suckling gently, teasing the tip until the man groaned above her. Another gripped himself and stroked close, then another, and another. She felt them gathering, a circle of male lust and need, throbbing shafts inches from her face, her breasts, her back.
One exploded against her lips—hot, wet spurts streaking across her cheek, her chin. She moaned in gratitude.
More followed.
They marked her slowly at first, like artists painting her in devotion: her throat, her lashes, her collarbone. She swallowed mouthfuls greedily, not wasting a single drop.
They watched as she bathed in it, smeared in the thick, white offerings until her body glistened like a marble sculpture defiled by pleasure.
Her name became a chant, a moan in the wind. Lysara. Lysara. Lysara.
She lay on her back now, thighs open, cunt aching though no one was allowed to take her there. That hole was sacred, untouched except by the divine. But her body?
Her mouth, her belly, her breasts—they were theirs to use. She wanted it. Needed it. Every warm splash made her shiver, made her smile.
One priest came forward, whispering blessings as he coated her tits with thick streams, kneeling to smear it into her skin like oil. Another painted her belly, groaning as he erupted across her navel.
Her blindfold was soaked. She licked her lips constantly, tasting the salt, the heat, the essence of so many. Their pleasure was her sacrament.
They took turns, stroking, edging, spilling—dozens of cocks worshipping her body like an altar