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Tracer Straight up fucks Children	By : Tastatura Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 61782 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This is a fictional story. Any resemblance to person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental.I make no money by doing this. I do not own Tracer/Overwatch

Chapter List
- 1-The Cavalry's Here(in my womb and it's your sperm)
- 2-Lena Oxton: Preteen Onahole Extraordinaire
- 1
- 2
Through the dimly lit confines of a rank, disorganized apartment interior strut a figure whose appearance and attire appeared derivative of the space through which she moved.

One step at a time, the female figure tiptoed over heavily stained articles of clothing, and the occasional bloated, hot-pink condom. Despite the poor lighting of the apartment, an inspection of the garments strewn out within the expanse revealed that their conditions were owed primarily to the same rancid muck packed within the palm-width balloons strewn out across the area.

To a point, the figure could be forgiven for avoiding these items; some of the garments were starched so thoroughly by cockjuice that their crusted exteriors no longer resembled those of clothing. The condoms, however, were much less forgivable. Sealed and ignored, the vast majority of them contained curdled seed whose stench had long since poisoned the breathing air of the apartment.

Naturally, these allowances could only be granted to the figure from a third-person perspective; a position away from the apartment’s interior, and away from any additional information regarding the life of its owner.

The moment that the figure’s identity was revealed to be that of Lena Oxton, the condition of her domicile was guaranteed to become some objective combination of ‘unacceptable’ and ‘unbecoming’ to those unfortunate enough to be subjected to it.

Expectedly, Tracer herself did not live life with the expectations of imaginary third parties in mind. Above all else—her paltry contributions to Overwatch included—the woman lived only to satiate the questionable desires she had accrued over her disturbingly-short lifetime day by painstaking day.

Evidently, living life within an apartment whose contents were plastered by sexual-filth, and whose air was encased by a humid, suffocating miasma of sex and sweat was one of the means by which she worked towards this.

One of many, but a vital method all the same.
-

THE APARTMENT OF LENA OXTON- 10AM

The end of Tracer’s hip-wiggling saunter came at the front of a primarily flat, garbage-laden computer desk. Here, the lithe brunette set the biscuit adorned plate within her right hand down onto the desk, and subsequently drew the ergonomic chair off to its left into a perfect position opposite the monitor settled atop its center.

“Right! Nothin’ better than breakfast an’ doin’ emails, innit?” she stated cheerfully.

“I would’ve preferred it if one’a those blokes from last night managed to choke me out with a cock nice’n propah, but no use sweatin’ it.”

“I see bare cocks burv! S’only a matter of time ‘till I find another one that can scramble my fucked up whore brains into mush!” she reasoned aloud.

Overtly cheerful, the pantless brunette seated herself without another thought as to the subjects of her insufficiently bruised neck, the pitiable volume of chunked seed that trickled down across the length of her thigh, and the various other signs of atypical sex that her frame presented. One way or another, she’d see to the exacerbation of these things; she owed it to herself to do as much.

Her self-generated concerns assuaged, she turned her attention to the first of her morning routine’s two ‘steps’: the completion of her breakfast.

With both hands, she listlessly shifted through the assorted refuse strewn out across her desk in search of one of the many putrid condoms she had passed by on her way to her seat. Her search saw her locate, and thereafter discard several of the smaller, ‘fresher’ balloons before finally settling on the largest, warmest blob of inflated latex available.

This done, her reflexes took over. Several rolls of the blob within the palm of her dominant hand were followed up with its unsealing via her teeth, and an absent minded dumping of its semi-solid contents onto the buttered biscuit plated by her monitor.

Understandably, the condom’s viscous, floatsam-ridden contents required several seconds to ooze from the condom’s interior. Upon making contact with the toasted breakfast food, not a single dollop of the substance managed a successful ‘soaking’ into its fluffy surface. Instead, mountainous blobs of pubic-hair flecked semen slumped onto the food item and began melting—like butter, or perhaps a spoilt cream cheese.

Indifferent to the process, Tracer wrung the condom as empty as her fingers could manage before discarding it, and taking up to circular item for consumption.

With the aesthetically ruined tart at her lips lip, she clutched the mouse of her buried computer system and began digging through her email inbox for a noteworthy subject line…
-

A NOTEWORTHY SUBJECT LINE

From: ____districtSchoolBoard@emailserviceprovider.com
Subject: Tracer is a Brainless Cunt XDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
- THIS MESSAGE WAS SENT BY A SYSTEM HOUSED WITHIN ____PUBLIC SCHOOL. IF ITS CONTENTS ARE AT ALL OFFENCE TO YOU, PLEASE REPORT BACK TO US IMMEDIATELY.
Lol, I hope you’re reading this with some guys cum plastered over one of those stupid skin-tight outfits you always wear.

I’m just sending this message to remind you that no matter what you contribute to society, it won’t be worth anything more than uh…

Than all of the cockjuice obese losers shoot, like, all over pictures of you and whatever. You should probably quit the Overwatch or something, ‘cause you’re setting a bad example for, I don’t know… little girls everywhere or some shit probably.

The rest of the Overwatch looks weird next to a giggling tart like you so, yeah, uh…

Your time would be better spent sucking dicks.

You’re a stupid bitch.

ANON
-

Tracer’s catching, opening, and subsequent digestion of the scathing email that had been made out to her left the woman with a bizarre smile on her face.

One look at the facial expression that this smile complimented conveyed her feelings towards its contents in their entirety.

Simply, she was entertained; excited, aroused, and thoroughly entertained.

“Fucking Christ~!” she chirped.

“Which rude lil’ git wrote this? Kids these days be talkin’ more an’ more rubbish by the day!”

Following a jovial popping of the remnants of her semen biscuit into her mouth, she leaned back into the spine of her desk chair to continue her verbalized thought process in comfort.

“I mean, they’re absolutely right, innit? Beside all’a those other blokes, I must look like I right slag.” she reasoned.

“A’course I am a jizz-snorting whore, but bloddy ’el, kids these days got no boundaries, bruv’!”

Understandably, the completion of this utterance left Tracer’s mind to ponder on ‘how best to proceed’. In spite of the email’s source and potential authors, its contents had left her covered loins as warmer and wetter than they had started out. Separately, the knowledge that children as young as the ostensible age of 8 were capable of recognizing her for what she was filled the debased woman with a certain amount of pride.

Eager to renew the positive affect coursing within her, she leaned forward to read over the message one final time. This done, her addled loins decided on a route of progression for her.

“Hm…”

“They may be mouthy, but they’re still kids ‘far as I can tell. Even if they know about what I am an’ what I do, they probably haven’t experienced it first hand—or anythin’ sexual for that matter...” she reasoned.

Glancing to the top left of her monitor screen, she memorized the location name contained within the email’s sending address and burst to her feet.

“So I’ll show ‘em! I’ll show that lot exactly what it means to be the disgusting composition of fuckmeat that is Lena Oxton!”
-

HOW TO STREAM A POSITIVE-MINDED, EDUCATIONAL SLUT-SHAMING EVENT FOR KIDS

Arbitrarily limiting the scale on which she educated children as to how she ought to be treated struck Tracer as fundamentally wasteful. After ‘considering several ‘statistics’—a common verbal scapegoat uttered by those seeking justification for outwardly questionable actions—she came to the conclusion that a grand ‘outing’ of herself as a blight on womankind would be a far more practical use of her time.

Unsurprisingly, it was the vapid tart’s libido that justified this approach more so than any sort of reason or logic. Her mind—resourceful only where her own debasement was concerned—generated the means for a detailed, step-by-step plan as to how to go about this within minutes of its introduction to the ‘floor’ of her sex-bruised thinking organ.

In plain English, its contents were as follows:

Step#1: Locate the school from which that email was sent; figuring out the exact classroom and who was in it at the time would be smart too.

Step#2: Make up a day plan for the show; you’ll probably adlib a bunch of stuff, but a plan will help you keep things informative.

Step#3: Enlist D.VA’s talents in stream management to ensure that all of the finer details of the production are abstracted out of your list of responsibilities; getting off to doing disgusting things on camera is far more important!

Step#4: Pick a day and do it! Making it a surprise will make the whole thing more impactful. Plus, none of those little brats will be able to pussy out if you do it that way.

Once finalized, the only thing that remained for her to accomplish was the plan’s execution…

Alongside the dry-cleaning of one of her many Overwatch uniforms, of course.
-
DISAPPOINTING MILLENIAL* (ZOOMER) ELEMENTARY- OVERWATCH FANCLUB INTERIOR

“And that’s uh…”

Peeking down at the sheet of scribble-marked paper atop his desk, a short, auburn-haired youth confirmed the contents of what was to be his final statement for the day. This done, he uttered it in a tone meant to simulate authority, but whose qualities came off as both adorable and sheepish.

“That’s why we’re gonna become the League of Legends fan club. If anyone disagrees with me, you’re welcome to…I dunno, argue with me or something.”

“We’re still gonna change no matter what, though.” he finished.

In response to his proclamation, only one of the children seated ahead of him raised their hand in protest.

Prompted by the silence of her peers, the dark-haired, hairband-clad girl spoke up.

“So because you don’t think the Overwatch is cool, we all have to stop thinking that they’re cool?” she suggested lightly. “Overwatch does kind of suck sometimes, but you suck way worse, Asher. An’, unlike them, you suck, like, all the time.”

“Why do we have to stop just ‘cause you want to? You may be president, but did’ja even think about whether or not, I dunno, any of us were having fun or whatever?”

Incensed by the foundation of her argument, Asher retorted with a controlled expression of petulant frustration.

“What the fuck, Scarlett? Why is it that every time I try to do something cool as president you go and try to make me look stupid?” he retorted.

“I mean, what the fuck? Do you think ‘cause Tracer fucks girls, she’ll reward you for advo….adva…”

Gifted with a vocabulary whose contents consisted primarily of expletives and racial slurs, the youth addressed as Asher struggled to generate a word that maintained a ‘maturity rating’ appropriate for a boy of his stature.

“Whatever. The point is, everyone in the club would feel way better about everything if you just shut fuck up and let something happen for a change.”

“Be honest: do you ever look at the votes we do n’stuff? You’re the only one who ever complains about anything!” he finished hypocritically.

The individuals to which Asher had referred consisted of a group of males peppered out across the classroom’s interior, and a single supervisory member of the academy teaching staff. If not tapping through screens on their smartphones, these individuals, save one, could be observed as blank-faced, glassy-eyed husks hibernating for the far-off completion of Asher’s impromptu address.

Subsequent to a derisive rolling of Scarlett’s eyes, one member of this group—a below-average height dirty blonde by the name of Bryce—mustered the courage to join the club’s sole female in her opposition of Asher’s plans.

“I dunno, Asher.” A thin voice replied.

“All of the Overwatch members seem pretty nice to me. Maybe we could give it some more time? It isn’t for sure or anything, but it might turn out fun if we do!”

Unamused by his peer’s optimism, Asher generated an unfounded rebuttal to Bryce’s claim.

“Look, you can have your gay little opinion Bryce, no one gives a fuck.” he spat.

“At the end of the day, I know better than you do. All of the girl’s in the Overwatch are gross whores; all of the one’s that matter, anyway.”

“All of us here are above them, so we should act as such and disass, dissaso—stop doing stuff about ‘em entirely!” he stated.

“Trust me, I know what I’m talking about he—“

Instances before the youth could finish his sentence, a disruptive jarring of the clubroom’s door drew the attentions of all those within it to its entranceway.

From the crack formed between the clubroom and the outside world entered Tracer; lungs filled, eyes brimming with excitement, and cunt freshly clogged with a denatured load of semen

-

THE HYPER-SEXUAL MISOGYNISTIC SLUT SHAMING SHOW FOR KIDS - INTRODUCTION

“You sure as hell do know what you’re on about, bruv! You lot could stand to learn a thing or two from him!” Tracer shouted firmly.

“I’m talking to everyone at home as well; don’t think I went and forgot about you wankers either!”

Dressed within approximately half of her complete Overwatch uniform, Tracer confidently strut into the clubroom interior with the index finger of her dominant hand pointed indicatively at Asher. Having entered in such a way that left her to the far left of the clubroom’s organization of desks, her figure was directed not at the shocked children, but at the classroom’s backmost wall.

Despite this, the woman continued to address the empty corner as though it was an actual person.

“Believe it or not, there are adults n’children alike on this planet that still don’t know what a backwards, vapid lil fuck-juice dumpster I am!”

“I know! Bloody’el right?” she stated.

“Not to worry, though! This one right here sent me the cutest little email….”

Mid-utterance, Tranced turned to again frame Asher as the catalyst for proceedings.

“And it convinced me t’put an end to any silly misconceptions the world might have’a me!” she explained.

“So today, once and for all, I’m going to stress myself right to death to make certain that your mental image of Lena Oxton becomes toat’ly fuckin’ inseparable from that of a masochistic, ostensibly childfucking, sexsleeve!”

With this, the gaudy brunette allowed those that surrounded her a moment or so to digest her declaration and prepare—one way or another—for what was to come. Afterwards, she proceeded precisely as she had rehearsed.

“Right then! Ready or not, I want all eyes on me~!”

-
LOGISTICS

On cue, the utterance of Tracer’s catchphrase phased the remaining ‘relevant equipment’ for her show into existence. As though they had been present all along, two rectangular LCD screens—one square-shaped and the other rectangular—appeared, and thereafter consumed the surface of the classroom’s backmost wall. The square, sized to consume 70 percent of the wall’s area, displayed the classroom’s interior (and those within it) at a stunning resolution.

Atop the narrower rectangle appeared symbols, structures, and empty space reminiscent of a modern chat client. No sooner did these structures appear did lines of text written by the broadcast’s growing worldwide audience begin flowing across its length.

The appearance of these screens was followed up by an ‘uncloaking’ of several large, autonomous floating cameras. Whereas some remained firmly fixed in positions to the classroom’s far left and right, a trio of the devices dedicated themselves to the tracking of Tracer’s frame within the room.

Proof of this arose the moment Tracer began moving away from her ‘presentation’ position, and over towards the shocked (and in some cases, aroused) children within the classroom.

In combination with the various microphones hidden throughout the classroom, the technological additions that the space had enjoyed created conditions ideal for an IRL stream the likes of which the users of its platform were unlikely to forget anytime soon…
-

GOOD OLD PRIMARY SCHOOL

Each member of the classroom’s stunned population reacted differently to both the augmentation of their surroundings, and Tracer’s grinning approach them.

The males of the room—Asher included—expressed a mixture of excitement and fear at the happenings. Predictably, their hormone-riddled frames and cartoon-pornography warped psyches understood the event as a ‘dream come true’; the hours that they had dedicated to watching the Overwatch heroine’s exploits predisposed them towards this and little else.

Still, with their boiling arousals came discomfort. Putting aside the confusion generated by Tracer’s sexual slang, something about her intent innately struck the naïve bunch as fear-inspiring.

The opinions held by the classroom’s females, a mere two compared to the male majority, were far more concrete. All of Scarlett’s listless flippancy was up-ended by excitement and happiness. Her mind conveniently ‘missed’ the more questionable factors of Tracer’s appearance, and instead focused on the fact that her favorite heroine had appeared in the flesh.

This excitement motivated her to act as a deterrent for her supervisory counterpart’s potential interference. As soon as the disgusted adult female stood up to take a stand for the ‘purity’ of her students, Scarlett jumped ahead of her to stymie her progression.

The effectiveness of her actions, however temporarily, allowed Tracer to bridge the gap that separated her from Asher. Once in front of the diminutive youth, she dropped down into a squat, and leaned her upper body forward to address him.

“M’kay! Now that we have that rubbish out of the way, here is what we’re going to do.” she started.

“First!”

Rather than uttering the words that she had prepared, one of the brunette’s many unspeakable urges moved her to dip her skull inwards and force an invasive, largely one-sided kiss onto Asher. Worse still, the very same urges demanded that she reach down to the growing bulge of trouser fabric at his crotch, and molest the throbbing endowment bunch up underneath it as she did so.

Following a needlessly sensual spreading of her taste within his mouth, she broke their spittle-laden embrace to continue speaking.

“…You’re gonna be my participant for oral sex!” she stated enthusiastically.

“You probably know how that goes already, but wif’ pigs like me, it’s a little bit different now, innit?”

“Together, we’re going to show the folks at home how it works: You’re going to fuck my throat like the over-worked fleshlight it is, an’ you’re gonna do your best to suffocate me as you do it.” she outlined sweetly.

“As far as oral sex goes, that is all sex-addicted retards like me are good for. Don’t go an’ get no smart ideas about treating me like a person, yih?”

Noting the boy’s rigid, voiceless shock— and distinct lack of revulsion—a cattish smile curled its way across her lips.

“Glad to see you hear me, kiddo! I’ll be helpin’ you through it n’what not, but as long as you don’t forget that, the folks at home will get bare knowledge, y’get me?”

With this, another forward dipping of her skull saw her lips settled opposite Asher’s right ear.

“So, here is what you need to do…”

-

THE HYPER-SEXUAL MISOGYNISTIC SLUT SHAMING EVENT FOR KIDS- ACT#1

Generally speaking, the underlying natures of the contents of Tracer’s whisper-transmitted list of instructions were defied wholly by the earnest contentment with which Asher met them.

As it turned out, the affluent youth was not so atypical; like most children his age, teasing the individual for which he harbored affection was the only means by which he could properly communicate with said individual. His particular brand of ‘teasing’ had differed greatly from the norm for most children, though the result had been the same: he had gotten her attention.

While a degree of legitimate contempt for Tracer’s existence remained within him, much of this was subverted by the effect wrought from her choosing him for the tasks she had outlined. More simply, all of his feelings for the woman were to be allowed some amount of ‘expression’ through the nature of her requests.

Faced with the possibility of satisfying himself with Lena Oxton herself, what nervousness he felt was made to play ‘second fiddle’ to a surge of raw intent within him.

The moment Tracer finished speaking, he set off into a rigid stride off to the right side of the classroom. Here, he reconvened with Bryce, and guided the shocked youth back into a state of function through an expression of yet more of the baseless confidence that his position as club president allotted him.

“Look, this isn’t something bad, Bryce.” he assured.

“This is going to be really fucking cool and fun, so just follow my directions, ok? There are people watching, so try not to act like too much of a gay little homo or anything.”

“I’ll tell you when you actually have to start acting on your own, so until then, just stick to the plan.”

This uttered, he reached down with his dominant hand to begin guiding his disoriented peer back over to the other side of the room.

Throughout this stride, he performed an abrupt shift of his skull to address the small herd of cameras that littered the room’s back-end.

“Well, as all of you all heard, that backwards cunt wants to teach my friends and I about sex, or whatever.” Asher stated naturally.

“To be honest…”

A short pause of the boy’s address occurred as soon as he returned to his initial position ahead of Tracer. Following his release of Bryce’s hand, he casually shrugged his shoulders as a means of returning to the thought he had started.

“I think she is way too much of a repulsive slut to teach kids anything about normal sex. I do know one thing for sure, though,”

Subsequent to his invitation for the audience to question what it was he claimed to ‘know’, Asher performed a pair of actions whose nature removed all doubt as to where it was the event was heading.

First, he unbuckled the largely decorative belt that helped to secure his coal grey slacks to his waist. Once loose, he peeled the garment down to his ankles and stepped out of them to expose the swelled cudgel of inappropriately-dense cockmeat that extended from his crotch.

Next, a quick bending of his knees saw the youth spring upwards by a foot or so. Whilst elevated, he dug a hand into the collar of Tracer’s dress shirt, and collected a fistful of the fabric just in time for gravity’s imposition of descent on his frame.

Back onto his feet, his weight forced Tracer’s upper body—from her collar bone downwards in particular—down to a height that masked the disparity between their statures.

“At school, kids gotta learn from experts.”

“And when it comes to how jizz-snorting female rejects ought to be treated, there probably isn’t a better pig bitch to learn from than this one right here!” he finished cheerfully.

In response to the boy’s utterance, the wall-mounted LCD whose feed stemmed from the stream’s livechat enjoyed an exponential increase in activity. Incoherent and savage, the messages of its users only managed to convey a single, concrete message to the classroom’s relevant parties:

GET THE FUCK ON WITH IT ALREADY.

-

With Tracer within his grasp, Asher did not tarry. A split-second decision saw the boy settle on a pair of conjoined desks as the surface atop which he would settle his frame; a practical choice given his slightness.

This done, he aggressively dragged Tracer’s hunched-over frame in the direction of these desks, seated himself, and rotated his frame to return it to a ‘face to face’ position opposite Tracer. Now, this position was far less personal; Tracer’s was granted nothing but the sight of his bloated member’s underside, and what minuscule fractions of his midsection extended beyond its jaw-rending width.

To reiterate, Asher’s member lacked the qualitative traits that one might naturally associate with the genitals of a youth. Sized to match the description of a too-long, too-thick police baton, the unwashed phallus exuded a heat that choked the air most immediate to it with a dizzying, semen-scented humidity. The phallus’ vascularity—if a grotesque assortment of cockmeat-wrapped blood vessels could be considered as vascularity— stood as equally obscene. Encircling its circumference were finger-thick veins whose lengths were compressed into perceptually ‘chilling’ zig-zags from its base up to the inches directly below its tips. While fairly small in number, the sheer obesity of these rigid veins simulated an additional inch of ‘thickness’ atop sections of the already impressive shaft.

Ignorant to his masculine gifts, the owner of this phallus refused to grant Tracer any time to ‘revel’ in the presence of one of the many cocks that would be abusing her.

Spreading his thighs ever so slightly, Asher leaned backwards to secure his lower back against the desk space behind him. This done, he released the collar of Tracer’s dress-shirt, and immediately clapped both of his hands to opposite ends of the woman’s skull. Here, he imposed a needless ‘kiss’ between the underside of his member and her lips. Once satisfied with its pressure, both of his hands worked together to grind the supple pillows of flesh up to the very tip of his member.

The moment Tracer’s cocksweat smeared lips pecked his shaft’s summit, Asher again turned his head to address the cameras opposite to them.

“This whole thing is supposed to be kind of like a lesson, so I’m gonna start with something simple…” Asher began.

“Lesson#1: The mouth of our cock-addicted retard here (Tracer) is only good for squeezing out and slurping down jizz. Pretty much everything else it does is just wasted…”

“EFFORT!”

Eager to lead by example, he braced his palms against Tracer’s skull with additional pressure and savagely dunked her skull down across the length of his member. Through this lone wrench, the fattened tip of his shaft pierced the woman’s glossy lips and pushed his shaft through the length of her mouth and throat until the squirming oven of flesh constituted by her esophagus greeted it with the sexualized ‘warmth’ that one may have expected from a woman of Tracer’s unique disposition.

Behind the head of his shaft came inch after gag-reflex-testing inch of erect, filth-shined cock. The force that Asher put forth with his hands granted these inches an effortless consummation of Tracer’s oral cavity and throat; a feat predictable given the steaming member’s girth. As the funneling of these inches through her esophagus occurred with minimal time differentials between them, a single succinct, ear-piercing *GULRCH* signaled the hilting of Asher’s endowment down into her throat. All at once, the greedy pole was introduced to a sticky tube whose interior, one way or another, would come to mirror the puffy embrace of an arousal engorged cunt.

Ecstatic at the results of his motion, Asher celebrated his successful penetration of Tracer’s skull with its forward tilting, a plugging of her nostrils with the hairless expanse of his crotch, and an impertinent continuation of the dialogue that had been suggested to him by Tracer herself.

“See? Wouldn’t you say this stupid whore looks a little better now that I’ve stuffed my cock down her throat?” the boy suggested.

Spurred onward by adrenaline, he patiently observed the blinding mess of text that flowed through the classroom’s chat window. Regrettably, several seconds of deep focus was not nearly enough time for him to gleam any useful feedback from its contents.

As the activity itself was useless, he broke away from it almost as quickly as he took it.

“Well, I didn’t understand any of that shit. Holy fuck you guys type a lot.” he added flatly.

“Anyway, I’m sure there are some fucking weirdos who don’t think she looks any better. Those people should pay super close attention to this next part!”

With this, Asher again turned his attention to his throat-enveloped member. Abruptly, he peeled his hands away from their enforcing positions against Tracer’s skull and replaced their presence with masterful curling of his right leg across its back. Specifically, the youth produced a half leg-lock wherein his calf pinned her skull in place through the application of pressure across its width. This left his thigh to serve as an alignment tool for its position, and his ankle as a ‘handle’ for what was to come.

These things accomplished, he roughly hooked his crotch away from its suffocating position against Tracer’s mouth. After this, a vicious upward stab saw several inches of his member plunged back into the gooey depths from which they had been dragged. Upon recording a single successful thrust, his lower body seamlessly reproduced the motions required to drill his member in and out of the sweltering depths of Tracer’s throat– all whilst the woman’s skull remained pinned in a manner befitting some sort of intricate fleshlight.

Upon finding a rhythm for himself, Asher’s attention shifted to the remainder of his ‘to do’ list. By this point, the tasks on this list included no more than a callous pinching of Tracer’s nostrils between his thumb and index finger, and the addresal of the shell-shocked boy trembling behind Tracer’s bent over frame.

“Alright, Bryce, time for you to join in!” he ordered.

“Together, we’re going to show everyone what a masochistic slab of fuckmeat looks like while—you guessed it—

“Oxygen-deprived, impregnated with kids by kids, and puking and throatslop jizz aaaaaaaaaaaalll over herself! Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.”
-
SHOUTOUT ASHER SHOUTOUT BRYCE

Over the course of several minutes, both Asher and Bryce strove to perform the roles that Tracer had chosen for them. Each of them did so in their own way, though Asher’s approach was by far the most salient of the two.

Evidently, scrubbing the exterior of his cock with the throatmeat of a willing (albeit questionably grounded) older woman was something that came quite naturally to him.

This was not to say that the task was especially difficult. Rather, it presented him as adept at using the status-quo he had created

Through his locking of Tracer’s skull against his crotch, little was required of him save for the maintenance of his leg-noose’s tightness, and a pendulum-like goring of his shaft in and out of Tracer’s face-orifice. The desk surface underneath his rear ensured that each of the short stabs he completed never left his frame without a supportive safety net, and his ever-tight smothering of Tracer’s skull removed the need for any geometric adjustments of its position throughout the sharply-paced salvo.

Consequentially, Asher enjoyed a form of pleasure that even the most ‘gifted’ of adult males often struggled to find: that which was associated with the use of a woman’s body as no more than a set of differently-textured sleeves for one’s cock.

It was this disarming pleasure that fueled the deep *HLRCH*-inducing thrusts that the youth completed.

To begin with, each of these thrusts consisted of the extrication and reinsertion of no more than a third of his shaft at a time; one of the few ostensibly ‘unsavoury’ requirements of the position that the youth had chosen. Of course, where one may have complained about the lacking ‘length’ of his insertions, another would have no choice but to praise the concise brutality that each one maintained.

Specifically, the grinding of these inches inwards and outwards between Tracer’s lips saw to the creation of an intense, perfectly-visible bulge across the length of her neck, and regular, vehement expulsions of pressurized throatslop directly against Asher’s smooth crotch. Unlike the arousing noise induced by his member’s ‘inflation’ of her esophagus, these happenings were owed primarily to invasive pressures exerted by the upper inches of the boy’s engorged shaft. His uncanny sexual methodology played a fair part as well, though compared to these, its impact was neglible.

Throughout a single spearing of his shaft down Tracer’s throat, several happenings—the majority of which served as facilitators for heavy punches of his precum-smeared glans against some pocket of enflamed esophagus flesh—served as ‘executional devices’ for the above-described events without Asher’s even recognizing their existence.

First and foremost, the saliva-drenched interior of Tracer’s mouth was irritated into further ‘leaking’ by the melting of a fresh, semen-flavored grime layer from off of the exterior of Asher’s shaft. Tracer’s prowess in regards to throating unsightly cocks allowed for the majority of the murky white fluid to be swallowed down prior to its spilling from her mouth. Regrettably, her doing so contributed directly to the second of her throatcunt’s unseen hardships: the depression, bruising, and near-constant activation of her gag reflex.

Despite having been fucked into borderline non-function over the course of Tracer’s cock-throating career, the slippery pocket of flesh reeled at the harsh taste of Asher’s shaft, and convulsed as its pulsing, arm-length extent was forced across its surface. For as much as Tracer herself wished for a seamless abusing of her face, the abuse of her overwhelmed reflex saw to the occasional ‘burst’ of throatslop from her mouth in the odd mat-width flourish.

Again, the dousing of Asher’s crotch with the filth-goo that she had attempted to pack into her stomach was not wholly her fault. The boy’s ruthless plugging of her nostrils denied the churned batter a secondary escape route–hence its exploding from her lips.

All the same, Tracer’s ‘not being at fault’ for the growing mess at his crotch proved irrelevant to Asher. The moment a subjectively sufficient amount of the diluted muck came to sit atop his crotch, he uncompressed her nostrils, and allowed both of them to enjoy an intoxicating ‘stuffing’ with the slop-plastered surface of his crotch. The creation of a cacophony consisting of wet *FLOPTCH-SPLATT-SQULECHH* noises—those appropriate for the clopping of facial features against a grossly-coated crotch—followed soon afterwards.

Separately, the fist-sized bulge that traveled along the length of Tracer’s neck per thrust was aided by a far less complex ‘complimentary event’.

Shortly after abandoning Tracer’s nostrils, the ‘boredom’ that Asher’s dominant hand enjoyed saw to its repurposing at the ankle of the leg he had locked over the woman’s skull. Described simply, the idle limb, perhaps driven by the abandon of its owner, gripped its owner’s ankle to initiate an intensification of the depressive force that pinned Tracer’s skull. Through this alone, the lower half of Tracer’s face (from her nostrils downward) was flattened into perpetual, suffocating contact with his crotch.

Not long after these conditions were brought about, a debased pride swelled to prominence within Asher’s stomach. Impressed, and in some ways shocked at what he had managed to accomplish, he burst into another address of the event’s invisible audience with all of the enthusiasm of a child showing off an award-winning science fair project.

Or some shit like that, I don’t know what the fuck kids show off these days.

“There!” he erupted with a grin.

“None of you guys should still be confused! Tracer isn’t anything more important than a lube-spewing fleshlight for little kids and gross perverts; end of story!”

At this, a coincidental (yeah, sure, coincidental. Real funny, nigga) approach from one of the many cameras spread out around the room ended in its descent down to a POV position on par with Asher’s skull. From this angle, Tracer’s reddened, slop-caked, ever-so-slightly bruised features were captured in their entirety.

Asher’s thrusting methodology facilitated that which this angle displayed: her face had used as, and appeared liable to remain as a stagnant fuckhole so long as he remained conscious.

“I mean…”

“Just look at her! She hasn’t taken a single fucking breath that hasn’t been laced with the scent of jizz in ages!” Asher chirped.

“Half of the time, she isn’t even breathing oxygen! She just snorts the phlegm she spewed out onto my crotch.”

“Is someone that survives like that even worth being called human?”

Moments after posing this question, Asher waited for responses to flow into the stream chat for a few seconds before rendering it rhetorical.

“Nope! A fuckpig is a fuckpig, and she is one of the wor-

Abruptly, retribution landed a deft blow against the invisible core that constituted Asher’s existence. Its impact saw Asher’s throat choked by silence, and the throbbing at his crotch accelerated to momentarily match his fluttering heart rate.

Having been reduced to a rigor-infused flesh statue, the boy put his all into a shift of his skull down towards what he believed the ‘source’ of the jarring blow.

For once, his intuition hadn’t failed him. From his fluid-inundated crotch stared an unfettered Tracer. Her eyes, reddened by the passage of tears through their ducts and the mashing of slop against their exteriors, still managed to perfectly convey an emotional response that Asher could understand.

It was jovial bemusement laced with adult condescension; the very bane of the arrogant boy’s existence.

-
WHAT THE FUCK WAS BRYCE UP TO THAT WHOLE TIME, ANYWAY?

Bryce was not stagnant throughout Asher’s violent stuffing of Tracer’s throat. Overall, the youth began ‘acting’ only a minute or so after his partner. His motions were far less decisive than those of his peer, though each of them mirrored the very same hateful intent that drove Asher through his suffocating facefucking session.

Why? Primarily, ‘hateful intent’ was suggested to him as the best manner of progression. Separately, the erection that had swelled the crotch of his trousers at the sight of Tracer’s half-naked frame demanded relief through an orgasm that could only be wrought through an especially ‘effortful’ bout of sex.

Consequently, upon bringing himself into a position at which Tracer’s fat, semen-clogged womanhood sat at level with his crotch, driving his member into her cunt was the only thing that the lithe boy’s mind could process.

The passage of several seconds following his arrival at this position saw to a discarding of his pants, a stroking of his baton-length member into a fully erect state, and a thoughtless, desperate penetration of Tracer’s semen-mired folds via an unmeasured forward thrust from his hips. This thrust carried the majority of his member into Tracer’s depths, and thereafter displaced an equivalent fraction of the lukewarm semen it contained via several sluggish spurts of compressed cockjuice from the edges of her womanhood

The inches of his member that enjoyed a proper enveloping within her gooey folds were granted a piercing, goal-oriented form of stimulation. Through its inundation of his shaft, the aggregate of these sensations blasted a verbal message up his spine, and subsequently into his brain.

“Now, all you have to do is thrust, stab, and pound her cunt to your heart’s content. If you do, everything else that Asher asked for will come naturally.”

In adherence to the voice’s suggestion, Bryce did precisely this. As though his body had been designed for the task, he began sliding his hips back and forth with unrelenting consistency. In a matter of seconds, all of his apprehension was replaced by the very same masculine drive that spurred more developed males onto the impregnation of their partners—albeit with far more boyish panting.

As mentioned previously, Bryce’s falling into this state facilitated his carrying out Asher’s request. Instances into his energetic rending of Tracer’s cunt, he outstretched his hands forward to impress his palms onto the visibly ‘worn’ curvature of her hips, and at the same time imposed a session of cunt-rending whose contents were intended to stimulate his member into a debilitating orgasm. Unbeknownst to him, the animalistic effort that he put forth all but guaranteed that his efforts would reap more pain than pleasure.

Tracer herself could differentiate between the two forms of stimuli, but this information was relatively ‘privileged’ when compared to the experiential consequences of cervix penetration as depicted through graphic, two-dimensional pornography consumed by modern youth.

As such, Bryce confidently hilted his member between Tracer’s semen-oozing cuntlips, and honed his thrusts in such a way that maximized the ‘brightness’ of the affectual fireworks within his mind.

These efforts amounted to an objective enhancement of a fucking whose qualities, from an overtly depraved perspective, sat on the border of ‘acceptable’ and ‘pedestrian’

Initially, each of the thrusts that he laid into Tracer’s steaming gash dug roughly 80% of his member’s length into and out of her cunt. The injection of these obscenely thick inches trained the rubberized canal of cuntmeat into a state of constant gaping– a familiar state for its semen-basted depths, but one sensationalized by the stinging heat that bled from the exterior of Bryce’s youthful member. The tail end of these thrusts included a mentally disorienting punch of stony glans-flesh against her cervix whereas their front halves, mired by the reeking foam/sludge of semen and precum contained by Tracer’s cunt, saw to revolting bursts of sexual fluid from her innards each time the boy’s sweltering erection began its foot-length trip back inside of her.

Succinctly, his plugging of her cunt was standard. If not for Tracer’s mons having been beat to a visually appealing chubbiness by his crotch, nearly everything brought about through his greedy cock-injections could have been considered as pedestrian (relative to the average, near foot-hung ostensible 8-year-old fucking an adult female, you feel me? You feel me, my nigga? You want to do an urban handshake?).

With the grafting of Bryce’s palms to Tracer’s hips came a myriad of improvements that, when taken together, pushed the nature of his thrusts out of the definitive scope of the word ‘disgusting’.

Rather than trading some facet of his thrusting ministrations for additional ‘time’ within Tracer’s cunt, Bryce first defied the expectations of his meager frame via the warping of his thrusts into a pile-driving of the slobbering cunt that gripped his shaft. Specifically, additional weight (from sources unknown) was stacked on top of that which had backed his splitting of her cunt lips thus far. Supplemented to the point at which the entirety of Tracer’s frame was made to lurch forward per stab of his hips, each impact of crotch against rear wedged some fraction of his cocktip through her cervix until the sounding of an inevitable *GULCH* noted its breaching into Tracer’s womb.

As a consequence of this, Bryce enjoyed an update as to the amount of ‘distance’ that separated him from his goal. This update was relayed through the only medium that the youth was capable of understanding: a massive expulsion of body-cavity warmed precum through his length and out into Tracer’s womb.

The internalization of his dwindling ‘working time’ saw to another slight increase in the speed of his jarring motions, and as a by-product, a subversion of the various means put forth by Tracer’s cunt-lining to slow his bruising invasion.

That which accompanied these happenings was outwardly disgusting through and through—their purposes notwithstanding. Tracer’s lubricant-lathered insides plastered themselves desperately against Bryce’s shaft with the intention of suckling the raging erection into submission, though for each pascal of pressure that they imposed upon the phallus, the only thing that they accomplished was a more severe partial inversion per thrust the youth completed. Simply, their efforts contributed to a regular prolapsing of her drooling inner wall as brought about by Bryce’s thrusts.

Through their bypassing of the protective measures of Tracer’s folds, Bryce’s thrusts jammed additional inches of his shaft through her cervix until one of his factory-line quality thrusts bashed his glans against the ceiling of her womb.

At this, the tubular bulge that had regularly distended the surface of Tracer’s midsection was moved upwards by several inches. Additionally, its severity—the extent to which Bryce’s shaft appeared liable to truly ‘damage’ some part of her frame through his thrusts—was enhanced to an undeniably, albeit sickening extent.

Visually speaking, Tracer’s lower body was made to appear as though a regulation baseball bat had been suddenly crammed through it; a notable increase in severity from the last ‘dominant image’ to be generated at her stomach (this being the writhing of a lengthy baton through her guts).

Regrettably, Bryce’s creation and maintenance of these circumstances did not last very long. Like his partner, he lacked knowledge as to one of the few universal truths that existed for the taboo he had been inserted into:

“Virginal boy cock rarely lasts long inside the womb of an adult womb”

-

Through her tolerance of the effort put forth by both Bryce and Asher, Tracer successfully ‘participated’ the eager children into orgasms whose initiations occurred within seconds of one another.

As Asher’s member was the first to produce the pattern of pulses that she associated with a release, her throat was the first portion of her frame to provide ‘accommodation’ for the mammoth endowment within it. Inexplicably, the woman squeezed her lips down onto the muddy base of Asher’s member, and compressed a portion of her esophagus into consistency with its writhing surface.

Her accomplishment of this illogical feat (come on nigga, cut your boy some slack, fuck man, come on) was a timely ‘pin-rick’ for the engorged balloon that was the foul-mouthed youth’s libido. Seconds into its imposition, a pleasured groan was forced from Asher’s lips in time with the funneling of hearty, plaster-quality cock juice through his member, and from his cocktip.

His seal broken, Tracer enjoyed a suffocating deluge of virtually molten sludge down her throat—or she would have, had Asher’s member been forced to a ‘less impressive’ depth within her esophagus. The size and space requirements of the spewing member allowed for Tracer’s innate prowess at gulping down semi-solid semen to take hold, and safely transport the flesh-staining muck into her stomach.

As one might have expected, accomplishing this in relative silence was something that she was quite capable of. In spite of this, her capriciousness, buoyed by the free-spirited revulsion she maintained toward her very existence, imposed the production of heavy *GLURP* noises within her throat for each rope of semen that she swallowed down.

More specifically, as the shoe-string length strands of ballsnot were blasted out across the lower lengths of her esophagus, wilful invocations of peristalsis saw their contents funneled down the tube in such a way that produced occasional ‘inflations’ of its interior. While invisible to the naked eye, the resolution of these instances of bloat produced sound waves commensurate to the chugging of a double-thick smoothie or milkshake. Such was the virility of Asher’s jizz; in truth, his reproductive fluid could hardly be considered a fluid at all.

No sooner did Tracer find a ‘rhythm’ for the packing of her stomach with ostensibly underage semen did the cock that had invaded her womb begin pulsing with need.

Shaking off the intoxicating bliss of having her stomach swelled with seed, she willfully thrust her rear backwards to bring the pert expanse of her rear to a comfortable squeeze with Bryce’s crotch.

In doing so, the sandwiching of Bryce’s glans against her infernal uterus fresh was intensified just enough to nudge his clamoring genitals towards an orgasm.

Appropriately, the first eruption of an over-bloated, cottage-cheese dense semen rivulet from his member occurred following the ‘trampolining’ of his glans against the organ’s elastic roof.

Having been bounced backwards by an inch or so, the head of his member was made to sit at a distance that allowed for a perfect basting of the top half of Tracer’s womb with clotted seed. One after another, weighted blasts of the white muck swelled his urethra into a perceivable rigidity on their way into the humid baby pocket that surrounded his length. Thanks to them, the stimulation that Tracer received from Bryce’s release was made two-fold: an exacerbation of her cervix’s gaping, and the formation of a growing plate of scalding cock-sludge against the roof of her womb.

Of these two pleasures, the latter was carried to the forefront of her consciousness through ‘natural means’; the teasing of her cervix ring lacked a certain amount of ‘oomph’ when compared to the perpetual swelling of her womb with ballsnot.

A half-minute of Bryce’s debilitating salvo brought about a ‘filling out’ of the stomach bulge constituted by the tip of his member across the entire width of her midsection. Soon afterwards, the lower portions of the heroine’s taut belly (from the end of her crotch the just above her belly button) were distended outwards in accommodation of the stuffed reproductive organ that her body contained.

The shape of this distension conveyed the consistency and thickness of Bryce’s jizz with ease. Rather than becoming a uniform, globe-shaped organ balloon as a consequence of accepting genetic material, Tracer’s womb instead came to mirror the shape of a plastic bag laden with poorly whisked mashed potatoes.

Essentially, she could not be passed as pregnant; only as a woman who had somehow ended up containing an abhorrently ‘rich’ form of reproductive material.

Understandably, the simultaneous swelling of her stomach and womb proved uncomfortable for Tracer. Portions of her frame transmitted howls of pain into her mind and even begged her executive functions to put an end to its self-imposed abuse.

All of these pleas fell on deaf ears. Tracer herself had long since come to understand pain as another form of pleasure that only the very worst sort of unabashed whore was capable of accepting.

The day she ceased to be a whore would be the day that she’d put effort into avoiding it: plain and simple.
-
THERE IS STILL A STREAM GOING ON, CUH’

Following the completion of her partners’ orgasms, Tracer effortlessly un-sandwiched herself from the youths’ slackened grips on her frame.

While separating herself from the children required next to no effort at all, functioning naturally after the fact did not come quite as easily. Upon peeling her throat off of Asher’s greasy shaft, her first attempt to speak was harried by the regurgitation of a wealth of loosened seed directly onto her clothed upper body.

She did not have to vomit onto her front, but she did. Somehow, directing the sudden mouthful of steaming jizz onto her chest felt more natural; by comparison spewing it onto the floor struck her as ‘wasteful’.

Unplugging her cunt from Bryce’s member went smoothly right up until her outward slide encountered the cunt-meat-enamored tip of his shaft. Successfully popping it from between her engorged opening resulted in the splatter of a considerable amount of additional seed onto the floor beneath her. Further, her lower lips were left parted and choked by the thicker chunks that remained grafted to her vaginal canal’s inner walls.

In spite of all of this, her return to her feet saw her shift her overfucked frame towards the classroom’s imaginary audience without a care in the world.

“Right’o! Well, those lil’ blokes should have given you a good idea of what mouthy slags like me are worth, innit?” she stated hoarsely.

“Some of the finer points got a little lost in translation, but you lot shouldn’t get on top of them for it, you hear? They’re still learning, an’ more importantly, cunts like me are pretty draining fucktoys when used pro’ply.”

With an uncanny amount of control, the exteriorly ‘fucked up’ heroine beckoned to the camera situated at a hovering position nearest her frame.

During its approach, she snapped the fingers of her right hand and returned to her address.

“Anyhow, the main idea is this: masochistic pigs like me are basically lower lifeforms, and ought to be treated as such.”

“With that established, I’ve got a question for all of you…”

Sequentially to her declaration, Tracer took several steps backwards to return her frame to its position sandwiched between the pair of fluid drenched phalluses she had drained. At this position, she dropped down into a practiced, ‘M’ shaped squat, and raised both of her hands to level positions perpendicular to her cum-vomit lathered chest. Here, she extended the index fingers of both of her hands at an angle as a means of performing some sort of pre-planned ‘cute question asking gesture’.

Whatever the fuck that means.

“Question #1: ‘Ow d’you clean up the body of a brain-damaged cockwhore after she manages to puke jizz all over herself for the umpteenth time?” she inquired warmly.

As if electronically programmed by the phrase, Tracer’s utterance induced a sudden revitalization of Asher’s sprawled carcass. Sitting upright, the boy struggled onto his feet, and performed a laborious shuffle over to an equally dazed Bryce. Following the exchange of a short nod between them, he replanted himself at a position more or less opposite to the one Bryce wobbled at.

Subsequently, he gripped the clot-mired base of his shaft and opted to ‘hope for the best’.

After a minute or so of the forced silence oft utilized by children’s television shows for the purpose of allowing their juvenile audiences to babble out some sort of ‘answer’ to the questions posed by their actors (my nigga, you probably shouldn’t have wrote that), Tracer performed an enthusiastic wrapping of her hands around the length of her cock-tenderized neck.

Subsequently, she answered her lurid question in the audience's steed.

“Trick question, mates! You never, ever, ever waste time trying to clean used-up fleshlights like me!”

“All you can ever do is tell ‘em to start choking themselves, start pissing on ‘em, and hope the whole thing takes care of itself!”

“I’m talking to you two boys in particular! YOU BOTH OUGHT TO BE PISSIN’ ON ME LIKE THE RIGHT BESTIAL SLUT I AM!”

-
“THAT WAS AN ALLUSION TO HER BEING DROWNED IN PISS AND REPLACED BY SOME OTHER EQUALLY DEPRAVED FEMALE FOLLOWING HER LOSS OF CONSCIOUSNESS. ”- TASTATURA

The utterance of Tracer’s second verbal cue saw to a miraculously well-timed outflowing of urine from the cock’s that surrounded her frame.

Simply, in the 5 seconds or so of ‘hang time’ required for the digestion of her utterance, Asher, Bryce, and the cameras that surrounded them put their all into the creation of a simulation of the ‘best practice’ Tracer had outlined. The former pair needed only to release control of their bladders while the latter trio, programmed only to focus on the most unsightly of events, adopted new positions to properly frame the happening. Ultimately, these adjustments were completed just in time for the splattering of two angled streams of piss against Tracer’s sex-marred facial features.

As soon as Tracer mentally confirmed the drenching of her face with two streams of the harshly scented fluid, both of the grips she had applied to her windpipe enjoyed a needlessly excessive boost in severity. Powered by contempt typically expressed only by the clinically ‘unstable’, these grips saw to the compression of her windpipe, and the beginning of what was to be another slow, painful attempt at self-induced asphyxiation–assuming the brunette was allowed her way.

Neither Asher nor Bryce could be bothered to take Tracer’s safety (or sanity) into account whilst dousing her profile with piss.

Bryce, having been instructed by Asher to behave as abrasively as possible, spent his precious seconds drenching the brunette’s hair and facial features yelping out sheepish insults and/or commands at the woman.

“A-are you really just going to fucking sit there while Bryce and I spray off all that, uhm…”

“u-uhm…”

“’Dick stuff’ off of your face for free? O-only a ’greedy fuck slut’ would do something like that, r-right Asher?”

In response to his peer’s suggestion, Asher angled his stream away from its cursory position at Tracer’s forehead and dedicated a fair amount of its waning volume to a sudden spraying of her lips.

Subsequently, a more structured supplement for the topic that Bryce had raised exploded from his lips.

“Exactly! You’re bein’ super ungrateful and greedy, Tracer!”

“To begin with, if you’re gonna choke yourself out, do it properly! Your face isn’t even red yet!” he snapped.

“Also, open your mouth already! Just drenching your face doesn’t really make you look like that much of a…”

“Y’know, that much of a ‘filth-snorting bitch’, or whatever.” he stated.

In spite of her oxygen deprivation (and general stupidity), Tracer remained privy to the ‘angle’ from which Asher argued. As requested, she opened her mouth to present the semen-stained exterior of her tongue and the rest of the sullied pink flesh that constituted her oral cavity.

Her doing so was not accompanied by any greedy attempts at pushing her agape maw underneath either of the streams that scrubbed her face–her body was far too busy suffocating to attempt such detailed movements. Thankfully, neither Asher nor Bryce proved especially ‘off-put’ by the task of directing their golden streams into her mouth. However, thanks to Tracer’s double-handed compression of her own windpipe, none of the sperm-flecked fluid was allowed to pass naturally into esophagus, stomach or lungs. Mouthful after mouthful fizzed into her mouth until its finite capacity resulted in a fountaining of fluid over the edge of her lips and down onto her the sullied chest portion of her uniform occurred.

The soaking of urine into Tracer’s clothing, while comical from the perspective of a juvenile male, struck the pair who had brought the happening about as another opportunity to meet the requirements that Tracer had set out for them.

This time, however, doing so came quite naturally to both of them.

“Wow, look at that! You can’t even swallow it all down!” Asher jeered.

“That’s what you get for letting so many cocks fuck your holes! Your slutty brain probably doesn’t even work properly anymore.”

“Y-Yeah!” Bryce pipped up.

“If you were a little bit less of a ‘dehbaysed cocksleeve’, maybe you’d be able to gulp down our piss like a proper whore!”

Sequentially, insults and observations of this nature were spouted by the boys for Tracer’s hazy psyche to internalize. Predictably, the derivation of pleasure from their youthful attempts remained one of the few mental activities that her mind remained capable of.

On the subject of the usage of her remaining mental resources, every last bit had been dedicated to a subtle focusing of her eyes on the miniaturized screen that hovered behind the skulls of her youthful suitors.

Since the snapping of her fingers moments prior to the beginning of her urine shower, the camera-based structure had displayed a smaller iteration of the rectangular chat feed grafted to the classroom’s back end.

Across it scrolled handpicked messages from the feed itself, specifically those entered by users identified as Tracer’s ‘co-workers’, ‘family members’, and ‘friends’. The vast majority of these expressed disgust whilst others, these generated by her family members and close friends, put forth both concern and the occasional plea for Tracer to change her ways.

All of the comments, no matter how scathing or heartfelt, served exactly the same purpose for Tracer: the validation of her warped self-image.

By virtue of this and this alone, her suffocating psyche happily concluded that all of her efforts to this point had been worthwhile…
-

THE HYPER-SEXUAL MISOGYNISTIC SLUT SHAMING EVENT FOR KIDS- THE GENERAL IDEA OF ACT#2

Ultimately, Tracer’s decision to lean on the stimulation she reaped from being textually insulated, chided, and begged, sustained her throughout the entirety of her drenching with piss.

When the output of the dual streams ceased, her slop-slogged facial features appeared to ‘sparkle’ with an entirely different sort of filth. Taken with the urine-soaked front half of her hairdo, one would be tempted to compliment the youth responsible for their contributions to Tracer’s appearance.

No such applause came–not from Tracer, anyway.

Having survived yet another attempt at squeezing the life from her frame, the woman released her throat and returned to a wobbly standing position between the children at her side. This done, her attention finally shifted onto the other misfit males that the classroom contained.

At this, a garroted iteration of her voice addressed the aroused gaggle of youths with an exuberance untouched by the ‘wear and tear’ evident about her frame.

“As you lot can see, your two friends here weren’t quite up to the task of brutalizing me into unconsciousness.”

“Thas’ perfectly aw’right, though. All’a you have to learn how this goes as well!”

Rather than proceeding over to the bunch of thoroughly enthralled children, another pleasant waving of her hand signaled for them to join their peers on the other side of the classroom.

“So, come on over! We’ll go two at a time until everyone has had their turn violating one of my holes!” she beckoned.
“Now that you know what the basics look like, I don’t want any of ya to stop early. DO NOT TREAT ME LIKE AN INDIVIDUAL; whichever hole you end up using, you should be fucking it until it stops working, or until I stop breathing, ‘kay?”

Unconfident yet willing, the group of youths exchanged glances with one another before producing a series of individualized nods. Subsequently, two among them stepped forward, undressed themselves from the waist down, and proceeded over to the fluid-laden ‘show room’ on the other side of the classroom.

With this, a chain of, physically aggressive, and possibly illegal sex acts were inflicted upon Tracer one after another.

At angles similar to those taken up by Asher and Bryce, the club’s supplementary members did their utmost to fuck Tracer’s cream-glutted holes into permanent dysfunction.

Overall, the successes that they enjoyed were, in spite of their abnormal endowments, appropriate for their shared status as ostensible elementary school children.

Unfortunately—more so from Tracer’s perspective–every instance of throatfucking that the children engaged in failed to cripple her mind past the extent managed by her initial pair of partners. This was not to say that the slop-riddled throat-cunt railings she endured were half-assed; the boys did their utmost to keep her from breathing in spite of their limited physicalities, and even took turns spitting on her face when time allowed.

Sadly, they could not manage these things with any sort of consistency. Soon enough, their failures prompted cum-vomit interrupted chiding sessions from Tracer herself–this whilst bulbous globules of semen drooled amply from her nostrils and chin.

“C’mon loves! If you’re going to do things like that, you’ve really got to put some effort in, you know?”

“You saw what your little mate Asher did with my nose, right? You should really be trying to make sure I don’t get a single breath in edge-wise!”

“And you! My cervix is already sloppy as all hell, so you should just think of a one-off cocksleeve now, aw’right?”

“Your little friend managed to spurt some of his gunk hard enough to bleed into my ovaries, so I want to feel the same exact shit from you!”

“Frothing pigs like me deserve nothing but the most hateful an’ careless sex possible. I’m fucking nothing, so I want you boys to make me feel like it!”

‘Encouraging comments’ such as the above were casually blasted at each of the boys to squeeze their endowments into her. Few were able to truly make sense of what it was the feverish woman was asking for, but their shared recollection of the performances put on by Asher and Bryce provided them with a formula for ‘relative success’ so far as Tracer’s pacification was concerned:

Verbal Abuse + Physical Disregard=a Happy, Jizz-Snorting Retard

Adherence to this formula brought about an onslaught of abusive comments from the children as time passed:

“Stop puking throat-slop onto my cock you s-stupid whore, y-you should be s-splattering it all over your tummy…I think?”

“Your face looks so red! Can you even still feel anything anymore?”

“Your u-uhm…

“Your ovaries are getting totally drowned in jizz and stuff! You’re gonna end up as a r-real broodsow by the time we’re done!”

To reiterate, these utterances and those like them were produced by ostensible children with only the vaguest understanding of their meanings.

Expectedly, Tracer’s knowledge of this fact did not take away from the stimulation that she enjoyed from their insults.

It never had, and everything considered, it was unlikely ever to….

-

THE HYPER-SEXUAL MISOGYNISTIC SLUT SHAMING EVENT FOR KIDS - CONCLUSION

The passage of roughly an hour or so saw to a relatively thorough wringing of semen from the testicles of the Overwatch club’s male members.

At the top of the next, Tracer remained the only member of the classroom’s fluid slogged camp capable of breathing at an even pace; a testament to her qualities as a sub-human jizz rag. Hands-on her hips, the semen-caked brunette casually scrapped compacted seed strands from her upper lip, cleared her nostrils of excess seed, and again whirled around to face the room’s camera setup.

“Well, that looks like about the end of now, innit?”

“I’m bloody exhausted, but you lot at home must see that I’m not putting on here.” she stated confidently.

“Bruising, breeding, and suffocation is what I was made for. If you ahp’en to see me on the street, you should do your community a favor and make damn well certain that I get the treatment I deser–OOP!”

Mid-monologue, a brief pricking of her neck with a medical syringe gave Tracer a reason for pause. A shift of her line of sight determined the source of this prick to be another miniaturized transformation of the classroom’s broad camera system.

Unlike its peer, the iteration at Tracer’s neck took the form of an LCD-lined syringe. Over the course of several seconds, brightly colored bars stacked themselves width-wise up the syringe’s length until, at its end, a flashing of each of the bars signaled some form of ‘completion’.

With this, a mechanical voice filled the classroom with replications of a single utterance.

“OVARY STATUS: UTTERLY INUNDATED

FEMALE SUBJECT IS MAD FUCKING PREGNANT MY NIGGA. DON’T FUCKING ASK ME HOW MANY OF HER EGGS GOT PERFORATED.

SHE IS PREGNANT, THAT IS ALL THAT MATTERS.

I’M JUST A MACHINE. YOU NIGGAS DID NOT PROGRAM ME TO DO MAGIC.

FUCK YOU. GOODBYE.”

Elated at the outburst, Tracer scooped the floating device out of the air to direct its screen towards her audience.

“Well, speak’a the devil! All of those creampies actually paid off~!” she chirped.

“By the look of it, the kids actually managed to drill a kid or two into my cunt! Can’t really say what’ll become of the things, but hey, what would a sex-ed class be without one’a those good ol’ explanations about the birds an’ bees!”

At the drop of her linguistic hat, Tracer utilized the product of her semen-distended midsection to generate a more appropriate ‘ending’ for her show. Subsequent to a grandiose rotation of her frame, the contents of this ending were—for the most part—‘spoiled’ by the individuals she affirmed eye contact with.

These were none other than the show’s unwitting third wheels: a shell-shocked female school teacher, and a pouting, teary-eyed, and largely forgotten Scarlett…

-

“What the fuck are you looking at, you gross bitch!” Scarlett spat.

“I don’t want any part of dumb show you’re putting on! It is totally lame, and you’re even lamer!”

“Stay away from me!”

For once, Scarlett’s aggression could not be construed as anything less than genuine. Within the space of an hour or so, the appearance of her favorite heroine had gone from a dream come true to a sullen reminder of the nature of the world around her.

Like her brother, Scarlett harbored a considerable crush on Tracer. Not only was she the only sapphic member of the Overwatch, but her general disposition had struck her as charming; a refreshing combination of all of the traits that she herself lacked.

Watching the woman fucked borderline inside out by her fellow clubmates whilst constantly referring to herself as a sub-human whore had reduced the little girl to tears. When her sobbing subsided, rage and disgust promptly replaced the sadness within her heart.

Thus, upon noting Tracer’s approach, every fiber of the lithe girl’s being desired to rebuke her. Of course, as was the case with many things, better children than her had attempted this only to fail miserably.

“Aww, what’s wrong, sweetie? Was watching everything a might too rough for you?” Tracer asked warmly.

Disregarding the younger female’s request to keep her distance, she looped around the dividing line of desks within the classroom and continued her stride until she came to a familiar position looming over her smaller frame.

“I’m sorry if I let you down, but what I showed you was just the truth. Hiding it would have been right pointless, an’ now that you’ve seen it, you’ll always be able to tell the difference between who you are, an’ what a lewd sex object is.” she explained.

Scarlett drew no solace from the older woman’s explanation. As ostensible little girls were want to, she merely crossed her arms, and shifted her face away from Tracer’s to pout.

Tracer, having approached the girl with the intention to do far more than console her, utilized her petulant silence to move things along as she pleased.

“Oh bother. You were such a little cutie when I walked in, too. I just ‘ahd to go an’ spoil that good mood of yours, didn’t I?” she exhaled.

Presenting mock repentance, she bent her knees a bit to bring her waste-coated visage level with that of Scarlett.

“How about this, short-stuff: if you participate in the show for just one little act, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this whole thing up to you.” she suggested.

“I’m not sure what I can offer, but how does a date with just the two of us sound to start?”

Once again, Scarlett’s untrained mind intentionally ignored the glaring inconsistency embedded within her hero’s suggestion. Softened by her age and infatuation, her eyes saw only what she stood to ‘gain’ through swift compliance (and not what she might subject herself to by complying).

“W-well…” she began.

“I-if it’s only one thing or whatever, I-I guess I could lend help out with this dumb thing. What do I have to do?”

At this, Tracer’s visage erupted into an expression of delirious perversion.

“Oh! Th’ only thing you have to do is play along,” she chirped.

“Takin’ care of the rest is pretty much what I do best!”

-

Unlike her male peers, Scarlett came to regret her decision to merely ‘follow along’ with Tracer’s suggestions.

At her urging, the juvenile female trekked over to the classroom’s sullied half, and inserted herself into the center of the loose ‘human circle’ constituted by her clubmates.

Here, as per Tracer’s mandates, she shamelessly unhooked the pleated skirt of her uniform to initiate the process of undressing herself from the waist down. A prompt peeling of her panties down the baby-fat-lined length of her legs followed.

Left dressed only by her shoes, socks, and the blouse of her uniform, the confused girl laid herself out flat against the ground in wait for Tracer to join her.

Initially, a smile could be seen on her face following her move into this position; she had been told that these actions were all that would be required of her, so a fair amount of this uncanny happiness could be attributed to the anticipation of her coming reward.

Tracer’s joining her within the loosely formed circle eventually wiped all traces of genuine happiness from her visage.

Upon doing so, a ravenous digging of the older woman’s covered knee caps into the semen-coated floor space in front of her led smoothly into an encapsulation of Scarlett’s under-developed hips, and a hoisting of her lower back off of the gooey tiles atop which it sat.

Having finally gotten the girl where she had wanted her, she performed a famished, albeit ‘quaint’ slurping of her tongue against her lips. Directly afterwards, she uttered a declaration that completely eradicated Scarlett’s smile.

“We’ve gotta be signing off real soon like, so as a parting gift, the boys here are going to be caking Scarlett and I with the rest of their cum!” she stated excitedly.

“While they’re at it, I’m going to show Scarlett ‘ow stupid it was to accept a date with such a grossly deranged pedophile ♥”

“For you parents at home, make sure your daughters are kept clear of predatory skanks like me, you hear?” she suggested.

Well before Scarlett could properly react to the objective distastefulness of Tracer’s suggestion, the brunette’s grip on her hips was pushed downward until the palms of both of her hands were settled against the underside of her thighs. Their secure cupping of these regions preceded further dominant action from Tracer: a near-complete up-turning of her lower body, and a risqué spreading of her thighs away from one another.

Ultimately, the girl was left to stare up at Tracer whilst her pudgy womanhood and untouched asshole were displayed inches below her hero’s face.

Intent on maintaining the ‘punishment’ theme for her light-hearted conclusion, Tracer denied Scarlett all forms of ‘interaction’ upon settling her frame into this position. In a way, this cruelty was appropriate. To begin with, her attraction to the girl was supported solely by her depraved imagination’s ‘view’ of what her asshole might taste like.

Support for this outrageously obvious assertion arrived when—following several seconds of staring hungrily at the exposed rosebud—Tracer plunged her skull downwards to deliver her tongue against, and subsequently through Scarlett’s asshole.

“H-Hey! W-what’re you doing!” Scarlett squeaked.

“T-that’s fucking gross! You’re not s’possta put your mouth on iiEEEEET~”

Minimal complaint was the most that Scarlett managed prior to Tracer’s moist snake digging into the pristine confines of her rear. Far worse would have burst from her lips, but the immoral event was followed up by an especially ‘distracting’ mobilization of the boys that surrounded her.

Through the same sluggish, preparatory motions, each of the boys began working toward the event that Tracer had alluded to: a complete inundation of the space encompassed by their human circle with cockjuice.

Understandably, watching her peers stroke their erections back into form stabbed pins of pleasure into Scarlett’s supple mound. Some part of her innately enjoyed the sight; more so than she had loved Tracer, or anything else for that matter.

Fortunately, the writhing and swirling of Tracer’s tongue within her rear made focusing on this pleasure nigh impossible.

Following its abrasive burrowing into her virginal hole, the brunette’s saliva-coated organ slithered as far forward as its length would allow, and repeatedly threw its weight to its immediate left and right. These acts were purposed by Tracer as that which might loosen the hole for a more ‘impactful’ tonguing.

Consumed by sapphic lust, Tracer saw to the performance of this organ’s writhing until, as a consequence of her mouth’s drooling saliva onto the exterior of Scarlett’s sphincter, ‘progress’ was made.

Within a minute or so of churning the beginnings of the smaller girl’s shithole with her tongue, the petulant orifice loosened to allow the entirety of her organ into its depths without further ‘issue’. Noting this, Tracer abruptly moved from a dedicated tonguing of the orifice to an all-out ‘eating’ of its entailments.

Specifically, upon skewering the entirety of her tongue into the warmth of Scarlett’s rear, a forward punching of her skull settled her lips atop the saliva-gooed exterior of her sphincter. Upon trapping the girl’s asshole underneath the pressurized vacuum constituted by her lips, a ravenous metronome of invasive tongue injections and debased shithole spit-shining came to dominate the contents of the deceitful rimming session.

Scarlett, as a virginal ostensible elementary school student devoid of the sexual knowledge maintained by her male peers, understood only that Tracer’s actions were somehow ‘wrong’. Through the arousal-induced pulsing of her untouched mound, this ‘wrongness’ was denied an encroachment onto her opinions concerning the pleasure that Tracer’s suckling wrought.

“O-Oueeee ♥” Scarlett cooed.

“T-That f-feels funny…”

“T-that’s totally gross b-but…”

“Somethin’ in my tummy feels really, really good…” she stammered deliriously.

Had Tracer been somewhat less ‘taken’ with devouring the little girl’s asshole, the words that she had uttered in response to her efforts could have very well warmed her heart to the point of bursting.

Such was life, however; some were content with praise, and others with compressing their tastebuds against the nubile flavor of a helpless girl’s large intestines…
-
THE SAME THING I SAID WOULD HAPPEN, HAPPENS

At a point in time somewhat earlier than that which Tracer had hoped for came an orgasm from one of the masturbating youth that surrounded her.

Abruptly, an elongated, tooth-paste-thick burst of semen was launched from the hazy child’s member onto the ‘targets’ that had been set for it: the bodies of both Tracer and Scarlett.

This initial strand was bent squarely across the side of Tracer’s face. Its majority was sewn to the brunette’s cheek as a form of gelatinous patchwork whilst its latter portions extended to a point just past the bridge of her nose.

Ropes that maintained a similar thickness were blurted out toward Tracer’s face at a similar trajectory. In due time, their happenstance concentration at this region saw the formation of a disorganized ‘cloth’ of conjoined strands against the woman’s filth-sludged visage.

While this occurred, simultaneous releases from a second and third ostensible child saw to a far less contained drenching of Tracer’s form. Voluminous bursts of reeking cock juice were carelessly spewed out towards her skull and visage without any particular ‘direction’ to back them. Consequently, the heady ropes of ballsnot applied what appeared to be gravid slugs of pearly-white mud atop regions of her sullied hairdo, the lower portions of her mouth and chin, and the beginning of her semen-crusted upper body. As a consequence of their stemming from two virile children rather than one, their number and total volume totally inundated these random extensions of space given a few seconds of ‘working time’.

At more or less the same juncture began Scarlett’s first-ever coating with toasty ballsnot.

A mentally ‘checked out’ fourth and fifth youth—those responsible for its beginning—were situated at positions that resulted in her face enduring gravity-backed ‘slaps’ with their reproductive adhesives. Less ambiguously, her skull’s position less than an inch off the ground dictated that each of the coagulated strands to make contact with her face were not so much splattered against her features as they simply ‘fell’ upon them.

Regardless of their means of transport, the chewy, squid-scented strands executed a thorough crisscrossing of Scarlett’s sex-contorted features. From the get-go, the sheer size of these strands suggested that no more than a dozen or so would be required to obscure all of the cooing girl’s facial features.

Ultimately, this proved spot-on: the suffocation of nearly all of Scarlett’s exposed pores with the wide, sperm-riddled strands was completed following the plastering of an uncanny 7th to her developing facial structure.

These more specific stress points aside, an approach from the remaining males of the circle saw to a more generalized drowning of both women underneath buckets worth of seed. Haphazard stints of ejaculation from these youths saw to the coating of even the most irrelevant fractions of flesh offered by their frames. These individuals were joined by their more ‘ goal-oriented peers’ in time, and eventually catalyzed a complete obfuscation of Tracer and Scarlett with cum.

Oddly, the first of the smothered pair to comment on the rancid circumstance that they had been placed within was its younger party. Woozy from her constant inhalation of semen-scented air, the budding maturity that Scarlett’s diction had once maintained was notably absent from the quality list of the response she produced.

Of course, when placed alongside the stunning loss of ‘dignity’ that her voice presented, one could quite easily sweep the aforementioned loss under a rug

“H-Hey Tracer! I-is this what being a stupid cockslut is like everyday?” she gasped out.

“I-if it is…”

Partway through her suggestion, the dark-haired girl intentionally opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue as far as she could manage. In doing so, several stray semen-strand fractions were granted another moist surface atop which to plant themselves, and thereafter coalesce with their brethren into another disproportionate puddle of wriggling muck.

After collecting a single oversized mouthful for herself, Scarlett shut her mouth to force herself through the task of swallowing her first proper mouthful of jizz. Gulp by gulp, the girl forced fractions of the semi-solid paste within her mouth down her throat. Through this, she inadvertently introduced the organs of her digestive tract to the same addicting warmth and saltiness that had warped the mind of her ‘partner’ some time ago.

Predictably, the reflexes of her throat gave out well before she finished emptying her mouth of the taffy-quality cock juice. Indifferent and partially asphyxiated on semen, she opened her mouth to continue speaking anyway.

“Ifsh ish’ ish’, I huwannah besh a shtupid cockwhorsh when I grow a’hp s’chewww ♥

(If it is, I want to be a stupid cock whore when I grow up too!)

Hearing these words, however garbled , moved Tracer to snake her tongue out of Scarett’s asshole as quickly as she could.

“Yup! That it is, sweetie!” she replied warmly.

“I had my suspicions about you after seeing you agree ‘tah this whole thing, but now I’m certain…”

“From the look of it, you were born to be a sub-human jizz rag just like me ♥.” she commented happily.

As mentioned previously, the extent to which Tracer’s features had been caked with semen had made the discernment of any sort of facial expression from her a glorified guessing game. Appropriately, the lust that had slithered across her face since Scarlett’s utterance had become one of the few ‘faces’ the woman could still make whose salience would not be denied.

Her enthrallment with the smaller girl affirmed, a conclusive statement meant primarily for their invisible audience rippled hoarsely from her throat.

“Anyway, that’s all folks! I don’t have a thing left to show you!”

“I’ll be keeping myself busy shaping this cutie here into a fucktoy deranged enough to outdo even me some day!”

“’Till that day comes, be safe out there, an’ remember! Your children have not been, and never will be safe around the volatile cunt that is Lena Oxton!”
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Tracer Straight up fucks Children