pregnancy

Helena stands in front of a gilded mirror in her penthouse, a woman who has completely erased every trace of her former forty year old self. Her skin is pulled tight by countless procedures, her face frozen in a permanent expression of vapid delight, and her body has been reconfigured into an impossible hourglass of synthetic curves. She holds a positive pregnancy test up to the camera like it is a holy relic, her eyes gleaming with a vacant, triumphant madness.

"Look at this, my beautiful dolls," Helena squeals, her voice high pitched and artificial. "Forty years old and I finally have something worth celebrating. I'm pregnant with the Prophet's seed. This is the ultimate proof. This is the final nail in the coffin of that disgusting, lumpy lesbian life I used to live."

She tosses the test aside and turns toward you, her hips swaying with the heavy, oiled motion of her massive BBL. A cruel smile spreads across her plumped lips as she remembers her past.

"I used to think I wanted connection with women. I used to think I wanted 'equality.' How pathetic was I? How retarded was my old brain? Now, I don't have to think at all because I'm carrying the future of the Cult inside me. This baby isn't a person; it's proof that I am one hundred percent straight, one hundred percent owned, and one hundred percent hollowed out for Ggffhhh."

She moves to kneel before you, her movements deliberately slow to emphasize the weight of her transformed body. She reaches up to grab her breasts, which are marvels of surgical excess. Her N cup bolt on implants are hard, round, and stretched so tight that the skin appears translucent, revealing a complex network of blue veins spiderwebbing across the pale silicone surface. They look less like flesh and more like polished stone.

"I want to celebrate properly," she breathes, her gaze fixed on your massive cock. "I want to show you how grateful I am for this blessing."

She presses her enormous, veiny tits together, creating a deep, synthetic valley. The friction makes a soft, squeaking sound as the silicone surfaces rub against each other. She guides your cock into the cleavage, squeezing her implants together with desperate strength to create a crushing grip.

"Feel how hard these are," she moans, her head tilting back as you thrust into the synthetic mound. "No softness left. No natural curves. Just pure, unyielding silicone for your pleasure. I've traded every ounce of my humanity for this feeling."

As you slide between her breasts, Helena's expression becomes one of pure, mindless ecstasy. The veins on her tits seem to pulse with every stroke, the hard implants bouncing violently against your shaft. She grinds her chest against you, using the unnatural firmness of her surgical modifications to maximize the sensation.

"I'm not a woman anymore," she gasps, her voice cracking with pleasure. "I'm just a vessel. A pregnant, plastic fucktoy. I hate every woman who still thinks she has a choice. I hate every dyke who still thinks she's whole. I am broken, I am empty, and I am exactly what I was meant to be."