Through the Portal
The crew sprawls exhausted in the Lesbian Realm's vast bedchamber, freshly attuned by ritual plugs to a wounded heart. The central fountain lies bone-dry and silent, its failure threatening the realm's life—no births, no flow, urgency mounting.
We’re three steps from the forest’s edge when the temperature drops. I feel it first—a bite in the sweat wetting the musky nest, sharper than the usual morning cool. The bark at my back is damp, pressed through the old nest cloth, picking up the earthy reek of sap and dried moss. Joren’s cock stiffens under me, not arousal, but reflex. He shifts his weight and the whole shaft flexes against my chest, an instinctual protest against the cold.
His hand comes down. Two fingers press the thick ridge through the worn cloth. The heat in his palm radiates through every layer. I stretch into it, letting my tongue drag flat against the seam. Yesterday’s dried cum cracks under the friction, curling flakes stuck to my lips. Sweet and sour. Underneath, Joren’s skin is salt and morning.
His thumb strokes me through the fabric, slow, steady. “Feels like it’s waiting for us to flinch,” Joren says. His voice stays low—meant for me, meant for the nest.
I run my tongue up the slit, catch a bead of pre that wasn’t there a second ago. It leaks against my tongue, tangier than usual, edged with fear. “You first, Master.” My words are muffled, mouth pressed tight to cloth.
He grunts, the sound deep in his chest. His fingers roll the shaft slow under my face, pinning me to the head. The friction is delicious, grounding and brutal at once. “Not today.”
He doesn’t say more. Not with the air like this: cold, sharp, sour with something terrible underneath. A current of dread slides between us.
Vesper stands on Joren’s other side, fingers twitching against his own thigh. The air near him prickles. I hear the Veil’s whine—high-pitched, metallic, always at the edge of hearing, but now edged with static. His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as he draws the Veil in taut, scanning for threats in the shimmer.
Lirael holds Vesper’s other arm. His hand comes down on Vesper’s shoulder, grounding, thumb tracing tight circles on the bone. He looks at the great oak ahead—the portal—with the same face he gives ancient runes: patient, resigned, a little guilty for what’s about to break in the world. Old eyes flicker to me—a half-nod, as if to say, “Watch, but don’t fear.”
The oak is colossal. Trunk split from root to crown, flared open, cleft gleaming pink-violet like the inside of a dreaming mouth. The bark runs with gentle sap in places. Flowers everywhere, a million of them, every possible colour. Crimson roses pour down the inner bark. Orchids bruise the outer edges, blue and violent. Lilies flicker gold in the weak sunlight, filaments trembling. Black-petalled things cluster at the roots, sucking up the sour mist. Tiny star-shaped whites nestle in the cleft, trembling like little teeth. The scent is dense and wet—petal-heat, with a streak of sweat and the iron-tinged edge of a lost tooth.
A drop of sap falls onto my cheek, sticky-sweet, scenting me with rose musk. I press my face harder into the cockhead’s cloth—seeking something warmer.
Garrick doesn’t speak, but from inside Vesper there’s a pulse—a stabilising hum, the one that says he’s got the Veil anchored. It thuds through my spine, steadying. Joren’s hand stills, the grip over me tightening. I catch the edge of his tension—a readiness coiling.
Vesper’s jaw works, tongue wetting lips. His eyes flick back and forth across the cleft, Veil pulsing wild. For a second I can see flickers of blue static jump between his fingers and the moss at his feet.
“Distortion layered,” Vesper mutters. “Tampered. Not the usual interface, and it’s—” He breaks off, swallows, shaking his head. “Wrong frequency. It’s—fuck, it’s watching back.” His hand twists in Lirael’s grip. Garrick pulses an answer—comfort, or warning.
Joren’s grip tightens over his cock. His balls shift under me as he adjusts, making room in case he needs to move or bolt. I press my face to the head, licking old and new fluid, breathing in the familiar spice through the fabric. My own body presses into him—knees drawn up, toes curled, desperate to anchor myself somewhere safe. If Joren’s uneasy, he hides it behind habit. His touch is steady, almost loving.
“Stay close,” he says, silent to the rest but meant for me.
“Where else would I go?” My answer is a whisper, lost in the cloth. I nuzzle deeper into the slit, seeking the warmth. The dread in my gut winds tighter, eating the words before they find air.
Lirael raises a hand—not to ward or cast, just to indicate the path. His voice doesn’t shake. “The portal’s wound is not from inside. Something has worked upon it. We must pass quickly.”
His ancient cadence is a comfort. He glances down at Vesper, and Vesper’s hand finds his wrist, squeezing.
A petal falls, black and sudden, landing on my nest. The air sharpens—not just cold now, but acrid. The mist seeps outward from the cleft, no longer sweet, edges edged with metallic tang. The flowers closest to the opening slump, edges curling, colour bleeding away to ash at the tips.
Vesper whispers, “On three.”
Joren moves first, as always. His head pushes forward, the shaft stretching with each stride, fingers squeezing the root before letting go. I brace as the fabric tightens, his cock outlined hard against my back. His free hand hovers, shield-like, just above the nest.
“One,” he intones.
Garrick pulses again, a ripple through Vesper I feel in the charge of the air. Lirael’s foot lands on moss. The portal’s cleft damps the sound, like the world holds its breath. Petals cling to his boots.
“Two.” My mouth is dry. I want to say something clever, anything to break the tension pulling our circle taut. My lips part, tongue thick with dread.
“If we die,” I say, “I want my own page in the songbook. I’ll settle for a verse.” The quip falls flat, but Joren’s lips twitch.
Joren’s hand flicks down, presses the cockhead again—gentle, solid, the weight of promise and warning both. “You’ll have the cover, Spark.” His words are firm, but his thumb circles the ridge, grounding me.
“Three.”
We step into the cleft. The mist closes at our backs.
---
Between-space. Bleached cold, hard-edged, the light thin as fever. We move in a tight circle—Joren shielding left, Vesper right, Lirael behind, Garrick’s presence from within. Cloth rustles. The cockhead rides high under my ribs, Joren’s hand braced on the cloth, never releasing contact with me. Vesper shifts closer, one knuckle brushing my ankle through the nest.
The silence is total except for the scraping static in my head—a sound like broken glass inside a copper bowl. In the first curl of mist, I smell ozone layered over old cum.
The world fractures. On either side, in the shifting blue walls, shapes begin to form.
Jagged, crystalline. Ghostly blue, unblinking. Scores of them: watchers, eyes like chips of raw diamond, faces absent, bodies lean and segmented wrong at every joint. Some lean outward, intent, silent. Most orient toward us—not toward the portal ahead, but back, always back, to the direction of the Tower. One looms larger than the rest, its head swiveling slow, beacon-like, tracking every move with silent deliberation.
I freeze. My body curls tighter into the nest, spine arching. Words clog my throat, thick as glue. I want to scream at Joren, to press close, to bargain for warmth or warning, but the watchers stare through me, through every scrap of fabric, through every private thing left in my mind.
Joren’s hand doesn’t move. His whole body goes still—a statue, but not cold. I feel the tremor in his thigh under me, a single flex. The space between us vibrates—not just with cold now, but with the cost. My chest contracts. I shrink deeper into the nest, pressing every inch of my skin to his cock for comfort, for concealment, as if I could disappear under him.
Lirael whispers, old-tongue syllables thick in the air: korelth, vaen, shalar. Vesper’s breath comes shallow and tight. Garrick’s presence pulses a low thrum, an anchor in the void. My own limbs shake. The secret glows between my ribs, unspeakable and heavy.
I do not speak. I do not let the fear out.
The crystalline shapes fade as we push through. Their eyes linger after their bodies blur away, as if I carry an afterimage in my skull. Joren’s stride never falters. He leads with body and presence both, hand never leaving the cockroot, never breaking the circuit between us. Vesper breathes in clipped bursts, eyes white with strain. Lirael’s lips keep moving, the old words like a rope.
The mist thins. The cold lets go, but not completely. I carry the secret, new and growing, a stone under my heart. Joren waits. His hand hovers, patient, waiting for what I will give—what I cannot give, not now.
---
The Lesbian Realm. It’s dry under foot—stone plaza wide as a field, ringed by plinths veiled in rainbow silk. The greying stone is cracked, dust powdering under boots. The great central fountain is split open, bone-dry, basin wide to the sky. No water, no song, only the echo where life used to be. The air is wrong. Too still. No birds, no footfalls, just the hush of something missing.
Joren is first to stop. His legs pole-stiff, braced wide, each muscle trembling with readiness. He doesn’t reach for me, but his hand hovers near the folds of cloth, always ready. The outline of his cock is visible under the fabric—thick, still heavy from fear and more. I press my whole body to it, desperate for the sacred heat, and he allows it, fingers curling around me for just a second.
No attack, just silence.
Vesper’s jaw is clenched hard enough I hear his teeth grind. His eyes dart to the fountain, narrow and red with exhaustion. Garrick pulses again from within—a soft current doing its best to anchor us against the ache, running threads of steadiness through the Veil.
Lirael stands still as marble, cloak falling perfect along his flanks. “The heart is stopped,” he says, old-tongue cadence heavy as stone. “There has been no flow. An unnatural silence.” He kneels for a moment, palm against the cracked fountain edge. The stone glows briefly under his touch, then dims.
Footsteps echo—boots on stone, ringing out of place. The palace doors swing wide.
Queen Milianne leads the procession: tall, regal, coat open to bare breasts and thick silver bush, crown of petals and platinum thorns framing her face. Her nipples catch the cold air, standing proud. Beside her, Consort Holta, taller, shoulders squared, jacket plaid and leather to impossible effect, cropped hair, hands rough and scarred, gaze as sharp as Joren’s grip on the cockroot when he’s worried. Their entourage is a wall of women—strong, scarred, beautiful, every shade and size, arms bared, hair braided or loose, expressions shifting between curiosity and hunger.
“Welcome,” Milianne says, voice deep and threaded with laughter’s echo. Her gaze lands on Joren first, then traces slowly to the bulge outlined at his groin, lingers, and moves to the rest of us. Her smile is carnivorous and warm.
“Crew of the Rods. We’ve prepared your chambers. The old bed is ready. The heart needs you.” Her fingers flick outward—silver rings winking.
Holta stands just behind, hands clasped at her front. Her mouth is unsmiling, but her eyes meet each of us in turn, steady and generous.
She gestures to the palace doors, and the column parts to let us in.
As we cross the plaza, the crew’s formation collapses inward. Joren’s leg presses to me harder. Vesper edges so close we share breath. Lirael inclines his head in a formal nod to Milianne, respect shading every inch. Garrick flickers, appearing on Vesper’s shoulder as a tiny glimmer, then disappearing again.
---
The palace’s inner aisle is lined with tapestries: women entwined in every possible combination—glory, joy, grief, battle, sex ritualised into myth. A three-breasted queen arches above a kneeling acolyte; two warriors clasp wrists as their splayed thighs meet. The thread shines in candlelight, every figure rendered in deep blues, reds, golds. The air is thick with the scent of old fabric and beeswax, wood dust and salt. Underneath it all, sharper still, the tang of leather and fresh pussy—clean, bright, unafraid.
Past the tapestries, the bedchamber opens—a single bed, more a continent than a piece of furniture, pillows layered in every direction. Silk sheets are bunched and rumpled, already bearing creases and scent from previous rites. One wall is a bookshelf, but the books are all dildos: wood, leather, glass, bone, silver, dozens crowding the shelves. Some are carved with runes, some plain and blunt. A table waits in the centre: gifts wrapped in silk, unwrapped already. A stack of custom buttplugs, each cut and coloured for a different body, each base inlaid with the crew’s sigils.
Queen Milianne approaches the table with a dancer’s grace. “Our tradition. No hands on the first night. Let your gifts work. The heart remembers every touch.” Her voice is lower now, a thread of invitation.
Holta stands by, arms crossed, but her eyes are soft, unreadable. She nods once—solemn as a priest, approving.
I’m silent, coiled tight, tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. Joren’s hand comes down as he sits on the bed, fingers tracing the thick outline of his cock through the cloth, slow and absent. I feel each pass, the heat left behind, the tension alive under the surface. My body aligns to his grip, a reflex—a cat arching into a favored hand.
Vesper drops onto the pillows with a heavy exhale, legs spread obscenely wide. He stares at the dildo bookshelf, eyes calculating, lashes wet with sweat.
Garrick is quiet. His presence ripples through Vesper, a storm held in check. He plants himself near Lirael, his shoulder a firm anchor.
Queen Milianne takes a pale green buttplug in her hand from the table.
“Your journey was long,” she says, gaze moving across the four of them. “And the between-space unkind. Before we ask anything more of your bodies tonight… tell us what you saw.”
Joren speaks first, voice low and even.
“Mist thick as smoke. Shapes in it. Not attacking. Watching. One turned its face toward our tower the whole crossing.”
Holta’s arms uncross slightly. “Toward Thorndale?”
“Yes.”
Milianne exhales through her nose, the sound almost inaudible. “The same orientation we have felt in our own fountain for three weeks. Always looking homeward.”
Vesper, still sprawled on the pillows, lifts one lazy hand. “Question. If the fountain is looking backward… who—or what—is it expecting to come through?”
Milianne’s eyes flick to him, then to Joren. “That is what we hoped the Eternal Rods might help us learn.”
Joren nods once. His thumb brushes the fat root of his cock through the fabric; I feel the slow drag, the answering pulse. “We crossed. We’re here. Ask what you need.”
Holta steps forward then, voice rougher than her consort’s. “Tonight we ask only that you rest inside us. Let the plugs open what has been closed. Tomorrow we show you the basin.” She looks at each man in turn. “If you are willing.”
Lirael answers for them all, voice still carrying the faint echo of old forest formality. “We are.”
Milianne smiles—small, grateful—and lifts the green plug again. “Then Lirael, if you would begin.”
Lirael bows, formal even here, cloak sliding off to reveal lean thighs. “It would be my honour, Your Majesty.” He glances at Vesper and the smile they share is old, knowing.
He shifts to the bed, turning so his back faces the Queen. He lifts one thigh, knee hooked against Milianne’s shoulder, inner muscles flexing with practiced ease. His cock springs free, long and brushed with silver at the tip, already slick. Milianne kneels, her hands never touching him, but her breath hot against the crease of his thigh.
She positions the green plug at his hole and pushes—patient, slow, letting Lirael’s muscle resist, then yield. The toy slips in, silk-smooth, and a pulse of green light runs down its length, vanishing inside him.
The plug is alive. It swells a fraction. Lirael’s breath hitches, ribs expanding. The old composure fractures, a crack running from knee to jaw. His cock jumps against his belly, smearing a line of fresh slick across skin. The plug moves as if licking from inside—a relentless, slow, thorough tongue, every inch mapped and mapped again.
He moans—low, ancient, a sound like thunder rolling through ruined halls. His feet flex, one hand clenching the sheet for balance. The plug pulses. He arches, muscles standing out along his neck, eyes fluttering silver. For a moment he looks every year of his centuries, skin thin, voice hollowed out by pleasure.
Release arrives without warning. His thighs glaze slick, the scent going sharp—fresh-turned earth mixed with something richer, wilder. The sheets under him darken, wet with his come. He does not touch himself. His head falls back, eyes silvered, until the cloud disperses.
Vesper leans in, lips parted. “Fuck, he’s beautiful like that.”
Milianne then presents the second: smoky glass with a hollow core, spiral ridges inside. “Vesper. Yours is unique.”
Vesper grins, nerves sharpened by delight. “I get... a tunnel? You spoil me.”
Holta’s lips almost twitch. “Show us how well you take a guest.”
Vesper rolls onto his side, palms braced, spreading his ass wide. The plug slips in, glass cold making Vesper shiver, then yawning open. The tunnel forms as it slides deeper, creating a velvet passage straight to his prostate alcove.
Milianne nods. “Garrick, you’re wanted.”
Garrick materialises on the sheets, small and gleaming, climbs the dildo bookshelf for height, then dives—arse-first—into Vesper’s waiting hole, letting gravity and suction pull him inside. Vesper lets out a high, laughing gasp.
Inside, the plug tightens, locking Garrick in place. A miniature dildo slides forward to meet him, piston-hard, thrusting Garrick back and forth, the impact shuddering through Vesper with every movement.
Vesper’s laughter cracks into moans. “Fuck—right there—oh—fuck, I can’t—” His cock leaks precum dripping in arcs on the silk, every spasm sending a new line across dark sheets.
Garrick’s mental filth pours through, every pulse reverberating along Vesper’s spine. “Let me steer—no, let the plug—oh gods—” There’s no telling whose thought is whose, only the roiling current exchanging pleasure in both directions.
Spark trembles against the weave, tongue flicking out instinctively toward the faint seep of precum already wetting the fabric, every muscle screaming to dive in and lap it clean.
Milianne’s hand settles gently over Joren’s crotch, palm warm and steady, her smile soft but firm.“Hands-free for everyone tonight, little one,” she murmurs. “Even you.”
The two build together, one inside, one outside, the rhythm set by the plug not by hands. Vesper’s release comes sudden, wild, spraying hot over his chest and shoulders. Garrick’s shout is wordless, jubilant, echoing in the air: “Dildo holds me—”
Vesper collapses, chest heaving. Garrick pulses inside, voice a low satisfied hum.
Milianne waits for them to stop shuddering before moving on.
Joren’s turn comes next. The Queen holds up a plug the size of my forearm, carved rosewood, dark and thick, swirling with carven petals. “Permission, Rod?”
Joren nods, face composed, but his hand lingers just a second more on the cockroot. I grow myself out of the underwear and jump on the bed. He lets go. The plug is positioned at his hole, Milianne never touching him. She presses it in slowly, inch by inch. Joren's pain is visible on his face. His wide blue eyes widen with incredulity. The moment it’s in, the plug grows—swelling impossible, stretching wider, deeper, with every exhale. His belly rises and falls; the bulge beneath the fabric is visible to every eye in the room, a thick outline drawing the gaze again and again.
He lets out a single low grunt, voice pitched so low it vibrates my bones. The plug works him in slow, luxurious waves; if I listen, I can hear it—wet, muscular, fucking him from wihtin. Joren’s head tilts back, jaw tight. The release comes without a single touch—sacred cum soaking the sheets, the plug, air steaming around us. I feel the surge as warmth, pure and staggering. My body burns with the echo, every muscle loosening in shared relief.
Last, me. The Queen chooses a jewel-sized plug—small to them, vast to me at this size. Ridges spiral along its length, the base set with a swirling opal. “For you, Spark. Special mouth for a special tongue.”
Holta lifts me, palm gentle and rough, positions me over Milianne’s waiting fingers. The plug’s oiled tip presses my hole, patient as moonrise. It slides in, expands until I yelp, hips bucking, legs kicking air. Then it seals tight, pulsing—a warm vacuum sucker tugging my insides in rhythm with my heart.
Milianne’s rule: “Clean, if you want.”
She steps aside. Joy spreads across my face.
I grow just enough to crawl. The plug’s suction lifts me ass-up, shivering with each pull. The room reeks thick: cum, sweat, Lirael’s sharp earth, Joren’s sacred heat, Vesper’s wild magic.
I settle ass-down onto the soaked sheets near Vesper’s hips. The plug kicks harder, drawing his bitter, Veil-strained cum straight through silk into me in greedy pulses—no tongue needed.
Lirael lies collapsed, thighs glazed. I crawl over, press down, let the vacuum drink the slick glaze—moss, wild mushroom, ancient bread flooding in slow waves. He murmurs Elvish, hand light on my back.¸
Vesper rolls toward me, ass still gaping, plug firm. I align ass-to-ass; heat bleeds through. The suction pulls metallic sperm-tang from the hollow—copper, old wind, near-lightning. Vesper snorts. “We’re all cocksuckers here, Spark. You’re the only true buttsucker in the world!”. "More efficient" I reply.
Garrick’s tiny voice bubbles from inside: “You missed a spot!” Vesper’s hole clenches around his plug; I choke on laughter as the vacuum gathers the last rim-drops.
Joren’s turn. I crawl atop the stretched fabric, settle over the thick, twitching bulge. The plug seals to the weave; overflow seeps toward the slit and the suction drinks it all—sacred warmth pulsing straight into me.
He murmurs, so low only I hear, “There you are.” His voice wraps me in silk.
My laugh is ragged, honest, nothing but relief and hunger. I bask for a moment in his touch, in the bond that coalesces between us even now. Then I turn, go back to my own stain on the sheets, and suck that too, tongue probing for every hint.
Milianne watches, arms folded, her eyes shining. Holta stands at her flank, face unreadable.
When it’s finished, Milianne nods, approval quiet and final.
We collapse in the centre, tangled limbs and pillows, drained and open. The bond is tight, stretched thin by what I do not say. Joren’s hand finds me through the fabric, presses me flat against the cockhead, his thumb stroking circles into my shoulder with infinite care. I press back, silent, my nose pressed to the cloth. His grip lingers, a colour-level touch, not enough to fix what I’ve held back, but enough to promise. For now.
The fountain’s silence hangs in the air, filling the space between us. No water, and now, no words. The Queen stands over us, her breast bare, her face unreadable.
Milianne smiles softly, voice a gentle lull. “You have given much already. Rest now, Eternal Rods. Let the plugs hold what we have shared. Sleep deep.”
Holta nods, dimming the chamber lamps with a wave. “Tomorrow the basin awaits. Tonight, only peace.”
The crew sinks into the vast bed—tangled limbs, warm skin, slow breaths. Joren’s arm drapes over Spark’s perch; Vesper curls against Lirael; Garrick nestles inside. Exhaustion claims them all in seconds.
Not one remembers the plugs still sealed inside, pulsing faintly in rhythm with their dreaming hearts.
The fountain waits. The heart of the realm is still wounded. We are not done.
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