"My, my, my... Each and every one of you felt so exquisite going in,
I had my doubts that you'd feel just as tantalizing pouring back out
of my cauldrons, but look at you all - proving just how tremendous
you are once again. Rest in your perpetual orgasm, my sweet
darlings. I can't wait to bring you all back for another round~."

-----

Traditional forms of meditation have nothing on relinquishing one's
physical form to the seminal alabaster churning away within a
shapeshifter's polymorphic depths. As the body wanes, yielding to
the wiles of grinding flesh, every imaginable suffering and
tribulation taking root in the mind sloughs away in the ebb and
flow, whisking it away to leave naught but an id inundated by
ambient aphrodisia. No longer abated by the trivialities of life, lust
proliferates like a wildfire in dry underbrush - it's potency only
growing as it diffuses and guides what remains of the self to the yin
of yearning and the yang of satisfaction.

Equal. Balanced. Unwearied and thoroughly unburdened. Were they
not aware of what they used to be, a person could exist in this
liminal state for days, if not months. The only preventative
measures against perpetuity is a often muffled desire to return to
the way they were and a kind predator too gentle to let them
remain in that bound state. Though, one could easily make an
argument for the ulterior motive being a latent urge to repeat the
process at a later date~.