The flood was endless.
Titans rutted mountains to rubble, rivers burst into milk-lakes, and priestesses lay drowned in orgasm until their bellies shone like lanterns in the night. But within the heart of that storm, all sound bent to a single moan—the Oracle of Thorns kneeling in the flood, fists buried in her cunt, vines coiling her body open.
Her blind eyes leaked milk like tears, her breath sharp, each word breaking the sky.
"You… split prophecy with your cock. My visions burned until I tore myself bloody to contain them. But you… you are not vision—you are the end of vision."
Her arms trembled as she pulled her fists from her cunt. The sound was wet, tearing, obscene—SCHLOP. SPLORCH. Her womb gaped, gushing milk and blood, steaming with heat. She lifted her hands, coated in her own fluids, and smeared them across her breasts like war paint.
