1,224
male masturbation

male masturbation

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breasts1girlblushheterolong hairuncensoredpenisnipplesnudesolo focusmultiple boyserectioncompletely nudelarge breastsindoorspussyblack hairgroup sexnavelpubic hairsexcumsweatmale pubic hairopen mouthtesticleslooking at viewergangbangasscum on body
AI art 'Snow Gangbang' with user description 'Some hot cold scenes ❤️'
14

Snow Gangbang

blackhairedstudent
AI art "Fern Gangbang"
24

Fern Gangbang

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Nagatoro Bukkake'
30

Nagatoro Bukkake

blackhairedstudent
AI art "A Nightclub Memory"
30

A Nightclub Memory

dreamerofdreams
AI art 'DarkRoom Gangbang'
29

DarkRoom Gangbang

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Revy Gangbang' with user description 'The deal was simple, if i make all of their cocks soft from cumming they would let me walk way, there was no other choice so I accepted the deal. They said they would use violence, I said I that i love violence. Dozens of Balalaika’s soldiers, guards, and hired thugs gathered around me in the dim, flickering lights, their eyes filled with ugly hunger as they closed in. I lifted my chin and forced a wide, cocky smirk across my face, planting my boots firmly on the ground. “That all you Russian dogs have? I’m Revy, Two Hands. I’ve killed more men than you’ve had hot meals. Come on, you limp-dicked fucks! I can take every single one of you and still walk out of here laughing my ass off. Let’s see what you’ve got!” They started snapping photos right away, flashes popping like cheap fireworks as I posed defiantly — chest out, legs apart, middle finger raised high. The first wave of men grabbed at me. I headbutted one hard, tasting blood on my lips, and laughed loudly. “Harder, you pathetic assholes! This is nothing but a warm-up for me!” But the hours dragged on and on. They kept rotating, never giving me a real break. I quickly noticed the drugs they were using — some nasty Roanapur chemical shit. These bastards would grunt, cum thick loads deep inside my cunt, my ass, and down my throat… then their gigantic cocks would swell back up rock-hard again in seconds, veins bulging, ready for more without any downtime. They ripped my tank top off, exposing my breasts to the cameras. My shorts followed, torn away violently. One by one they yanked off my combat boots. A grinning thug peeled off my sweaty sock and forced it deep into my mouth, the sour, filthy taste making me gag and choke. “Open wide, bitch,” one growled. A monstrous, wrist-thick cock pushed down my throat, stretching my jaw painfully and bulging my neck. I choked but tried to glare up with pure hate. At the same time, two others spread my legs wide and slammed into my pussy and ass together, pounding me brutally while cum leaked down my thighs in sticky streams. The wet, relentless slapping sounds filled the cell, mixed with the constant click of cameras. Then the voices changed. They became soft, almost gentle, which made it so much worse. “Good girl… Drink it all up, girl.” A rough hand stroked my matted hair almost tenderly while the cock continued fucking my face. “You can take it. You’re such a strong little girl.” Those words cut straight through me like a hot knife. Strong little girl. Suddenly I was thrown back into memories I tried so hard to bury. That roach-filled Chinatown apartment, the dim light swinging overhead. My father’s drunken breath on my neck, his heavy body pinning my small frame as he whispered the same sick shit: “Strong little girl, take it for daddy.” The pain, the locked door, my useless little hands pushing against him. Then the crooked cops in the back alley, passing me around under the streetlights, laughing softly with the exact same tone — “Good girl, drink it all up.” The helplessness I thought I had burned away with every bullet I ever fired. Tears started stinging my eyes. I tried to snarl and fight around the thick shaft destroying my throat, but my body began shaking uncontrollably. They flipped me around like a broken toy — one hammering my ass, another wrecking my pussy, the third forcing even deeper down my gagging throat. More photos flashed. More cum flooded every part of me. “Good girl, Revy. Take our cocks. You’re doing so well, strong little girl.” I shattered inside. Real panic exploded through me. Tears poured down my face as I sobbed helplessly around the cock choking me. I wasn’t the tough Two Hands anymore. I was just that scared little girl from Manhattan again, small, worthless, and leaking everywhere while monsters used me. The old trauma mixed with the present until I couldn’t tell them apart. My tough shell was gone, replaced by raw fear and broken sobs. They kept going for what felt like forever, whispering those creepy praises, slapping my ass, twisting my nipples, filling me over and over. My mind spun into darkness, body twitching from forced orgasms that hurt more than they pleasured. But then something deep inside me snapped back — the pure rage that had kept me alive all these years clawed its way through the pain. With a muffled scream, I twisted hard against the cuffs on the rough floor until a link finally gave way. I grabbed a dropped pistol from the ground. Chaos erupted. I started firing wildly, headshots dropping the first two guys instantly. Naked, covered in cum and sweat, I laughed through my tears as I snatched another gun. “You thought you broke me, you fucks?!” I roared. Bullets flew as I tore through the rest of them, shooting, stabbing ripping them with my hands. The little girl inside me was still crying but revy two hand was back. Balalaika would hear about this soon enough. Revenge is sweet and i was just getting started'
30

Revy Gangbang

blackhairedstudent
AI art "Louise's Shower"
30

Louise's Shower

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

Cyndel Vale needs money (Remastered)

octavian
AI art 'Voyage to Rivermoor - The Legend of Dalia' with user description 'The journey to the port of Nightvale took three days. Dalia arrived at the bustling harbor. The smell of salt, fish, and tar hung heavy in the air. Tall masts creaked in the wind as ships rocked gently at the docks. Dalia walked through the crowded waterfront until they found the vessel they had been directed to: The Crimson Tide, a large, weathered merchant ship bound for Rivermoor. Old Captain Talos stood on the gangplank. He looked the group over slowly, his gaze lingering on each woman before settling on Dalia. “You want passage?” he asked, voice rough from years at sea. “We’re sailing with the tide tonight. But passage on the sea isn’t cheap.” Dalia stepped forward, her golden glow carefully muted. “I carry the King’s gold. Name your price.” Talos let out a low, humorless chuckle and shook his head. “Gold means nothing once we leave sight of land, little lady. Out there, the only currency that matters is flesh. If you want to sail on The Crimson Tide, you pay with sex. Every single day of the voyage. You will be available to the crew. Sixty men. They work hard. They fuck harder. You’ll serve them whenever and however they want.” “It’s a fifteen-day voyage across the sea,” Dalia said plainly. "I know," Talos responded. "These are the terms, Vicar." “I accept your terms, Captain. Fifteen days. I expect to be fed and not beaten. In return, you will take me safely to Rivermoor.” Talos grinned, eyes raking over the beautiful woman. “Smart choice, Princess. Welcome aboard The Crimson Tide.” He gestured toward the ship. The crew of sixty rough, hungry sailors watched from the deck with open lust as the woman began to board. As soon as the ship cleared the harbor and the last strip of land disappeared over the horizon, the rules changed. The crew of sixty men wasted no time. The gang-fucking began immediately and without mercy. The fifteen-day voyage had officially begun. Dalia closed her eyes, already mentally preparing herself for the long days and nights ahead. The lower galley of The Crimson Tide had become a nonstop orgy of flesh and cum. The sailors were relentless. There was no rest, no mercy, no breaks. As soon as one man finished, another took his place — sometimes two or three at once. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, sex, and salt. The wet, obscene sounds of cocks slamming into soaked holes, gagging throat sounds, and slapping skin filled the entire lower deck. On the fifteenth morning, the Crimson Tide finally sighted land. As the ship docked at the small port near Rivermoor, the exhausted woman stood at the railing, breathing in the fresh air like it was salvation. She got off at the Rivermoor Dock, sore, exhausted but closer to her objective. “I endured more than anyone should have to. Tomorrow I begin the search for the temple near here. But tonight… I recover.” @parda @bad77 @barry915 @kendarfulgrim @murcie @warmicestudios @cef_ultra @peterco @terror2 @blackhairedstudent'
30

Voyage to Rivermoor - The Legend of Dalia

octavian
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 '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 'Art Room Gangbang' with user description 'The flyers for the special Sunday seminar had been posted outside the art room for a week, and Hayase Nagatoro, despite her usual chaotic energy, had signed her name with genuine intent. She wanted to improve her sketches, perhaps to surprise a certain upperclassman with a portrait that didn't rely on her usual exaggerated, cartoonish teasing. The advertisement promised instruction from a collective of independent, seasoned art masters. What it neglected to mention was the specific nature of the curriculum. When Nagatoro arrived at the isolated campus annex that Sunday morning, the atmosphere was heavy and unfamiliar. The blinds were drawn tightly against the daylight, and the scent of turpentine was masked by a thick, musky odor. Standing around the easels were five men, all of them far older, rough-featured, and unkempt, looking entirely out of place in a high school setting. "Ah, our model has arrived," the eldest one murmured, his voice a low, raspy drawl that immediately made the hair on Nagatoro’s arms stand up. Nagatoro blinked, her usual smug grin faltering. "Model? Wait, I signed up to take the class, not to be looked at." She stepped back toward the heavy wooden door. "I think there’s been a mistake. I’m leaving." "Now, now, don't be hasty," another instructor said, moving with surprising speed to block her path. His face was weathered and harsh, but his voice carried a smooth, persuasive cadence. "The best way to understand art is to become the art. True mastery requires vulnerability. You signed the registry, didn't you? A real artist doesn't run away from the medium." Nagatoro hesitated, her fingers twitching against her school bag. The situation felt wrong, dark, and entirely outside her comfort zone, yet beneath the initial spark of panic, a strange, illicit thrill began to hum in her chest. She was used to being the provocateur, the one who dictated the boundaries of discomfort. To find herself suddenly cornered by men who completely disregarded her status was uniquely intoxicating. "Fine," she scoffed, recovering her sharp, feline expression. She crossed her arms, trying to mask the slight trembling of her knees. "But if your drawings look like garbage, I’m out of here." She stepped onto the raised wooden platform in the center of the room. The men took their places behind the easels, their eyes locked onto her with a intensity that felt almost physical. For the first hour, the only sound was the scratching of charcoal against paper. But as the temperature in the room rose, the atmosphere shifted from academic to predatory. The lead instructor laid down his charcoal, his eyes narrowing as he unbuckled his belt. Slowly, he pulled his penis from his pants, the stark, vulgar reality of the gesture cutting through the silence of the room. Following his lead, the other four men did the same, exposing themselves to the teenager standing on the stage. Nagatoro’s eyes widened, but instead of screaming, her defense mechanism kicked in. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh, her classic "noodly" arms flailing as she pointed at them. "Gross! What is wrong with you old guys? You look completely pathetic! Is this what you call 'art'?" She turned to grab her clothes, determined to push past them. "This is way too creepy, even for me. I’m done." Before she could step off the platform, a pair of thick, calloused hands gripped her shoulders. The largest of the men, smelling of stale sweat and tobacco, held her firmly in place. Nagatoro twisted, her heart hammering against her ribs, but her struggles only seemed to fuel their resolve. "You're not going anywhere, little girl," the man whispered, his rough fingers slipping beneath her top to cup her breasts, squeezing with an unrefined force that made her gasp. Another hand reached down, sliding between her thighs to press directly against her panties, finding the sudden, betraying moisture that had gathered there despite her mockery. "Look at you," the lead instructor whispered, leaning close enough for her to feel his hot breath. "You're terrified, but you're already wet. You want this. You want to see what real men can do to a loud little brat like you." They kept touching her, their hands mapping her body with a coarse, relentless persistence, completely ignoring her insults until the insults died in her throat. The physical contact, combined with the sheer ugliness and dominance of the men, broke through her final defenses. The fear inverted into a desperate, overwhelming craving. She stopped fighting, her eyes growing glazed as she nodded, entirely convinced. The class dissolved into a chaotic, rhythmic frenzy. The five men moved onto the platform, stripping her completely and using her body as their communal canvas. Nagatoro was forced onto all fours, her hands gripping the edges of the wooden stage as they took turns from every angle, filling her with their collective heat. The rhythm was brutal and unyielding, a complete gangbang that left her trembling.'
24

Art Room Gangbang

blackhairedstudent
AI art 'Hiyoko Casting' with user description 'The fluorescent lights of the terminal hummed with a sterile, soul-crushing boredom that I absolutely adored. I adjusted my sunglasses, my fingers drumming against the handle of a vibrant green suitcase. It was heavy—unusually heavy for a carry-on—but I pulled it with a skip in my step. Inside, tucked away like a precious, foul-mouthed doll, was Hiyoko Saionji. The flight was a blur of despair-filled anticipation. By the time I reached the humid, nameless country and navigated the back alleys to the rendezvous point—a derelict warehouse smelling of salt and rot—my skin was tingling. A group of men stood there, the kind of bottom-feeders that society tries to pretend don't exist. Sexual offenders, outcasts, the worst of the worst. Perfect. "You brought the package?" the leader grunted, eyeing the green case. "Oh, better than that," I purred, dropping to my knees. "I brought an appetizer." I didn't waste time. I moved from one man to the next, my hands and mouth working with a manic, despair-inducing precision. I did fellatio on every single member of the gang, watching their eyes glaze over with a mix of lust and confusion. I wanted them primed. I wanted them hungry. I wanted their blood pumping and their primal instincts screaming for the main course. By the time I stood up, wiping my lip with a wicked grin, the room was thick with the scent of musk and anticipation. "Enjoy the dessert," I giggled, blowing them a kiss as I stepped out into the night, leaving the suitcase behind. ### Hiyoko’s POV The world was dark, cramped, and cold. I had been curled in that suitcase for hours, completely naked, my skin pressed against the hard lining. I could hear the muffled sounds of Junko’s voice, the wet, rhythmic noises of her "service," and then... a final, chilling silence. The suitcase tipped over with a thud. The zipper rasped, a jagged line of light cutting through my dark prison. The lid flipped open. I blinked against the harsh glare of a single hanging bulb. I didn't reach for anything to cover myself—I didn't have anything. I was exposed, vulnerable, and exactly where I wanted to be. Surrounding me was a wall of men—rough, scarred, and completely aroused. I looked up from my position on the floor and saw a forest of penises, angry and engorged, hovering just inches from my face. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild, rhythmic drumming that echoed in my ears. They didn't waste a second. Rough hands hauled my naked body out of the case. They moved with a practiced, brutal efficiency, binding my bare limbs in intricate BDSM ropes. The coarse hemp bit into my soft, unprotected skin, pulling me taut until my back arched and my body was displayed like a piece of meat on a hook. "Look at this little thing," one of them hissed, his hand calloused as it roamed over my stomach. "She's been waiting for us." Then, the onslaught began. Because I was already naked, there was no barrier, no delay. They used me in every way possible—orally, vaginally, and anal. I was a vessel for their collective depravity. The friction was relentless, the weight of their massive bodies crushing the air from my lungs. I was gagged, my cries muffled as they took turns, sometimes two or three at once, filling every available space I had. The humiliation was absolute; the physical sensation was an overwhelming tide of heat and pressure that made my vision swim. But as a thick, hot wave of their release coated my bare skin and filled my throat, a thought flickered through the haze of my mind. Junko thought she was breaking me. She thought she was throwing me into the pit of despair by selling my naked, helpless body to these monsters. But as I felt the rough rope burn against my thighs and the sheer power of these men tearing into me, I couldn't help the secret, internal thrill. This was exactly what I had asked for. I had been the one to whisper the idea to Junko weeks ago, feigning fear while planting the seed of this "betrayal." The kidnapping, the suitcase, the naked delivery—it was all my design. Every sting of the rope and every monstrous stretch was a fulfillment of the one fetish I could never tell the other Ultimates about. As the leader gripped my hair and forced me down once more, I didn't feel despair. I felt a twisted, ecstatic sense of victory.'
22

Hiyoko Casting

blackhairedstudent
AI art "Robin Casting"
25

Robin Casting

blackhairedstudent
AI art "Soulless Suka"
18

Soulless Suka

octavian
AI art "Shampoo"
20

Shampoo

zuzul
AI art 'Steins;Gate' with user description 'Part I: The Observer Effect ​The Organization’s trap was subtle: a single bed in a cramped Akihabara hotel. I, Hououin Kyouma, was relegated to the floor, my lab coat a meager shield against the cold. Sleep was impossible; every time I drifted off, Kurisu’s chaotic sleeping posture snapped me back. Her heels struck my jaw, and her shins found my ribs with a precision that felt like a localized spatial distortion. ​Finally, a heavy strike to my nose sent stars dancing across my vision. I stood up, fuming, ready to lecture the "Assistant" on basic human boundaries. But the moonlight caught her in a way that silenced my pride. She was flushed, her breathing a series of ragged, desperate hitches. Her hand was buried deep in her shorts, moving with a frantic urgency. The genius girl was lost in a dream of her own making, her hips rocking against her own palm in a raw display of honesty. ​The sight hit me like a physical blow. My blood turned to molten lead, rushing south with a pressure that threatened to burst my very veins. If she could be this uninhibited, this real in the dead of night, then I would match her intensity. I fumbled with my belt, freeing my member—a monstrously large, pulsing monolith that stood dark and heavy in the pale light. I began to stroke myself, my eyes locked on her trembling form. ​Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. The silence was absolute. She stared directly at me—and then at the sheer, impossible scale of what I was holding. ​"OKABE! YOU—YOU ABSOLUTE, DEGENERATE, SEAMY PERVERT!" she shrieked, her face turning a color that defied the laws of optics. "What is that?! Why is it so huge?! Were you actually standing there, watching me, with... with that thing out?! I knew it! You’re a stain on the scientific community!" ​I scrambled to cover myself, my face burning. "Assistant! I can explain! It’s a biological response to your physical assault!" But she didn't look away. Her anger was masking a dark, rising curiosity. The experiment took an irreversible turn. ​Part II: The Subjective Reality ​I was frozen as Kurisu reached out. Her fingers wrapped around the velvet-soft heat of me. "How is this possible?" she breathed. Before I could answer, she leaned in, her red hair cascading over my thighs. She plunged her head down, gagging as she fought to master the intrusion. I watched, my jaw tight, as she swallowed the entire length, her throat working against the sheer bulk of me until I hit the very back. ​When she pulled back, gasping, she stripped and straddled me. She pressed her small, pale foot against my length to measure; I was visibly longer than her foot. She teased me with her soles, driving my arousal into a fever pitch, before she guided my tip to her entrance and sank down. ​The fullness was absolute. As she pushed down with a surreal energy, I looked down at her lower abdomen—my eyes widened as I saw the distinct protrusion of my own shape through her skin. It was a sight of total, beautiful corruption. The friction was too much; I surged, flooding her with a hot, heavy release. ​"Again," she pleaded, her voice a ragged rasp. "I want to be filled... everywhere." ​I watched her turn, offering her smaller, tighter port. When I entered her anus, it was a searing, pressurized conquest. I filled her until she felt like she would burst, her body molding to my staggering girth. Finally, she moved back to my face. ​She took me into her throat one last time, welcoming the suffocation. I pushed deep, my hand wrapping around her neck to feel the vibration of her breath. I could feel the head of my penis deep in her gullet, a sensation of ultimate depth and power. I fired a final, violent torrent so powerful it overflowed, spilling from her mouth and nose in a white, messy eclipse of her dignity. ​Part III: The Resultant (Makise Kurisu’s Perspective) ​My brain was offline. The logical, cynical Makise Kurisu had been replaced by something raw and starving. Taking him behind... it felt like being split open from the inside out. It was a tight, searing fullness that made my vision spark. When he released inside me there, it felt like a heavy, internal brand—a mark of ownership that went deeper than skin. ​But the throat... that was the final test. When I took him in that last time, I felt his hand on my neck, grounding me as he pushed deep. I felt the stretch, the suffocating, wonderful pressure of him filling my windpipe. I didn't care about the air. I only cared about the moment he broke. ​The taste, the heat, the sheer volume of him hitting the back of my throat was overwhelming. I felt it rising, overflowing, a literal flood that I couldn't contain. It felt like I was being drowned in him, and I loved every terrifying second of it. ​Now, I can’t move. My limbs feel like lead, and my skin is humming with a dull, blissful ache. I’m covered in the evidence of our madness, too weak to even reach for a towel. I look at Okabe—my "Mad Scientist"—and I feel a terrifyingly deep satisfaction.'
23

Steins;Gate

blackhairedstudent
AI art "She was not expecting that much!! 😈"

She was not expecting that much!! 😈

bad77
AI art "Office Lady's meeting with CEO and his friend"
30

Office Lady's meeting with CEO and his friend

salazar01
AI art "Kitagawa Marin"
13

Kitagawa Marin

lorezioezio69
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