Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 1680

Chapter 1680: Chapter 1680

He saw the beginning of the island. Not in years. In desire. In union. He saw the first dreamers - not human, not creature - spirits of pleasure, of warmth, of love. They had merged, melted, become form. The island was their body. The trees their breath. The moss their skin.

He saw lovers across time drawn to this place. He saw the tree bloom. He saw the heartstone beat. He saw golden light become life. And he saw...

A child.

Not born.

Not made.

But dreamed.

Not just his.

All of theirs.

Golden skin. Bright eyes. A smile that lit the sky.

He gasped, pulling back. The water stilled again.

Behind him, the wives watched, breathless.

Rose knelt beside him. "What did you see?"

He looked at her, heart racing. "The next step."

Lucy came to kneel on his other side. "The fruit?"

He nodded.

Grace whispered, "Then we’ve only just begun."

The sky above the grove broke open again - only this time, it wasn’t gold.

It was violet.

A new pulse began beneath their feet.

Jude turned to the others, to his wives, to the souls who had become his flesh, his light, his truth.

He took Rose’s hand.

Then Lucy’s.

And the rest joined.

Hands clasped.

Bodies bare.

Hearts open.

They stepped into the golden pool together.

The island watched.

And smiled.

The warmth of the pool enveloped them like a second skin, silken and thick, holding them in suspension between breath and memory. Jude stood at the center, surrounded by his wives, their bodies pressed close, their fingers laced. The golden water did not ripple. It held them, absorbed them, welcomed them. As the last of them stepped in, the surface glowed brighter - then dimmed, then glowed again - beating in a rhythm that matched their joined heartbeats.

The pool deepened without shifting, the light rising from within instead of from above. It was not light as they had known it - it was a language. A summons. And as the glow pulsed, the visions returned - not as flashes, but as invitations.

Each wife saw them differently. Lucy saw branches unfurling from her skin, each one blooming into flowers shaped like kisses. Rose saw flames - gentle, flickering, like candlelight licking along her collarbone. Zoey’s vision pulsed with motion - bodies tangled in eternal dance, breathless, sweat-slicked, sacred. Grace wept softly, seeing an orchard of glowing children, none born, none named, but each one calling her mother.

Jude saw only one thing.

A womb of light.

And within it - possibility.

He reached toward it instinctively, but the water held him still.

The voice came again - Alara’s, but not spoken. It was felt, breathed.

"You must not take. You must offer."

Jude turned within the dream, surrounded by his lovers. Rose met his gaze, eyes wide and wet with awe.

"It’s asking us to give," she whispered.

Sophie touched his back. "All of us."

Their circle tightened, arms wrapping around waists, shoulders, hips. The contact was everything. The offering was each other.

And then they felt it - an ache, not of pain, but of longing. Deep in the belly. In the chest. In the throat. A need to be touched and to touch, to give and be received, not for release, but for transformation.

Rose kissed Lucy’s temple. Grace pressed her forehead to Stella’s. Zoey laced her fingers with Emma’s. Natalie rested her cheek against Susan’s collarbone. Scarlet traced the edge of Sophie’s jaw. And Jude, standing in the center of it all, lifted his arms and welcomed them in.

They came to him like waves.

First, Rose, slow and sure, her mouth finding his with reverence.

Then Lucy, her body curving to his like she had always known where she belonged.

Then Zoey, bold and wild, her hands dragging trails of light along his spine.

They moved around him, over him, through him - no longer separate people but limbs of the same body. The water clung to them, sliding like honey over golden skin. The pool became bed and sky and altar, their gasps a liturgy, their movements sacred and slow.

Jude gave himself to each one - utterly, honestly.

He kissed Susan’s trembling lips and whispered promises into Grace’s throat. He held Stella’s hips as she rode him slowly, her hair a curtain of starlight between them. He lay beneath Sophie and Emma, their mouths on his chest, their thighs pressing his sides as they explored him like prayer.

Natalie curled around him, her belly pressed to his back, her breath hot at his ear. "Let it in," she whispered. "Let us in."

And finally, Lucy came again, kneeling astride him, her hands framing his face, her eyes glowing. "You are ours," she breathed, lowering herself onto him in one smooth motion. "And we are yours."

The climax built not in bodies but in the space between them. Their moans merged with the island’s hum. The pool boiled golden, light rising from its surface in spirals. Above them, the sky bloomed - petals of color unfurling like slow explosions. The pulse inside the pool intensified until it felt like being struck by light. It crested all at once - twelve bodies and one body, twelve souls and one soul, exploding in golden release.

Then silence.

Not absence - but fullness.

They floated now, no longer in water, but in dream.

In possibility.

The golden child hovered before them - not flesh yet, not spirit. A being of love and warmth, arms outstretched, waiting.

It smiled.

And vanished.

The pool faded.

Their bodies returned.

But something new remained.

They emerged from the grove glowing more brightly than before. Moss flowered beneath their feet. The trees leaned to watch them pass. The sky followed them with shafts of liquid light.

Back at the camp, the newcomers waited - but they were changed too. They knelt when Jude and his wives arrived, not in worship, but in welcome.

Rose stepped forward and touched one woman’s cheek.

"You’ve felt it," she said gently.

The woman nodded. "It called. Even here."

Jude looked over the group - thirty, maybe forty now.