Quetzacoatlus

A fertile womb, the crucible of humanity, has arguably the worst defenses such an important vessel needs.

That is of course, woman. Whorish creature, pathetic and weak, you make no attempt to hide the field of your body upon which predatory man stalks and lingers, ripe flesh soft and unspoilt, for the truth is all women are true virgins til the just patriarch delivers unto her the gift of rape.

Let him fell the decoration from your body, let the cries of fear die in your throat as you watch his proud cock rise and press into your belly. Feel its heat and arousal and know you can do nothing to stop it. Though your mind, poisoned by meaningless words of empowerment, may fight, your whore body will respond with humiliating wetness at the sight of the instrument of your violation.

You have lost, as many females before you.

Spread before me as the fruit of conquest, I devour you. Your lower lips kiss my tip gently for the briefest moment before the first stroke of your rape is delivered, swift and hungry. Many more follow, with my body, larger and stronger folding yours in half as I fuck you raw like those in my lineage unafraid to use a woman for her purpose.

You will be broken. If you dare raise a hand to me you will be beaten severely, and I will take great pleasure in doing so. The clenching of your birth canal when a bolt of pain strikes you is a rabid delight that only serves to make your rape harsher. Incense me and I will leave your skin a patchwork of beautiful bruises. The photos will look exhilarating.

Only when your ego has been erased by my superiority and my domination of your entire self complete will I be satisfied. When my joy, extracted from you inch by throbbing inch has reached its threshold will I grant you the glory of my seed, torrents of it bursting forth and painting the valley of your cunt with quickening life, implanting itself in your core, which you may have given pieces of away but never had taken fully and by force.