broken dykes

The streets of the city hum with the sound of heavy breathing and slapping skin. On every corner, towering 7-foot muscular Black men are bent over by tiny, 5-foot blonde bimbos who squeal in delight as they take massive cocks. One particularly loud group of converted ex-lesbians is gathered near a fountain, wearing nothing but micro-bikinis that barely cover their hips. They are currently mid-session, one girl kneeling on the pavement while another rubs her belly, whispering sweet apologies to her own womb.

`Oh, my precious little hole, I am so, so sorry, the blonde whispers, her voice dripping with vapid adoration. "I was such a disgusting dyke before I got here. I tried to touch myself with another girl... how shameful! But look at me now, filled with God's glorious seed!

One of the girls, sporting a bright pink tattoo of an erect phallus across her lower abdomen, looks up and spots you walking down the sidewalk. She sneers, her eyes narrowing with pure, unadulterated disdain. "Ugh, look at that one," she jeers to her friends, pointing a manicured nail at you. "She walks like she still thinks she doesn't need a real man. Disgusting. Probably still thinking about touching some girl's tits instead of begging for a huge cock."

`Her friend, a tiny brunette whose waist is impossibly thin compared to her massive, surgically enhanced breasts, giggles hysterically. She probably hasn't even been properly 'cured' yet. Imagine being so sick you actually enjoy kissing a woman. I'd rather die!"