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It's amazing how something so simple and obvious can still be hidden after all these years. Any innocent fisherman could have found it, if they'd circled around the mountainous island, skimmed over the hull-breaking reef, and snuck through the gap at high-tide.

Maybe it was an unlikely journey, but it's still a surprise that you're the first to discover it. Or, perhaps, the others simply never returned. You remind yourself that's always a valid answer to the question of who gets the fortune and fame for your discovery. But you're sure you've made it further than most, and here, on the precipice of your entry into the history books, you find yourself stymied. You look over the portal chamber, where the waters part and the hexagonal stones rise from beneath the waves just barely, revealing the ten thousand steps leading downward, beneath. So close, and yet, you can't continue forward.

The gate chamber is ancient and crumbling, open to the elements as it is. At one point you're sure it was magnificent, but now it's barely more than four cornerstones and the remnants of carved stone walls. In the centuries of its disuse, you can see the hallmarks of erosion from the ocean's tides. The floor of the portal chamber is only accessible during low tide. Soon, the lapping waves will force you back, if you can't find a way through the portal. You know what's beyond: lost Atlantis.

Not that the portal's blocked, per se. Nothing so mundane. You could have brought machinery if you just needed to shift some rocks. If it'd been locked, you could take an imprint and just make your own key to bring back tomorrow. Instead, the stairs lead down into the waves. No submersible could brave these depths, so close as they are to the ship-breaking reef. Instead, the portal has three empty sockets of unknown purpose, though the tomes you read to make it this far said if you could defeat the guardian, you would find the key in his "leash". You're not sure you translated that last word right. Those old languages aren't particularly exact. You should have expected it, but you never imagined that--even after you'd found the entrance--that the journey down to the lost city would be so hard.

Emphasis on the "hard". The old tales spoke of a guardian, and that's who's keeping you from even stepping foot in the portal chamber yet. Guarding it is a hydra. No, maybe not "a" hydra. "The" hydra. The myth. The legend. He's eyeing you, as you're eyeing him, as it has been for the last week since you discovered the secret path. The first time you showed yourself, he lunged, and it's only the ancient Atlantean technology--or magic, take your pick--that saved your life. He's bound to the chamber, and by the way he bounced off of the invisible wall, you're betting he's not the one in control of his cage. And that's where your thoughts return to "hard."

The hydra himself has etched runes of "power" carved into his scales, but they're all dark and dormant. When the hydra had flailed himself against the mystical walls of his cage, one set of those arcane runes had flared to life in brilliant color: the sigils encircling and encasing his achingly hard cock. They converged at the base, twisting into a physical manifestation of the creatures torturous denial, in the form of a golden ring, as thick around as your body and glowing with runes of refusal. After his first assault had failed, the poor hydra had stood with his front legs against the wall and glared down at you with three massive heads with his whole massive body lifted in a show of raw power. Claws blunted on the invisible shield, you gazed up at him in wonder as he glowered down at you in... What? Impotent rage? Maybe that's what it had been at first, but now?

Now only two of his three heads are watching you warily. The other one is curled up in dejection. His body is hunched upwards at the hips, making room for the massive erection that's been on blatant display every moment you've been down here. He twitches. He throbs. A gush of what you assume must be pre-cum splatters out into the wave-scarred stones, and is quickly washed away by the waves lapping over the floor as the tide begins to return. What's in the gaze you're getting now?

There might be some of that anger still. You've visited him every day for a week, and he's no closer to tearing you apart. He's also no closer to defeating that cursed "leash" placed around his dick. What use are you, puny creature?

His desires are clear. One, fulfill his oaths. No one shall reach the portal without his permission. Two, destroy anyone who means harm to the Atlanteans below. But three? He'd been bound so long, and he was so hard. Perhaps, some day long in the past when the portal was being used, there'd been a compact. The masters that had wound these bindings could hardly have hoped to contain him forever like this.

And that's why, in the time you'd spent away from this chamber, you've been researching. Sure, it was all myths and legends, and old dusty tomes in sanskrit or greek that had been a real bitch to translate, but what you'd found had fit. Now you're here, armed with knowledge. If only you could find a way to communicate.

The extra three heads that had been resting whip up to attention when you stand and approach. There's a growl or two--or three--of warning. Then you disrobe.

You're hoping that the hydra understands the message. You come to it in peace. You're hiding no weapons. The growling stops, but you still have the giant beast's undivided attention. From your backpack you take a wide-brimmed bowl and lay it in front of you. A bottle of fresh water follows it. Far from the salty brine the beast has been bathed with for its many eons of life, the fresh water smells clean and earthy as you pour it into the bowl. In the water are silvery flakes, held in suspension and glittering.

The hydra approaches the wall. One of his hands reaches out and rests on the barrier. This is familiar. The fact that you know the rites seems to surprise him. It's enough of a surprise that he doesn't bite or snap as you carry the bowl forward until you're just inches away from the barrier.

You hold up the bowl, and the massive beast seems to be weighing his options. The heads confer with each other, and they seem to reach a consensus. The colossal body heaves itself up against the barrier, and bares to you the seal of his torment: the giant, throbbing hydra cock, adorned with ancient runes that have denied him all these many years.

You're not going to pass up that invitation. You dip fingers into the bowl, and reach out to drag wet and glittering trails over the nearest runes, inscribed and glowing incandescent across the tapered head. Up above, you hear hissing. At first you worry that perhaps you've caused pain, but a moment later the body-sized shaft throbs, and you're spattered across your naked front with evidence that your fingers are perhaps the first kindness the hydra's cock has felt in so very long.

Under your fingers, the runes flicker, then fade. You scoop more of the sparkling silver-water up onto the shaft, following the swirling runes down over ridges and veins. As you work, the hydra's arousal grows more and more desperate, until you can feel him throbbing uncontrollably under your fingers. You find round, fleshy nubs along the underside of his curled ridges, and he responds by adorning you with more of his liquid approval as you wipe the ancient runes away.

Your hands round the massive gold ring near the base, where the quickly disappearing runes are at their brightest. You realize, at this point, that you've crossed the barrier. All of his three heads are looking down at you, and with a sinking dread in your stomach, you know that you're entirely at his mercy. But dangerous as he may be, he's smart enough not to harm you. A favor has earned a favor. There's not much of the silvered water left in your bowl, so you splash the last of it against the crotch-slit where his cock stands proud, and the last of the runes fade.

There's a sonorous ring of metal cracking, like a tuning fork resonating far past its breaking point. The atlantean runes that encircle the hydra's cock ring wipe away under the wash of your silvered water, leaving behind a surface that ripples and cracks. It crumbles in your hands, finally allowing the thick ridges of the hydra's to flare wide under your fingers. There's a ululating cry above you as the spell is broken and the hydra is freed. No further stimulation is necessary. The legendary beast has been waiting so many years for this release that his peak is sudden and undeniable.

He pulses beneath your fingers as you place the bowl down to the wave-swept rocks and grasp around his girth. You can feel the channel that runs the length of his shaft engorge as it fills with cum, traveling from knotted base all the way to his tapered tip, before he explodes.

The first jet is gushing--so strong that it sprays off into the distant sea. You had a few wayward fingers in the way, and your whole arm is wet with the slippery cum in just seconds. His first juddering squirt is followed so closely that the fire-hose spray hadn't waned by much before the next throbbing pulse of cum.

Above you, the titanic hydra takes a step backwards, and you feel the cock in arms withdraw. As the second gush splatters to the wet rocks, he aims downwards, and you find yourself directly in the way. The third squirt lifts you bodily from your feet. A scaled foot catches you as he douses you with his peak. Your naked body drips from head to toe with his release. In front of you, the tapered tip throbs upwards, and the slit at the very end parts to catch your neck and face with the next spray.

How long did you spend in his paw being anointed in his first peak in centuries? You imagine it must be minutes. You stopped counting and focused on finding moments to breathe in between the gushing. Then, with care, the gargantuan reptile lowers you to the rocks. He gazes at you again. What is that, now? Thanks? Respect? Relief? Whatever it is, the guardian's centuries-long chore is complete. One by one, the heads turn away from you. No longer caged, he ducks into the approaching tide and swims. Towering heads crest over the waves but never once look back. What you do now is no longer his concern.

Dripping with hydra cum on the wave-strewn rocks of ancient Atlantis' doorstep, you gather the pieces of the ring. In the crumbled remains of the hydra's old restraint you find the keys the old tomes spoke of. Three simple runestones, no larger each than the palm of your hand, are glowing subtly from within the wreckage. You take them and place them within the indicated sockets in the portal, where the stairs dip below the waves. With a rush of seawater and the scent of old brine, the waters part, forming a tunnel leading downwards. Ahead of you: the ten thousand steps. And then, lost Atlantis.