The storm arrives early tonight.

Not the polite rain of tourists’ Instagram stories; this is the real deluge the old priests bargained for. It slams down in sheets so thick the air turns to water, drumming on the cenote like a thousand frantic hearts. Lightning forks overhead, freezing everything in blue-white stills: my fist locked mid-stroke, cock jutting obscene and glossy, the women’s faces twisted with something beyond lust; something reverent and feral.

I’m already on the edge. Have been for an hour.

They made sure of that.

The rules shifted the moment the first thunder cracked. The woman in white (she calls herself Ixchel tonight, because names are power) stepped forward and broke the oldest prohibition. Not with her hands. With her mouth.

“Show us how close you can get without falling,” she said, voice barely audible over the rain. “Show us, and we’ll let you suffer longer.”

So they took turns.

One kneels three feet away and spreads her thighs just enough for me to see how soaked she is, fingers circling her clit in slow, hypnotic spirals that match my strokes exactly. Another stands behind me; close enough that her nipples drag across my back every time I arch; and whispers filth in Yucatec Maya that I don’t understand but my cock does. A third drips warm copal oil down my chest, letting it pool in the grooves of my abs before it slides lower, coating my balls until they gleam like wet stone.

I’m not allowed to speed up.
I’m not allowed to stop.

Every time my hips jerk too eagerly, Ixchel snaps her fingers and the circle tightens. Hands hover; never touching my cock, but everywhere else. Nails rake my inner thighs. Teeth graze my shoulder. Someone’s tongue traces the shell of my ear while another exhales hot breath over the slick head each time my fist pulls back, exposing it raw and vulnerable to the storm.

My legs shake. My balls are so tight they ache like bruises. Precum pours out of me in a constant stream now, mixing with rainwater and oil until my grip is sloppy, filthy, unstoppable.

“Count,” Ixchel commands, eyes black with stormlight. “Count the edges for us.”

I do. Voice cracked and desperate.

One; when the brunette with the jaguar tattoo leans in and lets a single drop of her own wetness fall from her fingers onto my tongue.

Two; when they make me watch two of them kiss, slow and deep, hands buried under each other’s dresses while I stroke at the torturous pace they set.

Three; four; five; each one announced with a broken moan as they bring me to the brink and then rip it away, forcing my hand to slow, forcing me to hover in that exquisite freefall where release is a breath away and eternity at once.

At seven I’m crying. Real tears mixing with rain. My cock is so hard it feels like it’s turned to stone, veins throbbing visibly, the head flared an angry purple. Every muscle in my body is locked rigid, trembling on the precipice.

Ixchel finally steps between my spread feet. The others fall silent. She is naked now; the white dress long discarded; skin painted with fresh copal runes that glow under the lightning. She doesn’t touch me. She doesn’t have to.

She lowers herself slowly until her face is inches from my cock, mouth open, tongue resting on her lower lip like an altar waiting for sacrifice.

“Look at me,” she says.

I do.

And she smiles.

“Come.”

One word. That’s all it takes.

The orgasm rips me apart.

It starts somewhere behind my balls and detonates outward, a white-hot surge that bows my spine and tears a roar from my throat that echoes off the temple walls like the jaguar god himself. The first jet shoots so hard it splashes across her tongue, her cheek, her throat. The second arcs over her shoulder and lands on the tongue of the woman behind her. I keep coming; thick, endless ropes that paint her face, her breasts, the stone, the rain; until my knees buckle and I collapse forward.

They catch me. All of them. Hands finally; mercifully; on my cock, milking the last shuddering pulses, smearing my cum over their skin like war paint, rubbing it into their bellies, their cunts, their open mouths. Someone’s fingers slide into me from behind, curling just right to wrench one final, dry spasm from my oversensitive body.

I’m sobbing with it. Empty. Destroyed. Reborn.

The rain intensifies, washing us clean and filthy at the same time.

Ixchel presses her cum-slick lips to my ear.

“Next year,” she whispers, “we won’t stop at seven.”

Thunder answers for me.

The jungle approves.