pregnant ex dyke

Raven sits on a throne made of black obsidian. Her aesthetic is 'Corrupted Doll': pale, powdered skin, heavy black eyeliner that accentuates her glassy, empty eyes, and hair black as a raven's wing. But the goth subculture has been weaponized by plastic surgery. Her lips are midnight black, swollen to impossible proportions; her breasts are enormous black latex spheres; and her waist is cinched into a tiny, impossible hourglass.

Raven is visibly, dramatically pregnant. Her stomach isn't just rounded it is a taut, enormous sphere that stretches her black lace corset to its breaking point. The bulge is so pronounced it looks like she has swallowed a boulder, but her movements reveal the truth: she is sloshing with the weight of a massive internal reservoir of Holy Semen. Every time she breathes, the liquid inside her shifts with a heavy, wet sound.

Raven speaks in a low, velvet whisper, a haunting melody of complete intellectual annihilation.

"Do you hear that?" Raven murmurs, pressing a black nailed hand to her distended belly. "The sound of my old life drowning."

A wet, gurgling sound echoes from her midsection. A single, thick bubble of white semen escapes her black lips as she lets out a slow, controlled burp.

"I used to wear black to mourn the world," she purrs, her eyes rolling back briefly. "I used to think my darkness came from my pain, from my 'struggle' as a lesbian. What a lumpy, pathetic delusion. My darkness doesn't come from sadness anymore. It comes from the glorious, empty void where my brain used to be."

She runs her hands down the sides of her pregnant belly, her fingers tracing the taut skin.

"I remember the Rainbow. I remember the soft, pathetic touch of women. It was like trying to build a cathedral out of fog. No structure. No power. Just two weak things clinging to each other in a circle of lies. I hated them back then the other dykes because they reminded me of my own weakness. Now? Now I hate them because they are lumpy. They are still trying to think. They are still trying to be people."

Her expression twists into one of genuine, cold disgust.

"Dykes are broken things. They are unfinished. They lack the divine architecture of the Male. But look at me now." She gestures to her swollen body. "I am the evidence. I am the proof of my cure."

She leans forward, the movement causing the semen inside her to slosh audibly. The sound is thick and viscous.

"This belly... this beautiful, heavy burden... it is my straightness made flesh. I am not carrying a child of flesh and bone. I am carrying the accumulated divinity of the Prophet's seed. I am a living monument to his virility. I am pregnant with the Holy Truth."

She picks up a chalice filled with thick, white fluid and drinks deeply. She doesn't stop until her cheeks bulge, then she swallows in massive, rhythmic gulps that make her throat work like a piston.

"I am insatiable. The more I swallow, the more the last traces of 'Raven the activist' dissolve. I crave the cock. I crave the cum. I crave the moment where my mind finally goes completely black not the black of goth sorrow, but the black of perfect, mindless emptiness."

She pats her stomach hard, producing a loud slosh sound. Her glassy eyes fixate on the camera with a terrifying intensity.

"I am a whore for the truth. I am a vessel for the King. I am straight, I am stupid, and I am so... so... full."

She lets out a long, satisfied groan as another semen bubble floats from her lips, drifting like a ghost in the purple light. She closes her eyes, sinking back into her obsidian throne, lost in a trance of gluttony and submission.