Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

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
PEDOPHILLIA HAS NO CONSEQUENCE IF NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT WHAT YOU DO IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Ultimately, the volatile sex acts broadcasted to the world by Lena Oxton did not drum up the sort of attention that one might imagine as ‘appropriate’ for an Overwatch Agent’s engaging in self-abuse and hardcore sex with a classroom of school children.

Localized ripples were created within a handful of dedicated fan communities and group-chats (since niggas don’t use message boards any more, apparently), though in regards to the world at large, few batted so much as an eyelash at the hours long display. For them, it was commonplace; expected behavior from a known degenerate that just so happened to involve ‘innocent’ children.

As such, rather than pursuing Tracer for her ‘crimes’ or forcing rehabilitation on the children she had ‘tainted’, the authorities—both local and global—took no action whatsoever in response to the event.

When pressed for a statement as to the ‘looseness’ of their approach, an arbitrarily chosen representative of both parties produced the following verbatim:

“Uh, yeah…”

“Ay, no one cares, b. So a couple of kids nutted, big fuckin’ deal. Thu’ fuck is wrong with y’all?”

“I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m out here dyin’ for a nut and ain’t no bitch just roll up into my place offerin’ to give it away for free. Shiiiiet.”

“Fuck sakes; just go back to doing what y’all do. Even if we did something to Tracer, she’d probably just enjoy it; bitch was out there giving herself brain damage choking on an 8 year old’s dick, my nigga, damn.”

Per the representative’s well-worded explanation/recommendation, the world, or at the very least an overwhelming majority of it, turned a blind eye to the event and continued on as though it hadn’t happened.

Unsurprisingly, those that refused to simply ‘move on’ were localized to the upper-middle class suburb home to the school wherein the livestream had taken place. These individuals—primarily its traditional families—demanded recompense from the parents of the stream’s primary participants: Asher and Scarlett Hajek.

The central theme of their complaints concerned the obvious enjoyment that the pair had displayed throughout their participation within the event, a topic that their parents had aggressively chided them for. To these families, their mindsets were unhealthy and unhinged; toxic to their peers and predictive of degeneracy later in life. For the sake of the neighborhood’s ‘upstanding’ reputation, considerable pressure was placed on their parents to take one of the following actions.
1. Send the children away.
2. Leave the neighborhood altogether.
Tomas Hajek, a curt pragmatist in the truest sense, met their ‘belly-aching’ with a non-negotiable compromise: Scarlett’s disowning, and a legal/external makeover for Asher. As intended, its content appeased the hard and soft of the cloying mob’s members alike; this way, it would be as though neither of the two children had existed.

Separately, Tomas’ own goals were achieved through its presentation: his sole heir would continue to exist in mainstream society, and via the utilization of several financial back channels, his role as Scarlett’s self-professed ‘Daddy’ (wow, what a little fag) would be affirmed through his offering support to her.

Embarrassingly, for as much effort as he pumped into raining unmitigated consequence down onto his only daughter, her response to the event entirely defied his expectations.

Upon being kicked out of her home of 7 years, the little girl did not make her way to the local orphanage pointed out to her by her father the night before. On the night of, she strutted happily from her doorstep directly into the waiting vehicle of her adult girlfriend: Lena Oxton.

Unable to exert any control over the girl he had relinquished guardianship over, Tomas was forced to look on in disgust and dismay as the rest of his daughter’s life was written out over the course of a scarce few whimsical, flat-cad footsteps.

Indifferent to his displeasure, Scarlett’s smile did not fad throughout Tracer’s pulling out the driveway of her home. Rather it bloomed; evidence of a mind matched in vindictive depravity only by the pregnant woman to her left…

-
MONTHS LATER - HOW MANY IS UP TO YOU

“Oh god, I want to go out for a latte so baaaaaad…” Scarlett lamented wearily.

“I don’t care what Lena says; jizz-dumpsters my age should still be able to go out and enjoy little girl stuff sometimes.”

Instead of acting on this declaration of desire, its petite speaker pinched the hanging end of her too-large, off-the-shoulder t-shirt, and dragged its wrinkled rim up a ways across her pale tricep to its rightful position just below her shoulder. This done, she reached for her the toothbrush situated to the right of the sink surface ahead of her and popped its bristle-head into her mouth.

Whilst languidly dragging the cleaning utensil against her teeth, further comments as to her desire for over-priced, store made coffee beverages rippled through her mind.

“I bet she wouldn’t be so fussy about what I drink at my age if I got my cup filled with cum beforehand. Oh! Or maybe I could tell one of the workers there to choke me until my neck gets all black and bruised again.”
Much to her dismay, Scarlett’s thoughts as to a solution to her petulant want were biased towards compromise with her much-older suitor. In spite of her progressive transition into the ‘dominant’ of their relationship, her still-developing mind experienced repeated and unsettling discomfort each time she entertained the thought of going against the wishes of the ‘primary adult’ within her life. Consequently, mitigating her own negative affect whilst still doing as she pleased necessitated compromise— at the very least in terms of practicality.

Musing as to further, less ‘amicable’ solutions saw a frown spread across the girl’s face.

“Actually, fuck that.”

“I should just make that stupid pedo-bitch cum all over herself and go get my stupid latte while she is passed out or something. She’ll thank me for it, we’ll kiss, and I’ll get to drink something sweet.” she murmured wistfully.

The completion of these mental utterances coincided with the end of her tooth brushing routine and a timely rinsing of her mouth’s interior moments later. Refreshed, she exhaled, and wheeled her miniature frame around to face the door ahead of her.

“Or maybe I shouldn’t.” she noted aloud.

“Coffee is great, but I wouldn’t be a very good masturbation-toy in training if I didn’t start my day like one. “

Step by step, the girl confidently talked herself through a stride up to the bathroom door, and a careless outward peeling of its face into the humid confines of the apartment that she called home.

At once, a remarkable evaporation of the drowsiness that accentuated her tired-eyes and the messiness of her usually-sleek, obsidian locks occurred. Bluntly, what harried her frame was made gaseous by the cunt-dampening, core-tightening effects that longtime exposure to the rank apartment’s air was liable to inflict on a human female body.

Oh, fuck, did I write female?

I meant vapid, cock-scent snorting retards. That’s my bad, cuh’.

Carry on.

-
TRACER’S APARTMENT- LIVING ROOM

Seated atop a sofa riddled with wide and obvious semen-stains was Tracer; visibly pregnant, sleep-disheveled, yet not at all worse for it. Bottomless yet t-shirt clad, the once lithe and speedy brunette’s had decided to occupy herself with primarily sedentary tasks whilst waiting for her underage lover.

These tasks were the location of an appropriately harsh pornographic video for her’s and Scarlett’s ‘couple’s breakfast’, and an absent-minded suckling from the semen-filled sports-bottle that she held at her lips. After several failed activations of the search engine that her ex-Overwatch colleague had given to her, both were abandoned in favor of the ejection of foul exasperation from her lips.

“*PPP-OPP!* Bloody fucking ‘ell! The lil’ slag growin’ in me will be born before I get this thing to work, innit?” she lamented openly, curdled semen from her bottle’s rim plastered visibly to the right corner of her lips.

Opting to busy herself with further attempts as opposed to giving up entirely, yet more thoughts as to her apparent ‘inability to perform’ rumbled through her mind for each failure that she endured.

“D.VA didn’t make it sound all that complicated when she explained th’ damn thing, so why can’t I get it to work?”

“I may be a baby-stuffed little tart, but my brain should still be able to handle stuff like this, right?” she suggested.

“Or has passing out and puking all over the cocks I get choked on finally caught up to me?”

Frustrated and confused, she threw her back against the comfortable arc of the couch behind her. Expectedly, following a capping of the reeking bottle that contained her congealed breakfast, both of her hands immediately centralized atop the growing baby-bump that inflated the abdominal section of her t-shirt.

Happenstance saw her latest clutching of the unborn mass within her result in a ‘kicking’ from the fetus that constituted it; an occurrence that never failed to shift the woman’s mood toward the better. Chillingly, its effectiveness was not owed to an ounce of maternal instinct; the sheer number of times that she had endured impregnation rendered her body as entirely indifferent to the event’s entailments. What improved her mood was the knowledge that, given time, an extension of the retrograde, sub-human fucksleeve that was Lena Oxton would be brought into the world, and thereafter trained to continue the work that her mother had started. Far from normal, the anticipation that she enjoyed was indigenous to her mind alone; a ‘pleasure’ restricted to only the most unsavory of abuse-addicted broodsows.

Her hormonal mood overturned, an impish grin more appropriate for the former ‘Tracer’ inched its way through her lips.

“Hah, oh bother.” she exhaled internally.

“I’ll just have to have Scarlett give it a try now, innit? She is right clever when it comes to technology.”

“As a matt’ah fact…”

Angling her head over the couch’s spine, a short inhalation from the brunette preceded her tossing a shout across the length of the apartment.

“Scarlett! Are you awake yet, love?” she called out.

“I’m havin’ a little bit of trouble with the tele, dear. Probably has somethin’ to do with my not having a brain made for anything but snorting jizz, y’know. Could ya come and finish setting up for us before you get breakfast?”

Coincidence saw Scarlett respond to her lover’s call via an entrance into the living room before she did so with her voice. Striding into its sex-scented interior, her gait shifted from confident steps to the occasional tiptoe or twirl as she avoided the many tied off used condoms that littered the room’s floor.

After successfully clearing the squishy minefield, she absent-mindedly ejected a verbal response along the lines of the ‘norm’ between them from her lips.

“Ohmigod, you don’t have it set up already? I swear that baby in you has made you, like, twice as fucking retarded since it started getting bigger.” she lamented wearily.

“It’s ok, though! That’s why clever little pedo-cock toilet’s like me exist, I guess! Still though, I should get a community service badge for bein’ such a nice girlfriend to a damaged cunt like you.” she added, genuine affection juxtaposing the words that left her lips.

As she spoke, several of the girl’s less obvious traits were made discernable to the naked eye from Tracer’s perspective. First and foremost, the waving and bobbing of the too-large t-shirt that she had donned revealed that she, like her depraved lover, had forgone any sort of cutely-shaped undergarment for the moment. Bare yet puffy, her arousal-dewed and still-developing mound sat protected only by the lower reaches of her t-shirt and the shortness of her stature.

From this uncovered region drooled the second of her traits: a disturbingly thick trailing of semen from her mound across the interior of her thigh. Having been deeply inserted into her uterus by an especially illegal bout of careless sex with a male that Scarlett affectionately recalled as ‘some guy guy on the street’, one could attribute the snail-paced trailing of the meaty strand across her porcelain skin to her early morning activity. Simply, if not for her moving about, it was likely that the chunk-threaded payload that sloshed to and fro within her womb would have remained entirely stagnant.

Finally, accentuated by the peeking of morning light through the drawn curtains of her balcony was the little girl’s hairdo. No longer did her back-length black hair extend unhindered down the back and front of her body. At present, the excess of hair sat bundled into a dense, very ‘grab-able’ bun at the backmost peak of her skull. Through this, her back was freed of its presence entirely while her skull and face enjoyed a very ‘youthful’ aesthetic remodeling as a consequence of its configuration. If not for the disposition of its owner (and those sexual bruises, homeboy. Don’t forget about those, b), her appearance was one likely to inspire an uncomfortable mixture of protective instinct and sexual affection within aged and developing males alike.

Tracer, as the flagrant pedophile who had contributed a great deal to her current appearance, experienced none of these things. Deranged sexual preference aside, that which she visualized each time she laid eyes on Scarlett was an ideal sexual partner, and less correctly, a perfect means by which to indefinitely satiate her addiction to lurid sex with children—at least whilst within the confines of her own home.

Thus, her response to Scarlett’s plopping her frame down beside her was devoid of anything special; she simply waited to be spoken to, and entertained herself in the meantime with healthy amounts of internal conversation.

“She really is downright perfect, ain’t she?”

“If the lil’ thing had anythin’ like a cock on her, I’d hardly have to go outside. How tiny she is doesn’t even seem to matta’ much these days; every orgasm I get out of her is still as fucked up as the last.” she mused.

“‘Course that might just be on account of the fact that I can’t get enough of bein’ a preggo punching bag for her to abuse.”

For a moment, the brunette considered genuinely reflecting on whether or not it was Scarlett’s sexual prowess or nature as a child that influenced the extent to which she enjoyed her abuse. Predictably, the moment’s passing coincided with her settling on indifference as her answer.

“Ah, well. Knowin’ the exact reason prolly isn’t important for a slag like me.”

“All I’ve got to worry about is makin’ sure that she turns out to be a better set of cock-hungry fuck sockets than I am. That, or makin’ sure she ends up violating my body bad enough to actually shut my brain off for good one of these days ♥.” she concluded.

“That’s what girlfriends are for, innit?”

Lulled into a mild daze by imaginary images which concerned grossly depraved activities, Tracer’s peripheral awareness failed her for the second time since her day’s awakening. Ignorant to its initiation, she did not shift so much as an inch throughout an open-faced swinging of Scarlett’s palm towards her face. It was only after the impact of her palm’s strike reddened the skin of her cheek that the brunette became conscious of her surroundings again. At once, she perceived noises synonymous with prolapse-themed and racial charged pornography, Scarlett’s voice, and a facial expression from the little girl that denoted frustration.

“There, that should have your head back on straight.” Scarlett exhaled.

“You’re really the worst when it comes to paying attention to stuff, too. If it doesn’t have to do with being used like the disposable, half-full condom you are, you really don’t seem to care much.”

Again, a capricious smile contrary to the hurtful comment she had placed followed this utterance.

“But that’s fine. It is what you are, and what I’m gonna be. So I don’t mind...”

Voice trailing, a trained pounce from the girl saw her exchange her languid seated position atop the couch to one straddling Tracer’s crotch. Brought about via the stamping of her palms against the older woman’s shoulders and the tossing of all of her body weight against her upper body, the shift in position reiterated the tacit dominance that the smaller girl held over her large companion.

Scarlett herself did not see the move as such, however. Her view minimized the jump as a practical means of pleasuring herself through Tracer abuse; no more and no less.

Now looking down at her, she continued speaking.

“What I do mind is bein’ ignored by an empty-headed cunt that is supposed to be helping me become a better slab of fuckmeat than she is. I get that you’re a glutton for having your body abused by cute little kids like me, but you shouldn’t forget that you’re still my girlfriend before any of that.” she explained sweetly.

“Since it seems like you’ve forgotten what that comes with, I’m gonna make this morning special and remind you of how that goes, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay!”
-
Y’ALL NIGGAS WANT TO READ SOME BRUTAL SAPPHIC SEXUAL INTERCOURSE?

Tracer’s opinion on Scarlett’s reminders had been positive since the first that she introduced upon welcoming the girl into her home. Originally, her outlook had been influenced solely by the fact that Scarlett, a little girl in both body and mind, had become fond enough of her to make these reminders necessary. Later on, as her pregnancy progressed and Scarlett’s comfort with debased sex acts increased, that which she enjoyed about them became localized to the little girl’s uncanny knack for inflicting the sort of thoughtless, brutal stimulation that she preferred.

When it again came time for her to receive a reminder from the smaller girl, imagining herself as the living punching bag that she believed herself to be on the inside became far easier.

Thus, just as she had during each of the pale girl’s previous assaults on her frame, Tracer assumed the role of passive, limitless doll ready and waiting for usage; whether in terms of participation or accepting abuse.

Scarlett’s initiation to proceedings arrived shortly after she finished settling in. Without a hint of remorse, the smiling girl reached over to coffee table situated to their mutual right, and scooped up the warmed bottle of clotted, stinking semen that sat on top of its surface. Having helped collect the vast majority of it, she experienced mild amusement in response to her inverting of the bottle over her left hand, and the subsequent draining of ripened testicular sewage out across her unprotected limb. Her attaining satisfaction with the extent to which the congealed cock-cement coated her fingers and gummed up the creases between them coincided with her returning the bottle to its original position atop the table, as well as her speaking out to frame the act itself.

“What sucks about all of this is the fact that you’re already pregnant…” she lamented with a pout.

“It’d be super cool if I could fuck the babies of one of those homeless guys we met into your cunt with just my fingers, but I guess I’m gonna have to wait a couple more months to try that, huh?”

Sticking out her tongue impishly, the displeasure that had appeared across her face was kept short-lived by her immediately moving into the ‘meat’ of her planned event. This transition was phrased by further prepatory comments on her part, and thereafter, her flashing a childish smile devoid of an adult right-cuspid.

“No worries! S’not like I’m gonna treat your nasty, child-fucking body any better ‘cause of it. I’ll just have to use all of this stinking jizz on my hand as lube instead!” she uttered.

Unbothered by the conciliatory nature of her circumstance, she leaned her upper body down toward surface to surface contact with Tracer’s chest. As she did so, she extended her left arm backwards at a descending angle as a means of transporting its semen-globule ridden hand towards its target: the older brunette’s sweltering, hormonal womanhood. Sequentially, she pushed her right hand inward length wise across the midsection of Tracer’s abdominals up toward her right forearm.

Unsurprisingly, the former of the limbs was guaranteed as the first to reach its target location. A single tapping of its semen-smattered digits against the squishy exterior of Tracer’s mound prompted Scarlett to push her hand just past the space at which it sat, bend her wrist to present the surface of her palm and its fingers, and finally, squeeze her middle, ring, and pinkie fingers together into a unified, jizz-inundated digit structure.

With the completion of her excavation tool’s fashioning and positioning came further ‘loving’ action from the girl. With as much force as her near-infantile frame could muster, she savagely punched the tips of her gooey finger-phallus directly into the tropical tautness of Tracer’s cunt. An initial stab meant to remind her sensitive folds as to their purpose was followed up by invasive, wrist-backed pumps of the nasty digits in and out of the older woman’s depths at an impressive pace. Their completion messily squeezed further inches of Scarlett’s fairly-sized finger-phallus into her cunt until, as one may’ve expected from the vaginal canal of a soulless human fleshlight, the length of each of her fingers was hungrily sucked into the flesh-pit right up to their knuckles.

Understandably, the combined lubrication of Scarlett’s fingers and her ‘doll’s’ deranged womanhood granted the happening a sloppiness liable to inspire revulsion within even the most well-seasoned and moral-less practitioners of sex.

Described simply, the outward flicking and inward jabbing that summarized the spreading of Tracer’s cunt often appeared as equal parts laborious and hateful. Occasionally, the bizarre suction offered by the older woman’s folds resulted in a gratuitous upchucking of lubrication-diluted ballsnot from her depths per ‘jutting’ of Scarlett’s finger tips against her cervix.

The difficulty that Scarlett encountered each times she attempted to draw her fingers from out of her older partner’s leaking folds accentuated these ejections by virtue of their framing the conditions that she had subjected her digits to: an insatiable cavern of cunt meat perfectly willing to destroy itself for the sake of drawing yet more acrid cock juice into its confines.

As one of the two females granted a ‘front row seat’ to the slurred, clopping chorus produced by the above described activity, Tracer herself met the unseemly stimuli in the same manner that she always did: happily, and with swathes of masochistic greed.

“God, that sounds so fuckin’ digusting mate. I can feel chunks of that old bastard’s jizz getting smeared into my cunt.” Tracer squealed internally.

“Every time…”

“Every time she does this, she gets better an’ better at disregarding my body. Smart as a whip, she is!” she cooed internally.

“She knows that sapphic pedophiles like me can’t get off to anything normal anymore; That’s why she is feeding my cunt more of the luke-warm cock juice that it craves, and that is why she is doing her best to make sure it gets as close to my cervix as possible.”

“She actually wants to remind me that right now, I’m no more than a child-stuffed whore for her to violate as she pleases.” she concluded, both lust and admiration clinging to her words.

“Knowing her, gaping my cunt out with just her wrist ain’t the end of it, either. On the inside, she is just as hungry as I am, so I should be able to look forward to somethin’ even wor--!!”

As it turned out, Tracer’s suspicion as to Scarlett’s liability to put her body through far worse was more than valid. On song with her mental ruminations on the topic, the smaller girl wrapped her palm around the healthy circumference of her wrist, and guided the limb away from its stationary position at her side. This done, she utilized her grip to expertly puppet it into contact with the bruise-stained exterior of its owner’s neck.

This done, directions narrated by the guttural squelches and spurts of sperm-drenched fingers against slobbering cunt meat escaped her lips in sequence.

“So, now that your cunt is getting fed by my fingers, why don’t you make yourself useful?” Scarlett suggested.

“We both know that the world would be better off without stimulation-hungry fuck-puppets like you taking up space and resources, so why don’t you try choking yourself out again?”

“I kinda doubt you’ll be strong enough to even make yourself pass out, but it’d be pretty cute if you actually managed to off yourself, don’t’cha think?” she suggested happily.

(Whoa, woah, calm down Tastatura. No one asked for that, nigga, damn.)

“Yeah…”

Excited by her malicious suggestion, a trailing of her sentence preceded an effortless addition of her index finger to the three others that regularly dived in and out of Tracer’s womanhood. This done, she again hilted her buffed finger phallus down to the knuckles that served as its foundations, and dug the tips of her fingers into the uniquely textured cunt-meat that comprised its roofing. Rather than merely applying pressure to the sections of flesh into which they were impressed, she followed the act up with a curling of her finger tips, and an intentional butting of the base of her interphalangeal joints against the flesh expanses beneath them.

Having created what she believed to be optimal conditions for abusing Tracer’s mind with pleasure, she continued speaking with an inflection of childish greed to her voice.

“I wanna see it! You’re an unrepentant pedophile, aren’t you? A deranged masturbatory aid whose life is already super-duper forfeit?” she suggested.

(Yeah, super-duper.)

“So show me! No one would miss the shameful orgasms that you bring ‘em, so go ahead and try choking the life out of yourself already!”

As the juvenile’s impatience grew, so too did the pressure that she funneled into her grip on Tracer’s wrist. What pressure she applied was unlikely to inflict any sort of lasting damage on her counterpart’s wrist, though its presence lent much to gravity of her orders.

Subsequent to an enthusiastic licking of her lips, Tracer offered a notably upbeat rebuttal to her fussy spouse’s request.

“You’re a right cheeky lil’ brat, aint’cha?” she suggested, a grin spread across her face.

“Still, the fact that you hardly see me as an actual person anymore jus’ makes me melt ♥. So, if that is what you want to see, I’ll do my best to make sure that the uppity slag depicted in all of those jizz-snorting images on the tele’ is you from now on…”

Amidst her sentence, Tracer purposed the hand that had been so lovingly settled atop her neck in the creation of a wind-pipe compressing vice sized at half of the circumference of her neck. This done, she began funneling constriction into its finger-based composition at a rate that would, given several additional seconds, render her incapable of speech via a smothering of the palm-shaped bruising that outlined her throat.

Appropriately, what time she had bought herself was utilized in the laying out of her own ‘conditions’ for self-suffocation.

“In return, I just need two things from you, love; I’d have done it for nothin’ ordinarily, but you’re a little too sweet of a treat for me tah just pass up on enjoyin’ when I can.” she explained.

“#1. I want us to kiss throughout it: if I end up puking up any of that rotten old jizz that was skeeved into me last night, I think it is only fittin’ that the next most shameless cock slut I know end up with it in her stomach.”

“#2….”

As her lips curved to verbalize this condition, her throat failed to produce the vocal cord vibrations required for the creation of words. Fighting through her impending suffocation, the brunette flashed a lustful smile.

“If I don’t pass out, god forbid, I want you to have a go at takin’ lead at the school carnival today. Blokes be complaining ‘bout my holes being too greasy and fucked-up for them to get off to these days. Certainly doesn’t stop ‘em from blasting my guts full’a jizz, but I think turnin’ a petite lil’ fuck-tart like you inside out would do them good.” she suggested hoarsely.

“It certainly does for me!”

As they often did, the words of her older partner plucked at the strangely-placed heart-strings that Scarlett hid within herself. Galvanized by their reverberation, she immediately bent her upper body back down toward Tracer’s chest, and spoke.

“Fine, fine.”

“Leave it to a bitch like you to ask for that kinda thing in return for choking yourself. I hope I don’t end up with such a fucked up fetish when I’m all used up and old.” she teased, an encroachment of color blooming about her typically morose cheeks.

Eager to hold up her end of their bargain, the red-faced pre-teen shamelessly dropped her lips into contact with Tracer’s. Upon coating her tongue with the taste Tracer’s mouth—one dominated by rancid and sweat— she enjoyed a stoking of her libido considerable enough to validate another pre-emptive smothering of Tracer’s own vicegrip against her vulnerable wind-pipe.

This done, she left the remainder of the task to her partner, and instead focused herself on mashing her tongue within the older woman’s mouth with the same vehement revulsion with which she continually punched her semen-gunked digits in and out of her folds….

-
THAT WAS A SHIT WAGER.

As expected, the ‘winner’ of the pseudo-bet that Tracer had enforced as a prerequisite for her ‘compliance’ was the more seasoned of the whorish, morally-unhinged females.

Despite enduring several inordinately messy and powerful female orgasms, Tracer did not once lose consciousness as a consequence of her self-inflicted asphyxiation. In general, the brunette hardly deprived herself of any oxygen; her pregnancy-loosened gripping power lacked the remorseless, biting strength required to bring such a thing about. Separately, Scarlett’s avid siphoning of her cock juice-flavored saliva and grinding of her tongue meat against the interior of her mouth proved too distracting for her to devote her usual amounts of excessive self-loathing into act.

This was not to say that the brunette had somehow ‘taken it easy’ on herself for her own benefit, rather that, when smothered by the weight of her ingrained pedophilia and addiction to abuse, putting her all into one of the two proved beyond her.

Thus, the ‘start’ to the depraved pair’s day ended as per usual: With a bed-headed, caffeine-deprived, and disgustingly aroused Scarlett and a freshly bruised, sex-slopped, and inexplicably ‘energized’ Tracer.

The typical start saw both of the females engage in minutes worth of morbid ‘couples small talk’ before, as dictated by Tracer’s half of the agreement, Scarlett departed from the living room to both eat, and prepare herself for a long, satisfying day of ‘fun’ at school. Throughout her absence, Tracer executed preparations of her own that amounted to a replacement of her scant attire with a comparatively ‘complete’ outfit, and the polishing off of the remaining stale clumps of semen stored within her shake bottle.

With the bulk of her work complete, the sex-scented woman attributed no further effort to the pruning of her body, and instead directed her focus toward what was to be her most ‘significant’ outing in recent memory.

To be clear, the term ‘significant’ relative to the activities that she participated in on a regular basis could be summarized as any activity that did not involve her leaving the apartment to gleefully taunt homeless men into brutishly inseminating and abusing her cock-fattening frame. Whereas Tracer’s pregnancy-baked brain refused to admit as much to herself, the fact remained that her pregnancy had left her life as somewhat lacking in the ‘real excitement’ that had seen her achieve global fame as a blight on the females of the human race.

You know, or some shit like that. Give it a couple thousand words, we’re going to spice that shit up real quick.

-
THE SCHOOL CARNIVAL—AN EXCUSE FOR KIDS TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF SCHOOL AND WASTE TIME WALKING AROUND A FIELD WITH A BOUNCY CASTLE IN IT FOR 2-3 HOURS.

As yet unrecognized outliers obscured amongst a sun-bathed sea of squealing children and attentive parents stood Tracer and Scarlett; the former preoccupied by the sheer number of male and female children that surrounded her whereas the latter gingerly sipped at the audibly dense coffee beverage clutched lovingly by her dominant hand.

Their differing preoccupations aside, both of the women had dressed themselves to make voyeurs out of all those who caught sight of them

Clothed modestly for her own standards, Tracer stood opposite Scarlett clad in a pair of midnight black denim short-shirts, a hoop-sleeved honey-yellow crop top embroidered with the words “KIDDIE FUCKMEAT” and, for no greater reason than the exacerbation of her lewd appearance, a hip-line choking, largely exposed amber-yellow thong.

The first of these garments, whilst maintaining the restrictive circular leg holes that defined them as jeans-shorts, sat around her crotch at a position too low to completely obscure her pregnancy-widened waistline, but too high to offer much coverage to her plumped rear or thighs. Separately, the amount of fabric that it offered overall rendered its appearance as what one might imagine to be the lower body equivalent of a tube top. Having been designed for a considerably less bloated woman, fitting into is required both a constant unbuttoning of the seal meant to adhere it to her waist, and as a consequence, the constant exposure of what meager curls of pubic hair went uncovered by the thong that sat underneath it. (shoutouts to my nigga kunaboto straight running the fat dude fucks cartoon Japanese female art game, still b.)

Similarly ‘ill-fitting’ was the garment that adorned her chest. Despite perfectly obscuring her breasts and quaintly framing the length of her arms with near-shoulder tubes of fabric, the item lacked the fabric required to properly obscure the gravid swell of her midsection. Worse still, the wording embroidered around its middle was stretched out across the width of her hill-shaped gut’s upper base. Thus, the neck to crotch coverage that its make offered inherently to naturally-shaped females was reduced to a narrow gloving of her upper body right up to the beginning of her stomach’s globular distension.

Worse still, the amount of taut, gleaming stomach flesh that the garment exposed by no means intentional on Tracer’s part; she simply couldn’t be bothered to redo her wardrobe to better facilitate her pregnancy.

Surprisingly, Scarlett’s methodology for dressing herself existed far and away from the ‘measured’ sexuality that Tracer had shot for whilst selecting the garments for her outfit. With her day’s tasks in mind, the smaller girl ‘dressed’ herself only with a royal-red, curve-choking micro-bikini supplemented by the application of high-grade medical plasters overtop her genitals.

Through these, she intended to present a blatant sex-appeal (you know, if you’re into that kind of thing.) irreproachable by naysayers who might decry it as immodest. If tested, the noodle-thin thickness of the bikini’s strings and its equally narrow ‘vital patches’ could be normalized by the concealment of her chubby womanhood via her crotch plaster, and the obscuring of the nipples of her mosquito-bit breasts via the minuscule squares of fabric that its top provided respectively.

More difficult to overlook in regards to the garment was its presentation of the freshly applied ‘tattoos’ that extended across her midsection and lower back. The first read out “COCK PIGLET ♥” in what appeared to be dollar store permanent marker, whereas the second consisted of a series of midnight black line and curve structures indicative of loose female sexual standards.

In spite of the hard-headed perversion that her body displayed, the pre-pre-teen did not intend to approach her first school carnival as a fleshlight without a concrete failsafe for those who might impede her. If approached negatively, she intended to respond as follows:

“Huh? I thought there was gonna be swimming an’ water balloons an’ stuff! I didn’t wanna any of the meanie boys from my class to wet up my clothes, so I just got my daddy to buy me a cute swimsuit!”

Thus far, the presence of her pale, near-naked frame within the carnival grounds had yet to necessitate an utterance of the cutely worded excuse. As it turned out, neither the presence of a self-proclaimed and world renowned female pedophile nor a shamelessly-dressed juvenile were potent enough visual stimulation to draw the carnival’s mentally over-taxed adult population from their hyperactive children.

As the primary performer for the day’s yet uninitiated event, Scarlett was the first to defy the complacent lull that overcome the air around her.

“You sure you don’t any of my latte, Tracer? I always see other mommies standing around drinking the stuff while watching their kids do whatever, but I can’t remember seeing you drink any, like, ever…” she suggested.

“I know you don’t really qualify as a woman or anythin’, but having something to drink might make you a little less bored throughout this whole thing.”

Snapped to attention, Tracer responded to her lover’s concern with a bending of her knees, and the planting of an overdrawn, tongue-focused kiss through her lips.

“That’s sweet, love. I’ve gotta pass, though; supposedly, too much caffeine isn’t good for the lil’ git I’m carrying in me.” she replied.

“I sure as hell won’t give up a good, nostril-plugging throat-fucking for the mouthy bitch, so avoiding certain foods is the least I can do.”

Indifferent, Scarlett nodded with faux understanding prior to completing another hearty-swing of the recently clump-infused beverage.

“ ’Kay. I don’t really care about how baby’s work or anything, but I guess sticking to a diet of jizz and piss would be way healthier for a female reject like you. They say that drastic shifts in diets can be bad for you, anyway.” she replied simply.

“I guess I’ll have to get used to it myself, but I’m not going to start worrying about that ‘till at least after the third time I get one of my eggs perforated by grown-up cock juice.”

Taking advantage of the crotch-choking position she had dove down into, Tracer shifted the topic of their conversation onto the yet unspoken ‘matter at hand’ between them: Scarlett’s performance.

“Sounds fair, love.” she replied with a giggle.

“Anyway, we’ve been standing here for a little while now, so you’d best be getting started.” she suggested.

“Remember: you’re not the same as the brats you see running around us. You’re not here to enjoy what they enjoy; the only thing you’re here to accomplish is making sure that as many people here as possible recognize you for the nubile set of cock-slots you are.”

“How you go about showing ‘em—that is totally up to you, love. Just keep that in mind, and the pesky female dignity you were brought up without, alright?” she suggested a confident grin spreading over her face.

In response to this, Scarlett enjoyed yet another surge of positive emotion through her core. It was not Tracer’s words that excited her, but rather the fact that Tracer herself had said them. Not only had her personal exemplar for existence as sentient cuntmeat expressed confidence in her, but so too had the woman with which she shared a disgusting, unforgiveable intimacy.

Visibly reddened as a result, a bashful smile peeked out from the corners of her lips.

“Y-you don’t gotta repeat stuff like that, y’know. It makes me feel all weird.” she muttered.

“I get it, though. I won’t come back until my uterus is all sloshy with jizz, and my throat is so clogged with phlegm and smegma that you can hardly understand a word I say!”
“You just sit back and watch for a change, ok?” she stated confidently.

No pause for the transmission of confirmation or denial from Tracer was taken by the girl following this utterance. Driven by both pride and an overwhelming desire for sexual degradation, she followed her declaration up with a swift turn away from her lover, and a directionless stride off into the crowd-fraction several yards ahead of where the bloated women squat…

-
FOR A 7 YEAR OLD, SCARLETT IS A PRETTY GOOD WHORE. DON’T QUOTE ME ON THAT.

WAIT FUCK.

5 months of living, working, and loving the societal scourge known as Lena Oxton very quickly changed Scarlett’s comfort levels and executional abilities in regards to sex. Upon setting her mind on enjoying the life of a whore hated for her revolting effectiveness, quick development became an inevitability for her; Tracer’s propensity to ‘rub off’, both figuratively and literally, on children had sealed the girl’s fate since her first willing acceptance of the older woman’s tongue inside of her asshole.

At present, the midnight-haired waif that strutted sensually through a crowd of her more petulant peers was unrecognizable from the sobbing, pouting girl who had once scorned Tracer’s being. Focused was her intent and driven her stride as her eyes searched for a suitable starting point at which to ‘ground’ her unseemly presentation.

Eventually, her sneaker-clad progression saw her frame pass by a group of unfortunately-located youths eagerly jostling with each whilst wholly preoccupied by some gay ass activity done by little boy’s at carnivals.

Stopping at their sides, Scarlett spoke.

“Hey guys! Do any of you feel like…um…”

No matter her comfort with the act itself, recalling all of the right words and methodologies for offering her body up for abuse proved trying for the girl when the time came to execute them. Thankfully, a few short moments of tapping her index finger against her chin plucked the learned, catch-all sentence that she wished to utter right out of her mouth.

“Oh!”

“Do you guys feel like raping me half to death or something? You’d probably be able to blow tons of gross, gooey loads all over me if you actually put a little effort into it; I can take lots an’ lots of abuse, too!” she offered sweetly.

“I really gotta show everyone that I’m an even nastier whore than Tracer was when she was little, so I’d be really, really, really grateful n’stuff if you did!”

Having inflected her voice as sweetly as possible, and postured her juvenile assets in as appealing a manner conceivably executable (you know for a 7 year old. I don’t actually know what I was trying ti imply there.), Scarlett believed that she had done her utmost to work her male peers into a perverse frenzy, and a result, see her body ruthlessly pipe-lined by their erections until her insides were laced with semen.

Unfortunately for her, mere belief once again proved itself as rarely, if ever tantamount to the truth.

Through her greeting and movements, she accomplished only a swelling of her potential suitor’s short-stuffed phalluses. As it turned out, her greeting contained several presumptions whose contents were not taken kindly by the messy-haired youths ahead of her.

“What’s the fuck is a ‘rape’, Scarlett? You think any of us actually know what a stupid, girly word like that actually means?” a dusty-haired child at the group’s forefront suggested.

Instead of agreeing with his companion’s suggestion, a darker-haired member of the group tapped his companion on the shoulder, and leaned in to whisper something of an explanation into his ear. What words were passed into his ear were kept from Scarlett, though that which they conveyed motivated a back-peddling from the group’s arrogant dominant.

“Oh, never mind.” he replied.

“I think I get what you want, but I’m not going just do that for free. From what I hear on the internet, Tracer is actually a fucked up abuse sponge that isn’t even a legitimate member of the human race, or something.”

“If you’re anything like her, you shouldn’t get to…um…”

“Fuck.”

“You shouldn’t get to make demands of the guys who you wanna have dump their jizz into your insides, right?” the youth argued.

Scarlett was not caught off-guard by this comment; whenever those with which she conversed referenced her association to Tracer, it was one of many that appeared with regularity. This did not render it as any less relevant, however. Wedged into a corner by its poignancy, she exhaled, and remodeled her approach to better suit the disdain that the children expressed toward her via single thought.

“Plan B, then.” she thought to herself.

“Yup, you’re exactly right!” she replied enthusiastically.

“I kinda wanted to just get to the part where you abuse me into cumming all over myself over n’over again, but human jizz-dumpsters like me can’t be too choosy.”

Subsequent to this utterance, she pushed her dominant hand down toward her plump, plaster-obscured mons, and the other up towards her mouth. As the limbs neared their destinations, she bent her knees downward into a squat that saw her thighs oriented into a risqué ‘v’ shape. Maintaining perfect balance all throughout, the fingers of her left hand pinched the edge of her cunt’s plaster whereas the fingers of her right, once close enough to her semen-sheened lips, curled into a phallic, tubular shape. The structure’s completion was followed by an overtly sexual opening of her mouth, a serpentine unfurling of her tongue, and her stringently bobbing her ‘invisible’ phallus towards and away from her open mouth whilst generating graphic ‘throating’ noises via her uvula and esophagus.

Throughout her performance of these gestures, she offered a biased compromise up for appraisal by her peers.

“Anyway, if you guys won’t jus’ rape me, I’ll be a masturbatory aid for you instead! You guys must wanna abuse me in all sorts of ways, right?”

“Oh! And if you can, you should gather up as many of your friends as possible. That way, more people will get to make a giggling fuck-puppet out of me, and I’ll get to slurp down way more cock juice when you guys end up blowing your greasy loads all over my face ♥.” she suggested happily.

Ignorant as to the nature of the vast majority of Scarlett’s suggestion, the lead male of the group of five opted to do the ‘masculine’ thing and feign complete familiarity with the compromise that the pale girl had suggested. In doing so, he ensured that those ‘below’ him would follow suit; no matter the actual content of the sexual activities that were to follow.

“Sure, whatever, whatever. We’ll see if you’re worth shit once we actually get started.” he suggested.

“Either way, I guess it beats fucking around at this stupid carnival…”

His stance assumed, forward movement from the youth initiated the formation of a half-circle of children around Scarlett’s frame. Subsequently, each of the school-aged children began undressing themselves from the waist down with alarming comfort. Through their actions, one could discern that, in spite of their inexperience with sexual interactions, the thought of wringing semen from their members at the sight of Scarlett shaming herself struck them as no more ‘wrong’ than drawing their cocks out to urinate against the side of a tree.

Go figure.
-
FUN FACT: TRACER WILL MASTURBATE TO THE SIGHT OF KIDS FUCKING EACH OTHER IN PUBLIC.

From the very first slap of a swelled, inordinately lengthy-boy cock against Scarlett’s face, Tracer went right to work presenting herself as the societal eyesore that most considered her to be. Funnily enough, the driving force behind the displays that she produced was not her unyielding desire to attract abuse to herself. No; for once, her vapid disregard for female decency was grounded firmly in her sweet-tooth for watching children—little boys especially—act as participants within abusive sex acts.

Consequently, even after one of the many turgid flesh spires that surrounded Scarlett’s face found itself squeezed down into to a pleasurable, constrictive deepness within her throat and esophagus, Tracer’s attention remained equally divided between all of the event’s U-10 participants as opposed to merely one.

Throughout her shameless ogling, thoughts as to the event that unfolded mere feet from where she stood squirmed suggestively from the core of her being to an apex position within her consciousness.

“Kids these days are just getting healthier and healthier; seems like every single one I run into these days has a cock almost as big as their bloody arms!” she chirped internally.

“The little brats know how to use ‘em pretty well, too. Scarlett is guiding them through everything so well, but I doubt some’a the blokes would’ve thought to start beating their cocks against her face if they didn’t already know that it’d feel good.”

Licking her lips at the sight of a particular grotesque extension of vein-mounted cockmeat, her internal monologue continued in time with a telling descent and inward curving of her dominant hand towards the unbuttoned crotch of her jeans shorts.

“Wow…”

“That one is just gutting her throat, isn’t he? Poor Scarlett is red-faced and gagging, but the only thing he seems to care about is how often he can grind his meat against that slimy tube of kiddy-throatmeat he sunk himself into.” she cooed internally.

“Oh, and that one…god yes…”

“That one actually did it! He actually went and took a handful of her hair to start beating off with just because she asked. Bloody hell, his cock was right fucking filthy beforehand, too.”

“All of the chunks are getting into that head of hair she styles so well, but she doesn’t even care. The cheeky cunt is finally comin’ into her own as a shameless cock toilet, isn’t she?”

“Oh goooood ♥”

“That’ll teach the cheek lil’ cunt to ask a male to plug her nostrils for her. That tiny bloke has some serious power in that wrist...”

Amused and aroused, the detail that fueled her narration eventually necessitated a ‘purposing’ of the hand she had guided to her crotch in yet more tight-wristed masturbation. Devoid of shame or an interest in the arousal that she might induce within perverse onlookers, she plunged the thumb, index, middle, and ring fingers of her left hand past the narrow rim of garment that covered her crotch. Following their automatic peeling of the soaked patch of thong-fabric from off of her puffy, semen clogged mound, she excitedly plunged the aforementioned trio of fingers between her fluid-slogged lower lips, and smothered the surface of her thumb into a smothering position against her engorged clitoris.

Immediately afterward, the seasoned-whore began feverishly digging into the succulent meat of her cunt through regular insertions and extrications of her writhing fingers in and out of its depths. Careless and aggressive, the curling and stabbing of her digits into the sputtering canal of vaginal flesh was performed with visibly savage intention. At a glance, stirring her freshly-plastered inner walls into orgasmic convulsions was not the ‘be all end all’ of her ministrations. Given the speed of her injections, and the sliding and spreading of her fingers against her cock-milking depths all throughout, one could only imagine a reduction of her frame into a twitching, pleasure-drowned husk as the ‘goal’ of her fervid masturbation session.

Whilst consumed by the pleasure that it wrought (and the growing severity of Scarlett’s cock-based abuse), Tracer was rendered as largely blind to her surroundings. This proved costly in that, as one may’ve expected, a great deal of outside attention was drawn to her by the combined salience of her attire and sloppiness of her self-pleasure.

Noticed first by a mother escorting her son, incredulous murmurs as to her audacity began spreading from parent to parent as each of them passed knowing looks to one another. Eventually, an outburst from an inexplicably dura-clad gentleman opened the floodgates for her being ‘perceived’ as a part of a supposedly ‘child-friendly’ environment.

“AY YO, AIN’T THAT TRACER? THAT BITCH THAT FUCKED THOSE KIDS ON THAT STREAMING WEBSITE, MY NIGGA?”

“HOLY FUCK! THAT NASTY ASS HOE STRAIGHT MASTURBATING TO A BUNCH A LITTLE KIDS HAVING SEX!THE KIDS HAVING SEX IS PRETTY FUCKED UP TOO, I GUESS, BUT THAT BITCH DON’T PLAY WHEN IT COME TO PEDOPHILLIA,DAYUM!”

Subsequently, those around Tracer—adults and children alike—began launching all manners of abuse at her stimulation-enamored frame. Items ranging from actual garbage and fountain drink cups to the occasional water balloon gravid with aged, sun-baked semen were launched at her upper body at a tempo matching the verbal abuse that she endured all the while. Alongside them were launched verbal slanders whose qualities, despite lacking physical impact, were even more effective at drawing the attention of the individual they were directed at.

Tracer’s self-awareness returned to her soon after the first of these volatile comments was processed by her ears.

“Filthy cunt! Stop trying to corrupt our youth!”

Through this utterance alone the brunette enjoyed a considerable spike in sexual arousal. Expectant and eager, she presented a lust-charged expression to as many of her onlookers as she could whilst waiting for another bit of slander to pass through her ears.

“You FUCKING DISGUST ME; you’re PREGNANT and still doing this kind of shit? What kind of mother masturbates in public to the sight of boy’s molesting a helpless little girl?” (This one, apparently. Why even ask?)

“Aren’t you going to join in? Or are your holes so worn out that nearly fisting yourself is the only way you can get off now?”

“You repulsive bitch! I can’t believe you’d go so far as to ruin my precious son’s day like this!”

As additional outbursts from the crowd were fed into her ears, the pace at which she stirred, stabbed, and groped the meat of her womanhood was accented by a distinct ‘hurried’ quality. Appropriately, lucid thoughts central to the stoking of the harlot’s fire that sustained her will began oozing from the depths of her consciousness in excess.

“They’re still just as repulsed by me as usual! Pregnant or not, I’m still nothing more than a malign blight on society to them~! she cooed internally.

“All of them see a shameless, over-fucked pig that’d be better off not existing; all of them see me!”

These thoughts, those that concerned her being acknowledged as the brainless filth-sponge she believed herself to be, warranted the devotion of yet more attention to her surroundings from her perspective.

Well before she could put her piqued ears to use, the contents of the obscenities that were launched at her were abruptly augmented by the addition of an unexpected group of voices. Soon enough, these comments were, for reasons that defied the wholesome intentions of the carnival, inexplicably blended with blatant sexual commands for her to follow.

“S-SNORT UP ONE OF THOSE FUCKING WATER BALLOONS YOU WHORE!”

“NAH, FUCK THAT, B. TAKE ONE OF THEM AND EMPTY IT ONTO YOUR CUNT. THAT’D BE WAY HOTTER, STILL!”

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT WHAT THOSE OTHER TWO GUYS ASKED FOR; TAKE OFF YOUR SHORT AND START STEALING BREAST MILK FROM THAT UNBORN COCK SLUT YOU’VE GOT IN YOU!”

Of course, Tracer obliged to each of the three voices in sequence; all with only the use of her idle hand. She drowned her sinuses in semen, began masturbating with a crotch partially submerged by cock juice, and in time, began sucking fresh breast milk from out of one of her turgid nipples all of the while. Even when further orders for her to adhere to begin pouring into the crowd’s airspace by the half-dozen, her dedication to their mandates did not waver.

It was unlikely ever to; not so long as life blood of a born cock sleeve warmed the cockles of her chest.

(So never, basically. Cool)

-
YOU EVER THINK ABOUT WHO ELSE MIGHT BE AT ONE OF THESE KID’S CARNIVALS BESIDES THE KIDS AND THEIR PARENTS?

Throughout the vast majority of the carnival-goers’ rebuking of Tracer’s presence, both the verbal and physical abuse that they inflicted remained more or less on par with one another. The occasional brazen parent did make strides up to Tracer’s increasingly fluid-slogged frame to personally invert their beverage containers over her head, or in some cases, ‘angrily’ urinate on her face at close range, however, at the time of their occurring, these could hardly be considered as objectively worse than the venomous comments and suggestions launched at her.

Eventually, a definitive tie breaker for the two action types arrived in the form of an especially disgruntled dog owner. The male in question—a parent-aged gentleman lacking the company of a child—stood as a questionable existence within a locale filled to the brim with stray children. Still, his facial expression and the general ‘mood’ presented by his canine companion were both synonymous with that of the crowd that surrounded them; both represented abject disgust toward Tracer for her lack of shame and choice in masturbatory fuel.

Believing himself to be in ‘in the right’ by virtue of his simply not being named “Lena Oxton”, the dog owner spoke out.

“I come here with my pet to uh…”

“To, uh, hang out with the kids and offer them ice cream and candy in return for petting my dog, and this is the stunt you pull?” he suggested angrily.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, but empty-headed tart’s like you probably don’t even feel shame, huh?”

Expectedly, what the dog owner received for his attempt at conversation with Tracer was a fervent nod, and a harshening of the deafening clopping and squirting of knuckles of fingers within her cunt; neither of which resonated with him in a positive sense.

“You sicken me. Preying on children this way makes you the lowest of the low. People like you are the reason I get banned from hanging out in playgrounds late at night!” he barked.

“Fine! If you’re so intent on showing off how much of a pedophile you are, why don’t you let my dog replace those spindly fingers of yours?!”

Again, Tracer displayed neither displeasure nor apprehension at this suggestion. Instead, she needily nodded her head, and squeaked out a statement of enthusiastic compliance at the man behind her.

“Sure! I’ll take as many knots as the cute lil’ pup is willin’ to give!” she piped up.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, could ya maybe tie his leash around my neck while he is at it? Losing consciousness as I’m rutted like the sordid bitch I am would really makes this day for me ♥.

Within several seconds of taking in that which Tracer displayed, the glasses-clad dog owner produced a conclusive shaking of his head, and thereafter released the thin leash that restrained the beast at his feet.

Free to move as it pleased, the canine charged from its stance directly ahead of its owner and flung its weight directly at Tracer’s back.

Having prepared for neither the weight nor presence of a canine at her back (at the very least not so suddenly), the impact of the canine’s body at her back set her frame into a sudden toppling toward the ground. Well before any part of her upper body could come into contact with the rigid tarmac beneath her, a crumpling of her legs at the kneecap and a thrusting of her palms at positions perpendicular to her torso braced her lower body against the ground, and in doing so, positioned her frame into a position propped up on all fours.

Relieved at the passage of the descent that had been imposed upon her (as well as the protection of her swelled midsection), the brunette turned her head to ascertain the disposition of the beast that had assaulted her.

Behind, and partially on top of her was a snarling, medium-sized canine breed whose pelt coloration and snout length marked it as one of those dogs from a SFM video, I don’t know. There are hundreds, just pick one.

I’m just playing.

Characteristically, the male beast’s agape jaws, stout ears, and stimulation-spiked body temperature conveyed the ‘reason’ for its lunge as anything but playful—from both Tracer’s perspective, and a far more objective standpoint. Recognized alongside its intentional mounting of her bestially-planted frame and the bobbing of an impressive, shovel-tipped expansion of canine cock-meat against her lower back, its demeanor motivated her conclude that, like most other male creature’s that came into contact with her, the reason for the canine’s assault was for the purpose of blasting several loads of densely packed reproductive fluid into her slimy cunt.

This conclusion was one that Tracer responded positively to. While unknown to most, the ‘hierarchy’ of her preferred sexual partners listed children, animals, and humans as her three foremost choices in that order. As a result, the prospect of being rutted and knotted by a beast with naught but contempt and lust for her body brought a smile to her face, and led her dominant hand through an instinctual downward dragging of her loosened jeans short over the arc of her pert buttocks.

Within a few wrenches, she brought the garment down to a bunched up position along the midsection of her thighs, thereby ensuring that the drooling, pheromone-laced conditions about her cunt would be displayed to her bestial suitor’s erection in full.

This done, a short spiel of shameless taunts and coos left her lips in sequence.

“Well aren’t you an eager lil’ pup! It has been ages since one of you cute little blokes have been able to sniff me out for the mentally-rotten slab of cunt meat I am.” she applauded.

“You’ve no need to worry ’bout a thing, though, love. A piece of fuckmeat like me doesn’t have any of those silly things like ‘standards’ or ‘free choice’. I can’t give ya the pleasure of breeding my stupid cunt, but if cramming my cunt full of your jizz is what you need me for, go on and have at it!”

Knowing full well that the seething canine was unlikely to respond to her words, she complimented her verbal availing of her frame with a turn back to the space ahead of her, and a reaffirmation of the all four’s position that felt all too right for her. A spreading of her thighs in opposite directions followed.

The consequences of these motions were a comical ‘slipping’ of the canine’s frame into an ideal ‘rutting position atop her frame, a bracings of its paws against the frontal surface of her thighs, and repeated stabbings of its dense, cherry-pink erection against the expanse of her rear.

These thrusts, while largely unsuccessful throughout the initial seconds of their productions, ‘struck paydirt’ in sequence with Tracer’s re-focusing her line of sight on the increasingly boisterous ‘abuse game’ that Scarlett perpetuated ahead of her.

With eyes bored into her foremost obsession, she accepted penetration from an exemplar of her second most with the presentation of pleasure-intoxicated facial features, and the expunging of guttural groans crafted by the yearnings of her occupied female core…
-
IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, “PREGNANT TRACER GETS FUCKED BY DOG” COULD HAVE BEEN A STORY BY ITSELF.

The splitting of Tracer’s bloated lower lips by the canine’s cock could be best summed up as vascular, forearm-circumference meat tube being punched into a sleeve whose tightness and depth were too-effective and insufficient respectively.

More simply: Tracer’s cunt offered precisely what the canine desired, but in a manner that inherently curtailed the amount of time that it could spend enjoying this ‘it’. Her pregnancy-enforced vaginal canal happily compressed the throbbing surface area of its member within a suffocating, convulsion-laden embrace while her cervix, an impregnable flesh-cork and phallic backboard, offered the curved tip of its member a pleasurable ‘stopping point’ against which it could bounce and push. In spite of this, the finite depth of her vaginal canal and the unavailability of her cervix and uterus for penetration dictated that each of the thrusts that the canine completed pushed a paltry 50-60% of its endowment into the aforementioned narcotic conditions. Consequently, each one was kept succinct, and the aggregate stimulation enjoyed by the more sensitive frontal inches of its shaft was artificially fattened.

Outwardly, if allowed to continue for mere minutes uninterrupted, the knot that Tracer’s core yearned for would be delivered into her vigilant folds in record time.

Chronological and spatial circumstances aside, the pounding of the canine’s crotch and member against and into Tracer’s backside remained impactful for any passersby, and visceral for those ‘disgusted’ enough to visually attend to the disappearance of an over-pent canine member in and out of her cunt. The former party—a vast majority consisting of pointing children and aghast parents—perceived repeated, fluid-slogged claps of the beast’s lubrication-doused crotch against the rear of its mate at intervals narrow enough to increase the audio bits adhesion to their still-forming memories of the carnival. Brazen in near every aspect, these claps were detailed enough to fully convey the precum-clumped conditions about the underside of the beast’s pelt, and the chubby, cock-sucking configuration assumed by Tracer’s womanhood in full.

The latter party—a group made up by the still present individuals who had seen to Tracer’s abuse and ridicule (holy fuck just go home if you don’t want to see it, damn)— were granted a far less subjective form of stimuli in return for the attention that they paid to proceedings. The stimuli in question consisted of the spurting of gluey semen and female lubrication from the corners of her womanhood per thrust that the canine completed, and, if one were to concentrate hard enough, a light prolapsing of her vaginal canal’s flesh against its phallic intruder as the invasions that it perpetrated were completed with further force and consistency. Born of her cunt’s greedy adherence to the slickened phallus’ surface, dedicated attention to the event displayed the extrication of a dog cock wrapped in a cylindrical tube of sex-loosened cunt meat, and the depression of this tube back into the cavity from which is was drawn at disjointed intervals.

Whereas the jetting of cunt-goo from Tracer’s cunt could be considered as somewhat commonplace given the size of the member she had accepted into herself, the prolapsing of the pinkish-red meat that comprised her womanhood rendered the above mentioned party as privy to yet more unflattering factoids about the former Overwatch agent. Not only was her body capable of enjoying the spiking of an alarmingly-thick canine phallus in and out of its folds, but the extent to which it fundamentally craved the eruption of a canine’s undoubtedly noisome cock juice within her depths was severe enough to necessitate a not often seen ‘rending’ of its usually elastic reproductive canal.

Direct contact with this particular fraction of Tracer’s overall depravity proved more appalling than enthralling for these individuals. In time, the sight itself and the raspy squeals and moans of bliss that Tracer released throughout it incited protest from their basal instincts. Fashioned as a single utterance, these protests amounted to the following:

“I’m a person. I’m better than this.”

In adherence to their shared sentiment, the carnival-goers who had gathered to bounce their gazes off of Tracer and Scarlett began to depart. Mother’s with noses upturned and father’s sporting shameful erections began forcing themselves away from the event one after another, some shielding the eyes of their children while others forced them to keep up with their hasty, albeit purposeful strides. The departure of these initial individuals catalyzed a uniform crumbling of the core audiences that had gathered to abuse the pair.

At the sound of their parent’s reproachful voices, the boys who had thus far rendered Scarlett as a red-faced, mascara-smeared semen dumpster were torn from their hateful trances, and upon expressing boredom with Scarlett’s body, set back onto healthy developmental trajectories. Robbed of their cover, the adult males that had quietly included themselves in the event were left to skitter out of sight lest a recording device or watchful eye capture their facial features.

Soon, the thinning of the carnival’s population robbed even the male who had taunted Tracer into intercourse with his pet of motivation. Riddled with self-disgust, he progressed over to the section of tarmac atop which Tracer was mounted, and retrieved the leash secured to his pet’s neck.

“Actually, fuck this. I really thought she’d draw the line with animals, but if she is just going to howl like a bitch in heat the whole time, there is hardly any point to this.” he exhaled.

“I’m going home.”

Directly after this utterance, he performed several, body-weight backed backward yanks of the leash section within his hand as a means of ‘disconnecting’ his pet from Tracer’s backside. Upon failing to dislodge his pet from the region on three separate occasions, he purposed a previously-prepared tranquilizer meant for one of the carnival’s children from his pocket, and subdued the canine through its injection. This done, he slung its unconscious frame over his shoulder and departed whilst muttering further insults toward Tracer.

Left without a cock to split her sex-slopped womanhood or the ire of those that surrounded her, Tracer’s body instinctively snapped itself back into something resembling its ‘status quo’. Save for the adrenaline-fueled jittering of her upper body, the quivering of her phallus hungry folds, and the drooling of a sizeable strand of semen from out of her right nostril, her frame enjoyed considerable success throughout the transition.

Once back on her feet and totally upright, the amounts of wherewithal that she had recollected throughout her ascent allowed for her to express genuine disappointed at how Scarlett’s ‘special day’ had progressed. Succinct and pointless, the uncharacteristic funk that overtook her lasted from the beginning of her laborious waddle over to Scarlett’s position, right up until chance ‘flashes’ within the corners of her eyes brought attention to the derelict adult males that remained strewn out around the carnival grounds.

Swiveling her head from left to right, she half-heartedly addressed Scarlett with a renewed intent lighting her features.

“Hey Scarlett…”

“I’m, y’know, sorry for disgusting everyone into leaving and everything, but do you see what I see?” she suggested.

Expectedly, the presence of the men that surrounded them was one of the first things that Scarlett perceived upon being allowed to refresh her brain with oxygen. The finer details of their frames were blurred by an overwhelming excess of matted semen atop her eyelids, though their ‘images’ did not at all differ from those that she had stored within her mind throughout her earlier abuse. These images were those of the most threatening and fear-inspiring sex-offenders of the carnival grounds: the very individuals that she sought to attract over the children she had enjoyed sex with.

Thus, at Tracer’s suggestion, she focused herself more so wiping cum from out of her eyes and eating it than she did with their presences.

“Yeah, sure…” she replied with a pout.

“It is that group of older guys, right? The guys who were looking at me more than you?”

“I guess they were messed up enough to want to stick around…” she suggested.

Noting the flatness in Scarlett’s voice (alongside its cock-wrought hoarseness and semen-induced congested), Tracer jumped at what she believed to be a chance to finish herself off and improve Scarlett’s mood in the same instance.

“Awh…”

“You know I didn’t mean to scare everyone off! People just get sick to their stomachs when they watch me for too long.” she explained.

“Here, I know: I’ll see if these guys want to fuck us up any. That’d make you feel better, right?”

Instinctively, Scarlett portrayed herself as the ‘slighted girlfriend’ unwilling to accept ideal recompense from an apologetic partner. Following a crossing of her arms, she turned her head away from Tracer, and muttered out a response indicative of her suggestions potential effectiveness.

“M-Maybe…” she breathed out.

“What makes you think that they’ll wanna do it, though? Sure they like watchin’ kids, but that doesn’t mean that they’ll actually fuck one in broad daylight, does it?”

Knowing far better than to doubt the isolated perversion of homeless males, Tracer acted to disprove Scarlett’s hypothesis, and begin the insemination of their frames anew. A fresh breath of air was drawn into her lungs, and a tactless address of those that had choked off their once numerous ‘escape routes’ left her lips.

“Hey, you lot! We see you, so you may as well huddle up already!” she shouted.

“If turnin’ us inside out on your cocks is what you wanna do, come right on over; you can do whatever you’d like to Scarlett and I. We’re both totally up for grabs; either or ♥”

This utterance stimulated a torrential surge of the human vermin that had collected to observe them into positions ideal for the sort of sexual manipulation that had been offered to them. As the targets of their movements, both Tracer and Scarlett were submerged underneath wave after wave of grimy hands grabbing at their bodies, and unwashed phallus meat unlike anything they had experienced prior.

Although not by much.

Happily surprised, Scarlett’s mood improved following direct contact with one of these erections against her sweat-peppered rear. Tracer, on the other hand, enjoyed no such ‘jump’ in affect. She merely licked her lips; an anticipatory gesture meant to convey her boundless hunger for the very worst sort of sexual intercourse imaginable…

-
A LOSING BATTLE AGAINST AGE AND PREFERENCE

In the game of “Who do vile, homeless male degenerates enjoy abusing more?” Tracer was, for the first time in several hundred encounters, made to assume the role of a ‘loser’ relative to Scarlett’s ‘winner’. When the tide of males that assaulted them drew outwards, the number that clung to Scarlett vastly outnumbered those that did her. Additionally, the clamoring of those who fought to the share the younger girl for the penetration of her orifices resulted in the imposition of several ‘firsts’ onto her frame that, for Tracer, were likely to have appeared as much needed ‘pick me ups’.

Simply, she was made to serve as the ‘meat’ of a triple-decker sandwich of degenerates. After being laid out across one of the hairier male’s stomachs, the stuffing of her womanhood with a heavily-vascular and foreskin wrapped member was followed up by the drilling of not one, but two equally flared phalluses into her asshole.

These occurrences mutated Scarlett’s happiness at the turn of events to a wild, coo-strewn ecstasy. Between the pre-greasing of her cunt and asshole by preteen semen and her recent addiction to the sensation of having her insides plugged full of throbbing cockmeat, conditions had been primed for the happening since the first ruthless spreading of her thighs by the male populace that surrounded her.

What followed were timed, clattering, and visibly curved injections of a trio of cocks into and out of the semen-stuffed body cavity of a little girl. Held ‘lovingly’ by her primary suitor via a looping of hands across her tattooed lower back, the distensions of her elastic womanhood and intestines were limited by the smothering of her stomach against the reeking male’s gut, and her frames propensity to absorb abuse respectively. Just as had been the case with the younger crowd who engraved the vein-work of their endowments into her guts, her nubile innards willingly formed ideal gloves around the over-sized flesh conglomerates that pummeled and ground the extent of their depths.

These things were done instinctively by her body as a consequence of their being “That which a tireless, near-toddler-aged semen dumpster ought”; all whilst manic squeals and coos were tossed arrantly from her throat.

Impressively, the peeling of Scarlett’s smegma-buttered orifices out against these cocks was not the extent of her ‘stealing the show’. The presence of these males was complimented by the violent masturbation of a half-dozen others situated overtop her frame. Degenerate through and through, the rag-adorned members of this group appeared entirely content with choking of their endowments at the sight of her. So copious was the amount of pre-cum dribbled onto the girl’s frame that, in time, discerning it as different from the sweat naturally produced by her flesh became a tiresome practice.

All in all, the little girl’s share of proceedings was by far the most visceral of the two.

Left with little to claim to but a roughly-texture cock punching in and out of her sphincter and a fresh batch of cock-sweat for her tongue, Tracer too found it profitable to ignore the stuffing of her own holes and instead attend to the noisy event to her left. For her, doing so came naturally; the fundamental tenants of her existence (pedophilia) rendered the sight as more satisfying than even the abuse of her body.

As if hypnotized, she again looked to masturbation as an accelerant for the pleasurable flame that burned within her. Having been forced into one of her trademarked ‘squat and bounces’ overtop a single phallus whilst the other abused her tonsils, a short-ordered return of her dominant hand to the sliding, stirring, and gutting of her quivering folds ensued as a matter of course.

Dominant within her mind were thoughts of Scarlett’s one day overtaking her, though directly behind them screamed suggestions equal parts expected and objectively loathsome.

“I’m not going to have to keep functioning forever, am I?”

“In a little while, Scarlett will be the only putrid bitch that this world will need.”

“Or at the very least, the only one that needs to do more the slurp her own cum puke off of the ground ♥.”
-

WHEN TRACER APOLOGIZES, SHE REALLY APOLOGIZES

Neither Tracer no Scarlett could have predicted the speed at which the usage of their bodies drained their fat-cocked suitors dry. Both female’s had estimates as to when the event might come to an end, but the passage of a mere two sperm-riddled and uproarious hours was far, far below them.

When the last of their ghoulish suitors was rendered unconscious by exhaustion, both women enjoyed no difficulty in returning to their feet, wringing the excess semen from their hair and faces, and conversing as how best to spend the rest of their day.

In spite of her overturning Scarlett’s bad mood, Tracer suggested, and effectively enforced her providing further recourse to her lover as the ‘closing act’ for their day. Described briefly, her intent concerned one of the many activities that which her warped consciousness considered to be ‘gift worthy’: an opportunity to act as dancers within a strip club with next to no security and entrance limitations.

The club in question, one that she had performed at several times during her ‘younger years’, was one known for the poor treatment of its dancers, and worse still, their visibly questionable ages.

Comically, it was Tracer’s mentioning of the latter fact that solidified Scarlett’s desire to participate within the ‘gift show’ she had been offered.

Thus, in lieu taking any time to clean their soggy and smeared frame, enthusiastic ‘woo’-ing and tugging from the girl saw the pair transition immediately into a journey toward the seedy locale.

Leaving a trail of semen in their wakes, the two females strode forward as if progressing toward their destinies.

In reality, of course, little more awaited than more of the abuse that their vapid psyches craved…
-

STRIP CLUB INTERIOR—CENTER STAGE

“Right’o, time for one last check!”

Peeling away from her underage partner’s side, Tracer performed a girlish twirl meant to provide Scarlett with a 360 degree view of her frame. The move, labored by the increased weight of her stomach, offered Scarlett a glimpse at the sleek and streamlined movements that she had fallen in love with upon first catching sight of the brunette years prior.

Regrettably, this sight was about all that she gleamed from the act; the smoky, inconsistently lit darkness of the strip club obscured the vast majority of Tracer’s frame throughout her twirl. Worse still, what portions of her body were actually illuminated by flashing lights above them remained heavily caked, or in some cases, crusted with semen.

Blissfully unaware of the conditions within which she had attempted to ‘show off’ to her partner, Tracer completed her twirl, and returned to her expectant gazing at Scarlett’s profile with eyes that asked “How do I look?”.

Scarlett’s response was neither negative, nor overtly positive; as it turned out, the girl was as much impressed with her partner’s slovenly whorishness as she was bashful about having the ‘girl of her dreams’ go out of her way to attempt impressing her. In an attempt at producing an ‘adult’ response in turn, she crossed her arms underneath her own semen-adorned chest and giggled.

“Ohmigod, you look fine, Tracer. Stop fucking asking!”

“That outfit works way better on you than the one you wore to school; no one really cares what you look like clothed anymore, so using stuff with even less fabric was a smart idea.” she replied.

“I think you look super cute, too. You’re still a used up pedophile who gets off on the approval of a 7 year old girl, but that’s kind of a given.”
At this, an unseen blush tip-toed hurriedly across the midsection of Tracer’s face. Unmitigated by its presence, she responded with a rarely perceived petulant repentance to her voice.

“Well, can ya really blame me?” she replied.

“Any good girlfriend would want to look propah’ for her lover, innit? What I wore to the carnival didn’t seem to grab your attention, so I felt a little desperate for some real feedback from you, y’know?”

In a display of the mature ‘understanding’ that had seen her pair up the woman, Scarlett comprehended Tracer’s concerns, and quickly devised a means of dispelling them. Crossing her hands behind her back, she pushed her spine further up against the metallic pole that supported her leaned frame, and thereafter proceeded to beam up at her counterpart with the same wholesome admiration that she directed at her during their shared instances of genuine intimacy.

“Well, in that case, I’ll put it this way…”

“You’re so cute, in fact, that everyone in here is gonna blow super fat nuts all over you in a few minutes! Wanna know why?” she suggested airily.

“‘Cause you’re Lena Oxton: the nastiest and best-est tadpole slurping whore I know!

“Next to me, of course.” she added with a giggle.

Through this utterance, Tracer received the encouragement that she had desired to hear from Scarlett without once verbalizing her desire for it. Internally ecstatic, she too smothered her back against the steel pole behind it, and after a casual slide down into a labial-lip fattening squat, planted a loving kiss against the younger girl’s glitter-glossed and cock-flavored cheek. Afterward, she sensually breathed an appropriately-worded response directly against her ear.

“Still findin’ new ways to be a cheeky lil’ slag, I see.”
“Thank you, though. Your opinion matters a lot to me; and not just because you’re below the age of 10.” she replied.

“About you bein’ a betta’ piece of fuckmeat, that we’ll have to see about. A tight cunt and cute face might satisfy the obese perverts who end up squeezin’ loads into your twat, but an’ experienced piece of shameless meat has loads more broad spectrum appeal!”

Overtaken by incredulous deference, Scarlett opened her mouth to flippantly disagree with Tracer’s suggestion. Prior to the enunciation of her first word, a burst of light from out of one of the bee-hived spotlights above her saw her lips pursed by virtue of her sudden illumination.

One after another, the remaining lights of the hive bathed the stage atop which the pair stood in bright white light until, as intended, both of their rancid, sex-smeared frames were displayed to the club’s audience in full.

Denied her opportunity to speak out, Scarlett produced a smirk convoluted by a crossing of displeasure and excitement; an expression ideal for the words that she hissed following its formation.

“Have it your way. We’ll just call whoever ends up covered in the most fresh cum the winner~!”
-
SEX-DRUNK PEDOPHILES AND 7 YEAR OLD GIRL’S AREN’T THE GREATEST REALISTS.

Much to the displeasure of Tracer and Scarlett, not a single drop of reproductive fluid was flung at either of them throughout the duration of their dance.

Bluntly, neither of the females could produce a ‘dance’ sexual enough to warrant masturbation. No matter how the club’s loyal patrons angled their eyes, none proved capable of viewing the talentless gyrations and pregnancy-addled movements that dominated the display as at all ‘worth it’.

The less than thought provoking nature of their movements aside, the marring of Tracer’s and Scarlet’s bodies with semen was far too significant for them to appreciate; nothing about either of their sexuality proclivities were left to the imaginations of the audience of seasoned degenerates.

Unable to contain their displeasure, cries for a stop to the performative travesty began reverberating from one end of the club to the other.

“GET THE FUCK OFF THE STAGE!”

“I COULD BE AT HOME CRYING WHILST MASTURBATING RIGHT NOW AND STILL BE HAVING A BETTER THAN WATCHING THIS!”

“THIS SHIT IS MAKING MY COCK MAD SOFT, NIGGA. CUT IT OUT. BOOOOOO!”

Unable to pass the displeasure of their audience off as the disgust that they wished to masturbate to, the failing duo, with time, ceased moving altogether. In her confusion, Scarlett deferred to Tracer for an apt means of progression. Regrettably, total rejection by an all-male audience was, in fact, one of the few response types that Tracer lacked experience with.

Left to stammer at a crowd ready and waiting for any reason to forcibly remove them from the stage, Tracer hurriedly defaulted to a palliative suggestion she had made earlier within the same day.

“H-hey! Do you guys w-want to, m-maybe, violate the both of us until we can’t s-see straight?” she stammered.

“You know! Since we danced so bad and everything!”

Uniform moans of disgust from the crowd at the sound of this suggestion saw one of its member tersely summarize the opinions held by each of its members.

“NO, FOR FUCK SAKES! IF WE WANTED TO HAVE SEX WITH HUMAN FILTH WE’D HAVE FUCKED YOU BEFORE YOU EVEN GOT ON STAGE!”

To this, Tracer gulped, and nervously continued down her list of suggestion until one was met was a deliberative hum from the crowd’s majority.

“I-if not that, then maybe I could pay for some regular prostitutes for you guys, then? Scarlett and I could even be the toilets you piss in after you’re finished with them?”

Faced with this suggestion, the combative air of the strip club was resolved by a much needed injection of acceptance at various points throughout it. Soon enough, yet another utterance deductive of the crowd’s move pipped up from somewhere within the crow.

“Sure. That doesn’t actually sound too bad. I’ve been wanting to piss on your face since that livestream.”

Landslide concurrence from the audience in response to the utterance rendered Tracer’s profile alight with bliss. Recognizing another opportunity to see herself and Scarlett mistreated, she turned to her calmed lover and uttered a final ultimatum.

“Well, it is a little different than I intended it to be, but the night isn’t lost yet, love!” she suggested.

“How about we head to the bathroom and see how many orgasms we can rub out before our stomachs end up right full of piss?”
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Tracer Straight up fucks Children