Reborn in Milfloria: The Only Man in a World of Seductive Queens-Chapter 52: The Temple of Twerklight

Henry awoke to the sound of soft sighs and the gentle rhythm of thighs clapping in the distance like ceremonial applause for the morning sun.

The Grand Arena of Bounce, now quiet and bathed in golden light, had transformed into a luxurious recovery chamber. Velvet cushions, satin drapes, and warm incense filled the air with a fragrance best described as horny serenity. Henry lay sprawled across a throne made entirely of enchanted body pillows—each one humming a lullaby in the key of moan.

Prudencia sat beside him, legs crossed, slowly fanning herself with a scroll labeled "Bounce Law: Volume 6 – Sacred Squelches". She was still flushed from the previous night’s chaos, her blouse now replaced by a loose temple robe that somehow managed to be both conservative and devastating.

Henry groaned, stretching his limbs like a cat that had spent the night dreaming about thighs.

"Uhhhnghh... did we win?"

Climaxa stepped into view, carrying a platter of what could only be described as forbidden fruit snacks. They glistened with divine nectar, their shapes suspiciously suggestive—one resembled a heart, the other a pair of plump peaches mid-twerk.

She smirked. "You didn’t just win. You twerked history."

Henry blinked. "Did I... become the Grand Thrusticator?"

Climaxa placed the platter in front of him and bowed her head. "Yes. And more. You are now the Archbishop of Bounce, the Duke of Double-Cheeks, the Earl of Eargasmic Thrusts. The prophecy said a man would rise. You... ascended."

Henry looked down. His towel had been replaced by a shimmering robe made from the dreams of lonely maidens. It barely clung to his body, fluttering with every movement like it was trying to escape and show off his squishbits to the heavens.

Prudencia chuckled. "You look like a perverted Greek god."

Henry smirked. "Just the Greek part, thank you."

As Henry sat up, the pillows shifted beneath him, one gasping softly and whispering, "Again..."

He jumped. "Uh. These things are alive?"

Climaxa nodded proudly. "Welcome to the Temple of Eternal Comfort. Every cushion remembers every squish. And yours... made quite the impression."

Henry leaned back slowly, cautiously. The pillow beneath him shivered with delight.

Prudencia rolled her eyes. "I miss when chairs were just chairs."

Climaxa handed Henry a goblet filled with what looked like sparkling lotion. "Drink. It’s Ambrosia of the Squish. It’ll replenish your stamina and... other things."

Henry sniffed it. "Why does it smell like body butter and faint guilt?"

Climaxa winked. "Because it is."

He drank it.

Immediately, a warmth spread through his body. Not the "I’m full" kind of warmth. No—this was "my soul just winked and licked something" kind of warmth. His cheeks flushed. His thighs twitched. His lower bits... perked up like a character awakening in an ecchi anime.

Prudencia noticed. "Is the potion working?"

Henry nodded rapidly, shifting to hide his newly risen ambitions under a nearby pillow labeled "Caution: Contains Giggle Magic".

Then came a knock.

A priestess entered the chamber, bowing low—too low. Her robe hung open at the top, revealing a valley that could drown kingdoms.

"Your Excellency," she said, voice dripping with temptation, "your audience is requested in the Sacred Squeeze Hall. The Council of Bouncers awaits your next decree."

Henry stood up, the robe sliding dramatically off one shoulder like a drama queen in heat.

"I suppose it’s time I ruled."

Prudencia rolled her eyes. "Rule? You barely walk after one bounce battle."

Henry took a step.

His legs buckled.

The priestess caught him.

"I got you, Grand Thrusticator."

Henry blushed. "Thanks, uh... what’s your name?"

She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "Call me Lubricia."

Prudencia choked on her scroll. "Of course it is."

—

The Sacred Squeeze Hall

The grand chamber was shaped like two curvaceous cheeks pressed lovingly together. Ornate carvings lined the walls—each one depicting famous bounces from temple history. In the center sat the Council of Bouncers: twelve stunning women in various states of tasteful undress, seated on thrones that massaged their lower backs every few seconds with enchanted kneading hands.

At the head of the council was Mistress Thrustina, now in a regal robe made of midnight and sass. She eyed Henry with a faint smile.

"You bounced well, Henry."

He bowed, only slightly revealing more than intended.

"I learned from the best. And also from the mirror version of myself who dry-humped destiny."

Thrustina chuckled. "It’s time we discuss your next task. The Realm of Rumporia is in peril."

Henry blinked. "That’s... an actual place?"

Climaxa nodded. "It lies just beyond the Valley of Velvet Whispers. A land where bounce is sacred—but lately, the thiccness has begun to fade."

Lubricia whispered in his ear. "They need your squish. Your leadership. Your... presence."

Prudencia frowned. "Why does that sound like code for ’please go sleep with the queen’?"

Henry looked confused. "Wait, is it?"

Climaxa didn’t answer.

Thrustina rose. "You’ll need a diplomatic escort. Lubricia shall accompany you. And you may choose one more companion."

Henry looked at Prudencia.

She crossed her arms. "No."

Henry raised an eyebrow.

Prudencia sighed. "Fine. But if I get groped by one more sentient furniture piece, I’m suing the temple."

Climaxa clapped her hands. "Very well! You depart at sunset."

Lubricia turned to Henry. "Until then, you may rest. Or... prepare."

Her fingers lightly traced the edge of his jaw.

Prudencia pulled her away by the arm. "He will be preparing. Alone. With pants."

—

Later That Evening

In the private chamber, Henry paced. Dressed in his official travel uniform—tight temple trousers and a loose silk shirt that kept falling open—he was restless.

He sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets purred.

"I can’t believe I’m a religious icon."

Prudencia sat nearby, rubbing lotion into her legs with a kind of passive aggression only women in tight situations can master.

"You’re not a religious icon. You’re a walking thirst trap with a towel complex."

Henry smirked. "You think I’m a thirst trap?"

She paused.

"...shut up."

Suddenly, the window flung open.

Lubricia stood outside, silhouetted against the moon, her robes fluttering in the breeze like an erotic flag.

"Henry," she said, stepping in, "before you depart... one final blessing."

Prudencia shot to her feet. "Final WHAT?"

Lubricia glided forward. Henry stumbled back.

"Wait—what kind of blessing are we talking—"

Lubricia pressed a finger to his lips.

"Shhh. Let the cheeks speak."

She leaned in.

Prudencia dove between them with an acrobatic move that made Henry’s towel (now reincarnated as a curtain sash) salute. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

"NOPE. We’re saving his stamina for diplomacy."

Lubricia sighed. "Fine. But the Bounce Blessing waits for no one."

She vanished in a swirl of sparkles and perfume.

Henry collapsed onto the bed, wide-eyed and confused.

"I think I just got edged... spiritually."

Prudencia sighed, pulling the sheet over his face.

"Sleep, Your Squishness. Tomorrow, we travel."

And in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Or maybe it was just more ceremonial cheeks clapping.

Either way...

The adventure was only getting thicker.

The adventure was only getting thicker.

Henry lay draped over Prudencia’s lap, the remains of his towel now nothing more than a ceremonial thread clinging to his dignity like a traumatized house pet. Her hands idly ran through his hair, brushing strands of glitter off his cheeks as if purifying him with gentle, sarcastic affection.

"You broke reality with your cheeks," Prudencia whispered, equal parts admiration and deeply suppressed arousal. "That’s... not normal."

Henry peeked up at her. "Did you see the Quadquake? I think one of my thighs dislocated a cloud."

She pursed her lips. "And you dislocated my ability to stay emotionally detached."

Before he could reply, a faint gong echoed through the air—wet, echoing, and suspiciously similar to the sound of a slap on a freshly moisturized peach.

Climaxa approached, dressed now in ceremonial silk that clung to her curves like gossip. Her expression was unreadable, her hips still in mid-choreography.

"The Trials are complete," she said solemnly. "But the Temple of Twerklight offers one final gift... to the victor of bounce."

Henry sat up, suspicious. "Is it a massage? A crown? A donut? Please say donut."

Climaxa stepped aside. "No. It is... The Chamber of Aftercare."

The doors creaked open behind her, revealing a softly lit room filled with velvet cushions, magical hot oils, and a suspicious amount of whipped cream floating midair with no clear source.

Prudencia’s eyes widened. "That room is banned in seven provinces."

Climaxa smirked. "Because those provinces couldn’t handle it."

Henry squinted. "Is it safe?"

"No," Climaxa said gently. "But it’s necessary."

As they entered, the door slid shut behind them with a slow schlurp, like a giant lip locking in the lewdness. The walls glowed warm pink, ambient moans playing like relaxing spa music in the background.

Prudencia sat on a cloud-shaped cushion that sighed beneath her like it just saw thighs for the first time. Henry walked over to a curious pool of warm cream and poked it with a stick of cinnamon someone had clearly left for emergencies.

The cream burbled.

The cream winked.

He backed away slowly.

Suddenly, a sultry voice echoed through the chamber:

> "Welcome to Aftercare. Please choose your massage intensity: tender, teasing, turbo-thrust, or destroy my soul, queen."

Climaxa raised a hand. "Turbo-thrust for me."

Prudencia hesitated. "...Tender."

Henry cleared his throat. "Do you have one called ’I’m not sure I can survive another cheekquake’?"

A bed of feathers rose from the floor like a slow-motion hallucination. Ropes of rose-scented mist curled around their ankles like flirtatious snakes.

Climaxa lay down first, letting two spectral hands begin kneading her back with scandalous precision. She moaned softly. "Oof. That’s the spot. Right above the holy tailbone."

Henry watched nervously, then laid down beside her. His own spectral masseuse arrived—a smoky figure shaped like a curvy librarian with glasses and very flexible ethics.

She whispered in his ear: "You’ve been carrying too much... bounce tension."

Henry gasped as her hands dove in.

Every moan was a syllable.

Every sigh was a prayer.

And the chamber?

It was only just beginning to warm up.