The Temple of Twerklight stood before Henry like a mirage designed by a team of extremely thirsty architects who had never heard of structural integrity but had a PhD in thighs.
The towers glistened in the sun, each one shaped like an arching back or an outstretched leg, draped in sheer silks that swayed in the breeze with suspiciously seductive grace. Ornate fountains spilled endlessly, but instead of water, they poured a glistening, honey-like fluid labeled "Thigh Dew". A sign hung over the entrance gate:
"Please Wipe Your Lust at the Door—Slipping Hazard."
Henry stood still, mesmerized, towel fluttering in slow motion. A soft breeze kissed his skin, as if the very air was sighing in anticipation.
Climaxa stepped beside him, her hips carrying an entire rhythm section with every sway. "Breathe it in, Henry. This is where cheeks go to become legends."
