Inside the slime pond, over a dozen women writhed, their bodies half-submerged or lifted by the liquid's will.
Some sat with their legs spread, heads thrown back, moans spilling from their throats—high and keening or low and guttural—as tendrils of slime curled around their thighs, their breasts, their necks.
Others were hoisted higher, suspended midair by glistening coils that pulsed in rhythm with their gasps, lifting them like offerings.
Their faces were a gallery of ecstasy—eyes rolled back to whites, mouths gaping in silent screams, tongues lolling as drool glistened on their chins.
One woman's body shuddered violently, her climax marked by a sharp cry as the slime surged around her, almost celebratory, before easing her back down.
Another laughed, a wild, breathless sound, as a tendril teased her clit, her hips bucking against it.
It was chaos—an orgy born of the slime's touch, primal and unrestrained, every moan and twitch amplified by the cavern's echo.
Virael's gaze swept the scene, clinical yet curious, her stoic mask unshaken.
A wooden board stood near the pond, its surface scarred and warped, bearing a warning in crude, scratched letters: Strip before entering—clothes will melt.
Her brow lifted again, a faint hum escaping her lips—practical, if ominous.
She stepped to a dry ledge nearby, her movements precise as she began to undress.
Her cloak came off first, folded with care and laid flat.
The tunic followed, peeled away to reveal her lean, toned frame—muscles taut beneath smooth skin, faint scars tracing her ribs from old battles.
Her leggings slid down next, exposing long legs that gleamed faintly in the green light.
She stood bare at last, her breasts firm with dark, peaked nipples, her waist narrow before flaring into strong hips, her spiraled horns casting delicate shadows.
Her body was a quiet weapon—graceful yet unyielding, alluring without trying.
The women in the slime noticed her immediately.
Eyes snapped to her, some widening with hunger, others narrowing with intrigue.
A few paused mid-moan, their gazes lingering on her curves, her horns, the way her skin seemed to drink the emerald glow.
One woman, her body slick and dripping, climbed halfway out of the pond, her movements languid yet deliberate.
She knelt at the edge, her own nudity a stark contrast—full breasts heaving, thighs parted to reveal a thick, pulsing cock that she stroked with a grin, flashing it toward Virael like an invitation.
Her lips parted, a low, suggestive hum aimed to catch attention.
Virael's eyes flicked to her briefly, then away, her expression as cold as the cave walls—unimpressed, untouched.
The woman's grin faltered, but others kept staring, some whispering to each other, their voices lost in the chorus of moans.
Virael bent to set her glasses atop her folded clothes, her movements slow and deliberate, the curve of her spine drawing a few gasps from the pond.
She straightened, stepping closer to the slime's edge, her bare feet silent on the stone.
The air here was warmer, thick with the scent of arousal and that strange, sweet musk—almost intoxicating, though her focus held firm.
She crouched slightly, peering into the slime's depths.
It was mesmerizing in its clarity—transparent yet alive, tendrils swirling just beneath the surface, some thick as ropes, others delicate as threads, all moving with a purpose she couldn't quite grasp.
Flecks of light danced within, like stars caught in a liquid sky, and she felt a faint pull, not of desire but of curiosity—her duty to assess, to understand, anchoring her amidst the den's wild pulse.
The moans grew louder behind her, a crescendo as another woman climaxed, her cry echoing off the walls.