Her breath came in gasps. Her fingers clenched the stone. Each load made her feel fuller, more divine. They came on her ass, her shoulders, even her feet. She reveled in it all.
“Do not stop,” she begged, voice hoarse, lips glistening. “I’m not yet complete.”
And they didn’t.
More warriors joined, trading places, some rubbing their shafts against her cum-soaked skin before adding their own.
Her body became a canvas, layered and dripping, pools forming in the curve of her stomach, the hollow of her throat. They spilled on her tongue, groaning her name as they fed her devotion.
And still, she wanted more.
“Please,” she gasped, arching her back, cum sliding down her ribs, her hair plastered with it. “Cover me. Claim me.”
They were wild now, primal, hands jerking, bodies tense. She sat upright, letting them aim freely. Her chest was a mess of dripping whiteness, her belly painted over again and again. One priest even came on her eyes, and she smiled beneath the mess, blinded, delighted.
She felt the end nearing—the final phase of the rite.
With trembling limbs, Lysara stood. The men knelt, spent yet reverent, gazing upon her cum-slicked form. She was radiant, glistening with the seed of forty men or more. Her breasts were heavy with it, her belly warm, her mouth still tasting them. Her womb throbbed with divine emptiness, untouched, yet pulsing with power.
The High Priest approached.
“You are blessed, Vessel,” he whispered. “You are reborn.”
And in that moment, as the moonlight bathed her dripping figure, Lysara laughed softly—a sound both sensual and sacred.