Reborn in Milfloria: The Only Man in a World of Seductive Queens-Chapter 63: Lustlog

Henry sat wrapped in his towel of honor, sipping from a juicy fruit that tasted like mangoes with commitment issues. His body trembled, not from exhaustion—though he was very much exhausted—but from something more potent: validation. The Clamazon tribe had not only spared him, they had approved of him. The towel, though slightly askew and damp with the sweat of restraint, remained draped around his waist like a silky medal of endurance.

Climaxa hovered beside him, fanning his cheeks with a leaf shaped like a sensual sigh. "You did good, Thrusticator. The jungle respects your... moist discipline."

Prudencia leaned on a mossy rock, sharpening her blade and trying not to blush. "I’ve seen many things, but I’ve never seen a man survive a Ravishing Ritual with his towel intact."

Vebrissima adjusted her glowy parasol, nodding. "Even the vines held back. And vines never hold back. They’re like emotional aunties with touch issues."

Henry grunted softly, licking some lingering fruit nectar off his lip. "I think I saw god. And she was wearing coconut armor."

Before they could chuckle, the jungle moaned.

Not metaphorically.

It literally let out a soft, echoing, orgasm-adjacent moan that seemed to come from the roots themselves.

Swellica emerged from the canopy, her thighs glistening with proud dew. "The Shrine of Returning awaits you. But be warned—"

"Let me guess," Henry interrupted, standing shakily. "More tests?"

Swellica tilted her head. "Not a test. A memory. A vision. The shrine shows you who you were before the thirst... and who you could become after."

Henry blinked. "Okay but... is there nudity involved?"

Swellica smirked. "Yes. But tasteful."

She turned and gestured for them to follow. The jungle opened for her like a fan dancer at an opera. The vines parted, and a gentle fog rolled through the new path, glowing with moonlight and yearning.

As they walked, the atmosphere changed.

Gone were the teasing giggles and cheeky rustles. Here, the air was thick with nostalgia, as if even the trees remembered what it felt like to be loved properly.

Henry clutched the scroll tighter in his hand. The closer they got to the shrine, the more his heart thudded—not in a lusty way, but in the way hearts do when they’re about to see something they’ve spent their whole lives running from.

The Shrine of Returning rose before them, nestled between two enormous peach-shaped cliffs that glowed like blushing moons. Water trickled down from above in thin, sensual streams that sang like lullabies. At the center stood an altar of smooth stone, surrounded by cushions that sighed when touched.

Swellica stopped. "You enter alone." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Henry nodded, stepping forward. The moss curled away from his feet like it respected boundaries now.

He climbed the steps.

Each one pulsed.

At the top, he placed the scroll into a slot shaped like a pair of open lips.

The shrine shuddered.

And the vision began.

A mist enveloped him, warm and full of moaning whispers. He felt his towel evaporate gently—politely—as if the shrine needed full vulnerability.

Then, light.

And in it, a figure—himself. But younger. Innocent. Still a virgin to both thighs and trauma. This Henry looked at him with wide eyes.

"You chased cheeks so far," the vision said. "But do you know why?"

Henry blinked. "Because... they jiggled?"

The vision frowned. "No. Because you were lonely. And you thought pleasure would heal the ache."

Henry looked down.

He wanted to argue.

But the shrine showed him flashes:

—A childhood crush laughing at him.

—His first heartbreak under a streetlamp shaped like a peach.

—His reflection in a mirror after a lonely night.

The shrine whispered, "You are more than your thirst."

Henry nodded slowly. "Then what am I?"

The mist swirled.

The image changed.

Now he saw himself—older. Stronger. Surrounded by laughter. By the women who’d accompanied him: Seraphina, Moistessa, Vebrissima, Prudencia, Climaxa... and even Swellica. They weren’t seducing him. They were laughing with him. Fighting beside him.

Loving him.

And in the center of the image... was a throne.

A moist throne.

His throne.

The voice of the shrine echoed.

"You are the Chosen Moist. Not for your towel. Not for your thrust. But for your heart."

Henry’s lip trembled.

"...Can I have my towel back now?"

The mist pulled away.

The vision faded.

He stood again in the shrine.

His towel, perfectly folded, waited on the altar.

He wrapped it around himself like a warm hug.

He stepped down the shrine stairs.

The girls looked up.

"You okay?" Prudencia asked.

Henry nodded. "I saw my soul’s buttcheeks. They’re thicc. But they’re... kind."

Swellica knelt before him. "Then you’re ready."

"For what?"

She handed him a new scroll.

"To face the Sisterhood of Endless Heat."

Henry gulped.

Climaxa floated beside him, sipping juice. "Time to put those moist lessons to use."

He looked at his friends.

Then to the jungle.

Then to the rising moon.

He whispered.

"Let’s go squish fate."

Henry adjusted the towel around his waist with the pride of a man who had just squished fate once and was now ready to do it again—harder, wetter, deeper.

The Clamazon camp was behind them now, but its lingering musk still clung to him. The vines had parted with a shy wiggle, and the trees had whispered farewells in the language of rustling leaves and humid sighs. Swellica watched from the canopy as they departed, her eyes glowing softly, her thighs still glistening with ceremonial oil.

"Good luck, Grand Thrusticator," she had whispered. "Make the cheeks proud."

Henry nodded solemnly, then slipped slightly on a moist patch of moss and stumbled forward like a drunk anime protagonist blessed with nothing but plot armor and wet thighs.

The group walked deeper into the Forbidden Wetlands, toward the Shrine of Returning. The trail was narrow and laced with shimmering mist. Every step brought a new aroma—wet petals, soft peaches, and a mysterious third scent Henry would later describe as "flirtatious regret."

Climaxa floated nearby, sipping from her flask. "According to myth, the Shrine appears only to those who’ve known denial, desire, and deep emotional damage. So basically, Henry."

"Hey," he said, brushing a love-thirsty vine off his face. "My trauma is valid."

"So is your booty," Prudencia added flatly, twirling a dagger. "Try not to lose it."

Suddenly, the jungle parted.

They stood before a clearing bathed in golden mist. In the center: a stone shrine shaped like two cheeks pressed together in divine harmony. The symbol of the Sacred Reunification.

Henry stepped forward.

The air grew thick.

The shrine pulsed.

A voice echoed.

"To enter... one must bare all."

Henry sighed. "Why is it always nudity with divine structures?"

Vebrissima smiled. "Because truth hides where the tan lines end."

Henry dropped the towel.

The shrine rumbled in approval.

A door—shaped like a seductive wink—opened between the stone cheeks.

Inside, soft blue light pulsed from the walls, and the floor was made of warm mist and suggestive moaning tiles. Each footstep triggered a low hum, like a lover whispering encouragement.

They reached the inner sanctum.

In the center stood a large, glowing orb. Within it shimmered a vision: a group of men, shirtless and emotionally available, trapped in a crystal bathhouse of longing.

Henry pressed his palm to the orb.

The vision became clearer.

One of the trapped men turned toward him.

It was Henry.

"Wait," he gasped. "That’s me!"

"A version of you," Vebrissima said, her voice hushed. "One that never fell into this world. Never squished fate."

Henry stared into his own eyes.

His alternate self looked... dry. Emotionally bland. He wore khakis.

"No," Henry whispered. "I won’t become that. Not now. Not ever."

The orb pulsed.

A voice echoed again.

"To break the seal... you must... squish yourself."

Henry blinked. "Come again?"

"Embrace your inner cheeks. Confront your moistness."

Climaxa handed him a mirror.

Henry stared into it.

His reflection smirked. Then winked.

The mirror shattered.

The orb exploded in light.

The walls trembled.

From the mist, a figure emerged.

Tall.

Muscular.

Wearing only a crown of whipped cream and regret.

"I am Moistmar, Guardian of the Lost Thighs."

Henry swallowed. "Hello."

"Only one with cheeks true and heart downbad may pass."

Moistmar stepped forward, lifting Henry’s chin.

"Are you... downbad enough?"

Henry didn’t speak.

He dropped into a flawless squat.

The floor moaned.

Moistmar smiled.

"You may proceed."

A hidden doorway opened behind the orb.

Inside it: the path to the crystal bathhouse.

Henry grabbed his towel.

"Let’s go squish fate."

Henry took a bold step forward—and instantly slipped on a suspiciously moist vine. He landed face-first into a patch of moss that moaned softly beneath him. "I swear the ground here is thirstier than me," he muttered, peeling moss from his lips.

Climaxa floated over and dabbed his forehead with a scented wipe. "That’s the Moss of Yearning. It clings to those who walk with unresolved tension."

"Great," Henry groaned. "Now even the grass wants closure."

From behind, Vebrissima adjusted her parasol. "Let’s move before the ferns start asking about our love languages."

The path ahead squelched with anticipation.