The flood did not recede.
It became.
White oceans spread across existence, rivers of steaming cum rolling like tides that had no shore. Skies dripped. Stars melted into semen constellations. The air itself was heavy, wet, thick—every breath tasted of Kaito's seed.
And at the center of this endless, dripping cosmos rose his throne.
Not carved of stone, not forged of metal. His throne was made of holes.
Cunts stacked upon cunts, pussies gaping wide, mouths moaning in unison. Wombs squirmed, stretched, and spilled nectar, wrapping around the seat where he sat. Each time he leaned back, the throne tightened like a pussy clenching on his cock. Each time he shifted, the moans of a thousand holes echoed through the semen skies.
Kaito sat there like a god who had fucked reality itself raw. His cock still leaked, thick white dripping down his thighs, staining the throne, feeding it, keeping it alive.
The Flood-Born Subjects
The realms had no mortals anymore.
