Delmire was no longer a city.
It was a womb.
Kael had transformed it—every chapel into a fuckhouse, every school into a training hall of moan-discipline, every barracks a den of strength forged through orgasm. What had once been a culture of modesty had become a kingdom of unleashed carnality.
But he needed more than submission.
He needed soldiers.
---
He stood atop the palace balcony, overlooking the courtyard of the converted. Thousands gathered below, sweat-slick and half-nude, bearing marks of devotion carved into their thighs, breasts, and throats. The sigil glowed on their skin like brands of sacred bondage.
Beside him knelt the Seamstress Queen, mouth stuffed with the severed staff of Delmire's old high priest, now enchanted to twitch eternally in her throat.
"They're ready," she murmured around it. "Flesh-forged. Will-hardened."
Kael raised both hands.
A surge of black heat—pure, fuck-born power—blasted from his body like a wave.
And the people below moaned in unison.
Their bodies began to change.
---
Some grew armor made from their own skin—folds and creases turning into plated ridges.
Others birthed extra limbs, tongues, cocks, or orifices—each one glowing with purpose.
Some sprouted wings, not of feathers but of living leather, veined and dripping.
He watched with admiration as one woman screamed her orgasm into the earth and birthed a serpent made of sound. Another man, his chest wide open, revealed a pulsing heart that sang songs only aroused minds could understand.
Kael had no army.
He had a Legion—crafted not of obedience but of craving.
---
They began to train.
Sparring with hips and blades.
Tactics taught through forced moaning.
The weak were not punished—they were pleasured until rebirth.
Pain became a rite of passage. Shame was smothered in spit and silk.
Kael led them himself—clashing swords while being sucked off, testing endurance in a ritual known as the Seven-Hour Storm, where fighters came while choking on pain, cum, and sacred rage.
---
One evening, a stranger arrived in the dark.
A man in red robes with no face—just a mirrored surface where features should be. He knelt before Kael without a word, then offered his neck.
From it, a tongue slithered, coiled like a leash.
"The Crimson Temple sends its invitation," the tongue whispered. "They've heard of your pleasure-born heresy… and they burn with curiosity."
Kael grinned.
"Tell them I'll arrive with my cock drawn and my army leaking."
The tongue giggled.
The faceless man exploded into rose-colored ash.
---
That night, Kael crowned the first general of his Legion—a twin-bodied whore-priest whose front was a man, and whose back was a woman, fused by the hips. They rode his cock together until their spines arched and sigils carved themselves into their eyes.
"Name your Legion," the Seamstress Queen whispered, trembling with reverence.
Kael raised his sword, still slick with fluid from his last conquest.
"We are the Cum Seraphim," he declared. "And we march to blaspheme the divine."