She had taken their hunger, lust, seed, and made it holy. The ground beneath her shimmered with magic, and from her thighs, from her body, from the cum that soaked her to the bone—life would spring. The harvest would flourish. The realm would thrive.
She licked the last drop from her lips and whispered, “Until next year, my loves.”
Lysara lay in the temple long after the men had gone, a mess of slick skin and sticky offerings, radiant in her ruin.
body glowed faintly in the afterglow of the rite, cum still warm between her thighs and pooling in the curve of her navel. She didn’t move. She couldn’t—not yet. The air trembled around her.
The seed had taken root.
She felt it deep within—power swelling in her belly like a slow explosion. Each drop they had spilled onto her skin had soaked into her, feeding something ancient, something forbidden.
Her nipples tingled, unbearably sensitive. Her clit throbbed with divine hunger. Her womb, though untouched, fluttered as though kissed by spirits. Something writhed behind her navel.
The first moan escaped her lips—not from pleasure alone, but from growth.
Her hips twitched. Her thighs clenched. The temple stone beneath her vibrated. She arched her back with a cry as something pushed from beneath her skin—not pain, but transformation.
breasts swelled heavier, cum sliding off in thick rivulets. Her stomach rounded slightly, not like pregnancy, but like a vessel expanding to contain the sacred storm.