The silver-robed priestess never broke eye contact as she sucked the last drop of Allen's seed from his tip. Her lips moved slow, reverent, like she was tasting prophecy. When she pulled back, a thread of cum connected her mouth to his cock, glistening in the temple's golden torchlight.
"I needed confirmation," she said, licking her lips like it was honeyed wine. "Now I'm certain. You're not just a man. You're the correction."
Allen blinked, still half-hard, chest rising with each breath. "Correction for what?"
She stood, elegant and unhurried, brushing her hands clean on her robes like she hadn't just deepthroated a demigod. "For centuries, we've called this place a holy site. But its true name—what we whisper behind closed doors—is the Temple of Thorns. Not for the flowers that grow here, but for what grows beneath."
