The world blurred into a soft, velvet haze as Henry drifted between the twin pillars of destiny—Queen Succulenta's thighs. They were warm, impossibly soft, and smelled faintly of honey and something dangerously like cinnamon roll frosting. Henry's breath hitched as the atmosphere shifted from celestial prophecy to something far more… intimate.
The plush cleft beneath him cradled his every inch like a throne made of marshmallow clouds. The subtle sway of Queen Succulenta's hips was hypnotic, a slow, rhythmic undulation that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of Rumporia itself. Somewhere nearby, a choir of handmaidens hummed a tune so soothing it could put a dragon to sleep—or rile it up for entirely different reasons.
Henry tried to steady his racing thoughts, but all he could manage was a weak, "So… this is the diplomatic reception?"
