Henry awoke to the worst sound imaginable.
No, not screaming.
Worse.
Clapping.
Slow. Mocking. Echoing off the marble tiles like a sarcastic thunderstorm of shame.
He cracked one eye open to see a tall figure looming near the tub.
"Oh no," he groaned. "Who invited the sexy plague doctor?"
The man in question wore a black velvet robe barely tied around his waist, revealing a chiseled chest covered in glittery runes and a grin that screamed "I've filmed orgies for money."
"Dorian," Seraphina groaned, not even bothering to cover herself. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to know your bathtub diplomacy is far more effective than mine," he purred, twirling a feathered cane. "And honestly, I'm not even mad. I'm just… aroused. And a little cold."
Henry pulled a floating towel over his nether region. "Why are you here?"
"I came to inform you," Dorian said dramatically, "that the King has summoned you both for a diplomatic mission to the Wetlands of Want."
"…That sounds made up," Henry said.
"It's not," Seraphina replied, stretching like a satisfied jungle cat. "It's an ancient swamp where the humidity is erotic, the frogs judge your fashion sense, and everyone's either half-naked or fully possessed."
"Sounds about right," Henry muttered.
Dorian tossed a scroll at him. "You leave at sunset. The King says you're to escort Ambassador Moistessa to her pleasure temple in the heart of the marsh."
"…Moistessa?" Henry asked, deadpan.
"She's the High Priestess of the Temple of the Sacred Squirt," Dorian said solemnly.
"I hate this place," Henry whispered.
"You love this place," Seraphina corrected, brushing her lips over his neck. "You just haven't accepted how horny Girthania is."
"I'm literally in therapy because of this kingdom."
"Therapy or thigh-rapy?" she asked, winking, and he had to dunk himself underwater to avoid passing out.
—
Later that evening
Henry found himself on a flying barge made entirely of waterbeds, drifting across a humid, sultry marsh filled with crooning frogs and bioluminescent mushrooms shaped suspiciously like dildos.
Seraphina lay beside him in a thin silk robe that may as well have been painted on. She was reading a scroll labeled 69 Uses of Swamp Slime, and every page made her giggle in ways that made his pants shrink.
He wasn't wearing pants.
"I'm not ready," Henry whispered.
"You're not ready for her," Seraphina replied. "Moistessa's a handful. And a mouthful. And if the rumors are true, she once caused a tidal wave with a single orgasm."
"…Great. She sounds like my type and my funeral."
As they arrived at the temple, they were greeted by the Priestesses of the Sacred Splash, all wearing translucent robes, jeweled piercings, and expressions of permanent thirst.
One stepped forward. She was tall, curvy, with sea-green skin and hips that could shatter glass.
"I am Moistessa," she said, her voice dripping with honey and sin. "You must be Henry. I dreamed of you. And you were… enthusiastic."
Henry blinked. "I have that effect on dreams?"
"You were inside a waterfall. Naked. Covered in whipped cream. Screaming something about thighs and moral boundaries."
He looked at Seraphina. "Okay, maybe I do need therapy."
"Later," she whispered, "after you break your moral boundaries again."
Moistessa grabbed Henry's hand. "Come. The ceremony of divine lubrication is about to begin."
"I need an adult," he whispered.
"I am an adult," she purred.
—
Inside the Temple of the Sacred Squirt
The chamber was alive with candlelight, floral incense, and suggestive statues locked in positions that were definitely illegal in five countries and one alternate timeline.
A hot spring bubbled in the center, glowing pink. It smelled like strawberries and regret.
Henry was stripped and anointed with oils that tingled in all the wrong—or right—places.
"Do I… do I need to be this slippery?" he asked.
"Yes," said four priestesses in unison.
Seraphina sat nearby, sipping wine and smirking. "You look like a well-lubed panic attack."
Moistessa approached him in a sheer robe made of enchanted mist. "Tonight, we celebrate your union with the Water of Want. You must become one with it. Enter it. Let it enter you."
Henry blinked. "That sounds oddly aggressive."
"That's the spirit," she whispered.
Then she pushed him into the spring.
The water wrapped around him like a lover. It pulsed. It thrummed. It groped.
"Oh no," he gasped. "It's handsy."
"It's sentient," Moistessa said, sliding in after him.
She straddled his lap, her curves melting into his like molten desire. The priestesses began chanting. The water glowed brighter.
Moistessa kissed him—soft at first, then wild. Her tongue danced with his, her hands exploring his chest like a scholar desperate for forbidden knowledge.
"Relax," she whispered. "Let the Water take you."
Henry wasn't sure if he was making out with a woman, a puddle, or an eldritch sex being.
And he no longer cared.
Seraphina joined them in the spring.
Henry blinked. "Wait—you too?!"
She smiled wickedly. "You think I'd let some ancient goddess steal my favorite toy?"
The next few minutes—or hours, or centuries—became a fever dream of slippery limbs, breathy moans, and the sound of water clapping where it shouldn't.
Henry lost track of whose lips were where, whose hand was doing what, and why he was moaning in a language he didn't know he spoke.
They reached heights that defied physics, modesty, and several royal decrees.
At one point, Moistessa summoned a wave that lifted all three of them into the air like a living sex geyser.
Somewhere nearby, a choir of frogs croaked an erotic hymn.
When it was over, they floated in the water like blissed-out marshmallows.
Henry stared at the ceiling. "I think I saw God."
"You saw Moistessa," Seraphina corrected. "Big difference. Moistessa listens."
Moistessa giggled and rested her head on Henry's chest. "You're welcome back anytime. Preferably unclothed."
"Noted," Henry croaked.
—
The next morning
Henry awoke in a bed shaped like a tongue. He was sore in places he didn't know existed. Moistessa was curled on one side of him, Seraphina on the other.
The sunlight streaming in smelled like afterglow and questionable decisions.
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter and regret," Seraphina called.
A young girl peeked in, holding a scroll. She wore oversized glasses and robes three sizes too big.
"I'm Yvette," she said shyly. "The royal archivist-in-training. The King sent me to deliver this."
Henry took the scroll. "Thanks, Yvette. Uh… how much did you see last night?"
"Enough to write an entire banned scroll series," she replied with terrifying calm.
"Oh."
She adjusted her glasses. "By the way, the King has invited you to the Tower of Trials. You're to face your greatest fear."
Henry groaned. "Is it thighs?"
Seraphina raised a brow. "Is it not thighs?"
Yvette cleared her throat. "No, it's worse. You'll be facing… The Celibacy Demon."
Everyone went silent.
Moistessa gasped. "No one has survived her… touchless torment."
Henry stared at the scroll, pale. "Why is this my life?"
Seraphina kissed his cheek. "Because you're the chosen one, darling. The chosen thirst trap."
He groaned and buried his face between two pillows.
They moaned.
"SERAPHINA—WHY ARE YOUR PILLOWS STILL MOANING?!"
"Because they miss you."
Henry sighed. "I need a drink."
Moistessa handed him a goblet. "Orgasm water. Hydrates and relieves post-orgy soreness."
"…I'm gonna die here, aren't I?"
Yvette nodded. "Probably in the best way possible."
And with that, the trio prepared for their next quest: The Tower of Trials and the Celibacy Demon.
Henry prayed.
Not for survival.
But for lube.