822

lifting person

lifting person

0 Follower

AI art "Marin Dark Room Gangbang"

30

Marin Dark Room Gangbang

blackhairedstudent

AI art 'Tsunade Dark Room'

18

Tsunade Dark Room

blackhairedstudent

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

25

Cyndel Vale needs money 8 (ft. Captain Nemesis)

AI art 'Fun at school' with user description 'Marin Kitagawa and Yukino Yukinoshita participating in some extracurricular work.'

19

Fun at school

AI art "Cyndel Vale needs money 5"

24

Cyndel Vale needs money 5

AI art "[Request] Weekend Getaway with Michelle"

30

[Request] Weekend Getaway with Michelle

dreamerofdreams

AI art "Yor Dark Room ❤️"

20

Yor Dark Room ❤️

blackhairedstudent

AI art "More Fire Emblem Girls 3"

29

More Fire Emblem Girls 3

AI art "Yor Briar LONG DICKED"

15

Yor Briar LONG DICKED

AI art 'Power Dark Room'

20

Power Dark Room

blackhairedstudent

AI art 'Fern ❤️' with user description 'The night air in the Northern Lands was sharp enough to draw blood, a biting chill that usually signaled the presence of something ancient and hungry. Frieren sat by a dying campfire, her eyes fixed on a tattered map, while Fern stood in the long shadows cast by the ruins they had claimed for the night. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the occasional crackle of wood.
"Mistress Frieren," Fern began, her voice steady despite the rapid, frantic pounding of her heart against her ribs. "The demon terrorizing this province is not a simple predator. My investigations confirmed a much more disturbing reality. He doesn't just kill for sustenance; he obsesses. He has a fixation—a fetish—for you. He has been enslaving human girls, styling their hair to match yours, and forcing them into a life of servitude in his sanctum. But he doesn't just want a copy. He wants the Legend."
Frieren looked up, her green eyes reflecting the fading embers. "It's a troublesome trap, Fern. A mana-dampening field like the one surrounding his lair makes a direct magical assault suicide. We should wait for him to emerge for his next hunt."
"We don't have time. Another girl was taken tonight, and the villagers say his 'consecration' rituals usually end in the victim's death once his obsession fades," Fern countered, stepping fully into the light. "I have studied his patterns. He lets his guard down only during the act of intimacy. He enters a trance of pure, hedonistic focus where his mana suppression falters. This is the only way, Mistress. I look enough like you that in the dim, incense-heavy light of his lair, he won't know the difference. I will go in. I will endure him, and when he is at his most vulnerable—at the very moment of his release—I will execute him with a point-blank Zoltraak."
Frieren’s eyes narrowed. "Fern, do you truly understand the gravity of this? He is a monster of the old era."
"I am a mage," Fern said, her eyes burning with resolve. "My body is a tool for the peace of this land. Please... let me protect the people."
The demon’s sanctum smelled of old parchment, sulfur, and a heavy, cloying musk. Fern, her hair styled with painstaking precision to mimic her mentor’s, was not shackled; the demon preferred his "Frieren" to be a willing participant in his fantasy. He was a towering figure of darkness, but as he approached her, his movements were surprisingly slow, almost reverent.
"Frieren..." the demon whispered, his clawed hand gently stroking her hair. "Finally, the Silver Witch of the South is mine to mold."
He dropped to his knees before her, his touch almost tender as he pressed against her lips. Fern closed her eyes and opened her mouth, accepting him. She gagged slightly as the sheer, demonic size of him filled her, but the demon was patient, moving with a rhythmic, gentle suction that forced her to accommodate his staggering girth.
When he was satisfied, he lifted her onto a stone altar. He moved with a steady, agonizingly slow pressure as he entered her anal passage first. The stretch was immense, a monstrous fullness that made her vision swim, but as he began to move, his pace was hypnotic. He then shifted, guiding his length into her pussy while maintaining a physical connection to her rear with his hands. Soon, he was using both her anal and vaginal paths continuously, a deep, rhythmic movement that filled her entire core with a dark, pulsating heat.
The sensation began to change. Against her will, Fern felt her body betraying her mission. The slow, rhythmic friction and the demon's unnatural warmth were too much for her mortal nerves to ignore. She reached her first climax, a silent, shaking peak. The demon hammered into her, but it wasn't a brutal assault—it was a deep, soul-shaking connection. Fern reached a second, even more violent climax as he continued his steady, gentle pace, her body arching off the stone in a spasm of pure pleasure.
Finally, the demon’s breathing hitched. His movements became frantic as he reached the peak of his obsession. He let out a guttural moan, his body tensing. At that exact microsecond, the mana-dampening field flickered.
Fern didn't hesitate. Her eyes snapped open, glowing with a cold, murderous light. Her hand pointed directly at his throat.
"Zoltraak," she whispered.
A beam of pure killing magic erupted, vaporizing his head and chest. The weight on her back vanished. Fern lay on the altar for a long time before cleaning herself and walking out to where Frieren was waiting.
Frieren wrapped her cloak around Fern’s shoulders, noting the flush on her apprentice’s cheeks. Fern looked down, her voice a soft, honest whisper. "Mistress... that devil was very experienced. He... he made me cum two times."
Frieren was silent for a moment, then she simply pulled Fern closer. "Let's find a bathhouse, Fern. You've done enough."'

23

Fern ❤️

blackhairedstudent

AI art "Lamu 2 : a girl full of lightness"

30

Lamu 2 : a girl full of lightness

AI art 'Futawolf Frenzy: Breeding Season' with user description 'Gonna be a whole new tribe of werewolves before the year is out...~'

8

Futawolf Frenzy: Breeding Season

AI art 'Mahiru Casting' with user description 'The tropical humidity of Jabberwock Island was suffocating as Mahiru Koizumi stood in the shadow of the Monokuma Rock. Across from her, Junko Enoshima leaned back against a jagged stone, her eyes dancing with a manic, bored hunger. She wasn't just a participant in the game; she was the architect, the voice behind the bear, and the one holding Mahiru’s entire past in her hands.
"You're so responsible, Mahiru-chan," Junko drawled, tossing a thick folder of Mahiru’s childhood photos—the only ones left of her late mother—over a small fire pit. "But being 'big sister' is just a mask for how much you fear being used. I don't need to tell Monokuma anything. I *am* the despair you're running from. If you want these memories back before they turn to ash, you’re going to give me a show that proves you’re nothing more than a fleshy prop."
Junko reached into a bag and tossed a garment at Mahiru’s feet. It was a transparent, mesh-string bikini that offered zero coverage, meant only to highlight every inch of her skin. "Put it on. We’re going to the beach, and I’ve invited fifty 'Islander NPCs' who are very, very hungry for a freckled little toy."
The negotiation was a slaughter. Mahiru, desperate to save the only link to her mother, stepped into the water under the pale moon, her body fully visible through the clear fabric. The fifty men were already there, a wall of shadowed, silent muscle. As soon as she stepped onto the sand, she was swarmed.
The ordeal was a masterpiece of sensory destruction. Mahiru was immediately seized, dozens of hands grabbing and gropping her freckled body, their fingers digging into her pale skin as they fought for a piece of her. The transparent bikini was a cruel joke, drawing their eyes to exactly where they intended to invade.
"Please... there's so many of you..." Mahiru’s plea was cut short as a man forced himself into her mouth, gagging her with his girth.
It was a systematic hollowing. At any given moment, she was being filled by three men—one in her mouth, one in her pussy, and one stretching her anal passage to its absolute limit. The scale was staggering. As each man finished, he was instantly replaced. Mahiru was a communal vessel, a raw, aching piece of meat being processed by a relentless assembly line. The men gropped her breasts and thighs, their rough palms reddening her freckled skin until she was a map of their collective greed.
By the fourth hour, the "responsible" girl was gone. In her place was a sobbing, arching mess. The friction of the sand and the relentless, heavy-caliber intrusions turned her core into a throbbing, distended void. She felt the rhythmic, animalistic thud of fifty men’s lust, her anatomy forced to accommodate diameters it was never meant to house.
The bukkake sessions were the final insult; every few minutes, a group would surround her, drenching her face and her transparent bikini in a cooling, white deluge that blinded her. She was a living monument to submission, a "Big Sister" reduced to a leaking orifice.
When dawn broke, the men vanished, leaving Mahiru collapsed on the shoreline. Her legs trembled violently, and her core felt like an empty, ruined hall, her body permanently loosened and inflamed.
Junko stepped onto the sand, her heels sinking into the grit. She looked down at Mahiru—covered in filth, her freckled body bruised and leaking, the transparent bikini ruined and hanging off one hip—and let out a delighted, jagged laugh.
"Wow, Mahiru! You really are just a hole after all!" Junko giggled, tossing the folder of photos onto the sand. "You look so *despair-inducing*! I love how the 'Ultimate Photographer' ended up as the 'Ultimate Beach Whore.' Seeing fifty men use you like a public utility was the highlight of my week!"
Mahiru reached for the photos with a shaky hand, her voice a hollow, broken rasp. "I... I have her back." She looked at the ocean, the evidence of fifty men leaking from her ravaged body and staining the pristine sand. "I thought I captured the world... but tonight, the world finally captured me. I’m not a sister anymore. I’m just a hole the island used and discarded."'

22

Mahiru Casting

blackhairedstudent

AI art "Yor casting"

22

Yor casting

blackhairedstudent

AI art "Tsunade Casting"

19

Tsunade Casting

blackhairedstudent

AI art 'Compromising Positions' with user description 'Sometimes, you just can’t wait.'

22

Compromising Positions

AI art "Futa Yamato Letting Loose With the Straw Hat Girls (Nami, Robin)"

9

Futa Yamato Letting Loose With the Straw Hat Girls (Nami, Robin)

westwoodjames2016

AI art 'Mukuro Casting' with user description 'The air in the bedroom was cloying, smelling of strawberry-scented air freshener and old, festering grief. Mukuro Ikusaba lay on a frilly, pink duvet, her limbs as heavy as lead. She had been captured during a routine sweep; she hadn't expected a localized EMP trap and a high-grade neurotoxin dart hidden in a common mailbox. It was a sloppy mistake for the Ultimate Soldier, but even she hadn't accounted for the suicidal desperation of a man with nothing left to lose.
The father stood over her, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with a terrifying, manic hope. Beside him stood his son, who looked at Mukuro with a mixture of loathing and hollow obedience. "This was my daughter’s room," the father whispered, gesturing to the stuffed animals lining the shelves. "She died in the blast you set. You erased her future. So, you’re going to give it back. You’re going to stay in this room, and you’re going to give me another daughter. You’ll stay alive until she’s born and celebrates her first birthday. Until then, you’re just a vessel."
He leaned down, his voice trembling. "I’ve given you a high-dose muscular relaxant. You can’t fight. You’ll feel every moment of what comes next, but you won't be able to lift a finger to stop us."
For nine months, the pink room became a sensory prison. Mukuro lived in a state of chemical paralysis, her body forced to endure the relentless, grief-fueled assaults of the father and the quiet, bitter turns taken by the son. She watched her own body change, her abdomen swelling with a life she never asked for. Even as her belly became a massive, taut curve that made every breath a struggle, they didn't stop. They treated her like a communal womb, their lust fueled by the twisted logic of replacing the dead.
The father’s face was a mask of jagged, weeping lines as he leaned over Mukuro’s paralyzed form during the final weeks of her confinement. He didn’t touch her with lust; he touched her with a cold, possessive resentment, his hand pressing firmly against her distended navel.
"How many, Mukuro?" he whispered, his breath smelling of bitter coffee and despair. "How many children were in that elementary school when you triggered the blast? Did you hear them? Did you hear the sound of the future being snuffed out in a single second? My daughter had a lead role in the spring play. She was supposed to be a princess. Now she's just ash in a jar on my mantel."
Mukuro’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling, the muscular relaxant keeping her a silent witness to his breakdown.
"You think this is a punishment?" the father continued, his voice cracking as he unbuckled his belt for the sixth time that day. "This is a mercy. You killed a world, so I’m making you build a new one. But don't think for a second that this makes us even. You deserve worse than this. You deserve to be used until your bones turn to dust. You deserve to be nothing more than a hole that never closes, a vessel that never empties. Every time my son and I take turns on you, I imagine I’m reclaiming a piece of the life you stole."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "My son hates you even more than I do. He doesn't see a girl; he sees the monster that took his sister. When he's inside you, he isn't looking for pleasure. He's looking for revenge. And I’m going to make sure he gets it, every single day, until that baby girl is born and we finally have our family back."
Then, the door didn't open for a feeding—it exploded.
Junko Enoshima stepped over the charred remains of the father and son, her heels clicking on the pink carpet. She looked down at Mukuro, who lay there with her nine-month belly exposed, her eyes tracking her sister with a flicker of recognition.
"Hey, Sis! Wow, look at you," Junko chirped, poking Mukuro’s stomach with a manicured finger. "You’ve really grown into the role of 'Traumatized Broodmother.' It’s such a look! I was actually going to bust you out on day one, you know? But then I heard that guy’s plan through the hidden mics, and I thought it would be just *delicious* to be an auntie!"
Mukuro’s voice was a dry, unused rasp as the relaxant finally began to wear off. "You... you could have saved me months ago. After I got pregnant... why did you wait?"
Junko let out a high-pitched laugh. "Oh, Mukuro! I was just dying to see how long that man's despair could actually last! I mean, watching him try to replace a dead kid with a new one while staying totally obsessed with using you? Pure art! I had to see the limit of his desperation. He really leaned into that whole 'you deserve worse' angle—it was so dramatic, so cliché, so *perfectly* despair-inducing!"
She leaned in, a mischievous smirk on her face. "Besides, I figured your pussy must be absolutely legendary for them to keep coming back for more! I mean, they fucked you more than five times every single day for nine months straight! That’s over thirteen hundred sessions, Sis! If your pussy is that tasty, I couldn't just cut the 'buffet' line short, right?'

20

Mukuro Casting

blackhairedstudent

AI art "I am sorry Master"

20

I am sorry Master

Langue

Affichage

Grille d'images

Autocomplétion du prompt

Filtrage du contenu

icône de réclamation quotidienne : verre vide

Réclamation quotidienne

Aujourd'hui

T

+3

W

+3

T

+4

F

+4

S

+5

S

+5

M

+6

Réclame chaque jour pour faire grandir ta série.

icône de réclamation quotidienne : un seau rempli d'or

Packs de crédits

Crédits supplémentaires

icône des quêtes

Complète des quêtes pour gagner des crédits