The wind over the Valley of Whispers was hot with lust and war.
Kael stood at the head of a procession like no other: nude warriors, adorned in chains and paint, their cocks pierced with sigils that glowed when they moaned. Women with serpent tongues and ink-dripping breasts rode beasts stitched from former lovers. Masturbating priests walked ahead of them, chanting Kael's name into the air until the very sky began to pulse.
At the front of this army strode Kael, wearing nothing but the Crown of Hunger and a grin sharp enough to cut through the will of kings.
His destination: Delmire, the city that had once sold him into the pleasure pits.
His purpose: to fuck its soul out.
---
Delmire was a pearl-white city built on lies and modesty. It wore virtue like a veil. Its gates bore carvings of cloaked saints, its towers rang with hymns of denial, and its high priestesses had their clitorises cut at birth.
Kael would change that.
He didn't knock. He breathed, and the gates opened—panting like lips. The walls didn't crumble. They parted, welcoming their new god.
The soldiers who stood ready to defend the city trembled at the sight of him. Some dropped their weapons. Others dropped to their knees.
"You sold me for silver," Kael called out, "and I've come to repay you… with orgasm and agony."
---
What followed was not war.
It was reclamation.
Kael walked through the streets as a storm of lust followed in his wake. His touch made noble daughters drop their gowns and beg. His gaze alone made temple eunuchs sprout cocks of light. The air smelled of roses and fuck. Windows burst with cries of release. Statues wept semen.
And at the center of the city, Kael found her:
Lady Kirelle—the cold-hearted judge who had sentenced him to slavery years ago. She stood in the chapel of denial, robed in white, untouched, unbroken.
"I remember you," she spat. "The filthy gladiator. You still wear your sins like cock jewelry."
Kael approached her slowly. "No. I wear them like a crown."
She raised her staff, glowing with false purity. He raised his hand. The staff melted into a dripping dildo in her grip. She gasped. It pulsed.
"I'll never bow to filth," she snarled.
"You won't bow," Kael said. "You'll ride."
---
He took her in the chapel.
She fought. Screamed. Cursed him with holy oaths.
Until her robes were gone, her throat was raw, and she came—for the first time in her life—screaming Kael's name as the sigil burned itself into her womb.
She passed out with a smile.
The church bells rang on their own. Every orgasm in the city echoed through them like a holy chorus. Shame was dead.
Kael stood at the altar, lifting a goblet filled with the fluids of his conquest, and drank.
---
The city knelt. The priests converted.
And Kael raised his banner—black silk, painted with an open eye and a dripping cock—atop Delmire's highest tower.
"One city down," he said to the Seamstress Queen, who had watched from the shadows, wet and smiling.
"And nineteen more to come," she purred, licking his shoulder.