[SS-1604] Purple Shower

PURPLE SHOWER

Dante Blaze stood under the ballroom lights like a wet dream made real. Drenched in lavender satin, soaked to the skin, he looked more like a fallen alien god than a regular celebrity. The gala was The Velvet Vow, where weird fashion met rich egos—and Dante always made it weird and sexy.

This year’s theme was “Celestial Royalty.” Dante? He went full intergalactic emperor—tight lavender suit, stars stitched across his chest, that hungry look in his eyes. He walked like his dick had its own orbit.

Then the splash hit.

WHOOSH. A cold waterfall, maybe a prank, maybe fate, crashed down from above, soaking his fancy suit completely. The crowd gasped. Dante just ran a hand through his dripping hair, smirked, and whispered, “So this is my coronation.”

Then he stripped.

Right there, he peeled off the wet satin. Slow, like a striptease for the whole galaxy. Underneath? Only a tiny pair of purple spandex briefs hugging every inch of him. The shape, the bulge, the everything. it was bold. Flashes popped like fireworks. Several guys bit their lips at once.

Dante didn’t flinch. He strutted forward, water dripping off every hard angle of his body. He pulled a tall, sculpted man in a chrome toga toward him and kissed him deeply. The crowd roared. Then another man came—shirtless, smooth chest gleaming—who knelt before Dante, tongue tracing the outline of his thigh. A third leaned in to suck at his collarbone.

It wasn’t a show anymore; it was raw heat, all male, all lust.

After a while, Dante pulled away and scanned the room like a king surveying his kingdom.

“You,” he pointed at a broad-shouldered guy in leather harnesses. “You. And you,” to a twinky elf-looking dancer with blue glitter all over his chest. He hand-picked the hottest men from the room, one by one—six in total.

From somewhere behind the curtain, he produced a box of identical purple spandex briefs—just like his—and handed them out like golden tickets. “If you want to worship your emperor properly,” he said, “you dress like it.”

They changed right there, shameless. No one looked away. Even the media forgot their job.

Then Dante turned, still barefoot, and gestured to the balcony exit. “Follow me. There’s more space to entertain elsewhere.”

The chosen men followed, muscles glistening, briefs tight, cocks barely hidden. Photographers and influencers dropped their champagne and chased after them, practically sprinting. Within minutes, half the gala emptied out.

Word spread fast: Dante’s afterparty was already legendary. It took over a rooftop pool lounge nearby. There were no speeches. No rules. Just bodies, music, and hands on skin.

Back at the gala, someone asked, “Where’d everybody go?”

A bored caterer shrugged. “To the real event.”

That night, the headlines weren’t about the gala at all. They were about a soaked emperor in purple briefs—and the six stunning men he took into orbit with him.

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