excessive cum

AI art "Cyndel Vale needs money 8 (ft. Captain Nemesis)"
25

Cyndel Vale needs money 8 (ft. Captain Nemesis)

octavian
AI art 'C.C loves Pizza'
22

C.C loves Pizza

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Nagatoro Bukkake'
30

Nagatoro Bukkake

blackhairedstudent
AI art "Cyndel Vale needs money 7"
20

Cyndel Vale needs money 7

octavian
AI art 'Danganronpa 3 Glass pt1' with user description 'Pt 1 of danganronpa 3 girls ❤️'
15

Danganronpa 3 Glass pt1

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Aura Captured' with user description 'The snow crunched beneath my boots as I approached the tavern, a solitary beacon of warmth in this frozen wasteland. My violet hair whipped in the biting wind, and the **Scales of Obedience** at my hip rattled—a reminder of my absolute authority. I, Aura the Guillotine, did not fear these mortals. They were but insects whose lives were measured in the weight of their souls. As I reached the door, an old, obese man blocked my path, his face a map of filth and scars. "You killed them all," he rasped. "My entire bloodline. I challenge you, Aura. A measure of souls." My pride was my undoing. I scanned his mana; it was pathetic. I could have ended him instantly, but I wanted to see the despair on his face when his own soul condemned him. I summoned the Scales, pouring my vast, ancient mana into my side. The scale tipped instantly toward me. But seconds before his mana touched the plate, he drained a shimmering vial. It was a **Potion of Infinite Illusion**. It didn’t actually increase his power, but it tricked the magical logic of the scales, making his mana appear as a bottomless, infinite abyss for five crucial seconds. The balance slammed down on his side with the force of a falling mountain. Because the scale "saw" him as superior, its magic bound my very soul to his will. "Silence," he commanded, his voice cold and flat. "Speak only when I tell you to. Only do what I want you to do." He took me to his new home town, a place I destroyed 60 years ago, rebuilt by the child i dis not kill that time.. he ordered me to serve every one of them, and i Did... one after another, no resting.. some where big, big as monsters, their bodies made mine look small, After forty-eight hours of being used by every man in his village—my demonic body cruelly resetting my anatomy to a virgin state after every violation—he led me to a stone square. "Put your head and hands through here," he ordered, pointing to a heavy, stone-and-iron guillotine frame. "**Wait here in this position in silence until I return. And keep serving anyone who comes to use you.**" He never came back. I have been in this position for seven hundred years. My neck and wrists are locked into the frame, my spine permanently arched, my rear perpetually exposed to the whims of the kingdom that grew around my shackle. I have forgotten the sound of my own voice; the concept of speech has withered in my mind like a dead leaf. I have forgotten the taste of food and the warmth of a bed. Most importantly, I have never slept. My demonic stamina ensures I remain wide awake, forced to witness every second of my degradation through the centuries. The square is never empty. I have become a living monument, a landmark of flesh and stone. Around the base of my pedestal, a permanent slum of forty hobos has taken root. They live in wretched huts built against my legs, treating my body as a communal hearth. While the city sleeps, they take turns fucking me all night long, their unwashed bodies a constant weight against my cold skin. During the day, travelers from across the world join the queue. Sometimes five or six men use me simultaneously—one at my mouth, others at my pussy and anus—clambering over each other to claim a piece of the monster. My body is a cursed masterpiece of regeneration. It is a biological nightmare of rapid recovery. One second, a man withdraws and my ass is left **extremely gaped**, a dark, distended void pulsing from the trauma of his intrusion; in the very next second, the demonic magic surges through my tissue, sealing the opening until it is **virgin again**. I am a perpetual loop of destruction and restoration, a tight, "pure" vessel that is torn open by the next stranger only to reset before his seed even cools. I no longer think of magic. The only thing that exists is the count. I have become a living abacus. One billion. One billion and ten. The number is the only thing I truly know. I watch the fashion of the men change and the seasons bleed into centuries. I am a hole in the center of the world, a silent vessel that has processed the seed of entire lineages. I am the first demon to ever feel the sting of a tear, a single drop of salt water that has carved a permanent track down my weathered face—a testament to a billion men and an eternity of silence.'
30

Aura Captured

blackhairedstudent
AI art '300 Thank you very much. (PokeGirls part 3)' with user description 'Part 3 from the PokeGirls for you. Enjoy them.'
30

300 Thank you very much. (PokeGirls part 3)

holo_the_wise_wolf
AI art "Cyndel Vale needs money (Remastered)"
21

Cyndel Vale needs money (Remastered)

octavian
AI art 'Cumpetition part1'
30

Cumpetition part1

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Nagatoro sleepover' with user description 'The rain wasn’t just falling; it was a seasonal deluge that turned the Tokyo streets into rushing rivers of neon reflection. Nagatoro stood by the wide glass window of a luxury apartment belonging to an upperclassman from the swim club, watching lightning arc across the darkening sky. She had expected a small, quiet hangout with a few girls, but the host had invited five other guys from the university soccer team. With the trains suspended due to flooding and the roads blocked, she was effectively trapped. The apartment was cavernous, filled with the heavy scent of three large pepperoni pizzas and the frantic, rhythmic sounds of a high-stakes gaming tournament. Nagatoro sat on the edge of the plush sectional, her Switch in handheld mode, trying to maintain her usual armor of cool, mocking indifference. "So, Nagatoro," one of the guys, a tall striker named Hiro, said as he leaned back, balancing a greasy slice of pizza. "We see you around campus all the time with that skinny art kid. The 'Senpai' guy with the glasses." Nagatoro didn't look up from her screen, though her fingers tightened slightly on the Joy-Cons. "What about him?" "Just wondering if you’re actually dating him," another guy added, sliding closer on the sofa until his knee brushed against hers. "You spend every waking hour hovering over him like a shadow. Is he your boyfriend or what?" Nagatoro let out a sharp, practiced laugh, though it felt hollow in the crowded, testosterone-heavy room. "Him? No way! He’s just a shy, spineless little Senpai I like to toy with. It’s not like that. He couldn't handle a girl like me anyway." The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The casual banter died down, replaced by a focused, predatory energy that made the air feel thick. The five guys exchanged slow, knowing looks. Without the perceived "claim" of her Senpai to shield her, the dynamic in the room transformed into something much more intense. "If you're not with him," Hiro said, his voice dropping an octave as he set his controller down on the glass table with a definitive *clack*, "then you're officially fair game, right?" Nagatoro felt a prickle of heat rise up her neck. She tried to muster a biting retort, a classic "gross" or a sharp jab to put them in their place, but the words caught in her throat. The sheer physical presence of five athletic guys surrounding her in the dim light was overwhelming. "I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered, focusing hard on the race on her screen, her heart hammering against her ribs. "We think you do," another guy whispered, reaching out to slowly trail a finger down the side of her neck. Nagatoro flinched, her breath hitching, but she didn't pull away. "You're always acting so tough, Nagatoro. But you're here, the rain is stopping anyone from leaving, and we're all very... interested." For a long time, she resisted. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, snapping at them to back off and calling them losers. But they didn't flinch. They moved closer, one of them putting a hand on her waist, another leaning in so close she could feel the heat radiating off him. They began to ask her more directly, their questions shedding any pretense of subtlety. "Does he even touch you like this?" Hiro asked, his hand moving firmly to her thigh. "Does he know what to do with a girl like you? Because we do." Nagatoro stared at the Switch, her vision blurring slightly. She thought of Naoto’s hesitant smiles and then looked at the confident, hungry expressions of the men around her. The weight of the situation, the isolation of the storm, and the constant, rhythmic pressure of their touch began to wear down her defenses. Her grip on the controller loosened. "I... I told you, he's nothing to me," she stammered, her voice losing its edge. "Then prove it," Hiro challenged, his face inches from hers. "Forget about the art gallery kid for one night. Stay here with us." She looked at the door, then back at the window where the rain continued to hammer down, sealing them into this private, heated world. The silent pressure of five sets of eyes waiting for her answer felt like a physical weight. Finally, she let out a long, shaky breath. The rebellious, teasing girl vanished, replaced by someone overwhelmed by the moment. She slowly reached out and set her Switch face-down on the coffee table, the screen clicking into sleep mode. "Fine," she whispered, her voice barely audible over a sudden crash of thunder. "Do whatever you want. I'm not going anywhere." The pizza box was pushed aside to make room. As the storm raged outside, shaking the very foundations of the building, the boundaries of the "sleepover" vanished entirely. The night became a blur of shared heat and frantic energy that lasted until the sun finally broke through the clouds the following morning. When the streets finally dried, Nagatoro left the apartment in the quiet dawn, her usual persona left somewhere behind in the rainy darkness of the night before.'
29

Nagatoro sleepover

blackhairedstudent
AI art "Asahina Casting"
23

Asahina Casting

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Doll House' with user description 'Saw a post by @kevinmight with some girl dolls and found it FUCKING amazing... so i decided to do one too'
25

Doll House

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Cyndel Randoms' with user description 'Not every idea I had with Cyndel was as thought out as I hoped. Here's some of my random generations of her in various encounters, jobs, with her sister, Celest and with Cherry Bomb.'
23

Cyndel Randoms

octavian
AI art 'Yor A night To Remember 2' with user description 'The room was subterranean, a concrete box that smelled of damp earth and cold iron. Yor was strapped into a chair, her wrists bound with reinforced steel cables that bit into her skin. Across from her, a man in a clinical white suit adjusted the needles of a polygraph machine, its sensors taped to Yor’s temples and chest. In the corner, a monitor flickered to life, showing a live feed of Anya sleeping in her bed at the Forger apartment. A masked operative stood over the child, a silenced pistol aimed at her head. "The rules are simple, Thorn Princess," the interrogator whispered, his voice smooth and devoid of empathy. "Tell me your most cherished memory. The one that makes your heart race, the one that defines you. If the needle jumps—if you lie for even a second to preserve your 'dignity'—my man pulls the trigger. Start talking." Yor looked at the screen, her pupils trembling. Her usual mask of polite reserve shattered. To save Anya, she had to peel back the layers of her life and reveal the raw, shameful truth she had buried beneath her role as a mother and a clerk. "It was... years ago," Yor began, her voice steady but hollow. "I received an invitation to a kindergarten reunion. I thought it was a chance to reconnect with my past. I went to a private residence, expecting a party, but I had forgotten a crucial detail about my childhood. I was the only girl in my class that year." The interrogator leaned in, watching the flat line of the polygraph. "Continue." "There were thirteen of them," Yor said, her eyes fixed on the image of Anya. "Thirteen men I used to play with as children. They didn't want to talk about the past. They told me that as the only girl, I was responsible for the happiness of the entire group. They were persuasive, circling me, telling me that after all my years of solitude and 'work,' I deserved to be completely possessed. And for the first time in my life... I wanted to be. I wanted to be used until there was nothing left of me." She took a breath, the needle remaining perfectly still. She was telling the truth. "I accepted. I let them strip me in the center of that room. For the entire night, I wasn't an assassin or a sister. I was a vessel. They treated my body like a public resource. At any given moment, I was being filled by three or four of them at once. I remember the weight of them, the relentless, heavy-caliber rhythm that stretched my anatomy beyond its limits. They weren't gentle; they were frantic, reclaiming the 'princess' they had lost." Yor’s face flushed, not with shame, but with the vivid, carnal memory of the sensation. "The night became a blur of white heat. They covered every inch of me. They were so thorough and so numerous that they didn't just stay with the usual places. They doused my face, my hair... I remember the smell of it on my nose, the stinging in my eyes as they took turns blinding me with their release. It was so much—the volume was so extreme—that I actually retched. I vomited back the sheer amount of 'friendship' they had forced down my throat, only for them to laugh and continue from behind while I was still choking on the floor." The polygraph stayed flat. The machine confirmed her darkest secret: the most cherished memory of the Thorn Princess was being utterly destroyed and communalized by thirteen men in a single night. "I have never felt so full," Yor whispered, a tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. "I felt seen. I felt occupied. I felt like I finally belonged to something larger than myself. That night of total, messy surrender is the only thing that feels real when the world gets too quiet." The interrogator stared at the machine, then at Yor, a look of genuine disgust crossing his face. He signaled to the man on the monitor. The operative lowered the gun and stepped away from Anya’s bed. "You really are a monster, aren't you?" the man remarked, turning off the polygraph. "No," Yor replied, her eyes returning to the cold, lethal sharpness of an assassin. "I'm just a woman who loves her family. And now that I’ve told you the truth... you’re going to find out what happens to people who threaten my daughter."'
28

Yor A night To Remember 2

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Mitsuru ❤️'
20

Mitsuru ❤️

blackhairedstudent
AI art "House of the Fallen - Chapter 3"
18

House of the Fallen - Chapter 3

octavian
AI art 'Yor casting' with user description 'The evening air in the Forger apartment was heavy with the scent of herbal tea and the ticking of the wall clock. Yor sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her fingers trembling as they traced the delicate floral pattern of her porcelain cup. She had been staring into the dark amber liquid for several minutes, her mind caught in the violent, messy transition between the "Thorn Princess" and the submissive wife of a psychiatrist. Finally, she took a shaky breath and looked toward Loid, who was reading a newspaper with his usual stoic composure. "Loid," she started, her voice a soft, nervous whisper that barely carried across the room. "There is something I’ve been keeping from you. Regarding the 'city hall' assignment that kept me out all night... the kidnapping. I haven't told you the full story of what happened in that warehouse." Loid set his newspaper down, his professional 'Twilight' mask immediately softening into that of the concerned, supportive husband. "You can tell me anything, Yor. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone." "I was undercover, tracking a ring of extremely dangerous men—a gang of rapists and human traffickers," Yor began, her eyes distant as she drifted back to the cold, damp concrete of the docks. "I allowed them to take me. It was the only way to find their base. When I woke up, I was in their warehouse, stripped of my dignity and suspended by my neck with a heavy silk cord. My toes could barely touch the floor, and every breath was a struggle. The leader—a man with cold, hungry eyes—was laughing. He kept saying how lucky they were to have caught someone so beautiful and 'innocent' like me." She took a sharp breath, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the tea cup. "Because I was suspended and the cord was tied to a pressure-sensitive alarm, I couldn't use my strength to break free without revealing my skills and alerting the rest of the gang before the setup was ready. I had to endure it, Loid. They were relentless. They took turns, using my body in every way imaginable—orally, vaginally, and anal. They treated me like a mindless toy, laughing and mocking me while I was forced to hang there, struggling for air while they hammered into me. It was... intense. I felt every moment of it, the heat, the friction, and the sheer weight of their depravity." Loid remained remarkably calm, his expression unreadable, though he reached out to place a reassuring hand on her knee. "But it was a trap," Yor continued, a flicker of her 'Thorn Princess' steel returning to her gaze. "I had hidden a high-frequency locator deep inside my anus before the capture. I knew they would search my clothes and even my mouth, but they never checked there. The police arrived just as the leader was finishing his second turn. They were all arrested and sent to the high-security black site. My superiors told me... they won't be coming out alive. They are to be executed for their crimes against the state." Yor looked at him, her face flushing a deep, painful crimson. "I'm so sorry, Loid. I had to let them do those things for the sake of the mission. I feel so ashamed as your wife, having been touched by such monsters." Loid reached out, gently taking her hand and squeezing it firmly. "Yor, look at me. It’s okay. In this line of work—in high-stakes security and intelligence—sometimes the mission demands a physical sacrifice. You did what you had to do to catch those monsters and save countless other women from their fate. I don't judge you for it. In fact, I admire your commitment to the job." Yor blinked, surprised by his easy, almost clinical acceptance of her ordeal. "In fact," Loid said, his voice dropping slightly as he leaned back into the sofa, "if I’m being honest, I’ve had to do the same many times before we ever met. During my long-term assignments abroad, specifically in the years before I moved to Berlint, I had to sleep with and seduce almost every target's wife to get the intel the agency needed. It was a standard protocol for deep-cover operations. It was just a tool, Yor. A means to an end. It doesn't mean anything beyond the objective." Yor’s eyes widened, her grip on her tea cup tightening until the porcelain groaned with a sharp *crick*. The soft, domestic atmosphere of the room shifted instantly. A dark, swirling aura of murderous jealousy began to radiate from her, though she kept her polite, practiced smile fixed on her face. Her pupils contracted into tiny points of red-hot focus. "Oh?" Yor whispered, her voice trembling with a different kind of intensity than before. "Almost *every* target’s wife, Loid? And that was all... 'before we met'? I see... I suppose we both have a lot of very interesting 'work' history to discuss in much more detail later tonight."'
22

Yor casting

blackhairedstudent
AI art "Tsunade Casting"
19

Tsunade Casting

blackhairedstudent
AI art "A night to Remember"
30

A night to Remember

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Rosalina Casting' with user description 'The campfire crackled softly between them, casting flickering orange shadows against the ancient ruins where they had made camp. Frieren was focused on a tattered grimoire, searching for a spell that supposedly removed moss from stone. Fern sat opposite her, fastidiously polishing her staff. After a long silence, she looked up, her expression as stoic as ever. "Mistress Frieren," Fern began, her voice clinical. "Do you remember the 'Church of the Eternal Font' we passed near the Auberst border? They offered a trial for mana expansion." Frieren didn't look up. "Mana is built through decades of study, Fern. Gimmicks are useless." "It wasn't a gimmick," Fern countered. "They told me that if a mage could remain in continuous, focused prayer for exactly three hours, their mana capacity would permanently expand. But there was a catch—the 'Testing of the Flesh.' The priests were permitted to do anything to break my concentration, provided they didn't use violence or magic." Frieren finally closed her book, curious. "And you accepted?" "I wanted to be stronger for you," Fern replied. "So, I entered the sanctum, knelt on the cold marble, and began the chant." Fern took a deep breath, her hands tightening on her staff. She began to describe the ordeal with a detached, rhythmic cadence. "The first hour was psychological, but then they began to touch. They removed my boots and used their tongues and soft feathers to lick and tickle my feet. It was an agonizing sensation, but I did not move. When they realized my spirit was firm, they became invasive. They stripped my robes. One priest knelt before me, forcing his member into my mouth for a deepthroat so intense I was gagging, my eyes watering from the pressure. I kept the prayer vibrating in my chest, even as he finished, his seed coating the back of my throat." Fern’s voice remained flat, despite the harrowing detail. "Then came the physical intrusion. I was pushed onto my hands and knees. One priest entered me from behind while another took my front—a double penetration that felt like I was being torn apart. They were relentless, using their fingers to stimulate me while hammering into my body, trying to force a scream from my lips. They used my body as a vessel for their lust. Licking every inch of my skin, biting my ears, and eventually, several gathered for a bukkake. I felt the warm, sticky weight of their release hitting my face and hair. They even used my anal passage, a searing intrusion that made my breath hitch. But I remembered your lessons. I treated the sensations as nothing more than external noise." Fern looked Frieren directly in the eyes. "For three hours, I was a statue. When the final bell chimed, they stopped. I stood up, cleaned myself with a cantrip, and walked out." "And?" Frieren asked softly. "I felt it," Fern said, a small ghost of a smile appearing. "A violent expansion. My mana capacity is significantly larger now. It was the most difficult training I have ever endured." Frieren was quiet for a long time. Then, she reached out and patted Fern’s head with clumsy affection. "You really are a pervert about magic, Fern," Frieren said with a hint of pride. "To go that far just for power... you’re starting to remind me of Master Flamme." Fern huffed, her familiar pout returning. "It was a calculated decision, Mistress Frieren." "If you say so," Frieren murmured, reopening her book. "But next time, ask me. I have a spell for mana growth that involves bitter herbs. It’s much less... messy." "Now you tell me," Fern muttered, returning to her polishing as the secret finally settled in the quiet night air.'
20

Rosalina Casting

blackhairedstudent
Idioma
Vista
Imágenes en cuadrícula
Autocompletar prompt
Filtrado de contenido
Ayuda y soporte
icono de reclamo diario: el vaso está vacío
Reclamo diario
Hoy
S
+3
M
+4
T
+5
W
+6
T
+7
F
+8
S
+9
¡Reclama a diario para conseguir créditos extra!
icono de reclamo diario: un cubo lleno de oro
Paquetes de créditos

Recargar créditos

NEW
icono de misiones
Misiones

Completa misiones para ganar créditos