The temple was silent again, but it wasn't peace—it was worship. A trembling, soaked kind of reverence. The kind born not of hymns or prayer, but of sweat-soaked skin and wombs stretched to fullness. Allen sat with his legs spread wide, cock glistening, half-hard and proud, a fresh streak of divine cum still clinging to his thigh. Around him, the air was sticky with heat, and the floor was a writhing nest of beastkin, goddess-born, and corrupted priestesses, all breathing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Seraxa lay on the cold stone before him, face-down, ass raised, her scaled belly glowing red from the inside—full, pulsing with his seed, her lips parted in an exhausted smile. She didn't speak. She couldn't. Her body had broken somewhere between the fourth and fifth climax, but her soul had only just begun to unravel.
