They called her Lysara, the Vessel of Renewal.
Once each year, when the twin moons aligned and the night bled violet across the sky, she was summoned to the sacred circle of stone, where the old gods demanded she receive the tributes of man—not gold, not incense, but flesh, heat, and seed.
Lysara stood barefoot upon the altar, her body wrapped in gossamer threads that barely clung to her skin. The wind carried the scent of salt, sweat, and something far older.
Her nipples peaked in the cool air, her thighs slick from anticipation. She was not shy. She was trained for this. Bred for it. And she craved it.
The priests arrived first—hooded, silent, their eyes reverent as they knelt before her. Then came the warriors, dozens strong, bodies gleaming with oil, cocks already swollen with need.
Chosen for their stamina, size, and discipline, they came from every kingdom of the realm. No woman could receive their essence but Lysara. It was law. It was ritual. It was divine.
“Strip her,” the High Priest commanded.
Soft hands undid her wrappings, revealing every curve of her flawless, fertile body. A ripple passed through the men as they drank her in—goddess and whore, maiden and beast, their salvation and their addiction.
She sank to her knees atop the marble slab, lips parted, blindfolded and bound, though every restraint was willingly worn.
“Begin.”
The first cock brushed her cheek—smooth, thick, warm. She turned her head and took it between her lips.