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."