The jungle path wound like a serpent, thick with heat and the scent of sweat, sex, and something divine. Allen walked at the front of his congregation—his cult of bred priestesses, cum-drunk guards, and glowing scholars humming with sexual power.
They moved like a slow wave of desire, flesh brushing against flesh, thighs slick and sticky, breasts bare beneath torn robes, tongues flicking across lips as they whispered praise to the Cock-God of Corruption.
At the head, Allen's cock jutted proudly from his ceremonial slit—no longer just a dick. It was a scepter, veiny and radiant, dripping with thick, milky pre like it was leaking divine nectar.
The jungle parted.
And before them stood the Temple of Purity.
White stone towers. Silver-banded spires. Incense floated on the air—not the scent of sweat and cunt, but clean, bitter herbs. Acolytes in unblemished white robes stood in rows along the steps, hands folded in prayer, eyes narrowed in disapproval.
