The temple pulsed like it was alive.
The shattered runes, the moaning bodies, the thick scent of sex—every inch of stone radiated Allen's new law. There was no going back. The altar was no longer a holy place. It was a breeding throne. And Allen sat atop it now, his cock still gleaming from the throat of the last priestess who'd taken him so deep her eyes had rolled back.
She lay collapsed at his feet, drooling, twitching, her belly twitching from the fullness he'd left inside.
Allen didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The women came to him.
One after another.
Crawling. Panting. Pleading.
"Please… my turn…"
"Let me feel what she felt…"
"Use me…"
Their robes were torn, soaked, thrown aside like petals. Breasts swung free. Hips wiggled as they crawled on all fours, their faces flushed, their pussies dripping so hard the marble below them glistened. One acolyte—young, wide-eyed, trembling—reached the steps of the altar and lifted her chest with both hands.
