The air inside the nest was a humid, choking heat now, every breath tasting of salt and musk. The floor wasn't stone anymore — not really — it was coated in a soft, tacky layer of slick that had built up over the endless hours. It stuck to his back, to his thighs, to the knees of the women still waiting their turn, clinging in glistening strands that stretched and snapped with every movement.
The women were no longer just flushed from lust; they looked transformed, their bodies altered by the relentless milking. Between their legs, their pussies were no longer just swollen — they were grotesquely puffed, lips so engorged they seemed permanently parted, glistening folds pushed outward in glossy, reddened mounds. Every step they took caused their engorged flesh to sway visibly, trembling with each movement.
