A rather sticky return
We finally reach the city edge. I feel the day’s weight on Joren’s skin through the cloth. The underwear clings damp to my back. His cock lies thick along my side, ten inches of familiar heat that has moved from clean morning salt to afternoon musk and now carries the sharp edge of travel sweat caught under the foreskin. I press my palm to the heavy vein running the underside. The pulse answers, steady. Joren’s hand drops without looking and cups his balls. Fingers brush my leg. The touch says he knows I am here.
We walk toward the tower. The three balconies on one side still run with the steady piss flow from above. On the opposite face the white streams of cum fall in thicker ropes and pool in the basins below. The air smells of both. The plaza gate opens under our steps. I push my head out the waistband for a moment. Cool air hits my face. Then I see it. Dead center of the open space stands a huge fragment the size of a monument. Crystalline edges catch the light and throw it back jagged. The surface pulses slow. No sound comes from it, yet the vibration hooks behind my ribs and pulls. Cold. Sterile. Primordial. The same wrong resonance I felt at the edges of the Lesbian Realm and in the portal where the watchers waited. My stomach tightens. Joren feels it through the bond. His stride shortens.
People walk around it as if there were nothing special. Two men argue prices three feet away and never turn their heads. The fragment might as well be air.
Joren stops. He turns toward the Servant who has come down the tower steps. “What is it?”
The Servant stands at the foot of the white stairs. He answers without hurry. “It has always been here.”
I glance at Vesper. His mouth twists. Garrick has already stepped closer and tilts his head. Lirael keeps his hands folded inside his sleeves but his shoulders sit higher than usual. Joren’s pocket warms against his thigh. The baby stone. He draws it out. The small crystal rests in his palm and throws off soft light. I slip from the nest, grow to five feet in four heartbeats, and land barefoot on the plaza stones. My skin prickles. The ground feels too solid.
Joren moves first. He walks toward the fragment with the baby stone in his hand. His arm sweeps in slow arcs. Where the light touches the jagged surface the crystal clears. Rubies gleam deep inside. Then gold threads appear in patterns that hurt to follow. Lines of lost architecture. Curves that suggest a monument long erased. The baby stone does not create. It only lets us see what sits beneath the lie. I follow close. My bare feet make no sound. Each pass of the light peels another layer. A face emerges for a breath then vanishes. A hand. The curve of a shoulder. All of it beautiful and broken.
I speak through the bond. “It is not empty. Something waits in there. Or waited.”
Joren does not answer aloud. He keeps sweeping the light higher along one side then the other. The merchant we stopped earlier watches us now with polite confusion. Joren asks him the same question. “Since when has this stood here?”
The merchant shrugs. He does not understand the question. “Forever. Why do you ask?”
Joren turns back to us. The ground under my feet feels like water. Vesper mutters something sharp about veils and broken sight. Garrick sniffs the air near the base and wrinkles his nose. Lirael says nothing but his eyes track every pass of the baby stone light. We all feel it. The plaza tilts. The normal life around us continues. A child runs past chasing a ball. The ball bounces off the fragment and the child catches it without pause. The wrongness presses harder against my ribs.
Joren slips the baby stone back into his pocket. His fingers linger on the fabric. I shrink to thumb size and dart back inside his underwear while he walks toward the Servant. We follow. My body rocks inside the nest with each step. The cloth drags across my chest and the constant pressure keeps my cock half hard against Joren’s shaft. I lick another stripe along the seam and add the newest layer to the catalogue. Afternoon sweat. Thick pre-cum. The faint iron note that always follows long walks. The composite coats my throat and I swallow it down while the bond carries Joren’s steady heartbeat against my cheek.
The Servant speaks first. “I wondered which of you would find it first.”
Joren’s hand tightens on the satchel. He begins to open it. I push upward through the seam before he finishes the motion. The Sprite Skin stretches across my limbs and I haul myself over the waistband. Stone meets my bare feet. I grow. The change takes four seconds. My shoulders broaden. My thighs lengthen. By the time I stand level with the crew I reach five feet again. Joren looks down. His eyes move from my face to my open hand.
The fragment rests on my palm. One edge smooth. One fractured. It drinks the light and holds it wrong. Cold sinks into my skin. I lift it higher. “Not the baby. This.”
Joren stays quiet. His eyes travel from the fragment to my face and back. The satchel strap slips from his fingers. Lirael makes a small sound low in his throat and takes one half step before he catches himself. Vesper studies the shard the same way he studied the monument. Angles. Planes. Garrick’s gaze moves to the Servant and stays locked there.
I step forward. The Servant looks at the fragment in my hand. Then he takes it. His fingers close. No ceremony. He slides it inside his robe. His other hand opens palm up toward Joren.
Joren holds the baby stone for two breaths. Then he sets it in the offered palm. Their hands come close but never touch. The space between their skin carries weight I cannot read. Old history. Thorendale history. The Servant accepts both stones and turns toward the tower doors. I shrink back to thumb size and slip inside the nest again. The crew follows.
We climb the white stairs. The balconies pass one by one. First the yellow flows of piss that smell sharp and clean. Then the thicker white streams that carry the scent of a hundred releases. The stone under our feet stays cool. At the top the main chamber opens. The Servant places the fragment and the baby stone on the central altar. They sit there like ordinary objects. He announces that a celebration has been prepared for our return tomorrow. Nothing more. Night falls while we eat and rest. From the high window the Anchor remains visible far below. A faint smudge in the dark plaza. I lie curled inside Joren’s underwear with his cock draped over my legs and listen to the others breathe. The bond hums between us. No words. Just the shared heat and the knowledge that tomorrow the plaza will give us everything we need.
Sun beats down on the plaza the next morning. The white marble circles have been scrubbed until they shine. Men of Thorendale gather in rings around each station. Their purpose is clear in the way they stand. Welcome the heroes. Strengthen the tower’s wrong frequencies. Turn the Anchor’s cold hum into something that serves the realm. Pleasure as tool and weapon. I feel Joren’s heartbeat pick up through the cloth. His cock twitches against my chest. I press both hands to it and murmur through the bond. “Your turn will come last. They always save the best for the center.”
He answers with a low sound in his throat that vibrates down to me. His hand drops and cups his balls again. Fingers brush my leg.
Vesper begins on the first white marble circle beside the sperm basin. He stands in the middle. Pants open. Cock pointing straight. A pilgrim kneels and offers his ass. Vesper does not waste a second. He pushes inside. The pilgrim’s ring clenches hard at the first pressure. Muscle flutters then yields in a slow ripple that pulls Vesper deeper. The walls inside grip visibly around the shaft when Vesper draws back. Each thrust drags a wet sound from the pilgrim’s ass. Garrick slips into Vesper’s ass in a quick slide, helped by the self-opening trousers. Garrick’s body presses hard on Vesper’s prostate. Vesper’s hips jerk. His cock swells inside the pilgrim.
Vesper reaches around and takes the pilgrim’s cock in his hand. He strokes slow. Root to tip. The pilgrim’s hips stutter between pushing back onto Vesper and pushing forward into the fist. Vesper reads the body exactly. When the balls draw up he stops. Holds. The pilgrim tries to fuck the hand. Vesper lets him get close again then stops a second time. He knows exactly where the edge sits and keeps the pilgrim one breath short of it. When he finally allows it the release hits hard. The pilgrim screams. His cock hoses the marble in ropes so thick they arc rather than fall. At the same moment each balcony drops a single heavy blurp. Three fat loads of sperm fall from three heights and hit the basin and the marble below in three separate spectacular splashes that spread wide and catch the light. The crowd nearest the basin steps back and laughs and cheers.
Vesper pulls free. The hole stays open a moment then closes on nothing. He steps to the next man. More men have gathered. They watched what happened to the balconies. They want to be next.
I slip back down from Joren’s shoulder, shrink, and return to the nest. Joren’s hand finds me by the slit of his pants almost at once. I settle against the warm shaft again while he watches Vesper work.
Lirael stands on the yellow circle beside the piss basin. Men have already gathered. He calls one forward. “Kneel.” The man drops. Lirael opens his pants. The head seamstress of the Lesbian Realm made these. The fabric moves on its own when Lirael wants it to. It wraps the man’s lips and seals them flush against the base of his cock. The man’s hands come up instinctively. Nothing to grab. Lirael releases. The stream hits the back of the throat without warning. The man gags hard. His eyes go wide with the specific fear of a body that cannot stop what is entering it. He tries to pull back. The seal holds. His throat works in short desperate swallows. Then longer ones. The fear in his eyes does not disappear but something settles underneath it. His hand finds his own cock. The swallows grow steady. His eyes close then open again and the expression has changed completely. Bliss sits there now, simple and physical. He keeps swallowing. His hand strokes faster. His balls draw up. His whole body braces for what is coming. The cock pulses. The man looks down at himself. What leaves him is not what he expected. Not sperm. Piss. Clear and steady, arcing onto the marble exactly as if his body decided the only answer to Lirael was the same currency back. He stares at it. His hand keeps stroking. More piss. He cannot stop it, as if Lirael’s own piss is flowing through him. The orgasm is inexplicable.
At Lirael’s hip the small pouch pulses twice and holds a deeper yellow than before.
Once Lirael’s stream stops the seal releases and the man rolls himself in his piss in absolute joy. He does not get up.
At the same time a young man steps forward. Absolutely beautiful. Angelic. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. He looks like light given skin. “I have dreamed of you. Of this. Let me be next.”
Lirael smiles. The expression softens the lines of his face. “Yes. But wait.” He turns to the gathered men. “We will bring joy to this young man. All of you. At once.”
The blonde kneels. Lips seal around Lirael’s cock. The order comes calm. Every man present aims and releases. Streams of piss converge on the young man. Lirael feeds him. He gags hard at first. Eyes wide as the flow is more than he can handle. His throat convulses but he swallows. His belly rounds visibly. Just as the previous man, thinking he was about to empty his prostate of all his sperm, it is piss that runs down his thighs in a steady flood. Lirael and the young man rise together. Their feet leave the marble. The combined streams lift with them and form an immense yellow beacon that climbs higher and higher. A pure moment of elven magic. The pissing men do not stop. Like an eternal flow of thick piss arching higher and higher, continuing to aim at the blonde hair and blue eyes of the young man. Above them the three piss balconies of the tower release together. A single heavy jug-flow from each, thick and sudden, as if the tower itself cannot hold back. It joins the beacon from above. The whole of Thorendale can see them and an intense golden glow around them.
The young man’s body shakes with continuous swallows and releases. His eyes stay locked on Lirael in pure awe. This is ecstasy. This is a soul that is, at this very moment, a complete orgasm. The young man raises his arms, moved by the power of it all, and with that he shoots a pulse of light that shines across the entire realm. Every single man, everywhere, who is pissing at this very moment gets an orgasm. I suspect every woman in the Lesbian Realm who was pissing at that moment came too. The light crossed the realm boundary without asking permission. After a moment they slowly settle down again. The young man looks changed. Everyone knows what he is. He has become a High Priest of the Piss. Lirael releases him gently under the applause of the crowd. Then Lirael asks who is next. The line presses closer.
At that point I leave Joren’s warmth and grow to five feet. I reach an elevated circle with stairs on all sides. Men form a huge ring around it. They already stroke themselves. I stand at the center. The first cock erupts. I catch the stream on my tongue and swallow. Thick. Warm. Salt and something deeper underneath. Each man steps forward in turn. I move fast around the ring. My mouth closes over one head while my hands work two more. When the load comes I drink it all. I make a point of it. Nothing escapes. My belly fills. The gifted butt plug activates with a thought. It creates a steady suction that pulls in anything my mouth cannot reach when too many men come at once. A second stream, a third, all drawn inside me. No drop lost.
My body wants to hold all of it. The pressure builds heavy and pleasant. My stomach rounds. My ass cheeks swell. I grow larger with each swallowed load. Ten feet. Fifteen. The men cheer and stroke faster. When I become too large for them to feed me I lie back on the circle. The marble is cool against my expanded skin. Men climb onto me and jerk directly into my open mouth from above. Others find my ass, my legs lifting to give them the angle, and the plug drinks them in. Sperm moves through me in visible pulses. My chest broadens. My limbs thicken. My own cock lies hard and leaking against the round of my belly, untouched, ignored, too full of everything else to care. The sensation is heaven. Every swallow sends power upward into the tower. The white balconies glow brighter with each load I take. I can feel Joren’s pride through the bond. This feels incredible.
Garrick leaves Vesper’s ass. He asks a nearby man to slide three fingers into Vesper and keep pressure on the prostate. The man gladly obliges. Garrick puts on the glasses Queen Milianne gave him and a slow smile settles on his face. The lenses open everything up. He can smell every man in the plaza from here. Feel the weight of what sits inside their pants. See the heat of each bulge from twenty feet away. He scans the celebration unhurried and happy. Then he spots the small stone amphitheater. A circle of men facing inward. The center empty. Waiting. He knows it is for him.
He walks over. He keeps the glasses on. The witch said they would make him invisible to the men he watches. They do not. Every man in the amphitheater looks directly at him as he approaches. He frowns. Sits in the center anyway. The men do not look away. He glances down at the glasses. Shrugs. Close enough.
The men shift and show off. Hips forward. Pride in what sits inside the cloth. One man’s pants carry an obscene outline, the shape too large to pretend otherwise. A jockstrap with weeks of accumulation, the pouch stiff and yellow. Pre-cum seeping dark through work trousers. A rubber garment worn for long forge shifts, layers of sweat and old release sealed inside. One man has pissed himself, the wet patch still spreading warm.
Garrick leans in. He presses his face to the nearest bulge and inhales. His cock rises without a touch. He moves to the next. And the next. The glasses sit crooked on his face and catch on the fabric every time he leans forward. He pulls back twice to adjust them. The third time he loses patience. He makes them vanish.
He looks up to find his place in the circle again.
The faces stop him.
Every man in the amphitheater stands completely still. Their eyes are open and soft. Not with lust. With awe. The kind that arrives without warning and sits in the chest like pressure. Garrick’s skin carries gold. Not reflected light. Something rising from inside his body, steady and warm, as if the best part of him has come to the surface and will not go back down. The men nearest him look the way men look at something they did not expect to be allowed to see. One has his hand over his mouth. Another has tears on his face and does not seem to know it.
It spreads beyond the amphitheater. Across the plaza the celebration slows. Joren turns, Vesper stops mid-thrust. The men around my circle lower their hands. Every face in Thorendale turns toward the small stone amphitheater and the man sitting in the center of it.
From my platform I raise my giant head. Sprinkle’s voice arrived in the bond a moment ago, small and certain. I know what she told me.
“Garrick.” My voice carries across the plaza. He looks up at me. “The glasses worked exactly as the witch intended. Just not the way you expected.” I pause. “Every man in Thorendale desires you right now. Every single one. Enjoy it. It will not happen again.”
Garrick stares at me. Then at the plaza. Then at his hands.
He goes red from the collar to the ears.
He stands in the center of the amphitheater with his mouth slightly open while the whole of Thorendale looks at him in silence.
Garrick makes a small sound. Not quite a word. Something between a clearing of the throat and a hm. Then he spots a bulge at eye level. Thick. Heavy. The fabric pulled tight and stained at the tip. He throws his face into it.
The man holding it goes very still.
Garrick inhales. Moves to the next. A man across the circle calls out, voice unsteady. “Judge us. Please. Biggest. Smelliest. Hardest. Sexiest.” The others nod. Some straighten up. Some sniff themselves quickly to check their standing. The contest gives them something to do with their hands. Garrick points. One word each. He glances at his hands between verdicts. The gold is softer now. Fading at the edges. He looks up once and catches the eyes of the men nearest him. Something moves through the amphitheater that has no name. He holds it for one breath then puts his face back into the cloth.
It is too much. All of it. The whole plaza watching. The gold on his skin. The way the men stand close.
He works through the circle and does not look up again. But somewhere behind the red in his ears and the bulk of wool and sweat pressed against his face, he thanks Milianne. Quietly. In his head. Once. He does not find the words for what this was. But he is grateful.
Joren lies on the center altar. The platform holds him on his back, shaped for exactly this. Head hangs slightly off one end. Legs lift into stone cradles, comfortable and open. Arms rest at his sides, hands free. Men form rows that point at him from every direction. A living star with Joren at the center.
The first man steps between his legs and pushes inside. The ring resists for one breath then opens and grips the shaft as it sinks. The second man feeds his cock into Joren’s open mouth. Joren’s throat accepts it and works around the thickness. His hands close on two more cocks, left and right, and begin steady strokes. A fifth man climbs onto the platform, straddles Joren’s hips, and sinks down onto the full length. He rides hard. When Joren comes the load goes deep. The man shoots across Joren’s chest and face in answer, climbs off, and the next man steps on immediately.
The rows cycle without pause. A man with a micro-penis steps to the altar and hesitates. Joren tilts his head back and opens his mouth and waits. The man steps close. Joren reads the body, pulls back, opens wider, and takes the cock, the balls, and most of the surrounding skin into his mouth in one slow pull and seals around it completely. The man stops breathing. His hands grip the edge of the altar. He does not move. He lets Joren work. When he comes he shakes from the knees up and has to be steadied by the man behind him.
Something else happens. A glow starts at the base of his spine. Faint at first. Then brighter. His ass lights up gold from inside as the load leaves him and enters Joren. The light travels with it. Down his cock, through the seal of Joren’s lips, and into Joren’s throat. It does not stop there. It spreads. Through Joren’s chest. Down into his belly. Out through every point where another man meets him. The men in the rows feel it arrive before they see it. A warmth that moves up their shafts and into their own bodies. Purple light erupts from the altar in all directions at once. The flashes climb and find each other above the altar. They pull together into a shape. A gigantic phallus, heavy-balled, floating above the plaza in slow pulse. The beauty of it stops men mid-thrust. They look up and keep moving. The light does not spill. It holds its shape and glows and the whole of Thorendale can see it against the darkening sky. It comes from Joren. He is the source. He is looking at nothing, receiving everything, and the light pours out of him regardless.
The man with the micro-penis is still standing there. Shaking. Staring at his own cock. Then at Joren. Then up at the shape floating above the plaza. The biggest cock Thorendale has ever seen. Born from the smallest. He sits down on the plaza stone and does not get up for a long time. He cannot stop looking up.
Joren’s hole leaks each load in thick white strings that run down onto the stone. He gags once around the cock in his throat and cum and spit spill from the corners of his mouth and fall as offering. The stone beneath him grows slick. The mess covers him from every side and keeps building. His hands never stop. His hole stays open. His throat keeps working.
The rows thin as the sun drops. The last man slides down onto Joren’s cock and takes the final load. He shoots across Joren’s upturned face in heavy ropes then climbs off.
Joren lies still for a moment. Covered from every side. The stone beneath him slick and pooled white. Then he sits up slowly. Looks at the men still close. Some sitting. Some kneeling. Some just standing near him, not wanting to leave yet. He thanks each one he can reach. A hand on a shoulder. A word.
When the last man is gone Joren reaches for his underwear. The new cut. Spark-fitted. The waistband slides up his thighs.
Through the bond I feel him put them on. That is all. I am still giant on my platform, belly round, limbs thick, men still close. Men stand on my face, cocks in my open mouth, jerking hard. Others squat in my ass, legs spread, stroking themselves inside me. I reach up with huge hands, gently helping the ones on my face down, steadying them until their feet touch the marble. At the same time I squeeze the ring of my ass around the ones still inside, slow and careful, easing them out without crushing them. They slide free, spent and shining, legs trembling. I make sure every last one is safely on the ground before I shrink. By the time I reach Joren’s waistband I am thumb-sized again. I slip inside. The cloth is soaked through. Every man who passed over that altar left something in the fabric. It is heavy with it. Warm with it. Underneath all of that is Joren. His skin already claiming it back. I press my face in and stop moving.
“There you are,” Joren says through the bond.
“Here I am,” I say.
His hand settles over the bulge. A pause. Then: “You looked enormous over there.”
I keep my face in the cloth. “I grew considerably.”
“Didn’t imagine you’d get more than me.”
He laughs. Low and real. I feel it through his whole body.
Across the plaza Vesper edges one last man against the basin wall. The release comes hard and fast. Vesper steps back, closes his trousers, and walks toward the small stone amphitheater.
Garrick is there. Head buried in the uniform trousers of one of the palace officers. Full dress. Brass buttons. Wool pulled tight across a substantial bulge. Both hands on the man’s thighs for balance.
Vesper stops and waits.
Garrick senses him. He lifts his face from the cloth. Chin wet. Eyes slightly unfocused. He looks at Vesper. Then a wide smile breaks across his face. Slow and full and rare enough that Vesper blinks.
Garrick jumps.
The hug hits Vesper like a short wall. Garrick wraps both arms around his ribs and squeezes. Vesper nearly goes over backward. He catches his footing and hugs back and laughs once into Garrick’s shoulder.
Then Garrick pulls back, shrinks in the same movement, and slips into Vesper’s ass with a small sound of pure satisfaction. Vesper exhales. His shoulders drop.
They both know. This is what happiness actually means.
They find Joren near the food tables. Long boards covered in everything. Roasted meat and soft bread and fruit and things with no name. Plush seats and deep cushions fill the far end of the plaza where men have piled themselves onto each other, full and drowsy and content. The light is low and golden. The tower glows steady above it all.
A stocky man with a round belly approaches, ledger in hand. He looks Joren up and down. “This must be a record.” He opens the book. “You pleasured three hundred sixty-seven men. Ninety-five in the ass. Eighty-five in your mouth. Seventy-five sat on you. Some did not want to leave. Thirty-five by your right hand. Seventy-one by your left. You are right-handed yes. And one for me. I came six times just watching and counting them all.”
Vesper is standing right there. He looks at Joren. “The left hand outscored the right. What does that say about a man.”
Garrick’s head appears from between Vesper’s ass cheeks. “That he’s ambidextrous.” He disappears again.
Vesper turns his head toward his own backside. “That’s not what I—”
“I know.”
Joren is already laughing. The ledger man closes his book with satisfaction and walks away.
They find Lirael at the edge of the plaza near the yellow circle. He is on the ground. The young man beneath him has his legs wrapped around Lirael’s waist and his arms around his neck. The High Priest of the Piss. Still angelic. Still blonde. Still looking like light given skin. Lirael is inside him. They are not fucking. They are kissing. Deep and slow. Lirael’s hips move once every long while, barely. The young man murmurs something against Lirael’s mouth in the old tongue. Lirael answers in kind, quiet and unhurried.
The three of them stop walking.
None of them have seen this before. Lirael who moves through men like weather. Here he is still. A second time with the same person. They look at each other. Joren raises one eyebrow. Vesper says nothing. They lay themselves down nearby on the cushions without disturbing anything.
Then without warning it happens all at once. A single quiet pulse moves through every garment. The clothes do the rest. Joren, Vesper, Lirael, Garrick. Clean. Even Lirael’s lover gets cleaned while having Lirael balls-deep in his ass. Completely. As if none of the day had touched them. The fabric sensed the stillness and decided. Inside Joren’s underwear my nest stays exactly as it is. Soaked. Layered. Accumulated. The way I prefer it. I press my face deeper in.
They look at the sky.
The baby stone in Joren’s pocket is one degree warmer.
End of Tome 1 (of 5)
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