

“Thanks for your help,” Flidais says to Zipper Woman. “We’ll be fine. Enjoy your evening.”

Zipper Woman also takes hint and leaves us. We put on coats and move away from counter so we can talk in privates. My legs steady now but I move slow.

“Tell me about nymph. And what I drank.”

“The drink is something Goibhniu brewed up before he died. It was a gift to me, to restore my energy should I need it when hunting in cities, cut off from the earth. But I thought it would help you out in this instance. You should be feeling better very soon.”

“Already feel better. But how did you know I would need?”

“A couple days ago Aloysius MacBharrais informed me that one of the Fae had been preying on sexual energy in the Cuddle Dungeon, violating some very old treaties that the Tuatha Dé Danann have with the Scots. As a courtesy he contacted me to ask if I’d like to take care of it, and I said I would. Because whoever it turned out to be might know something about Fand. And I’d like to know what started her doing this.”

“I would like to know this too! Nymph is maniac.”

Flidais snorts and grins as if I say something funny. “Are you ready?”

“No, I have important question.” With my wits returning, I am realizing that she uses me. She planned to or she would not have brought potion. She knew from start that nymph would be here. “Why am I bait for nymph without asking me first?”

“Because you wouldn’t have enjoyed yourself if you knew we were hunting while playing. And because you’ll be fine.”

“I did not get to enjoy myself and am not fine, Flidais. You bring me here under false pretense.”

“No, I didn’t. I said we were going to play tonight, and we did. I left out the part where I’d be mixing a bit of business with our pleasure, but the pleasure will resume soon. You will be better than before, and I promise I will make it up to you. But we have to catch her first.”

“Why?”

“You want to be a god of thunder again, don’t you?”

“I am god of thunder now.”

“In name only, I’m afraid. She didn’t just rob you of an orgasm. She stole your thunder.”

I scoff at this. “Impossible.” But I try to feel the clouds and moisture in air and cannot. Is worrisome, but I remember this happens sometimes when I am underground. “Is she still here?”

“No, she left the building as soon as she could. But we’ll find her.”

“Let’s go.” We make way through maze of marshmallow wall to stairs and then dark alley, my mood souring like goat milk in sun. Scots wizard with mustache is waiting there. He dips head to our left.

“She went that way,” he says. “Very unstable.”

“Thanks, Aloysius,” Flidais says. We jog down alley, and body feels much better now but no longer like god. I cannot feel clouds or winds. Nymph really did steal powers.

“If that Scotsman can find her, why not have him help you hunt this nymph? Why let her take my strength?”

“Because nymphs are nearly impossible to hunt unless you mark them somehow or know exactly where they like to hide. They just disappear into whatever element they’re kin to. Fill her up with thunder god, though, and she won’t blend in no matter what she does. Can you smell it? Singed air and burned hair. She got more than she bargained for.”

Is fair to say I also got more than I bargained for. Or maybe I get no bargain at all. I come to dungeon for good time—which maybe is problem, I admit—but I get bad time instead. Is very uncomfortable to feel stripped of what made me Perun. If nymph has my power and I confront her now, will I still be immune to lightning?

I am seething as we follow trail through wet cobbled streets of Edinburgh. Is good English word, this seething. Very much anger but very much hidden. Because this should not be happening. I should not be casual means to some end. Especially an end I am not knowing. Flidais continues to hide true purposes from me. The end I want is to feel the lightning again.

“She’s heading to Holyrood Park,” Flidais says, nostrils flaring, following scent. “We have to—wait, there she is!”

She points ahead to staggering person under streetlights. Looks like tiny dark-haired woman fighting bees around her head, except there are no bees. Is only madness and sparks of lightning. Peoples give cry and move away from her on street because she frightens them. She is in clear pains. Small Irish nymph is not meant to hold powers of old Slavic god.

She is also close to park—lights end ahead, and that must mean large place of nature.

We pick up paces because target is now clear. Flidais is faster and tackles nymph just as she reaches first grass of park. Nymph roars like me, not making noise one would expect from tiny person. Lightning strikes Flidais, not from sky but from nymph, and surrounds her in forking tongues of blue and white. She is protected by fulgurite talisman and shouts at nymph to stop, she just wants to talk. She flips nymph onto back and pins her.

But nymph has no control of this power. Head shakes back and forth, roar keeps going with rage of modern boy playing video game, and eyes glow with fire of angry sky.

Flidais asks about Fand and about Manannan Mac Lir. About their plans. Their defenses. How she learned to siphon energy. To all these questions nymph only screams and struggles. Peoples begin to look our way, which is not good.

Is clear nymph has lost most of mind, and I grow frustrated. Is all wasted effort, and I feel like pawn sacrificed in meaningless game. In truth is not even my game: Is Irish game and I should not be involved.

“Nine bloody hells,” Flidais mutters, and pulls hunk of cold iron out of inside coat pocket. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.” Is mercy when she presses iron to nymph’s forehead.

Nymph gives short scream, turns to ash, and power she took from me crackles in air and returns where it should. My body is strong again, the wind whispers in my thoughts, the thunder and lightning booms and cracks too. Is like dive into refreshing pool, swimming in health. I have not felt this fine in ages. Is good to be reminded of my gifts, of what my peoples granted me with their beliefs. And Flidais thought these gifts were hers to play with.

The never-ending summer of Tír na nÓg is pleasant but is perfect example of how the Tuatha Dé Danann manipulate natural order of things. I am Slavic god of that natural order, and I too was manipulated. Is time to be free again, to let rain wash away resentment and renew my peace of mind.

We have to spend short time waving away peoples who come to investigate screaming and lights. We assure them all is well. The nymph is scattered in wind, or her remains are invisible in darkness. There is nothing to see. When they go away I look at my lover and do what I must.

“You remember what Paul, funny dancing man, said?” I remove coat and unclasp harness, leaving on collar and jock. “He said, ‘Consent is prime importance.’ He was talking sexy things, but applies to other things also. You did not have my consent to do this. You thought it okay to use me. Is not okay, Flidais.”

She stretches out hand to me, shaking her head. “Perun—”

“No. I am very thankful for good times with you. Will always be, in fact, for they are truly good times. But I think is over now. Weles is dead and Loki cannot find me. So I stay on earth and enjoy stormy weather again. Please do me favor and leave my axe with the Druid Atticus. I will pick up later. Goodbye.”

As Flidais protests, I change my shape into eagle, step out of jock and duck out of collar, then take wing into cool moonlight sky darkening with thunderclouds. I bank east to make flight across oceans and plains and mountains to neglected land of my peoples. I have been gone for very long time, and now I want nothing so much as to be home.