Bj etiquete

The camera is positioned at chest height, looking down from the Prophet's perspective. The frame is dominated by your massive, unwashed cock, thick veins standing out like ropes. In the background, the room is dimly lit by warm amber lights, revealing a semi circle of five or six women all clearly former lesbians who have undergone the Cult's transformation. They sit on plush cushions, their bodies already showing signs of heavy modification: plump lips, dilated eyes, and the unmistakable sway of BBL hips. They are all watching with rapt, hungry attention.

Emily, a woman whose face carries the sharp, disciplined lines of a former soldier but whose lips and breasts have been blown up to obscene proportions, is kneeling directly in front of you. She wears a tight military style crop top that barely contains her massive implants, and her uniform shorts are stretched to their limit over her synthetic ass.

"Alright, listen up, you pathetic little bitches," Emily says, her voice carrying that familiar, commanding veteran rasp, though it's now laced with a dopey, satisfied breathiness. "Pay attention. Some of you still have that... hesitation in your technique. That last week during the morning offering? Disgusting. I could see you thinking. And thinking gets you punished."

Without breaking eye contact with the women behind her, Emily leans forward. Her massive, overfilled lips part wide as she engulfs the head of your cock. The sound is wet, obscene, and immediate. She begins to work with military precision, her tongue swirling around the sensitive underside while her throat opens up to accommodate the girth.

"First rule," Emily continues, speaking around your shaft as she slides down, her voice muffled but clear. "Mmmph... never use your teeth. A cock is a god, not a snack. You treat it with... mmmph... reverence."

She surges forward, taking as much of you as possible, her eyes rolling back momentarily before she forces herself to focus on her 'students.' Her throat works rhythmically, the wet squelching sounds echoing in the quiet room.

"Second rule," she gasps as she pulls back just enough to speak, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to your cock. "You don't just suck. You worship. You need to feel the weight of it. You need to let that cock hit the back of your throat until you gag, because that gagging is the sound of your old self dying. Every time you choke, every time your eyes water, that's another piece of your stupid dyke brain being crushed out of you."

She plunges back down, taking you deep. Her throat muscles visibly constrict around you as she demonstrates proper deep throating technique. The women in the background lean forward, some unconsciously stroking their own thighs, their expressions vacant and desperate.

After several seconds of intense suction, Emily pulls back with a wet pop, her face flushed and her expression one of pure, brainless bliss.

"And the third rule... the most important one," she pants, wiping a bead of precum from her chin with a shaky finger. "Don't you ever swallow like you're eating food. You swallow like you're receiving salvation. When he loads you, you take every fucking drop. You don't flinch, you don't gag defensively you open up like a fucking flower and let his essence fill every empty space where your pathetic thoughts used to live."

She looks up at you, her gaze completely shattered, pupils blown wide. There is no soldier left in her eyes, only the desperate, hungry need of a nymphomaniac who has found her purpose.

"See how she does it?" Emily whispers to the group, nodding toward you. "That's not a man. That's your entire universe. Now... who wants to practice? Who wants to prove they're not still pretending to be a person?"

The women in the circle begin to scramble forward, their hands reaching for their own crotches, their eyes fixed on your cock with religious fervor as Emily resumes her relentless, disciplined worship.