After, I ate each one of them and made sure their pussies remembered my mouth and the shape of my fingers and tongue, I pulled a long sofa close to us, and I sat them in.
The L-shaped sofa became a sacrificial altar. Eight women sank into the deep cream velvet—legs spread, pussies bared to the firelight.
The L-shaped sofa consumed them, its cream velvet depths cradling eight women like sacrificial offerings laid bare for the ritual.
Legs parted not by command, but by gravitational surrender to the charged air of the sanctuary.
Pussies unfolded in the firelight: Anastasia's pale, pierced petals glistening; Celeste's wine-dark folds dewy with anticipation; Sophia's precise, symmetrical lines; Gabrielle's bronze-toned curves slick with heat; Ashby's delicate, almost virginal pink; Madison's lush, velvety rose; Amanda's stark, sculpted architecture; and Vivienne's emerald-framed, flushed core.
All exposed. All helpless. All poised beneath the weight of divine intent.
