Free books, The Doll who Loved me

The Doll who Loved me – Chapter 2: A cup of blessings

Credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/woman-blonde-look-looking-1919143/

Wednesday was groceries’ day. At some point in the long past, there was a particular reason for him to pick that day—and only that day—for buying his weekly essentials, though he no longer remembered it. Wednesdays just felt right. They had a laxness to them: neither the dread of Mondays nor the chaos of Fridays. They sat right smack in the middle, almost as if balancing the whole workweek on their head, so the world seemed alive, but tame.

Safe. It just felt safe. Not that he had many reasons to expose himself to the world every week, Wednesdays or not. Once every month would suffice, given that he ate very little, and consumed other frivolities even less often. Somewhen in the past, too, he’d changed his schedule for buying groceries only once every month to once every week. As with his choice of the groceries’ day, the exact time of the change eluded him, but the reason was much clearer than ever: «she is so pretty.»

He stood idly at the entry of the market. Time slowed down whenever he saw her. ‘Pretty’ wasn’t the best word. ‘Hot’ was.

That was a perk he hadn’t considered at all when moving to that country—well, not consciously, at least: people there looked much more beautiful than the average—almost astonishingly so—, and girls who would be models elsewhere were usually teachers, drivers, or cashiers in that land. The most average of them looked like models; the better ones, like angels. Competition was so stiff even the cutest gals didn’t think too highly of themselves, and many of them probably even faced a good deal of self-esteem issues, becoming easy (or at least easier) preys for men with just a little bit of balls between their legs.

He wasn’t such a man. In fact, he might was well have been born a girl, so paltry was his pair. He remembered how it took him an Herculian deal of effort to even just look at a woman in the eyes for the first time—and that was with his fucking phychiatrist! His experiences taught him to never again even try and address a lady. Ever. «Just a waste.» He lowered his head and walked in. «Don’t bother them. You’re just a waste.»

Yet still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the pretty girl at the register as he loaded the bags on his cart. He sometimes stopped between the lanes just to have another glance at her, all while making sure he’d never pause for longer than three seconds, more or less. He had become quite an expert at being a lurker without being a creep. He didn’t want to make pretty girls uncomfortable, yes, but he also wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure of seeing them. «The sight of a pretty woman is a human right,» he sometimes justified to himself.

At first glance, that girl in the counter was polar opposite of one he’d purchased, and not just from the fact that she was, well, actually real. She was slim and very feminine, hardly weighting nine and a half stones, and definitely without a drop of tomboyishness in her whole demeanor. She was an all-around princess, yet she still carried that humbled, honest look of someone who didn’t have all things in life handed in a silver plate—beauty aside, of course.

She looked down-to-earth. Real. Just like him. He loved to imagine how much better the world would be from her point of view. Good parents, great country, strong relationships, calm and peaceful society. How would it feel to have people always smiling when they looked at you? Treating you like a human being? Showing you always the better angels of their nature?

Should feel nice, he sighed. A world less dry, less threatening. A world where he’d be safe anywhere, anyday, not just on Wedsnedays, and definitely not by living at the very edge of the frozen outskirts of Earth.

He calmly placed his items one by one on his cart. Stopping by the frozen goods, he gave one good look at all he’d bought and realized his lifestyle wasn’t all that bad. «I’m not that much a loser,» he smiled, if only briefly. There was not a bit of organic food or spice in sight, yes, but at least he was past the point of consuming only ready-made goods and frozen junk.

Yeah, he still ate like a college student, but at least he’d be a rich college student: there was pasta and rice and beans with expensive sauces and whole pounds of expensive meat coupled with some fancy-ass bottles of juice imported from his native land, of all places, which happened to sell for a pretty penny up there in the Artics. «Heh. Ironic.» He wondered, feeling the weight of the bottles in his hand. «Back there, this thing’d be cheaper than water.» Considering how hard sanitation and plumbling came around, that wasn’t all hyperbole.

There is only so much junk food, after all, one could have before kissing their heart bye-bye. Mostly, though, it was shame: though food did bring him confort, it’d never been to him the end-all, be-all it was for other people. His hatred for growing fat just happened to be much stronger than his pleasure of munching on junk food.

In a way, the things people did to him in his old country did leave a positive side effect on his body—if not on his mind.

He startled himself by throwing a package of meat a little too hard in his cart. The sound of the heavy meat clashing on the metal woke him from those nasty thoughts, only for him to notice that other people were staring at him very intently.

He immediately lowered his head and carried on with his business, rolling fast between the lanes and disappearing from any gaze as quickly as possible.

People could sense the weird and the disease in him. It was obvious for anyone with their minds in the right places: just as beautiful, rich people exhuded the smell of ease and success, he smelled the stench of failure and inadequacy. It wasn’t even that he resented the fact he was made to fail and slumber; it’s just that everything took so long! «Nature could end me now and quick.» He thought, moving along the isles without picking anything. «More merciful, ya know.»

The fact he could have to go for fifty, sixty, maybe seventy years longer in life sometimes made him desperate. Alone in his apartment—his heavenly kingdom—he sometimes screamed to himself, banging his head against the walls, never to be heard. Not that he minded, of course, never being heard. He preferred it that way, that nobody knew of his problems. It was much better than somebody knowing, but not caring. Or worse: somebody knowing… and enjoying it.

He felt the swelling under his eyes and stopped at the middle between two lanes, felling his heart pace and his skin burn, sweat forming on his forehead. There was a slight unease of breath followed by a blurring of his vision. He had to close his eyes and count to ten, twenty… fifty… but the problem didn’t go away as quickly as it used to.

The longer he faced it, the worse it got. The last time he had it this bad… well, it was really, really bad! Back in his old land. In public. It involved slurs and beating. And blood. His blood.

He felt like losing balance, and the image of those shelves toppling on one another like dominoes because of his carelessness burned brightly in his mind. «The manager’ll come. They’ll scream at me.» The swelling and pain got stronger. His hands were trembling, gripping the cart’s handrail like they wanted tear it off.

A voice came by his side. Almost scared the soul out of his body: “you alright, mate?”

He answered just as promptly: “hmm… headache. Big one.”

“Uh.” The stranger gave him a good look and, thankfully, ignored him. Maybe the man saw that he was no good. Maybe he saw he was a foreigner. Or maybe he had feigned normalcy so that the stranger didn’t feel like saying anything else.

Still, it stung a little. Even if it was actually “just” a headache, it would have been nice for the man to ask if he needed anything, or maybe even go the extra mile and offer him some health assistance—like calling a doctor or something. «Nah,» he forged a smile on his face. «I’m good. It’s better this way. This guy made me a favor.» People like him were better off forgotten.

Maybe looking at the beautiful cashier would make him feel better.

It did. At moments like those, he usually didn’t like thinking about women. Brought him back unconfortable memories, you see. It was a useless, anyway, to dream about something he’d never have. That girl, however, made him feel special; she made him feel calm and sweet. It was something ‘bout her beauty, both arousing and delicate, like a lover and a sister, or a goddess who’d turned into mortal just to take care of him.

He didn’t feel too intimidated by her. Was it because she was poor (or at least working class)? Was it because she was young and quiet—an uncommon thing for pretty gals like her—, maybe nerdy or a bookworm, someone even closer to him?

«You should go talk to her.»

That voice. That annoying voice in the back of his head. He shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to physically expel it from within him. «No!» He reaffirmed. He was not to do the same fucking mistake he did… so many years ago.

He turned the cart around and strolled aimlessly throught the market, with nothing else to buy. The calm and ease were gone. He was now just fearful, with his head heavy and aching, his heart picking up pace, the pressure rising as he realized that, romantic or not, he would have to face that girl up-close.

«Come on. You’ve done that already. Many times, even!» He tried smiling and being positive, but was bombarded by a tsunami of vicious thoughts at every attempt. Maybe he shouldn’t leave that place. Maybe he couldn’t. He looked around and tried to imagine himself living in that already-too-familiar store—the same spot he’d been shopping for the past two years and something. «Fuck.» The word exploded in his mind, time and time again: «fuck. Fuck. Fuck.» Like a deathroll inmate, he went to the counter trying his best to not look at the guard.

Don’t disturb her. Don’t you dare ruin her good day and good mood with his presence. Beauty was something too precious to be tainted by his being. It was, in a way, his only way of caring for her: the farther he got from girls like her, or the more invisible he made himself to them, the better.

T’was a nice relationship: he fed on their beauty, they weren’t disturbed by him. Though that girl didn’t know it, she made the world a much better place by just existing and being beautiful—as if her abundance of good blessings somehow trickled down into his empty chalice of love.

«I respect you. I really do.» He thought, growing a hunchback as he put the groceries on the counter. She might have been looking at him. He couldn’t know, of course, not without lifting his head and seeing it for himself. «I could be feeling less stressed by not coming out here so often. But I do.» He raised his head. «All because of you. Beautiful stranger.»

She wasn’t looking at him. Mechanically, like the job had become part of her instincts, she just grabbed the stuff, passed them under the barcode reader, and stashed them on the other side. It was only then that he noticed he’d forgot to hurry up and package the groceries. «Fuck!» Was his first thought. «Hot!» Was his second. These two were his only thoughts, basically: «fuck! Hot! She hot! Fuck!»

Her skin was beyond flawless—freckles included. «They’re like whiskers. Her face is so feline. So… feminine.» Her eyes were aggressively green. Like… «wow!» They were almost two big emeralds dimming every other light in the room.

She barely looked at him directly, and that was nice. She treated him with the casual disinteresst of a tired-ass, bored-out-of-her-mind teenage cashier, one who had to take on those menial jobs just to pay her way through college or something like that.

«Here,» he pondered, «she doesn’t have to worry about college.» He felt another pinch in his heart. Looking around the place, it was easy for him to forget just how clean and tidy everything in that country was, to the point that even an mundane store like that shone like chrome. «Nobody suffers here. It’s like paradise does exist, but it’s meant only for them.»

He felt resentful and a little bit angry, leading him to mutter to himself and—oh!—catch the attention of his girl.

She looked straight at him, a bit startled. “Sorry?” She leaned forward. “Did you say something?”

He staggered. Deer-on-the-headlights look in his eyes. “Nah, nothing.” He said, stammering his way through the words.

“Hmm.” The pretty girl moved the last few itens past the scanner: “four hundred fifty-seven, twenty-two.”

“Uh-uh.” He muttered, swiping his card and getting the hell out of there as soon as his payment came through. There was a brief moment, however, as he was typing his PIN, when he wished she’d recognized him. «I don’t know. I wish she, like, said something.» Maybe asking whether she’d seen him before, maybe commenting on the fact that he’d bought groceries regularly there, same time, same day, every week without fail, or… «I don’t know.» Something. Anything.

The best thing was probably for her to not say anything, of course. Still hurt, though. «Why can’t I do a bloody thing?!» He hit his head with a fist, thrashing the bags on his arms. «You stupid little cunt!»

A car almost ran him over as he crossed the street without looking. When he got to the other side he realized, with great sadness, that he was still alive.

«Fuck.» Feeling his head almost exploding with negativity, he looked back at the store, through the dark, blue-ish windows where he glimpsed his girl, so faintly visible, and then he was calm again. With a long, chill sigh, he turned around and walked slowly back to his place. «This doll can’t take long enough to come.»

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The Doll who Loved me

The Doll who Loved me — Chapter 1: The purchase of love

Credit: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-in-black-and-white-stripe-dress-shirt-sitting-on-chair-in-front-of-macbook-4069292/

“I wish I was loved.”

His fingers hovered on the keyboard. Tits. His eyes gazed upon two glorious breasts. He moved the mouse cursor over the “size” option, clicked the dropdown menu, and hovered over the many available options: C, double-C, D-, double-D, E, double-E, F, double-F.

The standard was double-C, which was still some of the most beautiful breasts he’d ever seen. He’d rarely consumed porn. Too fake. Too ugly. «Porn women ain’t real women,» he used to think. They were, however, much more real than that, weren’t they?

He wasn’t sure. Those breasts looked much more natural—much more real—than the breasts he’d ever seen in porn. Only the titillating titties of film stars, in the rare moments when they were allowed to shine onscreen, could compare. For all purposes, those breasts were real and gorgeous—yet he wondered if they could be even more so.

He clicked on the double-D option. His eyes almost left his skull. He spread his legs a bit, adjusting his posture on the chair, and felt the fire burning in his groin. Those were truly astounding tits.

«Jesus!» He was amazed by the realness of the pair: their softness, their roundness, their hazelnut shape. It seemed too good to be true—and, given his line of work, a pinch of skepticism was always warranted. After all, there were only images were available. A video or two wouldn’t be too much to ask for, would it? Unless the sellers were trying to hide something.

«Still… looks so good, though!»

Yes, it did, and for a damn good reason: if there was a brand that could only stand to lose with false advertisement, it was that one. The most expensive dolls in the market, and one of the few notable companies of its kind that had managed to break into the mainstream: the big papers, the big shows, the big tellies, it seemed that everyone had written or talked about it. Celebrities had gone on camera to gush about their experiences with their products. Sex houses in the Old Riverlands even offered them for people who preffered them over real women—real whores, that is.

“More real than the real deal” was their tagline, and his hard penis seemed to concur. «Fucking… hot!» He found himself rubbing one thigh on other, stimulating his member, even touching and rubbing his pants with his palm, nearly hypnotized into jerking himself off. He shook his hand and moved his warm, cock-smelling fingers back to the mouse.

«Fuck. If this is the reaction a fucking doll has on me…»

He didn’t finish his trail of thoughts. The rest of it was clear and predictable, yes, but still he felt like he should have finished it. When he spoke, in fact, rare was the sentence that ended up intact. He mostly broke them in the middle, too afraid and too ashamed for having spelled them in the first place.

With pressure in the back of his eyes, he selected the largest option: double-F. Now the breasts, once glorious and gorgeous, were bloated into abnormal ballons of titflesh—so much tit that the damned milkers went down to the woman’s navel. He had to click on the previous option several times, instinctively, just too erase that hideous image off his head. He didn’t judge it, though. There certainly were people who liked that sort of stuff. «People will fuck anything, really.» He looked to his own body. «Except me, I guess.»

The double-D breasts were big—massive, in fact—but still believably so. He liked breasts that huge and shapely, much more than most men. The thought of their fertility aroused him. The perfection of the dolls nipples made him pucker his lips and gently suck in the air. He wanted to eat those tits and suck their imaginary milk. Were those globbets of mommy love real, they would certainly be lush, hot, and delightful to touch, never for a day dry of their creamy content, their life-giving nectar.

He was so much closer to the screen, puckering his lips like he was trying to kiss it. He spent so long looking at that doll that he’d basically forgot it was night already, and that most of his room was falling into darkness. Only the burning of the screen in his eyes woke him up. When he straightened up and moved his chair back, his penis hit the top of his desk, forming a visible tent on his pants—a small tent, but a tent nonetheless. At the tip, he could already see a moist, sticky smudge in the fabric. He was lubricating himself, but not yet so aroused that he felt he needed to leave the bedroom and let off some steam—and spunk—in the bathroom.

«Damn!» He bit his lips. «The breasts even got weight on them!» He loved the way the tits arched down on the chest, pulled by gravity. Their silicon (and whatever materials they were made of) was so smooth it actually behaved like real skin in a real breast of such size—or at least, well, how he imagined a real breast would behave. It was firm, yet still meaty; dense and heavy like it was full of milk and healthy fat, but still soft in a very natural, human way.

He spent maybe half an hour looking at those knockers, gawking at their shape, rubbing his penis between his thighs. When he accidently zoomed out and had another look at the full body of his goddess, he very nearly lost it.

She was even hotter the second time around. Exactly his type. «Oh, Jesus!» Poor boy was nearly drooling! Her name was Yara (spelled “Iara,” but who cares), and the site described her as “powerful queen of a long-lost Amazonian tribe.” They even had a cute bio for her, story and all. Just the right amount of cheese to be served with good wine:

Yara is a tall, muscle-bound Amazon for the fearless soldier who love ‘em rough. A goddess amongst queens, leader of women and lover of men, endowned with mystical powers of the forest spirits, this steadfast, unwearying warrior is a match for any men in both the battlefield and the bed. An avid horse-rider and thirsty cock-rider. Are you strong enough to take on her? Nights of fire and fury await!

She stood at exactly six feet tall, and had enough muscle to set herself leagues above even very fit ladies. She clearly belonged to a more risqué, niche selection of the company, and her price tag dearly reflected that.

She wasn’t no monster. She wasn’t no lady either. She was, indeed, like a comic book superheroine, only a little more buff. She had aggressive, bountiful breasts and butt paired with a lady-like trim waist, wide hips, and legs big and powerful as a horse’s. Her construction was so perfect he could even see the strains of the muscle fibers on her thighs, which themselves were each as thick as his own whole waist.

She was big. She was buff. A true gem in an otherwise very samey, predictable roster of babes. Her rareness was only accentuated by a glaring red text blinking above her pictures: “LAST UNITS REMAINING!”

Very few dolls had that sign. «Fuck!» He hated to be pressured for a buy, and he knew how those lame sales techniques worked. On the other hand, he usually could sense when such pressure was valid. Though he had flirted with that kind of buy for a long time, only now did everything seem to align: he had his own apartment and enough savings for such a purchase to not sting him (well, not too much).

«Hundred and fifty grand.» That doll was basically a car. «Fuck.»

It seemed fair, however. She was so tall and thick she easily used up more silicon than two, if not three regular dolls. «She’s just! So! Big!» He admired the thick veins carefully sculpted on her arms. «She’s just… so… pretty.»

Perfect. She felt perfect for him. Even after many years admiring girls of that body-type, he’d never actually found one quite so… right. «It’s like she’s custom made for me.» A doll blue-printed straight ouf of his fantasies. He looked deep into her eyes, captivated by her smooth, royal air of serenity. She really had that stern, peaceful look of a queen, that very suble grim of someone who’s perfectly confident in her own abilities, and who doesn’t need to brag or flaunt them even in the face of the staunchiest opponents.

She was, in short, so completely unlike him.

For a moment, the price didn’t seem to matter. Rather, it was whether he was worthy of even having her in the first place. «What a woman. Fuck.» Even that fake, silicon-based creature felt like too much of a woman for him.

He felt bad. Humiliated. He even considered closing the screen and going back to work—which he should have done about an hour earlier, really. It was foolish to dream with love. Better to not feed his heart any more false hopes.

His finger pressed the right button of the mouse very lightly. The muse’s stern look, however, kept him from hitting that red X on the screen. It was a firm, but caring gaze. Strong and loving. Hard and soft. Her facial features were beyond human—they were almost godly. Though her body was Spartan, her face was cherubic, like a beauty from some Mideastern background. Her skin was so much hotter and more lively than his own palish look. She struck a beautiful balance between the tenderness of Europeans and the strength of North Africans.

«She is, like… perfect. Absolutely perfect!» His eyes glided back to the annoying, blinking red sign: LAST UNITS REMAINING! It wouldn’t be a surprise if she were the very last doll in stock. He had seen that warning on some other premium offers before, and every time, once he least expected, poof!, someone bought the very last one of them, and he’d have to wait at a full year (usually longer) for them to come back on the shelves again. Some dolls weren’t even restocked, and instead replaced by new models entirely. What’s more, older dolls that happened to be resold on other places where offered for two, sometimes three times the original price—which begged the question: who the hell buys an used sex doll??

«From this company, well, I think that, for many people, it’s a risk worth taking.»

While he was thinking, the sign was blinking, the clock was ticking. His work apps were open on the taskbar of his computer, waiting for him to come back and be productive again. It was usual of him to stop in the middle of labor and just… daydream. To peruse useless shit online while thinking about better, more exciting things to do—things he’d never had the balls to do, and never would have.

A trip, a better job, a fresh start. «So many more people have such a worse time that I do!» He thought, punishing himself for being so ungrateful. «Such a worse lot in life.» He looked around his room, which was clean, organized, almost asceptic. «I could be worse off. So much worse off.»

If this line of thinking ever brought him any confort, though, he’d be the happiest man alive. Instead, it only got him mad. Or madder.

The powerful woman kept looking at him, her face both the same and slightly different at every gaze. More compassionate, even. It was like she knew what was going on in his mind; almost like… she was the one—and only one!—who could confort him in those times of need.

He couldn’t find the strength to close his browser—not when that could be the last time he’d ever see her again. «It went for sale yesterday. Yesterday!» He thought, biting his nails. «This red sign wasn’t there when I first saw her. Now, it’s almost out of stock.» Her face was so serene he could hear the waves of a calm ocean in it. «Like she’s begging me to buy her!» Like she was meant to be his!

His indecision got to a point where he found it easier to just get up his seat and walk in circles around his condo—not that it was a very long walk anyway: his apartment was just his bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, a living room slash dining room, and a decently-sized storeroom, with a tiny corridor linking all them together—his bedroom and bathroom to one side, the store and kitchen to the other, and the dining/living room in the beginning of the hallway. It wasn’t considered a studio proper, but only because of some foxy technicality the realters used to upsell that property. It wasn’t a football field worth of space, no, and it wasn’t even his (being rented for a hefty price every six months at a time), but still… it was home—and much better than anything he’d ever thought he would ever get in life.

He walked around the place like it was his very first time. «So calm. So peaceful. Neither downtown, nor the suburbs.» He liked going to his tiny balcony and smelling the fresh air from that twelveth floor, from where he could see the calm ocean shimmering under the placcid northern skies. It was cold—almost bone-chillingly so—but he loved it that way. It made him fell much safer than the unstable, unforgiving hotness of his homeland.

Calmed by the view of the ocean, cooled by the air and the hypnotic sight of the few cars whistling by the streets below, he walked back into his bedroom, where the Amazon goddess still awaited. «You are never going to see me again,» she told him clearly, with all the words.

He looked down. His head felt heavy. A hundred and fifty grand were no piss money. «But, anyway, what else do I have to do with it?» He had worked for so long and lived for so little that he ended up sitting on a pile of cash. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it, for all those efforts to feel like… a waste? If there was one purchase his cash would be useful for, wouldn’t that one be the purchase of love? «Love. I will buy myself some love.»

He sat on the chair, his muse looking much softer, much warmer on the screen. That body! That tall, strong body! How firm and lovely should be her embrace, how tender and confident would her lips feel on his neck!

He refreshed the page. The dool was still there, but the sign… it seemed to be blinking faster, didn’t it? More unforgiving. It was now or never.

«Fuck.» He browsed through the many options for his doll, selecting the small details (he thought) he’d like the most: the type of her hair, the varnish on her nails, the texture of her skin, the color of her eyes. «Green.» He thought, finding the whole combination with her Middle Eastern skin very fascinating. «She looks absolutely beautiful with strong, Northern green eyes!» And so he chose it, going on to other details he felt a little embarrassed even having options for—like, were there really that many shapes of vagina in the world?

In the end, once he had assembled his perfect woman, he clicked the big, yellow buttom at the end of the page, and then only a credit card payment screen separated him from his true love.

He scrambled to find his card. Everything was tidy in his desk, and he wondered if he was being clumsy on purpose just to delay that process and to give himself some excuse to not purchase the doll, not change some things around. It wasn’t only the cost or his insecurities that hurt the most. No. To him, to buy that doll was to admit something intolerable; a truth he’d spent his whole life running away from, but that faced him every day, every time he looked at himself in mirror: «I am undesirable.»

With the card in his trembling hand, he typed the info very quickly, looking away from the screen as he hit the big, bright yellow “proceed” button.

A few seconds passed. After a flicker of the screen, his transaction was confirmed. His love was readied for shipment.

He stood there, unmoving, not a thought in his head. Whatever was done, was done. No reason crying about it now. Just out of curiosity, he went back to the salespage and hit the refresh button one last time. The red sign above the doll was no longer blinking. Instead, the words simply stated: “OUT OF STOCK.” He leaned back on his chair and smiled. «Maybe that wasn’t a bad decision after all.»


The Doll who Loved me is a serial novel about an incel being haunted by his sex doll.

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A busty angel watches as Satan POUNDS three muscular demonesses with his 40-inch monster cock! [FREE PAGES]

That priest, however, ticked all the right boxes. On usual circumstances, oh, she made her tongue slip, her mouth water, and her cunt drool. The beast was 8’5ft-tall –taller than many angels—and weighed over 1,000 pounds of muscle in his near-zero-fat body. She squirted all over the clouds just thinking about him, her pristine, diamond-like juices showering her surroundings as she saw his muscles bulging, his arms swinging, his powerful glutes flexing, his thighs hardening as he power fucked that woman.

The mere thought of that beast fucking was enough to draw hot breaths and loud whimpers from her. That bulging bull, brimming with virility, sprinkling his sweat all over his cathedral as he tore the habits of his sisters and fucked them senseless until the chair and tables and stone walls cracked under his relentless thrusting, was more powerful than several hundred stallions in his gentlest of fucks; in his hardest, oh, he couldn’t be compared to any animal (or herd of animals) neither on Earth nor on Heaven or Hell.

When he was fucking with his full might, he stood on a league of his own. The monster literally drilled his lover through a wall and into a large arena, which he proceeded to crack and destroy with his relentless pounding. Lumina saw him pin his woman’s body on the ground and plow through her so fast that his waist disappeared in the air. The name of this lucky woman was Vanessa, and she too was one of the most powerful beings on Earth –powerful enough to fuck her way through hundreds of men without dropping a sweat, but not nearly powerful enough to even come close to matching her lover in intensity, virility, and sexual might. Her massive, muscular body was being reduced to pudding under that man’s bestial thrusts, which made Lumina seize under murderous orgasms as her tits stiffened and the milk literally boiled inside of them.

She felt steam come through her nipples. She was about to burst at any moment, she could feel it! «Fuck!! What is wrong with that man?!»

The priest, you see, though usually a massive, virile being, was growing beyond anything even her nastiest, most sordid dreams could concoct. In his ‘normal’ state, the man was 8’5ft-tall and 1,000 pounds heavy, which was some consolation to her, who stood at 9’5ft-tall and weighed over 400 pounds in breasts, ass, thighs, and some gentle, slightly-fit muscles.

As he fucked that woman, however, the priest went from the largest man on Earth to a veritable beast of muscles, more endowed than at least three breeding bulls. His height quickly ballooned to 10-feet, and his 1,000 pounds of muscles swelled to 3,500 pounds and counting, muscles growing atop of muscles while the beast plowed through Vanessa with enough strength to split the entire, massive arena from wall to wall.

Several cracks grew around the woman’s waist as the priest pounded her with animalistic abandon, and the floor sunk under their hips as the pressure and the speed of his thrusts only became more mortal by the minute.

Lumina couldn’t contain the massive waves of orgasms that rocket through her body –so much pleasure that her massive, JJ-cup tits shrunk and squirted fountains of milk into the clouds. “Aaaaah…!!!” The goddess stuck her tongue out and screamed for what felt like an eternity. It was too much for her naive, heavenly mind to understand! The waves…! “Fuck!!” The waves of pleasure burst from her waist all the way up to her breasts, making the muscles of her chest flex so brutally the gallons of milk were almost exploded out through her nipples like volcanic bursts –and all of that simply by watching the sheer virility with which Gaston fucked his bitch senseless.

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