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[The so-called Temple is actually more of a castle, close up, and the priests and priestesses have certainly tried to make it feel more like a home, so far. If the chosen Bride had any fear of being strapped to an altar and sacrificed immediately on arrival, the attendants hope the hospitality will soothe it.

When she first arrived, she was seen to a luxurious private bedroom and allowed to rest, then given a tour of her new home (all but one foreboding room behind a white door at the highest point of the highest tower.) Then came a sumptuous wedding feast of every delicacy imaginable, and some perhaps even unheard of. The Lord was strangely not in attendance.

"He'll see you later tonight," said the high priest, a portly man with kind eyes. "He wants you to enjoy yourself in the meantime."

After dinner it was off to the baths, where the Bride was soaked and scrubbed in hot mineral springwater and fragrant oils, then dressed in nothing but a white silk robe tied at the waist. There is little doubt what is to happen now, as the high priestess walks the Bride up to that white door in the high tower.

"Only do not shun him," said the priestess. "He will not hurt you. But do not refuse."

With that discomforting little message, they open the doors and usher the Bride inside what appears to be a featureless room, gray stone. At the far end is a flat stone altar, and behind it a throne.

In the throne sits nothing but a cloud of shadow, immense and as featureless as the room except for pinpricks of light, glowing orange eyes.]

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[She gasps as the tendril grinds against her - this time, it is pleasure, or at least a cousin. She reaches up on instinct before remembering that there's no man or woman to cling to, to wrap her arms around the shoulders of and bring in closer. Her arms drop quickly to her sides, again, unsure if she should even taunt him with the possibility of her wrapping her arms around his body. Even his limbs are something she doesn't want to touch so much as let herself be touched by.

She spreads her legs for him, leans forward, her full breasts pliant and soft in his touch. She wonders if he's as fond of them as most men are.]

Don't thrust it in yet. [She doesn't know if he was even planning on that, or how much he's been told - but the tendrils are more exploratory than commanding, and so she imagines he might not know what to do with a woman.]

Grind more. Wrap your... limbs... around me. Make me aroused and flushed, make me ache for your touch. There is a procedure to this, a performative aspect. Like a fine play. [And then, suddenly, with a tragic mix of sympathy and pity-]

You've never seen a theater, have you?

[He has not been to a theater. He has no idea what it is. He supposes that she might be able to show him, soon.

But he understands the basics of what she asks. He doesn't push in, continuing the curling grind of that tendril between her thighs. Others wrap around her knees and pull her into the motion, rubbing at her with a touch at once gentle and yet more intense than a human man could ever perform. Make her aroused and flushed. That means she isn't repulsed. That means he's doing something right.

He tightens around her breasts, too, squeezing them, testing the weight, and propping up her back with yet another limb, to make her more comfortable.]

[Her heart almost breaks for him, and the more she thinks about it the more it goes from half-joking pity born of her own interests to actual sympathy. He's been here his entire life, hasn't he? He's never known a poem, or a play, or a song.

But she's distracted, so the feeling is fleeting, she can't decide on what to do about it. She breaks her own train of thought with a gasp as he grinds himself against her, her body responding in ways her mind might be hesitant to. When he grabs her knees, she's almost flattered by how forward he's being. Sex should have some passion to it, after all.

She's grateful for the attempt to prop up her back, too, the position having rapidly become uncomfortable. She rewards him by reaching one of her hands to the tentacle at her back, patting it nervously. Are they closer to hands, or something else?]

My hips, too. My thighs. You have to touch there, as well - they aren't quite as supple as my breasts, but they feel quite nice. And you're free to touch my rear, as well.

[He can hardly keep up with all her requests, and he has endless numbers of limbs. How would someone her shape ever manage with only four of them? (And he doesn't think the lower ones look very useful for this purpose, if he had to guess.)

He cradles her as he continues to grind against her, and lets the holding tentrils do a little touching and squeezing of their own, all over her hips, thighs, and the swell of her rear under him. He's slipped beneath her now, enough to fully lift her off the bed. The shadows look almost to be engulfing her lower body, wrapped so determinedly around her legs and waist.

Up top, two tendrils curl around her breasts and toy with her nipples. Another brushes against her face, along her jawline, almost like a hand would, testing to see if there's something there he should be doing as well.

This isn't so hard. And she isn't as reluctant as they warned him she would be.]

[Of course, if she were with another human, she'd be - no less demanding, but a little more preferential. But if her partner is built the way he is, she might as well make use of it instead of being scared of it.

And having her entire body touched like this - yes, it does make her squirm against him. When he finally brushes across her nipples, she sighs, legs parting further for him before that power's taken away from her by the way he wraps around her.

He really has taken her words to heart. It's almost cute, how eager he seems to please. It's doing wonders for her hesitation, her nerves. This is a mind, something trying to communicate with her via their bodies, and that much she is intimately familiar with.

He can feel the ways she's beginning to become aroused. A flush to her skin that isn't from the bath, a slight dampness between her legs. Her nipples hardening beneath his touch.]

You're quite good at this, for it being your first time. [She's imagining it's his first time, anyway - with how confused he seems by some things.

And then, almost on a whim, she parts her lips - pink and full - for him, glancing down at the tentacle brushing against her jaw.]

Would you like me to kiss it? As a reward.

[She says he is good at this. Good. All the study was not for nothing then.

But then she catches him off-guard. A kiss? What's that again? They showed him pictures of humans in this act, and he recalls. He has the sense not to just smush her against the bed with his mass in an attempt. That will have to wait, clearly. But he does offer her the tendril near her face again, with another almost tender little stroke.

The grinding tendril changes its motions a bit, reaching to feel the moisture between her thighs. He knows how it will go soon, but she's been good about instructing him. All the same, another tendril does sneak alongside the first, gently probing her folds without penetration.]

[Slowly, she leans in - she decides to not use her tongue for the task, not yet, because she can imagine him tasting of ash or soot or worse. Instead, she briefly brushes her lips across the tendril, feeling the texture of it with her lips as she's touched.

And yes, she's grateful for not being fully pressed beneath him.

In the mass of his tendrils, her thighs and rear and hips wrapped around, she feels that second one beginning to brush against her entrance as well. She takes just the tip of the tendril into her mouth, tongue pointedly snaking away. She wonders, is this closer to kissing or sucking on fingers? Or would it actually be oral sex?

Regardless, she breaks the contact before too long, giving the tendril she'd kissed a fond little pat before glancing down. She can hardly see, for how tightly he's wrapped around her, and her heart skips a beat in a way that isn't necessarily excitement. At least he seems to be listening to her.]

Bring that second one up. Towards the top of my folds. There should be - something like a nub. Brush across it. Do not grip, or pull, or linger for too long. Just brief contact.

[The good news is, he doesn't taste like ash or soot. He tastes like cold, somehow. Even though the touch of him is still warm. The tendril wriggles a little against her lips, then withdraws to her shoulder.

He still doesn't enter her. Instead, he does as she asks, providing a finer little tendril to do the job. It searches until it finds the nub, and as she requests, he brushes against it like a finger or thumb to see what it does.

He repeats the action as soon as it becomes apparent what that is. Slowly, and no pulling, but he finely circles her clit with the slightest pressure.]

[She's grateful for the finer tendril - because somehow, the warm touch of him, the way it almost lingers in his wake, makes her hips jerk as her clit is touched. It's small and sensitive, that much he can feel. He can also feel the way she dampens against him in response.

Her hips wriggle, her back shifts, her shoulders shake. She's squirming in response to him, in response to his unique touch against her most sensitive part.]

Go, good. [Hastily and clumsy, she reaches up to her shoulder, strokes the tendril at it, coaxes forward a little more so she can kiss at the side of it. She imagines it as his face, and it almost makes the whole enterprise seem more sensical.]

Do you want to be inside of me? Shake the tentacle nearest my face, the one I've just kissed, up and down. If you crave sex, that is.

[Then, slowly, she has a second question.]

Are you going through the motions? Or do you feel pleasure as well?

[Oh. She is clever. The priests don't ask him questions, usually. Something about them not being worthy. But she's cleverly come up with a way for them to speak before he can learn to speak to her.

The tendril nearest her face backs off a bit, so she can see it. It shakes up and down. He wants to get inside of her, not least of all because it is the next step of the ritual.

And not only that, her second question makes him consider. Even if she's a Vessel-Bride, she's still his bride. He does not intend to let her waste away in a tower all the rest of her life. She is beautiful, for a human creature, and watching her squirm... well. The pieces are not there that would be aroused like she would understand. Not yet. But there is pleasure in it all the same.

He shakes the tendril again.]

[When it nods the second time, she leans in to kiss it a third, rewarding him for his clear communication. And it does wonders, knowing that on some base level, his motivations are understandable. She still can't quite look at his proper form, and only partly for fear of her migraines, but at least she can look at the tendril in front of her with something resembling affection. Or at least sympathy.]

Then - you may. Slowly, at first. Ease yourself into me. [She kisses at it a fourth time - and this time, her tongue does poke against him. He almost tastes like cold water, or perhaps even snow. It's not an entirely unpleasant sensation, even if it contrasts with the warmth filling her mouth with him inside of it.]

And grip me more firmly. Around the waist and back. I writhe quite a lot during sex.

[She seems to like looking at that particular tendril. He puts some effort into maintaining it, sending it mass. He considers sliding his eyes into it, that it might be more clearly a face, but... maybe that had best wait until he's sure he can do it.

Instead, he concentrates on easing into her. The tendrils hold her tight around her thighs and waist, and the one between her legs stiffens, and very gently begins to push. It slips between her folds and with gentle pressure, keeps slipping until he opens her and begins to slide in.

She is warm, far warmer than he is. It takes discipline not to push inside her all at once, but he is strict about going slowly, inch by inch slipping into her body.]

[She groans - all at once she's full, the tendril thick enough to spread her folds. She's had men of all shapes and sizes, and while but she's never felt anything like this. Perhaps it's the ambiguity of his form. He's exactly as thick as he needs to be to fit comfortably inside of her.

This time, she lifts up the tendril, licks along the underside of it, teasing at it like it was a proper cock. And that's her word for it. She's already been called a harlot, she might as well use the terms that satisfy her.]

Keep going. Not too deep, just, just...... deep enough that you start to feel proper resistance. Then begin to pump it, in and, and out. [She's stammering as she tries to explain, because he isn't quite stalling out inside of her, even as she tells him what to do. Her body squirms, fingers curling. Her toes probably curl, as well - she can't see them, and she's focused on other sensations.]

Slow at first, but then faster. Harder. Deeper.

[She keeps licking him. He's learned that he likes it, in that undefined way where he can't tell why or what it is, but knows that it is... she called it pleasure. It's what he's giving her now.

He pushes until he feels the resistance she mentions, then does as she says. He knows this motion. They explained it to him. He starts off slow, thrusting in and out, and he feels her get slicker. It gets easier. That is what she means by faster harder deeper, maybe. He watches her reactions and does move a little faster. He moves her thighs with and hips, bouncing her a little against him.]

[He feels wonderful. All at once, she understands that he truly does care about her pleasure, from the way he holds her to the way he thrusts.

She truly does bounce as he begins to move into her, breasts and rear, even the supple flesh of her thighs, bouncing with the motion, gravity and the force of his thrusts putting on a show that she wonders if he even even appreciate.

Either way, she raises her arms - for want of anything else to cling to, she clings to that 'main' tentacle, wraps her arms around its narrow form, holds it between her breasts as she kisses at the tip. It's nothing like holding a man or woman to her, not even an especially scrawny one, but it's at least enough to trick her mind, to satisfy those ingrained wants that come with sex.]

More, please - [She gasps it out. Her folds, her insides, aren't the only thing wet. Even her voice sounds it.] Please, it feels good, and I want you to understand that. You're making me, haa... happy.

[The tendril in her arms thickens again, combining with a few others to give itself some weight and girth to be held. It curls in her arms and over her shoulder, and in certain moments, feels almost like an arm draped over her back.

She asks for more, so more he gives her. No man can move with the rhythm he does, a ceaseless and unslowing thrust as deep as he can reach within her without hurting her. The tendril starts to thicken as she grows slicker, as he's concerned about her being unable to feel him any longer... unfounded concerns to be sure.

A second tendril crawls around her leg, from a similar spot as the one inside her. All at once he stops and pulls out of her, and for a moment it seems as though he's run into some kind of issue. Instead, the second tendril eases in where the first pulled out, and he tries to alternate them, one after the other. If one is good, then two is better, right?]

[As the tendril she's clinging to gains mass, she hugs it even more tightly. Intimately, like a lover, fingers curling to grip it properly. It feels odd in her arms, skin tingling as she holds it close, but at least it's something to cling to at all.

Because he's pounding into her in ways she's never felt before, thickening inside of her. Not in the way some men do, if they aren't fully hard before thrusting in, but truly growing. It takes her a moment to realize that's what he's doing, the thought so alien, and then another to think to warn him off becoming too large.

But by the time she's about to do that, he pulls out.]

Please - ['Don't,' but then the tendril is replaced by a different one, about as thick, less warm or wet, but the sensation of having to reacclimate to it is wonderful. She moans out, kisses at the 'him' in her arms.

And then it's replaced by the first one.]

God - [She calls out, eyes screwing shut, at the sensations. Every few thrusts, they alternate. Her mind can hardly adjust before he has to adjust to something else.

It's wonderful. She's never felt anything like this, in the best possible meaning of that phrase.]

More, more, more...!

[They told him it might hurt her, if he was too rough, but she doesn't seem to have that problem at all. He holds her up over the bed by her lower body, giving him room to pound her with both tendrils in turn. He can admit it's sort of an experimental game rather than something he necessarily had to do to keep up, but she seems to be loving it anyway.

More, more, more, and he gives her more, bouncing her as he thrusts to fuck her hard. That is the crude word for it, they said. The ritual is an act of that "fucking" but also so much more. Within her, he can touch things, feel things that even she doesn't know are accessible. But when your husband is a god, he can do many things with a body that mortal men can't do.

It is an act of pleasure, but also a holy act. As the Vessel-Bride, she serves a special role to the Lord. Not only does she teach him, but through her his power can be made into something other than shadows. Those baths and rituals weren't just for show, but preparing her to be able to accept him.

The second tendril withdraws, and the first takes over. It continues to thrust into her, over and over, and as they showed him, he starts to change its shape.]

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