The Fountain Ritual
Quick note — someone's been giving each chapter a low score, which is fair play, but hardly anyone votes so it just stays that way. If you're reading along, throw me a score! I'd love to know what you actually think.
I don’t hear the music at first.
There is a moment of confusion, the world still tight and dark around me, the scent of Joren’s skin and the press of fabric everywhere. Then Milianne’s voice, gentle but insistent, calls me back. The ritual must begin. Joren’s hands are careful as he lifts me out, and I feel the cold air on my skin as I am set in the center of the courtyard. The magic in the air thickens; the fragment at my hip pulses. My body stretches, bones lengthening, skin prickling as I grow, the world expanding around me until I am full-sized, limbs heavy and awkward with sudden scale. The marble basin waits, and attendants guide me to it, settling me into the cold stone. The others take their places, the courtyard bright under the noon sun.
I hear feet on stone. The scrape of chair legs. Joren’s grunt as he lowers himself, another little compression of the marble. The sound echoes, heavy and expectant. My basin is smaller, smooth. I slide a hand along the cold lip, shivering as the edge brushes my shoulderblades. Marble, blue-veined, the chill biting until the liquid fills. When Milianne signals, two attendants walk slow, carrying fat-bellied ewers. Milk pours. Steam rises, thick and fragrant, heat coiling upward. The warmth spreads fast, chasing away the noon heat. I shift, feel the stone cradle my back and thighs. My arse sinks just above the carved drain, and I grip the sides to center myself. The stone fits. Too close, but I’ll manage.
“Too tight for you?” Joren rumbles, cocking an eyebrow toward my little basin from across the stone. His hands grip the arms of his chair as he eases down, and the indent in the marble barely contains him. The scale is absurd. He’s all breadth—thighs, hips, ass wide, the indent swallowing half his balls. His cock hangs heavy, half-hard, draping thick across one thigh. Every twitch makes it bounce against the pale stone.
He spreads wide, testing the fit. “You look like a bird in a teacup.”
I flash teeth. “It’s the right size. You’re just jealous because they didn’t have a model big enough for your arse.”
Joren rolls his palm slow over his balls, thumb dipping to the base of his shaft. The movement is idle at first, but his hips shift, grinding subtly against the carved slot beneath him.
“I’d be flattered if you’d make yourself a little more present,” he says—half a smile, eyes glinting as he glances my way. “You’re disappearing over there.”
“Any more present and I’ll light the milk before it gets me hard,” I murmur.
Before the ritual begins in earnest, Vesper beckons Garrick from his shoulder perch. Garrick shrinks quickly, body condensing with a shimmer of magic, until he is small enough for Vesper to scoop him up gently. Vesper guides Garrick to the hollow plug’s alcove, and Garrick settles inside, the mechanism still for now.
Across the stones, Vesper cracks, “If the milk’s not hard by now, it won’t survive the hour.” He’s naked already, lounging sideways in the contoured chair with its marble pillar rising between his cheeks, the hollow plug—an alcove carved deep enough to hold Garrick entirely—propped at a rakish angle against one thigh. His skin is flushed, hair tousled, body casual. Garrick is nestled in the alcove, the mechanism within the plug still for now.
“Who’s worried about survival?” Vesper stretches, arching his spine. “I want to see what happens when it overflows. Garrick keeps threatening to break my record.”
Garrick hums, lips barely parted. He glances my way through the limited view. “Records are for mortals.”
Lirael is last to settle. His gown—too formal, silk over muscle and bone—slips off, pooling at the feet of his cushioned platform. He stands for a breath, head bowed, hands folded over his chest. His movements are measured, ceremonial, every gesture deliberate. The silk shifts from his shoulders, revealing the long planes of his back. The light catches the veins in his cock as it droops heavy toward the porcelain bowl cut between his knees. He kneels, spine straight, thighs spread enough to cradle the bowl in the shadow between his legs. His hands settle, fingers steepled. For a moment, he looks like a statue built for worship.
Milianne appears, all in white, a square of old-tongue inscribed linen over her hair. She moves quietly, feet bare on the cold stone, face composed. The women gather behind the incense braziers, forming a half-circle of witnesses. Milianne opens her hands, palms up, blood-red ink scrawled across her knuckles. Her voice rises, high and clear, a single note suspended above us. The old-tongue flows, vowels curling through the air, promise and warning entwined. She begins to chant, and the sound threads out, wending between our bodies.
Joren glances at me, gives a small, conspiratorial grin.
The milk is warm, sharp at first taste. Holta herself hands me the cup, expression flat as the stone. Her hands are steady as she tips the rim to my lips. I take half a cup, the liquid thick, honeyed, laced with something metallic. My stomach tightens. She tips a second measure. “Drink,” she says, her tone brooking no refusal. I swallow, feel the heat blossom in my chest, then slide downward.
The plug enters second.
It is not a small thing. Glass, carved, a deep blue-green like river stone, thick at the base and curved inward. Once seated it forms a near-perfect seal. The vacuum engages almost immediately—slow, insistent suction that begins to draw the milk upward into me from the basin, feeding it directly into my body for energy, for light, for the work ahead. Joren’s is larger, a custom-fit beast that settles in with a grunt and a shift of thigh. He grits his teeth, jaw working, as an attendant helps guide the base home. Vesper swears when his slides home, the alcove swallowing Garrick fully as the piston begins its slow, inexorable rhythm, driving Garrick's body forward in thrusts that press relentlessly against Vesper's prostate and deeper into his core. Garrick's cum continues to leak inside, pooling and pressing, contributing to the building internal flood that Vesper must release through his cock.
I brace my hands on the basin’s edge. The glass teases my rim, the curve widening, slick with oil. I suck in a breath as it pushes past resistance. The stretch is sharp, eye-watering. My pulse hammers in my ears. The heat of the milk makes every nerve sing as it’s pulled steadily into me. The plug seats deep, the base locking tight. The vacuum surges—steady, rhythmic draw now, feeding milk into my gut, my veins, my light.
For a moment I am just held. The milk thickens inside me, spreading warmth through the base of my spine. Every twitch sparks bright, anticipation building. I flex around the plug. It presses back, unwavering, and the suction answers, pulling more inward. The world narrows to sensation: marble at my back, glass inside, vacuum feeding, Joren’s presence beside me across the stone.
Joren’s thigh strains, the muscle tightening visibly. “Ready?” His words are low, steady.
I nod, or try to. My muscles drag, slow to respond. “You?”
He wraps his fist around his cock, squeezing through the carved slot in the chair. The motion presses the shaft against the marble, the head glistening, slit wide. He strokes down. His grip tightens. “Let’s wake the stone.”
Milianne’s voice rises, the chant doubling in complexity. A second voice joins, then a third, the harmonies stacking and splitting, weaving in and out. The courtyard is full of sound—throats bright, the low drone of air skimming the marble basin channels. The air vibrates, thick with incense and promise.
Joren glances over. “That’s two,” he mutters. “Want to keep score?”
“Score?” I gasp, hips bucking as the plug pulses and the vacuum feeds. “I’ll give you score—after you make it past five.”
He laughs, deep and low, cock swelling against the marble.
Vesper is pure display. He shifts in his chair, hips rolling, voice too loud, words rattling off the stone. His legs splay, ass perched on the marble pillar. He cups his cock, squeezing the head, thumb circling the crown as the piston inside drives Garrick forward again and again, each thrust slamming home against Vesper's prostate and deeper. Garrick's cum leaks steadily inside, thickening the pressure, forcing more of Vesper's own release to build and spill from his cock into the funnel.
“Milk’s up,” he announces, as if anyone could miss it. “Plug’s inside. Garrick, you little fuck, that’s cheating—don’t sync the drag—”
Garrick says nothing, but his focus sharpens from within. Every piston cycle is measured, drawing Vesper along, refusing to let him crash or crest too early.
Vesper throws his head back, gasping. “If I come now I’ll kill you and then myself in that order—”
“You’ll thank me,” Garrick replies, voice dry, muffled from inside the alcove.
Vesper laughs, the sound spiraling up, half-mad with pleasure. His whole frame shakes. The milk and internal flood overflow his cock into the funnel, running down his balls, the vacuum below pulling the excess into the channels. He shoots me a wild grin. “Sparks, you watching? Gonna need a second funnel at this rate.”
“I’ll send for a bucket,” I call back, breathless.
Lirael is silent through it all. For a long time he kneels, cock soft, fingers steepled over the rim of his bowl. His lips move, silent cadence of old-tongue fragments drifting up. His jaw clenches, then releases, the tension visible. A swallow. The muscles in his neck move. The first thread of piss hits the porcelain, nearly silent, a ribbon of gold that winks in the sun. It splashes delicately, pooling before the spout drains it into the marble channels.
Joren notices before I do. He leans sideways, peering over. “You starting early, priest?”
Lirael’s eyes flick up, bright, pupils huge. “The milk speaks. I answer.”
Vesper cackles, voice echoing. “Easy for you, elf. My milk’s still arguing.”
Lirael doesn’t smile, but there’s amusement in the arch of his brow. His piss continues, steady, near-constant, never forced. His hands float just above his knees, fingers flexing with each new pulse.
The music shifts again. The women’s voices multiply, then thin, weaving in and out—breath and tone, nothing shaped but sound. Layers build and dissolve, voices rising and receding like waves. Lirael’s stream catches the light, splitting again and again as the bowl overflows. The golden liquid runs down a channel, joining the white in the marble’s cut lines, streaming toward the fountain.
Every cycle, the pressure in my belly mounts. The plug pulses, sharp and merciless. The vacuum surges inward, feeding more milk into me. I come again—third, then fourth—and the light is brighter each time, painting the carved marble with its glow as overflow is pulled outward.
I feel Joren’s gaze on me, pride and possession wound together through the bond. He mouths, “Mine,” and I nod, already shaking.
Hour one rolls on.
Hour two starts with raw endurance.
The music thickens again—more voices now, low harmonies, a hum running up the wall. The air feels charged, the scent of incense heavier, bordering on sweet rot. My plug drives deeper. I adjust, wincing. Every movement shocks me, pleasure skirting pain. Each release is effort, the light fighting to emerge while the vacuum continues to drink milk into me. I grip the edge of the basin until my knuckles whiten, holding myself steady as the pressure mounts.
Joren has stopped thinking. His eyes glaze, mouth slack, breathing gone shallow. His belly is taut, distending with the milk, skin stretched tight across muscle. Each surge shows, the outline pressing against skin, veins on his cock raised dark and thick. He drinks from the cup mechanically, the liquid vanishing. The shaft leaks nonstop—a thick line of sacred cum drooling into his channel, trailing through the opening into the marble network.
He lifts his hand from the cockhead—four fingers sticky with leak, thumb rolling the slit. Brings it to his mouth and inhales, slow. The motion is half-conscious, done only for the scent.
“Good?” I murmur, voice strained, tasting the echo of him through the shared channels below.
He doesn’t answer, but his whole body softens for a single breath.
The cum flows steadily into the network. The vacuum beneath me pulls overflow outward while continuing to feed me inward.
“Gods, you’re greedy,” he pants, half to himself.
“For you? Always.”
He shudders.
The music shifts again. The first instrument joins—a low woodwind, ghosting below the chant. Then a second, and a third. The sound builds, swelling between the columns. The drum enters, heartbeat slow. Then the first long note from the pipe organ—deep as sex, shuddering. The castle wall vibrates. The pipes stacked in tiers above us, facade carved wider than any temple entrance. The sound comes through the stones, up from the earth, pressing into my bones before it ever reaches my ears.
My head falls back, eyes shut. I float for a moment above the basin, weightless in the lull between spasms. The pain recedes. I breathe.
I look down.
The marble under me—carved lines, crystalline geometry, perfect repetition. Hexagons and branching lines, sharp angles flowing into spirals. It’s the same as the trees in Lirael’s forest, the same as the between-space shards. The fragment at my hip hums faintly. I file it, the way you keep a secret until you’re sure it belongs to you. Realm to forest to between-space to home. We are just another channel.
I drop back into the milk, plug twisting, fire returning, vacuum feeding. Joren is on his third cup. He lifts it to his lips, drinks with the focus of a priest. His body is entirely given over to the ritual—no resistance, just need.
“Keep up, Master,” I mutter...
He squeezes his cock through the marble slot. The flow increases. The channels hum beneath us as overflow moves outward.
The music crests. The organ shakes the stone, low notes thundering. The choir swells—a hundred voices, a thousand, layers of harmony, notes rising to fill the sky.
Milianne’s chant fades back, her voice blending with the choir. The women on the pool steps are naked now, splashing milk over their skin, painting each other in pale streaks. Their laughter rides the edge of the music, bright and wild. The ritual broadens. But all the energy pulls here—this basin, this pain, this cycle.
Lirael’s piss darkens as he stands—unplanned, a surge running up his thighs, streaming out in a hard jet. The arc crosses the courtyard, a golden stream that sparkles in the sun, hits the fountain basin in a single bright sheet. He’s upright, back arched, head thrown back. His eyes shine. His body decided before he did.
Joren’s breath snaps. “Here we go—”
His cock swells, belly distending. The shaft jumps under his hand, and the first thick rope of sacred cum surges out, pouring down into the marble channel carved beneath his chair. The flow rushes through the channel, joining Lirael’s arc as both streams meet in the fountain basin. Milk, cum, piss, and light mix, swirling as they run down the fountain’s marble face.
I watch the convergence, the geometry perfect. The pattern from the tower—six balconies, two arcs meeting. I feel it in my bones, the echo.
I say it for myself. “We built a tower from this. We’re doing it again.”
Joren grins, teeth bared, lost to it now.
Hour three is surrender.
The music is at full force—organ, drums, voices in a thousand layers. The courtyard vibrates, stones humming beneath my feet. Every sense is overwhelmed. My body goes pure light. Every time I come it is a beacon, the flare running out through the carved channels to the dry basin while the vacuum continues to feed milk into me. I can’t count the pulses anymore. Each one tears a cry from my throat, body shuddering with effort.
Joren roars, not out of pain but from the fullness. His belly is huge, taut as a drum. Milk churns under his skin, every vein standing out dark. The cum comes nonstop—a flood, sacred and endless. It pours down his shaft, streams through the channel into the network, joins the rush toward the fountain.
His sacred flow joins at full force, a thick white-golden arc that collides with Lirael’s piss in the central basin. Both streams meet, swirling the marble with gold and white. The heat is staggering.
Lirael is upright now, cock gleaming, stream steady. His body moves on its own, hips rolling, hands outstretched as if to guide the arc. His face is lost—eyes rolled up, mouth open. His formal register is gone. He moans, the sound lost in the thunder of music. Sweat streaks his chest. He shudders as the stream flows, never faltering.
Vesper screams. The piston inside drives Garrick forward in frantic, unyielding rhythm, each thrust slamming against Vesper's prostate and deeper, Garrick's cum leaking steadily inside, swelling the internal pressure until Vesper’s cock explodes, overflow pouring into the funnel, down the marble, into the channel. The vacuum below pulls the excess. Garrick’s mouth is tight at Vesper's inner wall, voice pitched so only he hears. “Let it go. Give it all.” Vesper thrashes, hips jerking, as the mechanism holds him steady in relentless piston-fire.
For one moment, everything is motion—cum, piss, milk, sweat, light, voices, touch. The basins empty overflow into the channels. The lines glow, carved marble alive. The fountain shudders, then surges—a column of water and milk and gold spraying high. The light is blinding. I arch, screaming, the last pulse leaping from my cock, every muscle straining as the vacuum draws the final draught into me.
At the pinnacle the organ explodes—bellowing bass pipes roaring like thunder from the depths of the earth, reeds screaming high and bright, the full facade of tiered pipes unleashing a wall of sound that shakes the very columns. Layer upon layer crashes in: thousands of women's voices, a vast lesbian choir in perfect, soaring harmony—sopranos piercing the heavens, altos grounding like velvet earth, the massed sound immense and extraordinary, louder than life itself, a tidal wave of unified ecstasy that matches the crew's every shuddering effort, every release, every pulse. The harmony swells to impossible volume, voices and organ fused in one grandiose, world-filling crescendo, the air itself vibrating with sacred fury.
Then, in the exact instant the fountain gives its first living hum—the deep, resonant pulse of water and milk and light returning—the music stops.
One absolute cut. Silence. Mystical, total, pregnant. No breath, no voice, no decay—just the sacred hush that cradles the fountain's newborn throb, the first heartbeat of life restored ringing through the stone. The world holds its breath in that perfect, mirrored stillness.
Holta steps forward. Her robe is soaked, hem dripping. She stands straight, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes on the crew.
“Partial heal,” she says, voice even. “It runs again. The source remains untouched.”
Joren wipes his mouth, hand slick. He looks down at the stream still running from his cock into the channel. “Partial’s better than nothing.”
Vesper slumps, sprawling across the chair, grinning up at the sky, the piston finally still. “I’ll take a working fountain over another hour of plug, thank you.” Garrick eases out slowly from the alcove, sliding an arm around his waist, anchoring him.
Lirael kneels, barely able to hold himself up. Both hands cup the flow as if to offer it upward. His body shakes, the aftershocks fading. Milk and gold drip from his fingers, diamond-bright in the afternoon sun.
Aftermath
We're slumped, spent, plugs off now, attendants carrying us back to a bedchamber piled with cushions, the air inside thick with the scent of lavender and sweat. Milianne takes the plugs for safekeeping, her hands careful as she wraps them in soft cloth, her movements precise and reverent. Joren lies heavy beside me, breath slow, his hand resting on his crotch even now, fingers tracing the length of his shaft absently through the trousers, a slow, steady motion. I feel the drag, the lingering warmth, and nestle tighter against him, my glow dim but steady, a faint pulse in the dim light of the chamber. The ache lingers in me, a deep burn that hasn't fully faded, but the softness of the cushions and the warmth of Joren beside me dulls it, a temporary reprieve. Vesper's sprawled nearby, cigarette already lit, a tired grin on his face as Garrick perches on his shoulder, gaze drifting to Joren's bulge for a half-second before flicking away, a flicker of curiosity quickly masked. Lirael sits cross-legged, gold eyes half-closed again, trembling gone but a glaze still on his skin, a sheen of effort that hasn't fully faded.
The silence of the courtyard lingers in us, hope and dread held at once. The fountain runs, but what stopped it is still out there, untouched, a shadow that looms larger now in the quiet aftermath. I feel it in my core, a tension that coils alongside the hum of the fragment, the unspoken pattern I'm piecing together. My glow flickers faintly, a reflection of the uncertainty, and I press closer to Joren, seeking the steadiness of his presence.
"Worth it?" Joren asks, voice rough, his thumb pressing down briefly on the bulge, pinning me to the slit again, a firm pressure that sends a faint jolt through me.
"Worth it," I reply, lapping at the faint leak of precum through the fabric, the taste a lingering echo of the ritual, sharp and familiar. "But we're not done. Not by a long shot. Whatever's out there, it's still waiting."
He nods, silent, fingers still on the warmth of his cock, a slow rub along the shaft that drags me against the heat. "We'll face it when it comes. For now, rest." His voice through the bond is quieter, a rare softness, and I let it wash over me, a balm against the lingering dread.
"Yeah," I murmur, my glow steadying slightly, though the questions remain, sharp and insistent. "Rest now, fight later." The hum of the fountain echoes in my core, alongside everything I'm not saying yet, a quiet reminder of the partial victory and the battle still ahead. We rest, for now, in the balance, unspoken truths held between us like a fragile thread.
A Musical Note from the Author:
For those who appreciate classical music, the ending of this scene was inspired by the finale of Saint-Saëns' Symphony No. 3, known as the "Organ Symphony," and the closing chorus of Part One of Haydn's The Creation (Die Schöpfung), titled "Die Himmel erzählen die Ehre Gottes." If these pieces are unfamiliar to you, I encourage you to listen to: 1) the final minute of Haydn's chorus, and 2) the full finale of Saint-Saëns, for about 8 minutes (at least the last 2 lol). As you listen, envision the arcs of sperm and piss, a palace-sized pipe organ, and thousands of women singing in harmony around our heroes, as they restore fertility to their lands.
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