Reborn in Milfloria: The Only Man in a World of Seductive Queens-Chapter 62: Towelfall

Henry took another step into the jungle and immediately regretted it. His sandal squished into something that felt like a hybrid of mashed peaches and divine regret.

"Welcome to the Forbidden Wetlands," Prudencia whispered, drawing her thighblades slowly, as if the air itself needed foreplay. "We are now officially inside Clamazon territory."

Henry glanced around.

The trees weren’t just tall—they were sultry. Their trunks curved inwards at impossible angles, like they were posing for a jungle lingerie ad. The vines above twisted like dancers caught mid-twerk, dripping with honey-sweet nectar. Bioluminescent flowers blinked at him flirtatiously.

Somewhere, a branch sighed.

"I don’t trust this forest," Henry muttered.

"The forest doesn’t trust you," Vebrissima replied, holding her parasol like a fencing sword. "But it likes your towel."

Henry clutched the enchanted towel tighter around his waist. The sparkles on his glutes shimmered nervously.

Climaxa floated above the treetops, her shawl trailing mist. "Legends say the Clamazon Queen once made an entire army surrender with a single wink and a foot rub."

Henry blinked. "I mean, that’s pretty effective warfare."

They pushed forward, deeper into the foliage. The air got thicker. Wetter. Lustier.

The breeze moaned. The leaves rustled with giggles.

Then, a sudden thud.

Henry froze.

Out of nowhere, a net made entirely of braided lingerie snapped upward, yanking him into the air with a scream and a surprised jingle of his towel-bells.

"TRAP!" Prudencia yelled, but she was too late. Vines sprang from the trees, wrapping her ankles. Vebrissima tried to shield them with her parasol, but a puff of perfumed gas erupted from a nearby orchid and she collapsed into a giggling heap.

Climaxa tried to hover higher, but a giant hand-shaped leaf smacked her from the sky with a playful slap.

Henry dangled upside down, swinging gently like a sexy piñata.

Leaves parted.

And they appeared.

The Clamazon Warriors.

Seven feet tall.

Muscles like poetry carved from marble.

Thighs that defied science. Hips that swayed with seismic intensity.

And armor made of... was that coconut shells and sensual leather straps?

The leader stepped forward. She had abs that could crush watermelons and a voice like midnight thunder.

"You have trespassed," she said, licking her lips slowly. "Prepare... for interrogation."

Henry wiggled in the net. "I surrender! Emotionally and physically!"

The warrior grinned.

She cut him down.

He landed in a puddle of flower nectar with a soft squish.

Two Clamazon guards lifted him by the armpits, their grips firm but oddly comforting.

"Bring him to the Queen," the leader said. "This one’s thighs... shimmer with prophecy."

---

They were taken to the Clamazon Village, nestled deep in the most luscious part of the Wetlands. The entire place looked like a luxurious spa mixed with a very horny jungle resort.

Every hut was shaped like a fruit. Every bench looked like it had witnessed unspeakable yoga. The ground itself throbbed softly beneath their feet.

Henry was placed gently on a massage table woven from vines and sweet moans.

A voice echoed from behind beaded curtains.

"So... this is the man who dares enter our sacred cheeks."

The Queen stepped out.

Clamazon Queen Bushtaria the Voluptuous.

She was draped in velvet leaves and crowned with glistening thigh rings. Her presence made the wind itself blush.

Henry tried to sit up.

"Your Majesty. I come in peace. And also confusion. Mostly confusion."

Bushtaria circled him, dragging a fingertip across his chest. "You bring with you the scent of Gush. The aura of Tension. And... emotional trauma baked in lust."

"I’m working on that last one," he muttered.

She cupped his cheek. "And you glow with downbad destiny."

The surrounding Clamazons hummed in agreement.

Bushtaria turned to her court. "Prepare the Trial of the Blooming Bedsheets."

Climaxa, still half-conscious and sprawled across a pillow, whispered, "That one sounds fun."

Prudencia groaned. "Or lethal."

Henry was carried on a throne of cushions into the Heart Tent, where Bushtaria awaited on a bed made of live purring moss.

She beckoned.

"Your trial... is to last the night. To endure twelve hours of slow, tender, unrelenting affection. To not beg. To not release."

Henry gulped. "That’s... illegal."

Bushtaria climbed onto him, her thighs framing his hips like divine parentheses.

"Begin," she whispered.

And the moss purred louder.

The curtains fell.

And the night grew thick with rhythm, restraint, and the kind of lewdness only whispered about in the scrolls of forbidden bedtime stories.

Henry’s moans were muffled.

But the Clamazon drums played all night long.

Outside, the stars blushed.

And deep in the jungle...

Something ancient stirred.

Watching.

Waiting.

And very, very wet.

The moisture clung to Henry’s skin like a desperate ex, refusing to let go. Every step into the Forbidden Wetlands was like stepping into a sensual dream that never knew how to end—fog coiled around his ankles like shy lovers, and vines brushed against his thighs with the confidence of someone who’d already read his browser history.

They walked in single file, partly for caution and partly because the narrow paths were made of squishy, mossy roots that throbbed faintly when stepped on. Yes—throbbed. Even the trees here seemed to be holding in a moan.

Henry wiped his brow. "This entire place feels like a sigh wrapped in sweat."

"That’s how the Clamazon scouts like it," Vebrissima whispered from behind him, her parasol tilted just right to reflect beams of light in strategic bursts against her cleavage. "They observe from the trees. Silently. Until they pounce."

"Sounds... horrifyingly erotic."

Climaxa giggled from above, gently floating along like a naughty halo. "Oh, it is. One Clamazon once wrestled me into a cuddle pile and whispered her trauma for six hours straight. I didn’t walk right for a week—emotionally."

A soft, melodic hum echoed from the trees. Then another. Then a breathy giggle that made Henry’s knees knock together.

"They’re close," Prudencia muttered, crouching low and drawing a short dagger carved from the polished fang of a Lust Lizard. Her stance was all business. Her eyes were scanning the canopy.

Suddenly, vines unraveled from the treetops above and wrapped gently—but firmly—around Henry’s arms and thighs. Not tight enough to hurt. Just tight enough to make promises.

He yelped. "Okay, what’s the safe word?!"

A voice purred from the shadows.

"There is none."

A figure descended, slowly, upside-down, from a cluster of dripping vines. Her skin was painted in soft swirls of mud and nectar, her curves glistening with wild dew, and her eyes were a deep, throbbing amber.

"Welcome to the Wetlands, Grand Thrusticator," she said. "I am Swellica, scout and seduction strategist of the Clamazonian Guard."

Henry tried to look brave, but he was very clearly 90% flustered pudding.

Swellica twirled in midair, right-side up now, landing in front of him with a squelch. She leaned in, pressing a single finger to his lips. "We’ve been watching you since you bounced the Bell. The vines remember."

"Oh god," Henry whimpered. "The vines have trauma."

Swellica’s gaze softened. She looked at him not like a predator, but like a woman who had waited her whole life to meet a man who could moan and mean it.

"You have journeyed far. Gushed deep. Teased fate. But do you understand what it means... to be hunted by unmet needs?"

Henry opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "I—I think so? Is there a manual?"

Swellica’s hand slipped into his enchanted towel and removed the scroll from the Temple of Tension. Her touch was delicate, reverent. She unrolled it, her fingers gliding over the words like they were written on skin.

"This map leads through our territory, to the Shrine of Returning. Where the last men vanished."

Vebrissima stepped forward. "We seek alliance. Assistance. Maybe some emotionally available snuggles if offered."

Swellica raised an eyebrow. "To pass, he must first survive the Ritual of Ravishing Restraint."

Henry groaned. "Another ritual? Do I get loyalty points for these?"

Prudencia whispered, "You’ve unlocked six already. Seventh one gets you a free enchanted loofah."

The Clamazonians emerged then. Dozens of them. All curves and confidence, wearing vines as lingerie and stares as weapons. Their footsteps made no sound, but their presence spoke volumes.

Swellica stepped back. "Strip."

Henry blinked. "What."

"You may keep the towel. But only if you can defend it."

One of the warriors, a muscular Clamazon with a stern face and even sterner thighs, approached. She lunged.

Henry dodged on instinct, spinning, towel fluttering like a battle flag.

The crowd gasped.

Swellica clapped once. "Let the Ravishing Restraint Ritual... begin."

It was not a battle of strength.

It was a sensual dance.

The Clamazons came at him one by one—never to strike, only to tease, to tempt, to unravel. Fingers brushed his sides. Lips grazed his shoulder. Hips bumped his defensively clenched cheeks.

But Henry endured.

Every time he was about to break, he focused on his training. His memories. The whispers from the Temple of Tension. The night he almost cried after being called a good boy by the Queen of Overflow.

He grit his teeth. He whispered affirmations.

"You are more than your horniness."

"You are a man of culture."

"You have thighs of purpose."

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Sweat dripped from his brow. His towel remained intact.

Finally, Swellica raised her hand.

The Clamazons stepped back.

She approached slowly. Gently. Like a storm disguised as a breeze.

She reached for the towel.

Then she stopped.

And smiled.

"You have passed."

Henry gasped, his knees buckling.

"Can I... have juice now?"

Vebrissima caught him in a bridal hold.

Climaxa floated down, pressing a cool, wet fruit to his lips. "Drink, hero. You’ve denied temptation so hard, the jungle itself is blushing."

He sipped.

Swellica handed him the scroll. "Beyond our camp lies the Shrine of Returning. But beware. Those who enter without clarity... never return wet."

Henry shivered. "I don’t even know what that means."

"Then you’re ready," Swellica said.

And from the trees above, the vines pulsed.

The jungle was pleased.

The cheeks, it seemed, were watching.

And the journey to the truth...

Was only getting juicier.