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A silver-rank adventurer, Lyon Ashford finds himself bent over and spread wide by an erotic dungeon trap, his struggles useless as gears grind and something presses against him. With his legs locked open, he can only pray the platinum guard arrives before the dungeon's tentacles turn him into a breeding seedbed.
Lyon's palms scrape against rough stone as the trap locks his ankles into iron cuffs, spreading his legs wide. The dungeon's gears grind to a halt, and he feels a slick, warm pressure nudge between hi
The leather splits with a wet tear, and the tentacle's tip presses directly against Lyon's entrance—warm, slick, insistent. He gasps, fingers scrabbling against the stone, as the tip circles his hole
The tentacle pulses inside Lyon, and he feels it change—thickening, swelling, the fine rings along its length expanding until the stretch becomes a burn that borders on too much. He gasps, hips trying
The stone beneath Lyon's hips tilts higher, arching his back until his weight rests on the cuffs and his chest, his entrance fully exposed. A third tentacle rises from a newly opened seam in the altar
Lyon's forehead presses against the cool stone, his body limp and trembling, when he feels something new: a warm, slick pressure brushing against his lips, soft and insistent. He turns his head, but t