How terribly, tragically wrong you are, darling.
Meet Flood. My secret weapon. The fourth bull I keep chained in the back room because he exists to ruin you completely.
In this 12-minute descent into sticky madness, I'm not rewarding you with pleasure, I'm cementing you in degradation.
Look up. He's already leaking.
Nine and a half inches of broken, vein-thick masculinity that never stops producing. He'll whimper "I'm so messy, I'm so" while he glues your eyes shut with thick, stringy ropes and fills your throat with hose flood pressure. Swallow, doll. Swallow while he sprays your face like a rag, coating your tits, burying your nipples in warm puddles, running rivers down your stomach to pool in your navel.
Scoop it off your chest with your fingers. It's cooling now, tacky as industrial glue. Put it in your mouth.
Eat it.
Gargle his mess for Me.
He's mounting your face now - not thrusting, grinding against your open hole, using you to wipe himself clean while he only gets filthier. Feel him pressing against your rim, squirting load five, six, seven against your opening before pushing inside to distend your stomach from within.
You're pregnant with his salt now. Sloshing when you move.
Turn around. Look at yourself.
You're shellacked.
Varnished.
A gutter.
A waste bin.
My little sticky, ruined doll, sealed shut until I scrape you clean.
Can you take the flood?
Or will you crack under the glaze?
