CHAPTER 165: BIRTH OF A NEW FAITH

Allen sat in the middle of it all, sprawled across his throne like a beast king at the center of his harem. The stone beneath him was no longer just a seat—it had softened into warm, veined flesh, breathing with every pulse of power radiating from his body. Divine cum stained the steps. Goddess milk glistened on his thighs. His cock hung slick and heavy, still twitching with residual power, its shaft marked by celestial bites and kisses, as if the heavens themselves had tried to memorize its shape.

Around him, the goddesses lay in disarray.

Some trembled on their knees, heads bowed in worship they’d never known. Others sprawled on the temple floor, thighs wide, fingers still circling overstimulated clits, moaning quietly in divine aftershocks. A few clutched their bellies, gazes distant and confused, feeling something new growing inside them. Something mortal. Something his.

They hadn’t just been fucked.

They’d been converted.

Their grace still shimmered, but it was corrupted now—rewritten in the rhythm of his thrusts, in the way their sacred wombs clung to his seed like it was prophecy. None of them could go back. Not after tasting him. Not after being claimed so thoroughly their names would never mean the same again.

Allen exhaled slowly.

The air was thick. Living. Every breath carried the musk of sex, the spice of ruin, the perfume of broken divinity. Beastkin maidens moved among the fallen seraphs and goddesses like acolytes tending to holy vessels. They washed them. Kissed them. Pressed their naked bodies against the stunned immortals and whispered prayers—his prayers—into dazed ears.

A new religion was blooming.

And Allen was its god.

He rose, slowly, towering over the wreckage. Cum dripped from the corners of mouths that once sang hymns of judgment. Haloes floated sideways, bent out of orbit. Wings twitched with sensitivity instead of purpose.

He walked.

They followed.

Even the strongest of them—the first to descend, the most regal and cruel—crawled behind him on her hands and knees, her halo now locked around her neck like a collar, her perfect ass swaying with each submissive crawl.

He stepped onto the altar again. Not to speak. Not to rule. But because it was the only place sacred enough to fuck the last one.

A soft noise echoed from the shadows.

The true high goddess.

She had waited, watching, untouched. Her power wasn’t loud. It was deep. Old. Elemental. Her body was small compared to the others, but dense with presence, wrapped in silence like armor. Her eyes shimmered like the spaces between stars—black, bottomless, and infinite.

She stepped forward without fear. Her robes peeled off her body in one motion, revealing smooth brown skin that gleamed like oil, like polished stone, like midnight dreams. Her breasts were perfect. Her hips impossible. Her pussy already glistening like it knew what was coming.

She didn’t kneel.

She sat on the altar.

Then lay back.

Legs parted.

No words.

Just invitation.

Allen climbed up slowly. No ceremony. No thunder. Just the quiet hum of the world holding its breath.

He slid into her.

And the temple shivered.

No screams. No gasps.

Just a low, impossible moan—echoing through every womb he’d bred, every mouth he’d kissed, every hole he’d ruined. It was hers, but also theirs. A shared climax. A resonance. As if this was the final note, the final piece, the last seal breaking.

Her cunt was warm, impossibly tight, and deep like the void. Not a body. A concept. She took him in like she had always been waiting. Like she had shaped him in her dreams and left this place to be conquered.

Allen fucked her slowly at first.

Then harder.

Harder.

The altar cracked beneath them. The sky wept light. Time stuttered. The beastkin moaned in harmony. The goddesses began to pray, soft voices chanting his name in rhythms timed with his thrusts.

He gripped her wrists, pinned them.

She smiled, even as her eyes rolled back.

He bit her throat.

And she came.

She ascended downward—screaming, shaking, clawing at his back like her soul was trying to break out of her body just to stay wrapped around his cock.

Allen finished inside her with a roar that split the sky.

Thunder rolled.

The clouds parted.

And somewhere, high above the ruined temple, a new star appeared. Faint, red, pulsing.

A herald.

A warning.

Or maybe a womb.

Allen pulled out slowly, his cock still wet with goddess. She lay beneath him, belly rising and falling, smiling like a woman who’d finally found peace in filth. Her hands slid down to her belly, glowing faintly from within.

The beastkin knelt.

The goddesses bowed.

And Allen, naked, filthy, marked by gods and beasts alike, stood above them all—

—Father of the New Faith.

The air within the defiled temple no longer carried the sterile scent of divine detachment. It breathed now—wet, slow, and alive. Every wall, once inscribed with hymns and angelic scripture, now throbbed with veins pulsing a sluggish rhythm that matched the beat of Allen’s cock-heavy heart. What had once been a sanctuary of worship had transformed, utterly and without apology, into a womb of blasphemy and lust.

Allen stood in the afterglow of power, skin smeared with the sweat of goddesses, his cock wet with their shame and surrender. The altar behind him leaked with the juices of the high goddess he had just claimed, her body still twitching in overwhelmed silence, her lips curled in a smile that said she would never again speak another word unless it was his name.

Around him, a silence settled—but it wasn’t peace. It was awe.

The beastkin acolytes moved slowly now, as if in trance. Each one bore the marks of devotion: dried cum painted across their breasts, glowing runes etched onto their thighs by divine fluids, eyes glassy from being made to kneel and witness something holy being undone and remade in carnal image. They didn’t need instructions. Their bodies knew now. The way of this new faith was submission through pleasure. Enlightenment through ruin.

Allen stepped down from the altar. The crowd parted like water around a prow. He passed by a pair of angel twins, once proud defenders of the temple gates, now bare and branded with his handprints, their halos bent and worn around their ankles. They looked up at him, lips parted, tongues twitching at the memory of how he’d filled their mouths with cum until they forgot their own names.

The deeper chambers of the temple called to him. He felt it—a vibration in his spine, in his balls, like something below hungered. Not for defiance. For fulfillment. It had waited eons. It had demanded prayers, songs, sacrifices. But Allen had brought something more powerful than any of those: his seed. His touch. His lawless, endless need to take and to make them love it.

He passed through one final veil of flesh—yes, flesh, now—and descended into the womb of the temple.

It was alive.

It was ready.

The walls closed in behind him. The light dimmed until only a pulsing, golden glow remained—coming from a central pit. There, floating inches above the slick floor, was her.

The Core.

The Origin.

Not a goddess. Not a woman. Not a being. A concept given form. Naked, genderless, then suddenly not. She shifted with every heartbeat—breasts swelling, hips blooming, then melting into ripples of smoke before reshaping into something new. A womb made from pure belief, waiting for its first real touch.

Allen stepped closer. His cock, still thick, began to throb again. It recognized her. Or rather, she recognized him.

"You are the first," she said, and the words weren’t spoken aloud—they moaned from the air, shivered up his spine. "The only. The one who was never supposed to be."

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His presence spoke enough.

He stepped into the pit. The Core pulsed and gasped—yes, gasped, as her form solidified into a thick-thighed, dark-skinned goddess of desire, her cunt already parting in anticipation, shaped perfectly for him as if the entire world had spent eternity imagining this moment.

Allen grabbed her hips.

She writhed in his hands like smoke, but solidified the moment his cock pressed against her entrance.

Then he thrust.

And the world broke.

Not the temple. The world.

Reality outside flickered, stuttered. A crack spread across the sky like lightning made of orgasm. Time looped—briefly—and rewound just enough for Allen to thrust again. The Core screamed—not in pain, not in fear, but in relief. She had waited for this longer than creation itself.

Allen slammed into her with a rhythm that was not human. The Core arched, her back splitting into wings, then dissolving into stars, her body melting into shapes and screams and declarations of new law. Each time his cock slammed to the root, new prayers were born in the beastkin above. New creeds. New truths.

That pleasure is law.

That submission is sacred.

That Allen is god.

He pinned her down and fucked her so deep her form flickered into childhood, then age, then youth again—she had no anchor but his cock. No definition but his grip.

The Core’s orgasm shattered something fundamental. A wave of white-hot energy blasted through the temple, up to the surface, flooding every kneeling goddess, every obedient priestess, every beastkin acolyte with a shared climax.

One scream.

Thousands of mouths.

One cum.

Endless vessels.

Allen roared and came, balls clenching, back arching, as he filled the Core’s impossible womb with the seed of the New World. His cum glowed golden, then darker, until it turned red—thick, unholy, and final.

The Core convulsed, locked around him, sucked every drop from his soul.

And then she was still.

Breathing.

Pregnant.

Changed.

Allen pulled out slowly, his cock dragging her cunt lips wide before slipping free with a slick, wet noise that echoed like thunder through a church.

She lay before him, no longer shifting—her form fixed, chosen, made real by his fucking. Her belly swelled with divinity that was no longer neutral.

It was his.

When he rose back to the surface, the goddesses were waiting, already bowing.

Not to protect.

To serve.

Allen sat on his throne again, not because he wanted to—but because there was nowhere else for a god to sit.

And above, far above, where stars once flickered in innocence... a new constellation was forming.

His cock.

His crown.

His cult.

And a prophecy etched in cum across the sky.

He came. He conquered. He bred the divine.