The man’s—deity’s? being’s?—words almost ring true. Kurt has so scarcely ever touched themself, instilled with such guilt and fear and shame about their body from the moment they were born, that they may as well never have explored themself at all. Any and every touch has only ever made them burn, made their stomach clench and their heart drop, knowing their father would beat them within an inch of their life should he find out.

But the man—god? pleasure incarnate?—touches them between their legs like there’s nothing to fear, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and the pleasure that rocks their trembling frame is anything but shameful. Tendrils stroke and caress their cock with slow, gentle squeezes, his fingers play between their folds, growing more and more slick, his touch hot and tingling with a magic Kurt cannot comprehend.

Their sobbing moans grow louder against the cloth in their mouth, drowning out the chants and rumbling from the gathered faithful, watching with rapt attention as their god toys with his bounty. Kurt can’t look, can’t bear knowing they’re all watching, their eyes squeezed shut as they shake their head back and forth. Whether it’s an answer to his question or a plea for mercy is impossible to tell—though their twitching hips and fluttering cunt seems to speak for them.