Chapter 146: The Midnight bloom - 2
Lor straightened his sleeves, fastened the clasp, ran a hand through his tousled black hair, and stepped smoothly back onto the path, his heart thudding with anticipation.
No alarm.
No eyes lingered.
The music inside was soft and strange, a haunting melody of strings and low drums, the air thick with rosewater, amber, and the undercurrent of lust.
The Marble Sanctuary waited, its golden glow beckoning.
And he was no longer Lor.
He was no one.
And everyone.
_____
Inside.
The world changed.
The Marble Sanctuary, a realm where enchantment and flesh wove together in a primal dance.
The marble walls pulsed with low, humming enchantments, their veins not of stone but of shimmering gold and crimson, throbbing in sync with an unseen melody that seemed to vibrate through the bones.
No harsh torches or chandeliers pierced the air—just floating orbs of mana-fire, hovering like the glowing eyes of unseen voyeurs, casting a soft, flickering glow across archways and bare skin, bathing every curve, every ripple of muscle in a golden haze.
Masks were everywhere—no names, no faces, just bodies and scent and sound, moving with a fluidity that screamed indulgence.
Lor glided through the crowd like he belonged, his velvet robe parting slightly to reveal the lean, toned planes of his chest.
His cock twitched against the silk inner lining of the robe, throbbing with each gasp, moan, and wet slap of skin he passed.
The Gallery opened on his left, a cathedral-high hall of decadence, its walls draped in flowing silk, the floor lined with thick, plush rugs that muffled every step, every desperate grunt.
Raised platforms—four in total—stood like altars, each occupied by pairs or trios of masked figures fucking with theatrical elegance, their bodies glistening with sweat and oil.
On one, a woman was bound with velvet ribbons to a crescent-shaped chaise, her legs spread wide, her masked partner’s fingers sliding slowly into her dripping pussy, her moans soft but piercing, the audience watching in reverent silence, their eyes glinting behind masks.
No one hid.
This wasn’t a place for shame, only raw, unfiltered desire.
Lor paused at the threshold, his breath hitching, his cock throbbing painfully against the silk, the head slick with pre-cum.
He adjusted himself casually, pretending to smooth his robe, but the mask kept his face hidden, his hazel eyes blazing with hunger behind the velvet.
His desire was on full display now—through the parted robe, the heat of his cock pressing against the fabric, twitching at every moan, every ripple of glistening flesh, every wet sound that filled the air.
The scents—gods, they curled into him like a spell, pheromones and perfume and oil blending into a heady fog.
Rosewater, amber, and the raw musk of lust, thick enough to taste, to breathe, to drown in.
His cock pulsed harder, his chest rising with quick breaths, his skin tingling with the weight of it all.
He kept walking, his boots silent on the rugs, his robe brushing his thighs, teasing his cock with every step.
The Atrium was quieter, larger, a domed room with no roof, just open sky above, stars glowing faintly beyond spellglass that shimmered like liquid moonlight.
Marble columns circled the space like a coliseum, but instead of fighting, people knelt, worshipped, their bodies glistening with sweat and oil.
The vibe was slower, more intimate—not rough, not frenzied, but devotional, every touch a prayer, every moan a vow.
Against one column, a woman with braided hair rode her partner’s face with slow, grinding hips, her full breasts swaying, nipples hard and glistening as she moaned like a whispered prayer, her pussy grinding against their tongue.
Nearby, a man reclined on a cushioned bed, his thick cock buried deep in someone’s throat, their lips stretched wide, saliva dripping as they sucked, his hand tangled in their hair, eyes closed like he was communing with gods, his balls tightening with each slow thrust.
Lor stepped into the circle and stood by one of the columns.
He didn’t join in—not yet—just watched, soaking in the raw heat of it all, his breath quickening, his skin tingling with the urge to touch, to taste, to lose himself.
The sound of moans echoed off the marble, the scent of sex—wet, musky, intoxicating—soaking into the air, the slick slap of thighs and lips and need filling his senses.
His cock pulsed, pressed tight against the silk, pre-cum soaking through, and he knew if he touched himself, he’d cum too fast, the intensity threatening to unravel him.
That’s when she approached.
The soft click of her heels against the marble reached him before her voice, a low, amused purr that slid up his spine like a lover’s touch.
"Now you," she said, "don’t look old enough to own a vineyard, much less wear that mask."
Lor turned slowly, his hazel eyes glinting behind the velvet mask, his cock twitching at her voice.
She stood just inside the columned circle, lit by the soft blue of the spellglass dome above, a vision of raw allure.
Her curves were generous, her thighs wrapped in sheer black mesh that clung like a second skin, accentuating every plush inch.
Her breasts, full and heavy, spilled from an open robe, barely covered by delicate lace that teased her hardened nipples, her skin glowing with a faint sheen of oil.
Her mask was shaped like a cat’s face—sleek, angular, teasing—but her mouth was bare, glossy lips curling into a smile, her tongue flicking over them as she stepped closer, her hips swaying with predatory grace.
"Tell me, little lord," she whispered sultrily, her hand drifting lightly across his chest, nails tracing down the edge of his parted robe, grazing the lean muscle, sending a jolt through his body, his cock throbbing harder against the silk.
"Are you here to kneel... or to be worshipped?"
Lor didn’t answer, his breath catching, his hazel eyes locked on her glossy lips, her curves, the heat radiating from her.
He just smiled beneath the mask, a silent answer that made her smile widen, her eyes glinting with wicked promise.