Society for Essence Release and Health Optimization
Copyright© 2025 by Kynlas_DK
Chapter 19
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 19 - Rock and Flower, prince and princess of Orinova, were betrothed as children in an arranged marriage and raised together to ensure a successful union. Now grown, they must confront a mysterious evil that has arisen in the mountains, hidden for centuries. Its cause and power are unknown. Only their courage, training, and bond can save the realm from the darkness that threatens all.
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Consensual Fiction Sharing Cream Pie First Oral Sex
Celeste returned to the castle, her steps heavy with the weight of what she had just experienced. She moved quietly through the halls and slipped into Rock’s room, closing the door behind her. With shaking hands, she removed her robe and hung it over the back of the chair, then curled up on Rock’s bed. Laying her head on his pillow, she tried to calm her racing thoughts and focus on her duties as a Seraph, wrapping herself in a blanket as if it could shield her from the lingering memory of the meeting.
The encounter with the boss haunted her. That greasy, slimy presence had made her feel unclean in a way she had never felt before. She had been nude countless times with the men she served; her body was second nature to her, accustomed to the openness and intimacy of her work. Clothes had always felt unnatural, even restrictive. Yet when she remembered the boss’s eyes on her, the sensation of exposure was overwhelming, as if her very skin betrayed her.
Rolling onto her back, she ran her hands over herself. Her breasts were firm, her belly flat, the rest of her body strong and healthy—the embodiment of what she offered her charges. When Rock looked at her, she felt respected and treasured, safe in the knowledge of his care. But the boss’s gaze ... it had stirred something else, something nameless and deeply repulsive.
She rose from the bed, needing to purge herself of the feeling. The shower called to her. She turned on the hot water, letting the steam fill the small room. Under the spray, she wet her hair, then massaged shampoo into it, washing and scrubbing as though she could scrub the memory from her mind. Soap ran down her body, carrying with it the sense of filth that lingered after the boss’s presence.
Her knees buckled, and she slid to the floor, curling into a tight ball in the corner. The water streamed over her, but it could not fully wash away the nausea, the fear, or the shame. She shivered and cried, letting the tears mix with the hot water. She needed to feel desired again, to feel alive in her own body, to feel Rock’s warmth, his touch, the reassurance only he could give.
Slowly, she rose, turning off the water, and wrapped herself in a towel. She dried her hair, patting her body gently as if to coax it back to normalcy. Finally, she returned to Rock’s bed, stretching out beneath a thin sheet. She would have to wait for him, wait to feel whole again when he came to release his essence.
Her exhaustion overcame her, and she drifted into a restless sleep.
Rock entered quietly, his eyes scanning the room until they found her. She lay there, asleep, her hair spread in soft waves around her head, framing her delicate features. He approached, moving a few strands from her eyes, and leaned close, his voice gentle.
“Celeste. Are you awake?”
She blinked, awareness slowly returning, and smiled at the sight of his strong, familiar face.
“Hello, Prince Rock,” she said sleepily.
“Hi, Celeste.”
“Do you need to release your essence, my lord?”
“Not right now. I was hoping to find out if you got any answers from your meeting this morning.”
Celeste sat up, letting the sheet fall loosely around her. “We do have a boss. I met him,” she admitted, shivering at the memory. “Not a nice man.”
“So, what did he say?” Rock asked, moving closer, reaching to pull her gently toward him.
“He said they check the essence to make sure the men are healthy. Just as I told you, my lord,” she said, her voice still tinged with revulsion.
Rock pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before rising and beginning to undress. “I’m going to grab a shower. Be right back,” he said.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied, watching him go, a mixture of relief and lingering tension washing over her.
She rolled onto her back and felt herself again. Now that Rock was near her, she felt the warmth forming between her legs just as it did every day when she was going to accept essence from her clients.
Rock emerged from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, allowing her to see his broad chest, tight abs and muscled arms. The warmth between her legs continued to increase as she rolled onto her hands and knees and pointed her bottom toward Rock.
He dropped his towel and moved behind her and pushed into her body with ease. They moved together until he released his essence into her body and then they moved to lie next to each other letting sleep take them away.
Rock woke up the next morning, his hardness tenting the sheet and found Celeste asleep next to him, face down, her head looking away from him.
He reached for her, slipped a hand down between her legs, testing her body to see if he could release his essence before or after waking her up. Mags had told him that if he woke up first, touch her first, test her body to see if she was ready and then he was free to use her freely without waking her up first. She was his Seraph first and foremost and his essence had to be released even if she was still sleeping.
Rock found that her body was warm and wet, ready for him. He carefully moved over her body and pushed himself into her body, waking her immediately. “OOOOOOHHHH Rock!” she gasped, coming awake fully in a heartbeat.
He moved in and out of her, working himself closer and closer to his release, making Celeste gasp and sigh with every movement until she cried out in ecstasy and tightened her muscles, bringing him to his own conclusion and releasing his essence into her body with a groan.
“Oh, Rock,” Flower murmured, rolling over and brushing messy hair from her eyes as he leaned down to touch her gently.
“Thank you for being here. I have to get going. Flower will wake up shortly, and I want to make sure she knows I love her,” he said softly.
“Of course, Your Highness. I’ll be here when you return,” Celeste whispered, her voice muffled by sleep.
Rock pressed a tender kiss to her lips before heading to the shower and dressing. Celeste, already drifting back into slumber, did not stir as he quietly left the room.
He moved to the nursery, where it was still dark and silent. Flower lay on the bed, her face relaxed. Rock leaned down, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead and pressing a soft kiss to it.
“Hi,” she said quietly, eyes fluttering open.
“How are you?”
“Tired. Your babies woke a couple of hours ago to eat. I fed them and then fell asleep when they finished. What time is it?”
“Early. Don’t worry about it.”
She nodded and snuggled back into the pillow. Rock kissed her again, then slipped from the nursery and made his way to the gym.
His sword master was already waiting, a composed figure radiating discipline and calm. Rock changed into gym shorts, and together they began their morning routine: forms, sparring, and repeated practice with corrections until sweat glistened on their skin and their breathing came in deep, steady gasps.
“My Lord, you are finished,” his sensei said, bowing with hands pressed together. Rock mirrored the gesture.
“Thank you, Sensei. I am honored to have learned from you so well.”
“The honor is mine, my Lord,” the sensei replied.
He moved to a large cabinet against the wall, opening its doors with deliberate care. One by one, he removed each article of ceremonial clothing and laid it carefully on the floor, in a precise order:
A kimono of deep indigo silk, intricately embroidered with the crest of his homeland.
A hakama, the pleated trousers that signified both readiness and formality.
A do, the breastplate reinforced with lacquered layers, polished to a deep, reflective sheen.
Sode, the shoulder guards, lying neatly beside the do.
Kote, the protective sleeves, folded with exact precision.
A tare, the waist guard, resting beneath the hakama.
His kabuto, the samurai helmet, and menpo, the face guard, completed the set.
Rock stood quietly, his posture straight, eyes focused, his mind working to absorb every detail. The sensei moved deliberately, almost ceremoniously, as though every fold, every placement, carried centuries of tradition. The deliberate care of each movement impressed Rock—this was not merely armor, it was the embodiment of discipline, honor, and heritage.
When the sensei finished, he stepped back and inclined his head toward Rock.
“My Lord,” he said, his voice low and formal, carrying the weight of centuries of training.
Rock stood tall, his breathing steady despite the sweat clinging to his skin. Before him lay the carefully arranged pieces of his ceremonial armor, each item imbued with tradition and centuries of honor. His sensei, a figure of unwavering calm, gestured toward the kimono first.
“My Lord, begin with this,” he said, handing Rock the indigo silk kimono, embroidered with the crest of their homeland. Rock slid it over his shoulders, feeling the smooth fabric fall into place. The weight of history seemed to settle across him, grounding him.
Next came the hakama. Rock stepped into the pleated trousers, tying the cords around his waist with careful precision. Each pleat aligned perfectly, a reminder that discipline began in even the smallest details.
The sensei moved to the do, the lacquered breastplate, polished to a reflective sheen. “This protects your body,” he said, lowering it onto Rock’s shoulders. “But it cannot shield your mind. You must be as vigilant with your thoughts as with your body.” Rock felt the weight of it press against his chest, a physical reminder of the responsibility he bore.
The sode, kote, and tare followed—shoulder guards, sleeves, and waist protector. Each piece was placed with deliberate care, fastened snugly but allowing freedom of movement. Rock marveled at the craftsmanship, how each layer was both protection and a symbol of heritage.
Finally, the kabuto and menpo—the helmet and face guard—were lifted and placed on him. The cool metal settled against his skull, the menpo covering the lower half of his face. Rock caught a glimpse of himself in the polished surface of the do: a disciplined warrior, ready to honor the tradition of his ancestors.
The sensei stepped back, his gaze piercing yet calm. From a wooden stand, he picked up a sword—a katana with a gleaming, razor-sharp blade, its hilt wrapped in pristine silk. He held it out toward Rock.
“This is your first sword,” the sensei said, voice low but commanding. “It is not a toy, nor a mere tool. It is an extension of your will, your honor, and your life. Treat it with respect, for the weight it carries is not just steel—it is the burden of every choice you will make while holding it.”
Rock reached for the hilt, feeling the balance, the smooth weight of the blade, the subtle tension in its construction. The sensei’s gaze never wavered.
“When you draw this sword,” the sensei continued, “know that every strike, every defense, reflects your character. Never let arrogance guide it. Never let anger guide it. A sword may defend life—or end it. Remember that power without wisdom is a path to ruin.”
Rock nodded solemnly, gripping the hilt with both hands. The weight was familiar yet foreign, a tangible link to generations of warriors before him. He felt the resolve of his sensei’s words sink deep, embedding themselves alongside the pride and love he carried for his family.
“You are ready,” the sensei said simply, bowing slightly. “But readiness is not a moment—it is a lifetime. Carry this honor with every step, every choice, every breath.”
Rock bowed in return, the metal of his armor shifting slightly. The room was quiet save for the soft echoes of movement, but in that stillness, he felt the enormity of the responsibility and the trust placed in him—not just as a prince, but as a protector, a son of Orinova, and a warrior of his people.
Far from the castle, in the shadow of the mountains, the evil mass stirred. Its black ichor bubbled and pulsed, seeking a new vessel. It found a shepherd tending his flock, isolated among the hills, unaware of the danger lurking in the dark.
The moment he touched the slime, it clung to him like a second skin, writhing over his body and seeping into his very being. His eyes widened in terror and confusion as the corruption spread, twisting his mind and body. Half-mad, he stumbled from the bubbling mass, coated in the thick, viscous sludge. Only the remnants of his clothing marked him as human; the rest of him seemed transformed into something unearthly.