Quetzalcoatl's Forgotten Rite: The Dragon Goddess Reclaims Her Throne of Pleasure in a Night of Ecstatic Worship

The city hummed a distant, electric lullaby, a sound so unlike the ancient quiet of her former realms. Quetzalcoatl, known in this modern world simply as Lucoa, rested on the plush cushions of a secluded penthouse balcony, a space lent to her for the evening by an affluent acquaintance with an unusual interest in pre-Columbian deities. A sheer, sea-green shawl was draped loosely over her shoulders, doing little to conceal the magnificent, world-class curves of her body. The fabric was a whisper against her sun-warmed skin, a stark contrast to the heavy, divine weight of her breasts, which strained against the delicate silk of her top. They were magnificent, twin orbs of flesh so full and heavy they seemed to possess their own gravity, pulling the gazes of mortals and gods alike. Tonight, however, there was no one to gaze but the indifferent moon.

A sigh, soft and wistful, escaped her lips. Her mismatched eyes, one a piercing green and the other a warm, gentle blue, stared out at the sprawling metropolis. Life in the world of Miss Kobayashi was… pleasant. It was simple, filled with small joys, the delightful naivety of Shouta, and the amusingly flustered energy of Kobayashi herself. But a part of her, the ancient, primal part that was Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent Goddess of creation, wind, and knowledge, felt a deep, resonant ache. It was a yearning for the old days. Not for the sacrifices—she had long since renounced such bloody tributes—but for the worship. The raw, unfiltered, passionate worship. The festivals held in her name, where music, dance, and uninhibited lust would merge into a single, ecstatic prayer offered up to her divinity.

She missed the feeling of a hundred hands tracing the lines of her body, not in violation, but in reverence. She missed the chorus of voices chanting her name, their pleas for fertility and pleasure a symphony to her ears. Here, in this world, she was Lucoa, the slightly ditzy, overly affectionate friend from 'Kobayashisan Chi No Maid Dragon'. But she was so much more. She was a wellspring of life and passion, a being forged from cosmic fire and earthly desire, and that wellspring felt stagnant, its waters still and quiet for too long.

Tonight was different. Tonight, she had accepted an invitation. It had come through channels she hadn't used in centuries, whispered on the magical ether. A small, devoted sect of magi and their followers, people who saw beyond the comical anime character trope and recognized the dormant goddess within. They had promised a celebration, a 'revival of the old rites' in her honor. A part of her was cautious, but the throbbing ache deep in her core, a hunger for adoration, had compelled her to accept. They wanted to worship her, and she, in the deepest, most honest part of her soul, wanted to be worshipped.

The elevator chimed softly, and the glass doors to the penthouse slid open. A man in a simple, dark suit bowed low. "My Lady Quetzalcoatl," he said, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and reverence. "They are ready for you." Lucoa rose, the movement a symphony of fluid grace. Her hips swayed with an unconscious, primal rhythm as she walked, the shawl fluttering behind her like vestigial wings. The sheer size of her breasts caused the thin fabric of her top to stretch taut with every step, a silent testament to the divine fertility she embodied.

She was led into a vast, open-plan living area. The furniture had been pushed to the walls, and the floor was covered in soft furs and embroidered cushions. The air was thick with the scent of copal incense and night-blooming jasmine. Dozens of people—men and women of all ages and descriptions—were gathered, kneeling on the floor. They weren't dressed in ancient garb, but in simple, modern clothes, their faces upturned, eyes wide with devotion. A soft, hypnotic drumbeat pulsed from hidden speakers, a modern rhythm echoing an ancient cadence. As she entered, a collective gasp filled the room. All eyes were fixed on her, but most were drawn, as if by magnetic force, to the magnificent swell of her chest.

A woman with silver hair and eyes the color of twilight stepped forward, offering Lucoa a golden goblet filled with rich, dark wine. "Great Mother," she whispered, her voice husky with emotion. "We are your children. We have missed you. Allow us to honor you as you deserve." Lucoa took the goblet, her fingers brushing the woman's. A spark of energy, warm and pleasant, passed between them. She took a slow, deliberate sip, the wine cool and sweet on her tongue. The gazes of the crowd felt like a physical touch, a thousand warm fingers tracing her skin, and the ache within her began to transform into a slow, delicious burn.

She placed the goblet on a low table and smiled, a truly divine smile that promised both ecstasy and ruin. "It has been a long time," she said, her voice a melodic balm that washed over the room. "Show me. Show me your devotion." The words were a command, a release, a key turning in a lock that had been rusted shut for ages. The silver-haired woman was the first to move. She sank to her knees before the goddess, her hands reaching out not with greed, but with trembling worship. Her palms came to rest on Lucoa's thighs, her touch sending a shiver of pure, unadulterated pleasure through the dragon's body.

Slowly, hesitantly at first, and then with growing confidence, the others moved forward. They surrounded her, a living tide of adoration. Hands began to stroke her legs, her arms, her back. Fingers tangled in her long, blonde hair with its vibrant, multi-colored tips. It wasn't a frenzied assault; it was a careful, deliberate exploration, as if they were mapping the contours of a sacred idol. Lucoa closed her eyes, tilting her head back and letting out a soft, breathy moan. This was it. This was the feeling she had craved. The energy of their worship flowed into her, awakening dormant senses, stoking the embers of her divine power into a roaring flame.

A young man with earnest brown eyes gently untied the sash of her shawl, letting it pool around her feet. Another, bolder, reached for the hem of her top, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the underside of her colossal breasts. Lucoa gave a slight nod of permission. The fabric was lifted away, and a collective sigh of wonder filled the air. Her breasts were finally free, utterly magnificent in their size and perfection. They were heavy, pale globes of flesh, crowned with wide, dusky-rose areolas and thick, sensitive nipples that were already hardening into tight peaks under the weight of so many stares. They seemed to glow in the dim light, living monuments to fertility and pleasure.

The worship intensified. Mouths replaced hands. Lips pressed reverently to her feet, her calves, her knees. Tongues darted out to taste the divine skin of her stomach. The silver-haired woman who had first greeted her now buried her face between the goddess's thighs, her breath hot through the thin fabric of her panties. Lucoa's hips began to move of their own accord, a slow, undulating rhythm that matched the beat of the drum. Her moans grew louder, less controlled, each one a note in a forgotten hymn. Someone was kissing the nape of her neck, while another licked a trail of fire up her spine. She was the center of a universe of sensation, a sun being orbited by dozens of devoted planets.

The focus, inevitably, shifted to her glorious chest. Hands, so many hands, cupped and lifted the heavy weight of her breasts, marveling at their size and softness. The young man with brown eyes lowered his head, his lips closing around one of her nipples with a reverence that made her gasp. He suckled gently at first, then with more urgency, his tongue laving the sensitive peak. On her other side, a woman with dark, flowing hair did the same, her moans muffled against Lucoa's skin. The dual sensations were electric, sending bolts of lightning straight to her core. Her back arched, pushing her magnificent tits further into their eager mouths.

Her panties were soon discarded, and the last barrier between her and her worshippers was gone. She was laid back onto the sea of furs and cushions, her body a sacred altar for their rites. The silver-haired woman’s tongue finally found its goal, delving into her wet, welcoming folds with practiced skill. Lucoa cried out as the first jolt of a building orgasm shot through her. At the same time, a man positioned himself at her head, his thick, hard cock sliding into her willing mouth. She took him in eagerly, her throat muscles working, her divine saliva coating his length. She was being worshipped at every nexus of her power, every gateway to pleasure being stormed by her devotees.

More followed. It was no longer a gentle exploration but a frantic, passionate claiming. This was the gangbang she secretly craved, a tribute of flesh and fluid. A second cock, thick and warm, pressed against her entrance, slick with her own arousal. With a groan of utter surrender, she lifted her hips, guiding him in. The feeling of being so completely, utterly filled was intoxicating. Her vaginal walls clenched around his thickness, drawing him deeper. As he began to thrust, a third man moved to her other side, his hands gripping her hips. He eased his own hardened length against her anus, nudging, seeking entry. Lucoa gasped, a thrill of forbidden pleasure coursing through her. "Yes," she breathed, the word a prayer and a command. "Take all of me. Worship every part of your goddess."

He slid inside her, stretching her, filling her completely. She was impaled from both ends, her mouth occupied, her magnificent breasts being milked and worshipped by a half-dozen mouths and hands. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of pure sensation. The slap of flesh against flesh, the chorus of groans and ecstatic cries, the scent of sweat, incense, and sex. She was no longer Lucoa, the dragon maid from the popular anime. She was Quetzalcoatl, the Great Mother, the center of a swirling vortex of life and lust. Each thrust into her body was a prayer, each orgasm a sacrifice given freely and with joy.

She could feel the magical energy in the room skyrocketing. Their pleasure, their devotion, it was all feeding her, restoring her. Her skin glowed with a faint, golden light. The tips of her hair seemed to shimmer with chromatic energy. She met the gaze of the man inside her vagina, his face a mask of ecstatic disbelief. She smiled at him, a goddess bestowing a blessing, and then she let her own pleasure take over. Her body began to tremble, the signs of an impending, earth-shattering orgasm. The men thrusting into her felt the change, their own paces quickening, their bodies straining towards release. The mouths on her breasts suckled harder, as if trying to draw out her very essence.

"Now!" she cried out, her voice echoing with divine power. "Give me your offering!" It was the final command. A wave of orgasmic energy erupted from her core, so powerful it felt like a star being born. It washed over everyone in the room, triggering a chain reaction of release. The men inside her flooded her with their hot seed, their bodies convulsing. The woman between her legs cried out as she climaxed from the sheer intensity of Lucoa’s release. All around her, her worshippers shuddered and collapsed, their own orgasms spent in a final, glorious tribute. The room fell silent, save for the sound of ragged, satisfied breathing and the final, fading beat of the drum.

For a long time, Lucoa lay there, adrift on a sea of bliss, her body still tingling with the aftershocks of her divine climax. She was covered in sweat, seed, and adoration. She felt… whole. The ache was gone, replaced by a deep, profound sense of peace and fulfillment. The stagnant wellspring within her was now a rushing, vibrant river. This was who she was. A being of immense love and passion, meant to be shared and celebrated.

Slowly, she sat up, her worshippers still lying exhausted around her. The silver-haired woman stirred, crawling over to rest her head on Lucoa’s lap, her expression one of pure, blissful contentment. "Thank you, Great Mother," she whispered. Lucoa stroked her hair, a gentle, maternal gesture. Her gaze swept over the room, over the bodies of those who had given themselves to her so completely. A soft, truly happy smile graced her lips. Life with Kobayashi was wonderful, but a goddess, even one from a series like 'Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid', needed to be worshipped every now and then. And tonight, she had been worshipped perfectly.