For the Greater Good
For the Greater Good
"A long, long time ago, in a land whose name time has forgotten, a red dragon came upon a small kingdom, and requested an audience with the local king. This king was a warrior, a dragon slayer in fact, but many years of battle had taken their toll on his body. Even with only half his sight, he knew he couldn't kill this dragon, even if he was in his prime. He left strict orders that his knights evacuate the city through the underground tunnels, before riding his personal mount out to meet the dragon. There was no doubt in his mind this was the day he would die, and only hoped he might distract the dragon for a precious moment more.
"The dragon was of ancient age, and had the size to prove it. His voice was a deep rumble, like thunder, something the king felt within his very bones. 'Do not fear me, king,' the dragon said.
"What is your desire, dragon?' the king asked, struggling to keep his tone level. He had known fear throughout his life, but never such raw terror in the pit of his heart.
"You are old, king, with a lifetime's experience weighing your every thought. But what is old for a human is little more than a hatchling to one such as myself. For a thousand human lifetimes, I have wandered these lands, razing every settlement that I came across, for no other reason than I believed that is what dragons do.'
"At those words, the king's hand found his sword, an enchanted blade that had served him well for his entire life. It was said the blade could cut through a god, should a god stand before the wielder. But the king had grown so old, and was not even sure he could lift the sword with his tired arm. 'If you have set your sights on my city, then you will have to go through me. I am old, but my experience dealing with your kind is vast, and perhaps I cannot kill you, but I will make you bleed.'
"If I had set my sights upon your city, it would already lay in ruin,' the dragon said. 'For thousands of years, I have done horrible things to you without a second thought. But lately... I have felt a strange aching in my heart. I look upon you silly little creatures, with your silly little lives, and I feel an odd sense of guilt for all I have put you through.'
"The king's hand moved away from his sword, and instead he simply watched.
"I have grown bored with destruction, truth be told. I have grown tired of hearing screams and sobs for mercy. On occasion, when a mother has begged me to spare the life of her child, I have done so, why, I cannot say. But I am tired of destruction, and now I seek to change my ways.'
"And then the dragon did something the king did not imagine a dragon could do. His massive toes dug deep into the ground, and he lowered slowly to one knee, tail out behind him to keep his balance. He lowered his top half, and did his best to bow before the king, in a very human sign of respect. 'I will serve you, king, for the time being. If I find this alleviates the strange feelings inside me, I shall continue my service. If the feelings persist, I shall leave your land without trouble, travel out of your borders, and then resume my old life.'
"And so the red dragon, the scourge of all life, came to serve the humans he had once slaughtered, for reasons none could quite grasp. Quickly, the dragon showed his intentions were pure. He taught the people that lived under him mathematics, science, astrology and agriculture. With his knowledge, and his strength, the old king expanded his empire, absorbing smaller nations or the barbarian tribes, bringing them all under his banner.
"The king was strong of body and mind, but every human life has its limits. The king oversaw his armies for many, many more years; some even believed that the benign dragon used his magic to prolong the king's life. But one day, the king expired, and the thousands of nations under his banner wept. As per his final instructions, his body was swallowed by the dragon he had come to know as a friend. The king's only son had expired in one of his campaigns, and so, without an heir, the dragon assumed the role of guidance, and our great kingdom became known as Nia'Anatar, after the exalted dragon, Anatar.
"For a time, all was well. More states were absorbed, rarely with anything more than a brief skirmish. Anatar, such a mighty dragon as he, need only cast his presence and the opposing army would lay down its arms. With those who surrendered, Anatar shared his wisdom without hesitance, and it seemed all was ideal in his lands.
"But those closest to him knew that something was wrong in the red dragon's soul. To the many nations under his guidance, he was a beckon of hope; a physical god who had smiled upon this land, and offered his kindness and grace. But those closest to him knew something was wrong.
"There are those who say that dragons are monsters. They believe dragons roar and rampage through our toy cities, for no reason at all. It is difficult for us mere humans to comprehend why a dragon does anything, just as an ant cannot hope to comprehend the actions of a man. I do not know why great Anatar smiled upon us and sought to be kind instead of cruel, like so many of his brothers. What you must understand, is dragons do not desire the destruction they cause, in the way a man desires rich foods and fine wine. They need it. Dragons are simply not beings of peace. And so, for Anatar to surrender his cruelty, his savagery, and instead seek to build, it went against his every nature. It caused his very soul to rot from within.
"His closest advisors were aware of this pain and struggle inside him, and worried without end. Priests and shamans were called from the four corners of the kingdom, but none could save Anatar's soul, until it was decided a sacrifice was required. And so, Anatar's loyal advisors, his closest friends, went to their great dragon, and surrendered their life to him. They allowed him to destroy their body and devour their souls, hoping to ease the pain in his heart, so the rest of the kingdom may continue to thrive beneath under Anatar's watchful gaze.
"On this day, the first day of the Season of Frost, we thank the many men and women who will surrender their life to our great lord, so he may be free of the burden upon his soul. On this day, the first day of the harshest season of the year, we say goodbye to our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, who have volunteered to pay the ultimate price. Say goodbye to them, for never again shall they be seen, but take solace in the knowledge that their death is not from hunger or sickness or war, but for the greater good."
XXX
The temple had been erected over the course of a thousand years, generation after generation laying bricks upon those that their father had before them. Although the temple had long been functional, it was constantly being improved upon by the engineers. They desired to give their dragon lord a true palace, and give something to those who chose to give their life. The temple was known as Teat Der ik Rautnas, roughly meaning, "The Sanctuary of the Red Death."
Aside from the engineers, and those responsible for maintenance, the temple was never entered, and barely looked upon. Although a testament of human ingenuity and architecture, its mere presences was considered a blight upon the land. To call the temple massive would be an understatement. It needed to be large enough to house Anatar, who himself was the size of a normal human castle, and also needed to house the many people who would serve as sacrifice for him once a year. It had been erected as far from the capital city as geography would allow, but a temple several hundred stories tall was difficult not to notice, laying ominously on the vista, haunting every day of the season. Of course, now the kingdom was so massive, there was some lonely land where the sacrifice could be carried out, but it had become tradition to host the sacrifice here.
The temple was built of a red stone, a rare rock that only formed in the north of the kingdom. It was considered beyond precious, and so had been given the name "Anatar's Stone." Although the exterior of the temple was the same crimson red as Anatar's scales, the interior stood in stark contrast. The walls and floor were finest, purest white that a man was likely to ever see. That was what Anatar preferred.
No one spoke. On instinct, they had gathered into groups, but what words were there to say? Few knew each other. Volunteers were taken from every state of the kingdom. There was no lottery, or limit to how many would be taken. As many as could fit inside the temple would be sent. Last year, only about a hundred had volunteered, and Anatar had been forced to make due. At the end of the festival he was left feeling empty. The following year he was distracted, his spells difficult to cast because of his lack of focus. Reminded of the need for sacrifice, this year, people had emerged in spades to give their life.
Clothing was not allowed in the sacrificial temple. Nude and shivering, some of the weaker willed men and women began to sob uncontrollably. They were comforted by better men, assured their sacrifice was not in vain, while others threatened to harm if they did not cease their whining. Everyone waited, breathless, for the first sunrise, which signaled the beginning of the end.
The only entrance into the temple was a pair of fine oak doors, larger than a castle. Nevertheless, Anatar had to squat and duck as he came trotting into the temple's interior at exactly first sunrise. The people had heard his footsteps as he drew near, and instinctively pressed and compressed tighter, struggling to get away from the still open doors, hoping to cling to their precious life for mere minutes longer. And, in fact, as Anatar first came in, he made absolutely certain to step in spots of the temple were there was no humanity (which meant he could only just come into the temple, but it was something.) Anatar rarely looked better than on the days of sacrifice. His blood red scales had been individually polished by his personal servants, who numbered in the hundreds, and several of whom were now in the temple at this very moment. The sun was at his back, and it, along with the illumination of several magical flames that lined the inside of the temple, gave him an almost angelic glow. He was beautiful, none could deny that, and yet the sight of him sent even the braver men to their knees, weeping.
Anatar's claws were black: three toes on the front of his foot, one at the rear to aid in balance or climbing. His penis had already begun to part the plate scales between his legs, and showed itself as black as a starless night, and large enough to smother or crush a dozen humans beneath it. Almost in opposition to his regal nature, Anatar had a hunched posture, like a raptor or bear. As he used his magic to close the massive doors behind him, sealing the temple shut, he looked out over the ocean of humanity, all his. He breathed through his nose, taking his time to savor the smell of fear that had already filled the temple. On top of that were all the scents he enjoyed, as it was customary for the sacrifice to bathe in lotions that were pleasing to his olfactory sense. His lips quivered, and with a low sigh, he uttered three simple words, "Thank you all."
It happened every time, in the first moments when the game was just beginning, but Anatar felt a sense of confusion swell within him. He was left with a single, burning question: What to do first? Last year, during the festival, it had all been over so quickly, and the burning lust had remained within him, simmering for an entire year. But today, dare he say, he may have more than he could handle.
Anatar's feet were something special, and before this, his personal aids had spent hours washing and worshiping them, massaging them with fine oils and creams to assure they were pleasantly soft. Even walking here, over the rough earth, his feet had not lost the delightfully pampered tingle. He spread his arms apart, and his tail out behind him, to aid him as he balanced on one thick, strong leg. He lifted his other foot slowly, spread his three toes apart, and began to lower it right into the humans before him. At first there was silence. Did the humans not know he enjoyed their screams? Or were they trying to face their impending death with a sense of pride? He was almost disappointed with the silence, but as his foot continued it's very slow decent, a lone scream rose up from the crowd. What followed was an entire chorus, all screaming at once, everyone pushing against their neighbor, trying to squeeze into a tighter group and avoid the looming, scaly death. In contrast to most of his body, which was covered in dense and sturdy red scales, his feet were covered in a leather-like skin, with thicker, squishier pads in strategic locations. Most of the humans panicked and screamed and cried, begging for mercy, some even claimed they had "changed their mind," the absurdity! But still some of the humans could not help but gaze upon the beautiful foot, so carefully manicured, and smelling of sweet honeys and herbs from the lotions that had been worked into the skin. There were only a few cracks in the leather, a testament of how well his feet had been treated these past couple days, in preparation for the festival.
Anatar lowered his foot until he was touching the heads of the humans, which caused them to drop to their knees and still try to crawl away. He growled at that, and lowered his foot more, now not stopping until he was resting upon their collective backs, pinning them to the ground. Gurgles screams could be heard, although they were mostly drowned out by the high pitched squeals of every other human in the temple, and Anatar's own low groans of pleasure. An entire year of celibacy, and there was already an intense stirring in his loins, so intense that he was forced to stray a hand down and wrap a claw around his ebony cock. Without even thinking, he squeezed, and a dribble of pre spurted out of the shaft. It plopped wetly into the midst of humans.
A dragon's seed was... unique, to say the least. It was highly corrosive, so much so that those unfortunate souls who were suddenly drenched, who fancied themselves safe because the murderous feet were nowhere near them, immediately learned that no place in this temple was safe. Their skin bubbled and began to roll off their bones like the wax of a candle. Their screams were the loudest, at least until the corrosive fluid had reached their lungs and quickly reduced them to mush.
Anatar lifted his foot off his captives, allowing them to crawl away. He was angry with himself. Spurting one's seed madly was for feral dogs in the untamed countryside, not for a creature as noble and strong as he. He wiped his damp hand on his belly scales, and looked to the mass. No sense in crying over spilled pre.
Spreading his three toes wide apart, he once more lowered his foot, this time at a quicker pace. He selected a spot where the mass was densest, and first dropped his heel and the rear claw into them, crushing just a few instantly. The rest of his foot followed: the full roundness of the heel, and then the middle. The middle of the foot was the most pleasant spot, because it lacked the rough calluses of his heel or the balls, and how good it felt to have little bodies rubbing against it. Anatar dropped his instep very slowly. Little bodies were pinned under it, but not crushed, instead left to struggle and fight in a delightful way. His toes were held high, so the ball of his foot came down next, popping the bodies into goo quickly. And last, his toes. He had purposely kept them elevated, but now he dropped them quickly. His ebony claws caught a few people, cutting them into pieces or slicing them across the back.
There were little bodies directly between his toes, who no doubt fancied themselves blessed. Rubbing his penis idly, Anatar allowed the humans to believe themselves lucky for just a few moments, before he suddenly brought his toes together. The humans closest to the toes braced themselves and struggled to hold the scaly walls at bay. Those in the middle attempted to push out and escape, but none succeeded, and they were all suddenly pressed together. Abandoning reason or whatever vague sense of duty they might have had, the humans began to curse and hiss and scream at their dragon god. They bit at the scales and clawed at them, until the pressure grew too great and they all let out one collective scream. Then the toes came fully together, splashes of red exploding out.
Anatar lifted his other foot, and brought it down into the mass. This time there was no playing, or games. He simply stomped his foot down and reduced a dozen bodies to jelly. Warmth bubbled up beneath his scales and along the sides, and between his toes and made him feel delightful. As he lifted his first foot, he took the time to grind the ball of his foot side to side, before lifting his foot into the air and having it hover up above those he decided should die next. What few worshipers fancied the dragons feet could find nothing attractive about the gore soaked scales. The sweet scent of honey had been replaced with the metallic odor of blood. The crimson slipped into every crack and cranny of the foot, reveling imperfections that before had not been noticed, not that any had long to stare.
Not since the first festival had Anatar had this many sacrifices at his feet, and he decided to do something he had not done since his younger days. Closing his eyes and lifting his nose above the cloud of fear and blood, he began to casually walk. He did not know who he was crushing, or where his massive feet would fall next, but he did not care. Cutting off his other senses, the sensation of touch became that much stronger. To be sure, it was the weakest of a dragon's senses. Feeling the warmth of the nude little bodies against his sensitive soles, it was breathtaking. First their hands lifted, and their fingers dug into the cracks of the pads, trying to push the foot away. Some wrestled with his toes, or beat feebly at his inner arch. As he pressed down further, the bodies fell to the ground, and he reveled in the feel of every rib shattering, every bone breaking to dust. Their bodies popped, and their warm blood caked his feet. Having his servants rub his feet was nothing compared to the massage his sacrifices offered.
So lost in the stimulations, Anatar walked a swath through the mass, and ended up crashing right into the wall on the other side of the temple. It was an ungraceful maneuver, but Anatar found himself laughing mirthfully, despite his usual regal indifference.
He turned around and looked back. There were bloodied, paw shaped holes in the mass; the people apparently did not want to stand in the remnants of the crushed. That was good, because it kept the group densely packed, and Anatar took a step forward. Rather than the casual, wide strides he had used before, this time his steps were much shorter. He placed his foot down, so his heel was touching the middle claw of his other foot. He grinded his foot left to right, slowly, popping each body. "Do not move!" he roared, noticing that the path before him had thinned to almost nothing. The thousand faces all looked up at him, as if unbelieving of what had just been said. "Gather close, slaves. Press together. I want not a breath of air to slip between you."
The humans were slow to obey, but they did, several actually wrapping their arms around their brother and holding close. His walk resumed, one foot in front of the other. He grinded his foot left to right, very slowly, and then lifted his foot and crushed more. He savored every step, keeping his nose high in the air so he could better revel in the feel of popping bodies.
When he reached the other side of the temple, there was a crimson road stretching across the floor. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and lifted one of his feet to inspect what he had done. It was almost impossible to tell that what was caked onto his scales had ever been human. He had certainly been thorough in crushing them into jelly, and was proud he could still cause havoc like a younger dragon could. The only evidence of who he had stepped on was the odd arm or leg, stuck in the crevice of the ball of his foot, or cute scales of his instep. He found the arms and legs between his toes were pleasant where they were. If he wiggled his toes or flexed his foot, they tickled in an odd, pleasant way.
All that stomping and the rich smell of blood had made Anatar rather hungry, and he looked at the crowd, licking his lips. As part of the festival, those who sacrificed their life were given a banquet, the likes of which few would ever hope to see. It was a final thank you from those who would benefit from the sacrifice, but it also served a purpose for the dragon lord. The foods were rich in spices that Anatar enjoyed, and the human body, mostly water, did such a wonderful job holding the flavors of what it had consumed inside. Their skin also glistened from the oils and spices they had been rubbed with, to give their skin an extra flavor.
Anatar walked along the crimson road he had made, until he was in the very center of the temple. He lifted his tail high into the air, and began to squat with his powerful legs. Of course, those behind him, aware of what was happening, attempted to press together and avoid the titanic rump that was descending, but few were fast or strong enough to push through the crowd. Soon Anatar was sitting in bubbly warmth. It was pleasant, though slightly itchy. A group of humans had been spared immediate death from Anatar's weight, but were now trapped inside his crack and just under his tail. Their furious attempts at escape caused them to beat upon his anus, a spot so rarely stimulated. He spent a moment enjoying the pleasure of their feeble struggle, before wiggling side to side, pressing down upon them harder until there were no tickles left.
His belly was rumbling, and it would be difficult to concentrate with its insistent growls. And there were so many humans! Even trampling those as he had done had barely put a dent into their numbers. Oh, when this was through he would perform miracles, and create a bounty like the kingdom had never known, but only after he had his fun.
His hands swept through their ranks, picking up whoever fell against the palm, and he brought them above his head. Opening his mouth wide, he rolled his tongue out, revealing the depths of his body: the teeth that were larger than a grown man, the pinkish tongue, and past that, the dark abyss of his throat. He tilted his hand slowly, and the men and women started to fall. Most did not even hit his tongue, in fact they simply fell into the darkness of his throat, but a few did and left a pleasant tingle on his taste buds. When his hand was turned upside down, and he assumed all the little morsels had fallen past his lips, he closed his mouth, swallowing hard. He looked to his hand, and much to his surprise, one of the humans was still there, clinging desperately to a loose scale on his finger.
"My mouth does not appeal to you?" he asked. He plucked the human carefully around the middle, demonstrating that he was completely capable of handling delicate creatures without breaking them. "My anatomy is much more efficient than yours," Anatar explained. "No matter how you enter my body, your life will feed me, so I am not concerned with how you enter my body." The human began to squirm as he was lowered. He happened to look down, and see the massive pillar of black flesh that was the dragon's penis. The incoherent babbles of the man died out as the scent of draconic musk surrounded him. His feet sank into the slit that crowned the penis, and then his hips and torso, only the broadness of his shoulders and his outstretched arms sparing him falling down the tunnel like a slide. He fought and kicked and for a moment, Anatar was content with his fidgeting. His little legs beating against the nerves was nothing short of breath taking. But Anatar's hunger was present, and so he placed a finger on the human's crown. A moment later, Anatar had applied pressure, and felt the man slide down to his scrotum. He did not last long, of course. A dragon's seed was as corrosive on the inside as on the outside, but his squirming delighted Anatar for the few moments it was there.
Both hands swept through the group, and Anatar brought what had to be twenty or thirty humans up to his lips. He leaned forward, smelling them, smelling their fear as well as the oils and spices that clung to their skin. After catching his breath, he leaned forward again, and this time opened his nostrils to snort. A dozen of his captives were pulled by the powerful winds into the dark abyss of Anatar's snout. He tilted his head up, gulping, and snorted again, this time keeping the suction up until he felt every squirmer pass the threshold of his throat, and then he gulped them down all at once. Those that were left in his hand, utterly shocked at what had just happened, didn't even scream. They knew what was expected of them during the sacrifice, but to see their lord and master to callously murder their friends and family, it left them without words. Quickly, they were tossed past Anatar's lips and swallowed, whole and alive.
Anatar leaned forward, arms spread, and gathered up a large throng of humanity. He pulled them close, and dipped his head down, sticky tongue swaying through the group and gulping them up quickly. He snorted, and drew screaming, writhing men and women past the black rim of his nostrils, where they disappeared into his sinuses. Tilting his head up and snorting again, they were drawn to his throat, and with a gulp, they headed for his belly. A dragon's stomach was no less acidic than his scrotum, and the humans were quickly and efficiently melted into goo, making room for more.
Never before had he had such a vast supply of food, and gulping them down with such speed, he soon felt something strange: a content sense of fullness. At first he was not sure what it was, and continued to gorge himself, which made the sense of full all the more pleasant. But eventually, he stopped, and sat back, patting his slightly plumped abdomen. So many humans inside him, his belly juice simply could not break them down fast enough, and they were left to squirm and fight within him until their time came. It felt so amazing.
He looked down at those before him, and began to wonder...
Anatar stood, and looked about the temple. A large horde of people had all moved to one of the corners, for no reason at all. It suited his purposes just fine, and he began to approach them. He stomped on a few of the stray humans, but that almost seemed like a waist. His feet felt absolutely delightful, it was the rest of him that needed help. So instead of stomping them into paste, he began to herd them, moving seemingly random but always forcing his prey into that one corner. He picked up any who were too slow or weak, depositing them in one hand, and when that hand was full, he turned his back to the corner and lifted his tail. Although he could not see out behind him, he was positive that all eyes were on him. What a wonderful thought: a thousand tiny faces screwed in terror, as he selected one of the humans from his hand and brought it around his body. He brushed it against his rump until one of its flailing limbs pounded against his puckered anus just right, stimulating the tight seal enough to permit entrance. Right then, he stuffed the entirety of the man inside him.
Although hot and musky and smelling foul, at least his bowels did not have the corrosive juice of his belly or balls. The humans who slipped inside him, one at a time, were left to squirm and struggle as the tight walls slammed against them. Oh, they felt amazing. When his hand was empty, Anatar was forced to brace himself on the ground, his glistening anus still in full view of the terrified denizens of the corner. One of the fools actually tried to run past him, but was caught and soon, he too, had been stuffed into Anatar's vent. Anatar actually left him with his feet out and kicking, like a miniscule butt plug.
When his anus felt pleasantly stuff, he resumed approaching the corner. He used his feet to herd what stragglers remained, and when he got them all in one place, he sat down. The solidity of the floor against his anus cut off whatever fresh air and light those inside his bowels relied on, and in their suffocating darkness, their struggles doubled. Anatar spread his legs out and then brought his feet together, trapping some humans between the gore soaked soles. He pressed his heels together, and interlocked his toes to assure those that were trapped would not be going anywhere. He offered enough slack they could fight and push and bite against the feet, but never escape. He squeezed them, feeling them compress and their cries grow weak, before alleviating the pressure, as he did not want to kill them too quickly.
That left... at least two hundred between his legs. His hands were shaking as he selected his first victim: a large, muscular man whose body would surely take its time to melt. However, Anatar could not control himself, and the man suddenly popped into jelly between his fingers. With a sigh, Anatar selected a woman, and this time was careful squeezing her around the middle. He lifted her up to his ebony erection, and placed her feet against his slit. Releasing her, she sank inside with little resistance. Her head and arms managed to remain outside of the slit, but another woman soon followed, and that bulk pushed the first one down. Anatar's dexterous fingers swept through the group, picking his victims out one at a time. He was actually selecting them: sharp eyes scanning through the group, and choosing those who were largest or plumpest or possessed the densest muscle. It was far from easy, to keep from crushing the fragile toys, but after about half the group had made their journey down his shaft, he began to feel the first hints of fullness.
For those not yet chosen, they faced a fate worse than death. There was the horrid knowledge that their death would come, that his fingers would eventually select them, even as they dodged and struggled against the looming claws. Behind them, a dozen people were trapped between Anatar's mighty feet, their arms reaching out of the tight embrace, desperately clawing for help. But the most horrid sight was directly at their front. The pillar of black flesh bobbed up and down each time it swallowed another poor soul. Despite how thick the penis was, the humans that were dropped inside provided additional bulk, and so the shaft bulged to show their travel. At last, they reached the scrotum where they seemed to disappear. But as more and more bodies slipped inside, the scrotum began to fill. Forms appeared in the skin, writhing bodies struggling to escape the fleshy prison before the seed ate them up. One of the survivors noticed what had to be a face, pressing out of the thinner scales of the scrotum, then an arm reaching out. His distraction cost him his life, as he was plucked up and delivered, head first, down the fleshy tunnel.
Anatar stuffed the entirety of his captives inside him, even after his scrotum began to ache and stretch beyond any prior limits. He was frightened, on some level, of the sensation leaving him too soon. His body was working to break down what was inside it, and he wanted to feel this tender squirming for as long as he could. When all the captives between his legs were lost to his hungry shaft, he finally allowed himself a moment to relax, lying down on the floor. His penis was throbbing like it never had before, and yet he did not stray a claw down to it, not yet. His nose twitched, taking in the odor of his musk and the death that filled the enclosed temple. Some part of him did not want to climax, because for as good as it would be, he knew that after the pleasure came an entire year of celibacy. But he knew that, even as full as he might be, the humans twitching inside him were already breaking down. Soon, he would be empty, and have lost his chance for a blissful release.
Anatar sat up, and wiggled his toes. The humans he had pressed between his mighty feet were still alive, if barely. He gave them one final squeeze, and then pulled his feet apart. None of them had the strength to move, which did not surprise him. He leaned forward and gathered them up, before rising to his knees. The humans were drenched in gore and blood, which should serve as a proper lubricant, at least Anatar assumed. It didn't really matter, anyway. He was so close to climax, he doubted he needed any help.
Holding them with both hands together, Anatar brought the humans down between his legs. At first he thought they were too broken to even squeak, but as the coal black glans came into their vision, their voices rose up in unison. Anatar humped forward, lifting off the ground and driving his erection into the mass he held. Bodies pressed and pulped against his organ as he drove himself forward. He pulled back, and took a moment to listen if any of the humans were still alive. Ragged breaths and low whimpers could be heard, but those went silent when he humped into his hand again. He pulled back, dizzy and panting, struggling to hold back his release, before humping again and hitting a plateau.
A massive spurt broke through the bodies in his hand and shot out onto the temple floor. His body locked into one great muscle, crushing those still alive in his bowels to mush. After a moment, a steady stream of white began to gush out of his cock, first washing his hands, and then freely flowing over the temple floor. Anatar lay back, his strength leaving him, as his penis continued to throb and release great quantities of seed. Although the stones were treated to survive such a shower, the red stains and broken bodies were not, and dissolved in grim fashion as white flooded over them. Anatar tumbled, and lay still, breathing heavy, eyes barely staying open as he rode out the greatest orgasm of his long, long life.
It was well into the night when Anatar pushed the heavy doors of his temple open, and took a step outside. His penis was still dribbling, still leaking, and he did not have the mental composure to control himself. He did not care. There was no one around to see. He looked back into the temple. His face grew stern and solemn as he spied the red blotches on the polished white, which had not been washed away by his seed. "Thank you all," he said, sincerely. "I assure you that, for another year, no war or famine shall befall your people. I shall see to it that your sacrifice is not in vain."
Tomorrow, the temple would be cleaned. The evidence of his rampage would be washed away, and he and his subjects would have another year, before the tribute was required.