CHAPTER 218: BEYOND RECOGNITION (18+)

The air inside the nest was a humid, choking heat now, every breath tasting of salt and musk. The floor wasn’t stone anymore — not really — it was coated in a soft, tacky layer of slick that had built up over the endless hours. It stuck to his back, to his thighs, to the knees of the women still waiting their turn, clinging in glistening strands that stretched and snapped with every movement.

The women were no longer just flushed from lust; they looked transformed, their bodies altered by the relentless milking. Between their legs, their pussies were no longer just swollen — they were grotesquely puffed, lips so engorged they seemed permanently parted, glistening folds pushed outward in glossy, reddened mounds. Every step they took caused their engorged flesh to sway visibly, trembling with each movement.

One of them knelt over him now, her thighs trembling before she even touched him. She used her fingers to pull herself wider, the swollen lips bulging between them like ripened fruit, the inner folds glossy and stretched to the limit. She lowered herself slowly, letting the tip of his cock press against her entrance. It didn’t so much slide in as force the flesh apart, the swollen lips flattening against his base before snapping back in a puffy seal around him.

Her mouth opened in a soundless cry at first — then the air came rushing in, and she let out a broken groan that vibrated in her chest. She didn’t bother with a steady rhythm; she slammed herself down on him as if trying to fuse the two of them together, every drop of slick inside her being driven out around his length. Each impact made a sharp, wet smack that echoed through the chamber.

From the walls came the watching voices — the ones who’d already been ruined and the ones still waiting. They weren’t whispering anymore. They were hoarse from hours of crude encouragement and raw swearing.

"Look at it stretch her... fuck, she’s gonna split—"

"She’s not even close. Get it deeper, make it swell worse."

"She’s gonna drip for a week."

The woman riding him answered by grinding down in slow, punishing circles, pushing him into every angle of her insides. Her folds clung to him greedily, the swollen flesh rippling each time she lifted off and slammed back down. She stayed like that until her body seized, her swollen mound crushing against him in violent spasms, her voice breaking into guttural sounds as she came.

She staggered off him, legs barely functioning, her pussy gaping wide, lips so puffed and abused they jutted outward even when she tried to press her thighs together. She collapsed to the side, unable to move further, slick still dripping in heavy strings onto the already-slick floor.

Another was already taking her place. This one crawled up his legs, her swollen folds dragging against his skin, leaving a hot trail. She mounted him without a word, the obscene squelch of her entrance swallowing him whole in one practiced push. The sound was louder now, wetter, the echo bouncing back from the nest walls like the slap of meat in a butcher’s stall.

Her head fell back as she took him to the hilt, her belly taut, lips stretched around his girth. She began to bounce — short, fast thrusts at first, then deep, punishing drops that made her swollen mound clap against him. Each impact sent tremors through her overworked flesh, the puffy lips parting wider, her clit brushing hard against his skin until she was shaking.

He could feel how tight her walls were trying to be, but the hours had worn them soft and pliant, more willing to swallow than to squeeze. Still, she milked him with what control she had left, grinding until her legs buckled and she collapsed forward onto his chest, still impaled on him, panting hot against his skin.

She slid off only when the next was ready, her departure pulling him free with a long, obscene suction. The next woman’s folds were even more swollen, the skin stretched glossy and thin in places, deep red where the flesh had been pounded most. She lowered herself onto him with an almost animal hunger, biting her lip so hard it left a dent. Her hips worked in rolling waves, the swollen lips flattening and slapping on each thrust, her fluids mixing with the mess already coating him.

They took him in shifts without pause, each one leaving her mark — swollen lips puffed so far they’d never fully close again, inner walls raw and aching, their wombs gaping open in greed. The sound of flesh on flesh never stopped; it became the heartbeat of the nest, a rhythm of wet impact and sliding withdrawal, over and over until time itself seemed meaningless.

By the time the rotation slowed, the air was so heavy it felt like breathing through steam. The floor was a mirror of wet sheen, the women sprawled around him too spent to stand, their ruined, swollen pussies still twitching in slow, needy pulses. Even in stillness, their folds looked impossibly obscene — swollen beyond recognition, raw proof of how much they’d taken.

And in the middle of it all, they stared at him like they would start again the second they could move.

The nest didn’t go quiet for long. Even the ones lying in glossy puddles of their own slick began to stir, rolling onto their knees with the same twitchy, starved look in their eyes. The air was heavy with heat and musk, dripping from the ceiling in slow, sticky beads. Every breath he took carried the taste of them — a thick, intoxicating fog of sweat, sex, and raw need.

The first to move was the one who’d collapsed beside him earlier. Her thighs still shook, but she crawled forward anyway, dragging herself over the floor until her swollen mound pressed against his leg. The lips of her pussy looked like they’d been pumped full to bursting — glossy, bulging, jutting far enough that the outer folds cast small shadows under the nest’s dim light. She didn’t say a word. She just hooked her arms under his knees, forced them apart, and climbed between them like she was mounting a throne.

The heat from her was scorching, her inner thighs sticking to his skin. She lined herself up with shaking hands, the fattened lips parting around him in a sticky, obscene kiss before swallowing him inch by inch. There was no tight entrance anymore — just a gaping, swollen passage that molded around him like hot clay. She sank until her pelvis was mashed against his, folds flattening outward under the pressure, and then she started to move.

There was no grace to it. Her thrusts were desperate, jagged, her swollen flesh slapping hard enough to make dull, wet cracks in the air. Each drop sent tremors through her, her clit grinding against him, her walls twitching like they were trying to drag him deeper. She didn’t stop to breathe; her chest heaved, her face flushed, sweat dripping from her hairline, but her hips never slowed.

Another was behind her already, pawing at her waist, cursing under her breath. "Hurry the fuck up, you’re not the only one starving," she growled, and when the first ignored her, she shoved her forward hard enough that his cock slid free with a sucking pop. The second one didn’t waste time — she turned, straddled him in one motion, and dropped down so fast the slap of impact echoed off the stone walls.

Her mound was even worse — so engorged it looked almost artificial, the skin stretched taut and reddened, the lips curling outward like overripe petals. The sound of her taking him was a full-bodied squelch, wet and vulgar, followed by a low groan that came from deep in her gut. She leaned back on her hands and rode him in grinding arcs, her folds spreading and closing with every stroke, her belly tensing each time he bottomed out.

Around them, the others watched, muttering filth under their breath, their hands between their legs, smearing slick over their already ruined folds. A few crawled closer, reaching out to touch, stroking over the swollen lips as they bounced, pulling them wider just to watch the stretch. The one riding him cursed at them but never stopped moving, her hips jerking erratically now, her swollen mound slapping down with raw, needy force.

When she finally came, she didn’t just shiver — she locked up entirely, her walls clamping weakly around him, gush soaking his thighs. She slid off with a groan, too spent to keep herself upright, and rolled to the side where she lay twitching.

But there was no pause. The next was already climbing on, her swollen folds brushing wetly along his shaft before she sank down with an audible squish. This one took him slow at first, savoring the obscene stretch, rocking her hips in tight circles so her puffy lips rubbed hard against his base. She was muttering nonstop, filthy words spilling between breathless gasps, telling him how raw her pussy felt, how deep he was, how she could feel her womb aching from how much she’d taken.

He didn’t answer — he just gripped her hips and started driving up into her, forcing her swollen mound to clap down with each thrust. The sound was relentless, echoing off the walls, wet and sharp like meat being slapped in a butcher’s stall. She screamed, half pleasure, half pain, her voice breaking as her folds mashed flatter against him, her clit catching on each upward stroke.

By the time she collapsed forward on his chest, the others were nearly clawing at each other for the next turn. The shift rotation had devolved into a mess of bodies — some mounting from the front, some from behind, their swollen pussies leaving hot, wet streaks across his skin as they took what they wanted. The nest floor was a slick, shimmering lake now, and every movement made the sound louder, wetter, filthier.

It didn’t stop. Even when their thighs shook so badly they could barely keep upright, they kept riding, kept grinding, kept slamming down until their lips were puffed beyond recognition, their pussies so swollen they looked permanently ruined. And through it all, the echo of slapping flesh and sliding wetness filled the chamber, a rhythm that refused to end.