The temple breathed like a lover in sleep.
Its high, veined ceilings quivered with pulse and tension, and the air was thick with aphrodisiac mist—made of crushed opium orchids, sweat, and evaporated semen from forgotten gods. Every breath Kael took ignited another layer of desire. His cock was swollen with ache, his skin flushed, his sigil glowing bright enough to cast a shadow.
But this time, he did not stroke it.
He controlled it.
That was the mark of progress.
---
The temple was vast—an endless cathedral of moaning walls and trembling altars. Statues of nude figures locked in impossible acts of submission and ecstasy lined the path, and many of them still moved faintly, caught between stone and suffering. Their eyes followed Kael with envy.
And at the far end of the temple stood the Throne of Teeth.
It rose from a platform of fused bodies, jagged and cruel, made entirely from the mouths and molars of those who had tried and failed to claim it. The backrest was a giant jawbone, and in the center of the seat pulsed a gaping hole—a wet, pulsing orifice that had never been filled… but longed to be.
"This is where kings are devoured," came a voice.
Kael turned.
The Seamstress Queen stood naked before him now. No veils. No pretense. Her face was flawless, but her eyes had returned—burning black, alive with stitched stars. Between her thighs, the slit-mouth smiled again, but wider this time. Hungrier.
"The Throne must consume you. Entirely. You don't sit on it. You fuck it. You feed it. You become its core."
"And then I rule?" Kael asked.
She smiled.
"Then you begin your undoing."
---
He stepped forward.
The Throne pulsed. The sigil on his chest lit the chamber with black fire. His cock, already throbbing, now curved with divine urgency—more than human, marked with runes, dripping with anticipation.
He mounted the Throne.
---
The orifice opened like a blooming wound.
Kael thrust into it—and it screamed.
Not in pain. In recognition.
The moment his cock disappeared inside, the teeth clenched. Not enough to cut—but enough to trap him. Milk him. Worship him with dangerous devotion.
The throne's body quaked beneath him, and Kael groaned. It was like fucking a divine furnace—heat, suction, hunger. It pulled him deeper, wrapping around his hips, his waist, dragging him forward. As he thrust, the mouths in the armrests began to chant:
"He who fucks,
He who bleeds,
He who feeds the throne shall rise."
Kael came.
Hard.
With a roar that split the altar walls, his seed flooded the throne—or perhaps was swallowed by it. The gaping hole sucked until he felt his soul leak from his spine. The sigil burned. His vision went white, then black.
---
When Kael woke, he was seated.
Still inside it.
The throne... was wearing him.
The Seamstress Queen knelt before him, her lips parted, her cunt-mouth dripping.
"My king," she whispered. "What will you do first?"
Kael grinned.
"Burn the gods."