learnandshift | locked to veilofpetals

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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 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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