WARNING: This is obviously very NSFW. Though I’d love to see the MPAA struggle to rate it.
PART ONE: If you care about the plot.
Kael drifts behind Seremon and Mita. There’s no other word for it. His feet move, but they scarcely touch the floor. Every breath feels hot and wet. Every thought echoes through his limbs like a muffled war drum wrapped in silk.
He knows it’s the bond… the milk. Seremon’s essence winding through his blood like a silver thread, tugging at his doubts, softening his edges. It feels good—too good—and that terrifies him. He was raised to fear it. Pleasure is the enemy of duty; want corrodes clarity of purpose. That was the creed. Yet here he is, aroused by surrender, drunk on another Keeper’s milk. He tries to cling to shame, but it slips through his fingers like smoke.
They turn a corner and meet a wall of armor. Royal guards stand at attention, silent. Without a word, they step aside. Seremon waves a hand. “Don’t mind them. Just a precaution against any interruption.”
The chambers are vast and warm, draped in gauzy silk and amber light. The air smells of spice and root nectar. At the center lies a sunken bed, less a frame than a nest of silks and padded strider weave. Kael runs his fingers along the edge. It is impossibly soft, every fiber woven for closeness. For union.
For sex.
The thought is a doorway to a great unknown. The Triarchy never teaches boys about such things. That is their Keeper’s duty, when the time comes. To speak of it before is taboo, temptation, or worse, heresy.
Seremon senses his hesitation and offers a gentle hand. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”
Mita wastes no time. She unclasps her officer’s uniform in one smooth motion. The fabric parts like fruit skin. She steps free, long frame sleek and angular, a dancer’s poise etched into flesh. Her chest is flat, detailed with the carved filigree of her house. Sweat gleams faintly in the channels.
Kael’s gaze drifts lower to the slit of her birthing navel, and just beneath, the cleft of her sex, lips soft against her thighs. He draws a breath, throat tight. Shame rises, not from disgust, but from how much he wants. It’s the same sight that haunted him behind a garden shed years ago.
Mita catches him watching and grins, stretching like a cat. “You can look, husband.”
Then she turns to Seremon, voice honeyed. “And as for you…”
She pulls them into a long kiss, tongues intertwining, forked tips flickering like sparks. When she breaks away, her breath is hot against their cheek. Her fingers slip beneath their robe and peel it off. The fabric pools at Seremon’s feet like shed skin.
Their torso is lean and high-waisted, smooth and navel-less. Their flesh is defined not by muscle but by the spiraling script carved into every inch of their flesh. Kael’s eyes wander over those patterns, taking in the sacred text. Then his gaze drops to a twitch deep in the pelvis, just above the hips. A pulse beneath the skin, quickening with each breath. Something living, trapped beneath a thin veil, winding itself tight. Waiting. Preparing.
Seremon still wears their trousers. But Kael’s body thrums at the sight and hunger overwhelms hesitation. One look from Seremon pulls him forward, and he steps into the nest, fingers tracing the carved script of the Hegemon’s bloodline. He barely notices his own uniform falling away until Mita’s hand glides across his stomach and finds the seam of his seal.
“My, my…” she purrs, tracing the ridged mark. “Is that what I think it is?”
Seremon leans back, eyes flicking downward. “Tres Yseren said you were chaste. I didn’t believe it.”
Kael flushes, turning toward Mita. But she only grins, pleased, not mocking.
Then Seremon’s lips brush his throat, voice velvet-soft against his skin. “It’s all right,” they murmur. “We know how important purity is to you males.”
They lay Seremon down among the silks of the nest, eyes half-lidded and gleaming. Kael and Mita flank them, mouths tracing slow paths down their carved torso. Each breath from Seremon ripples their abdomen, contractions shivering beneath the skin like tremors running through a pool.
Kael drifts lower, lips grazing the hollow of their hips and finds two golden stains blooming like nectar from overripe fruit, one at each inner thigh. Mita hovers just above the waistband, her lips curled in a knowing smirk. She glances sideways at Kael, eyes glinting.
“You first,” she murmurs, voice low and thick. “I want to see what you do.”
Kael hesitates only a breath, then slides the last layer of fabric away.
Where thigh meets groin on both sides are soft vertical slits, glistening and flexing in small contractions, framed by ridged, frond-like tissues. Delicate tendrils tremble with every shift in breath, dewed with yolk that gleams like molten amber. As the air hits, the slits part faintly, revealing rows of damp, fibrous nerves—twitching, alive, almost too raw to look at. Between them swells a pearlescent nub, violet-hued at the tip, trembling faintly with its own pulse, begging to be touched.
Kael breathes in. Copper, salt, musk… yolk. It’s distinct and wrong, yet utterly compelling.
He can feel Mita watching. She reclines back on one elbow, her other hand already teasing the cleft between her thighs, her membranes fluttering with hunger.
Kael leans in and presses his lips to one trembling slit and kisses the edge. Seremon arches, fingers clawing at the sheets, a sound spilling from their throat, something between a moan and a command.
The fronds shiver against his mouth like sea grass caught in a current, and tingle against his tongue. They part for him, inviting him deeper, and he slides his tongue inside.
Seremon gasps and Mita laughs softly, delighted. “Oh,” she purrs, guiding Kael’s free hand toward the violet nub. “Stroke here. Yes, like that. You’re a natural.”
Kael moves to the other slit, lips trembling as his tongue explores further. The fronds twitch in spasms against him, muscles beneath the skin pulling taut as if ropes were being drawn to the breaking point.
Seremon writhes now, abdomen contracting violently, pushing just beneath the surface above their groin. Kael grips their stomach, feeling organs shifting, preparing, straining toward release.
Then the Heir cries out a high, trembling squeak and shudders. A gush of thick golden nectar floods Kael’s mouth, warm and heady and alive. The smell is overwhelming and leaves his eyes watering, but he swallows instinctively, greedily, moving quickly to lap up the other slit. The Keeper’s yolk rushes like fire through his veins. His back arches as it coats his throat, floods his chest, and sings through his limbs.
Mita moans at the sight, rubbing herself harder, lips parted in awe. “Gods,” she gasps. “He just took it. All of it. Tell me, Kael—how does it taste?”
“Like glory and—” Kael chokes, collapsing back into the silks, his limbs twitching as if strung on wires. He tries to speak agai, but only a ragged breath escapes. His body tenses, convulses…
…Then the pain strikes.
It is sharp, deep, intimate. Crawling outward from his pelvis like a blooming flower tipped with knives, demanding release. His hands clutch at his stomach as though he could hold himself together, but his whole core is shifting, reconfiguring.
“Seremon?” His voice cracks like a snapped string, feeling the kind of terror that came inside a foxhole during artillery bombardment. “What’s… happening to me?”
The Keeper only smiles; soft, indulgent, incandescent. “Shhh,” they murmur, brushing Kael’s damp brow with reverent fingers. “It’s just the bloom. Don’t fight it.”
But he does. For a heartbeat. For one frantic second, he clenches against the tide. A scream rips loose as walls he never knew existed begin to stretch and strain, tugging at the gossamer membrane of his seal.
Seremon’s voice unfurls like scripture. “This is the Keeper’s gift. The priests will tell you the Trinity made us this way. But the truth?” Their touch drifts lower, a caress down the trembling slope of his abdomen. “We evolved to be temples. Gateways. Drugs made flesh.”
A pulse. A pull. Then pain blooms sharp along his nerves, white hot.
Kael looks down, eyes wide, as his body splits. The smooth plain of his groin, once sealed like a sacred tomb, is now opening to be read aloud. Flesh unzips and blood streaks along the stretched muscle.
“We unlock what nature keeps from you,” Seremon whispers. “We allow you to touch—and be touched by—glory.”
One last contraction seizes him, violent and total. His back bows like a drawn bowstring. A wet pop. A gasp. A sound of suction. He collapses into silks, crying out with something far beyond pleasure, far beyond pain.
And then he blooms.
Where there was only smooth skin, now opens the trembling vestibule of his bowl, raw and glistening, pink as a wound yet delicate as a flower praying for rain. Folds of tender flesh quiver, slick with newness. At its center, a fleshy protrusion unfurls, rises, swollen and twitching, radiating impossible need.
He stares at it. He weeps. It is grotesque. It is beautiful. He is beautiful.
Seremon leans close, peeling off the torn threads of his ruptured seal, brushing away the remnants of his old life with tender fingers. Mita crawls forward, eyes wide and ravenous, her own slit glistening as she toys with herself. Her lips part as she drinks in the sight of Kael’s unveiled flesh, then he glances at Seremon.
There’s a smirk. A nod. Then together, they descend.
Their fingers glide along the folds of his bowl, stroking the slick interior with reverence. Kael moans, shuddering, strange muscles contracting. Seremon finds a hidden cluster of nerves and presses. Kael cries out, toes curling, vowels spilling from his throat without words.
Then their tongues arrive, flickering, scraping, and tasting. They lap at him with movements both alien and intimate, forked tips circling and darting like dancers in a rite. The sensations drown him, and he forgets how to breathe.
Seremon chuckles, drunk on Kael’s unraveling, and bends lower to suckle his stigma. Their free hand slips between their own thighs, gathering yolk for the final unlocking. It glows gold on their fingers as they present it to Mita’s lips.
She licks with reverence, eyes fluttering shut as the Keeper’s yolk seeps into her blood. Her thighs tremble, parting as her sex stirs awake, not merely opening, but unfurling. From between her folds extends the trunk of her womanhood, long and supple, like a sea-born anemone swaying in unseen currents. Its frilled fronds stretch outward, twitching with restless hunger, questing for contact.
Mita’s breath hitches as Kael reaches up, tentative. She gasps as the trunk fronds curl around his fingers, clasping with startling strength, and pull his digits towards its center. Her sex swallows them whole, undulating in deliberate waves, caressing him on the inside.
Mita moans, shuddering, eyes wide with awe, and Kael is unable to tell if this part of her body is her, or a separate creature with a will of its own.
“Come,” Seremon murmurs, guiding her by the hip.
Mita rises and stumbles bow-legged, positioning herself above Kael’s face. He stares upward, throat tight, as the trunk dangles just above him—thick, alive, dripping strands of clear fluid onto his cheeks. The fronds writhe and quiver, questing blindly in the humid air.
“Don’t be rude, Kael,” Seremon chides softly, still stroking the edge his bowl, as if the right speed and pressure could make him ring. “Give her a kiss.”
Mita lowers herself slightly as Kael lifts his head ever so slightly. All it takes a single frond brushing against his forehead and the entire trunk lunges. It seals over his mouth with a wet suction, labia clinging tight across his cheeks. It pulses against him, writhing as though alive in its own right.
Kael instinctively darts his tongue out, giving her a lick. Mita cries out, head snapping back. Every movement of the trunk reverberates upward, a living conduit threading sensation from his lips to the very root of her body. Every breath he takes feeds into her, inflating her from the inside, sending more of her juices into his waiting mouth. Each undulation travels deeper, rippling through her core, pulling moans from her throat unbidden. Her thighs quake and Seremon holds her steady as rides the rhythm, hips jerking, feeling the trunk contract in Kael’s mouth, every flicker of his tongue magnified a thousand-fold. Her hands clutch Seremon’s shoulders, nails dragging pale crescents through their scarred skin.
“Oh—gods…” she gasps, voice shredded, as another pulse ripples up the fleshy cord into her womb. She doubles over, panting and cursing. The trunk writhes harder then goes stiff and Mita cries out in a half squeal, half laugh.
At last she shudders and withdraws. Kael gasps beneath her, chest heaving, while Mita sways above him, trembling with the aftershocks. She takes a breath to squeeze you, “You owed me that... Behind the shed. Now, all is right… God’s damn…. All is right.”
But her organ does not rest. Instinct guides it onward, questing until it finds Seremon. The frilled appendages curl eagerly around the pearlescent nub at their pubis, and Kael realizes its no vestigial ornament but a handhold evolved for this communion. The trunk grips it hard, clinging as its tendrils sweep lower.
Her fronds stroke across Seremon’s twin slits, teasing their trembling edges, collecting the golden yolk as it seeps forth. Each shimmering droplet is drawn back into the hungry hole at her center.
Seremon gasps, knees quivering, one hand gripping the back of her head as they press a kiss to her brow. Their abdomen ripples with strain. “Your womb… hungers.”
“It’s ravenous,” Mita breathes, voice raw.
Seremon groans, body buckling, “Good. We must seal the union. Tonight.”
Those words hit like a hammer.
Mita blinks, clarity piercing the haze for an instant, her bravado draining from her face. She looks down at Kael sprawled beneath her, still panting, his bowl raw and open to the air. “But—”
“They cannot annul this if it bears fruit. For that to happen…” They gently pull her sex off their slits. “…a seed must take root.”
Mita’s lips tremble into a nervous smile as her trunk withdraws from Seremon. “I suppose everyone must have their first tonight.”
She shifts to hover above Kael, and at once her trunk descends, questing with wet hunger until it finds his stigma. The frilled appendages wrap around it, tugging insistently, pulling until he is drawn fully inside her. With a shuddering ripple the trunk anchors, its fronds latching to the lips of his bowl and sealing them together as one.
Kael cries out, hands bunching the sheets in his fists as her sex sets to work. The sensation burns and blossoms all at once, unbearable and exquisite, until his vision blurs and he’s left jibbering.
Mita moans above him, her body thrumming in harmony with his in this obscene, divine embrace. Seremon kneels beside them, eyes alight, watching as if witnessing a liturgy.
The pressure mounts and sparks fire, leaving a searing ache that can end only in release.
It hits Kael all onces, leaving him feeling torn apart and healed all in the same instant: he spills into himself, filling his bowl with thick ejaculate, his whole body convulsing in ecstasy and dread.
Mita gasps, climaxing as her trunk writhes with its own pleasure, and pours its own contribution into the bowl.
As the ecstasy fades, Kael feels a shift. There’s a numbness blooming at the root of his stigma. Something is broken. Wrong. He whimpers, confused, as she pulls away.
Mita’s trunk slips free with a wet, shuddering pop. Something clings to its tip as she withdraws—a loose flap of tissue, pale and glistening. It dangles for a breathless instant before flopping down between Kael’s thighs with a soft, obscene splat.
Kael blinks, dazed. Then his gaze falls.
His stigma—the proud, curved phallus that had unfurled from the center of his bowl—is gone. In its place is a wretched flayed thing; a pulsing bundle of bloody exposed musculature, raw and trembling,
Mita gasps, hand covering her mouth as she sees the damage. She took his skin. Peeled it right off.
Seremon, untroubled, stoops to retrieve the discarded flesh. They lift it, turn it once in the lamplight, and hum thoughtfully. “Hm. I expected more tearing.” Then, with a shrug, they pop the strip of skin between their lips and begin to chew.
Mita chokes back a gag, eyes wide.
The Heir only chuckles through a full mouth. “Old Keeper custom,” they say lightly, then swallow. “It’s for good luck.”
Kael finds his voice at last. A strangled cry wrenches from his chest; half sob, half scream.
“Shh.” Seremon presses a steadying hand to his shoulder. Their touch is warm, almost tender. “Be still, or you’ll spill.”
Then, with a grin that glitters like a blade, they flick the tip of Kael’s ruined stigma. At the touch, the bundle shivers—and begins to unravel. One by one, cords split apart, writhing and curling, spilling into the milky pool of his bowl.
Seremon leans close, voice reverent. “My first cord harvest. I’ve waited my whole life for this.”
Kael’s breath stutters, every nerve telling him to run.
Mita stammers pointing at his bowl, “But… its… it’s gone.”
Seremon touches his shoulder gently. “Don’t worry. It will grow back.” Then, turning back to the bowl: “Not a single stillborn. You are fertile indeed.”
Kael stares at the writhing cords, horror and awe warring in his eyes.
Seremon gathers more yolk on his fingers and swirls them through the mess, painting the writhing strands of Kael’s detached anatomy in gold.
Kael shudders from the sensation, “What…What are you doing?”
“Sexing your cords,” Seremon murmurs. “Finding the next heir. Keepers alone are immune to yolk.”
One by one, the cords slow under Seremon’s touch, spasms easing until they go slack. All but one. That last tendril thrashes, stubborn, curling, and striking as though it refuses to yield.
Seremon smiles. “Ah. Feisty.” They lift it delicately, reverently. Then, without hesitation, they guide it into Mita’s waiting trunk.
The trunk takes the offering with a wet clasp, curling around itself as it swallows the cord and pulls back into Mita’s body. Mita slumps back, dazed, her retreating sex twitching in sated convulsions.
The rest of Kael’s cords are gathered and wadded into a silk cloth, limp and exhausted, nothing more than spent seed.
“It is done,” Seremon declares. “The union is sealed. The Triarchy has its future.”
Mita collapses at their side, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach, her body still trembling with aftershocks. She turns her face toward Kael, sweat-slick and shining, and manages a weary smile. “Was it worth the wait?”
Kael touches his bowl with shaking fingers, feeling the tissue knitting closed. He should feel horror. He should feel shame. Instead, there is only numbness—and beneath it, clarity, sharp as cut glass.
His purity is gone. What remains is purpose. He exhales, voice hoarse but steady. “Yes.”
Seremon places a scarred palm against his chest, warm on his racing heart. “King Kael Yseren,” they whisper. “I like the sound of that.”
Very interesting. I guess I like alien sex 😍