The room had transformed into a sacred temple of satiation. The air, thick and humid, was a potent miasma of sweat, cum, and the raw, unleashed magic of sixty orgasming witches.
The colossal bed was no longer a piece of furniture but a landscape of pleasure, a tangled pile of limbs, heaving breasts, and blissfully unconscious bodies.
They lay in heaps, singly and in groups, scattered across the furs and even spilling onto the floor.
Every witch Jax had claimed was marked, a testament to his virility.
Thick, creamy rivers of his seed leaked from well-fucked pussies and gaping assholes, staining the silver moss and dark pelts, creating a beautiful, debauched mosaic of his conquest.
Jax stood amidst the aftermath, his chest rising and falling with steady, controlled breaths. His body glistened with a sheen of sweat, his muscles coiled and ready, not tired, but thrumming with a profound, primal energy.
