Chapter Twenty-Three
The Lathering of the High Priestess of Emotional Dishware?
I’m still in my robe.
Still sticky in places that weren’t meant to be sticky after brunch.
Still sitting in the soft warmth of my dome, surrounded by empty plates and the faint smell of intentioned syrup, trying to reclaim some small fraction of authority or clarity or, honestly, basic spine function.
It’s not going well.
I have a journal open across my lap. The page is titled “Reflections on Sacred Brunch Ritual: A Case Study in Erotic Carb Transfer.” I have written exactly one sentence.
They fed me until I saw God and then gave me a necklace shaped like commitment.
I stare at it for a long time. Then add a second sentence, just under it: I think I’ve been spiritually married via pancake.
I reach for my phone before I can overthink it.
ME:
brunch turned into a cult ceremony
i was fed five different intention bites by five emotionally unstable men
there was syrup on my collarbone
i might have moaned
everyone clapped.
also there’s a puzzle necklace and i think i got emotionally married again
help.
I toss the phone onto the cushion beside me, flop onto my back, and stare up at the ceiling like it might offer divine post-brunch clarity.
It doesn’t.
Rude.
So I do the only reasonable thing: I decide to shower off the sacred glaze and try to reclaim a single neuron of focus.
I grab a towel, pull my robe tighter around my shoulders, and head toward the shower dome, which we technically call The Aquatic Rebirth Station?, but which mostly just holds a long communal tiled space and too many bottles of shampoo labeled with moon phases.
The door is slightly ajar, and steam drifts out like it’s been conjured by soft-core forest magic and eucalyptus breathwork. It curls around my ankles, warm and thick, and carries with it the unmistakable sounds of something happening inside, something domestic, masculine, and wildly unspiritual.
I pause just outside, towel clutched in one hand, heart already whispering things my brain isn’t ready to hear.
Because I hear laughter, low, deep, and male, the rhythmic splash of water against tile, and the faint clatter of what I’m nearly certain is a ceramic plate.
I lean in, just enough to see.
And then I freeze.
Because inside, all five of them are there.
Shirtless, barefoot, gloriously, unapologetically soapy, and washing dishes in the communal shower.
There’s a portable rack on one end, someone’s playing forest flute music from a Bluetooth speaker, and I don’t know whether to cry, scream, or climb a wall like a raccoon possessed by yearning.
I do not move.
I cannot move.
Because what I’m looking at isn’t just unexpected, it’s a spiritual ambush in the form of wet forearms and sudsy teamwork.
I did not plan a group dishwashing kink event. That wasn’t on the itinerary. There is no seventh pillar for “steam-based service submission.” And yet here they are. My five sacred disasters, washing dishes in a tiled dome of humid temptation.
Jonah is barefoot and brooding, elbow-deep in suds, wiping down a bowl like it confessed betrayal.
Seb is methodically rinsing spoons with the intensity of a man repenting for the emotional damage he did in his twenties.
Miles is categorizing the silverware into functional subsets.
Asher is singing something soft and folky under his breath like he’s scoring the entire event with acoustic vulnerability.
And Jax is shirtless, wet, and holding a sponge like it’s a prophecy.
I should leave.
I should say something wise and in control and fully clothed.
But instead, I just… stare open-mouthed, paralyzed, and slightly turned on by the domestic servitude unfolding in front of me like a live-action erotic ritual titled “Men Who’ve Grown Emotionally and Now Scrub with Intention.”
And then Jax sees me and grins. “There she is,” he says, sponge dripping from one hand. “The last dish.”
I try to back away, but Asher is already waving me in, beaming like a woodland nymph on his third mimosa.
“Come on, Bliss,” he calls. “We saved you the ceremonial rinse.”
“There is no ceremonial rinse,” I whisper to myself, absolutely lying.
But then Jonah turns and says, completely deadpan, “Every high priestess deserves to be washed by her disciples at least once.”
And I make a sound. I don’t know what kind. It echoes.
Before I can retreat into the safety of dry land and plausible deniability, Seb is already walking toward me, hands damp, eyes soft, and expression unreadable.
He stops just close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off his skin, then reaches for the towel I’ve half-forgotten I’m holding.
And I let him take it.
Because I’ve clearly lost control.
Because this is my life now.
Because I am about to be ceremonially washed by five emotionally awakened men, and honestly, it’s not even the weirdest thing that’s happened this week.
There is a moment, just one, where I consider reclaiming my dignity.
I could take the towel back. Pretend this was all a misunderstanding. Declare the dome closed for spiritual fumigation. Flee.
But then Asher kneels at the basin, picks up a bottle of body wash, and whispers, “I anoint thee with lavender clarity and exfoliating forgiveness.”
And I’m gone. Fully lost. Emotionally unmoored.
Because now Jax is behind me, pulling my robe off with the reverence of a man unwrapping a sacred scroll, and whispering, “You must be bared to be cleansed, babe,” as if it’s written in scripture.
I step into the center of the steam-drenched tile like a woman who no longer pretends she’s in charge. Because I’m not. Not of this. Not of them.
Miles adjusts the water, of course. “Optimal cleansing temperature is ninety-nine degrees,” he murmurs. “For full pore dilation and chakra softening.”
Seb steps forward, silent as always, and dips a sponge into warm water. He lifts my arm gently, slowly, and begins to run the sponge in long, careful lines from wrist to shoulder. No words. Just touch. Just heat.
And then Jonah, gods, Jonah, pours a stream of water down my spine and mutters, “This removes lingering performance energy. And probably sin.”
Asher is now lathering my calves with what smells like grapefruit and delusion. “This helps release tension in your root chakra and also makes your skin smell like healing.”
“That’s not a thing,” I manage, voice barely holding together.
“It is if you believe in it,” he replies, completely serious.
And I do.
Right now, I believe in everything.
Because I’m standing naked in a steamy dome, surrounded by five shirtless men with their hands on my skin and their minds completely committed to whatever bullshit spiritual nonsense they’re creating in real time just to care for me.
This isn’t a shower. It’s an act of devotional chaos.
And when Jax begins to lather shampoo into my hair, his fingers strong, slow, maddeningly skilled, he leans in close and murmurs, “This is for mental clutter. And because I’ve wanted to touch you like this since the moment you said ‘chakra realignment’ with a straight face.”
And I make a sound I do not recognize.
I might be crying, or climaxing, or achieving emotional baptism through conditioner.
There’s a moment, just one, when it all tips over.
Not from pressure. Not from climax.
From care. The kind that comes in hands that wash not to cleanse, but to hold. Fingers that move with intention, not hunger. Voices that whisper affirmations wrapped in filth, layered with reverence, so that my body can’t tell if it’s being worshipped or claimed.
It starts with Seb, still silent, dragging the sponge across my belly, then up, slow, steady, a small circle around each breast like he’s drawing sacred runes in citrus-scented foam. His thumb brushes my nipple, and even though his face doesn’t change, his breath does.
“It’s for heart center balance,” Asher says beside me, but his voice trembles. He reaches forward, suds slick between his fingers, and traces the inside of my thigh, his eyes wide and reverent like he’s touching art. “And… uh… for your inner radiance. Or maybe your clit halo. I don’t know anymore.”
“It’s definitely not called that,” I whisper, but I don’t stop him. I can’t.
Because now Miles is behind me, arms around my waist, sliding his soapy hands over my stomach, lower, lower, until they settle just above where I’m aching, his lips near my ear as he says, “Let them show you. Let go. We’re all here.”
I nod, and then I fall into them.
Into all of it.
Because Jonah’s hands are on my ass now, squeezing, spreading, soap dripping down my thighs as he growls, “This is cleansing. For accumulated ego and maybe come. I don’t know. Ask Miles.”
“It’s both,” Miles replies, far too calmly.
And Jax, gods, Jax. He’s in front of me, one hand under my jaw, the other between my legs, fingers sliding against me in slow, practiced strokes that say I know what you sound like when you fall apart and I’m about to hear it again. “This is for your root chakra,” he murmurs, smirking. “And for mine.”
I moan. Not politely. Not softly. I moan like I’m unspooling, every nerve open, every part of me exposed to water and hands and devotion and sin and safety, all wrapped into one unbearable knot.
Then Asher kisses me. Mouth sweet and trembling.
And Seb’s hands are cupping my breasts, gently but possessively.
And Jonah is whispering something filthy against the back of my neck about bending me over the altar next time, and I almost come just from that.
“Not yet,” Miles says, of course he does, and his hand moves lower.
They hold me there. Each one of them touching, pressing, giving, until I can’t tell whose fingers are where, until the water is louder than my thoughts and the pleasure is bigger than my name.
“Now,” Miles says, and I shatter.
My body jerks. My hands dig into someone’s shoulders, maybe Jax’s, maybe Jonah’s, I don’t know, I can’t know, and I cry out, legs trembling, chest heaving, steam curling around me like a curtain dropping after the last act of a sacred, erotic play.
They hold me as I come apart.
Not one. Not two.
All five.
I am washed, wrung out, lathered, loved, and completely, utterly undone.
The water slows. The hands still. The voices drop to silence, replaced by soft exhales and the faint, almost reverent sound of steam beginning to settle back into air.
And I cannot move.
Not because I’m physically unable, though that’s a valid theory, but because I am spiritually limp. Emotionally boneless.
I have been thoroughly washed, worshipped, and wrecked by five emotionally restructured men in a tile dome, and now I have no thoughts. Only afterglow.
And maybe syrup trauma flashbacks.
A towel wraps around my shoulders. Another one under my thighs. Arms scoop me up, Seb’s, I think, though I can’t be sure because Miles is adjusting the towel like it’s origami, and Jax is drying my feet, and Asher is softly muttering affirmations into my hair like he’s reading bedtime spells.
“You good?” Jonah asks, voice low beside my ear, his hand heavy and grounding on my thigh.
“No,” I whisper. “I think I need a nap. And a sage smudge. And possibly an exorcism.”
They all chuckle.
The low, warm kind of laughter that wraps around my chest and makes me want to cry and laugh and maybe propose to all five of them with a ring made of ritual pancake.
They carry me, actually carry me, back through the domes, wrapped in steam and towels and completely unfit for public spiritual leadership.
They don’t say much. Just walk in quiet synchronicity, like this is normal. Like this is earned.
And when they lay me on my bed, still warm, still dripping, still wrecked in the most sacred way possible, Asher pulls the blanket up to my chin and whispers, “We’ll make tea.”
And I sink. Eyes heavy. Chest full. Clit spiritually neutralized.
And as I close my eyes, I think, this is fine. I am fine. Everything is extremely fine. And I may never be able to look at a sponge again without getting turned on.
Before I drift off, I text Callie because if my spirit ascends someone needs to know why.
ME:
i was emotionally bathed by five men in the name of accountability
i came so hard i might be a saint now
please send tea and a clean towel.