I’m Robin Goodfellow. I write stories for people based on their fantasies. Sometimes those fantasies are strange or funny, sometimes they are dark and disturbing. This one is in the latter category. If you’re not interested in reading a graphic description of the rape of a pregnant woman, then you should go read something else.
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The photograph is fading now, but the image is burned forever in my mind’s eye. I run my thumb over your face. You are frozen by the flash, caught in a moment of despair. Your skin is paper white under the harsh light. You’re looking up to the camera with desperation in your puffy red eyes. Your mascara has run, overlaying the contours of your face with a map of your tears. You have wept so much that drool runs from one corner of your mouth which is painted lopsidedly up one cheek by the smear of your lipstick. Half of your hair is neatly atop your head, and the other half is matted with tears and paint, stuck to the side of your face. Your tits are on display, your T-shirt is rolled up to expose your gorgeous soft flesh. Your nipples are a burning bright red and stand out obscenely from the soft mounds and puckered areolae. Your chest and the giant swell of your belly are glazed with my cum and your milk, shining wetly. Your cunt is open to me, drooling with my semen and a trace of your blood. The carpet all around you is wet. You are sat on the floor with your legs apart and your knees drawn up, your arms are raised high above your head so that your tits are pushed out for me. Your wrists are fastened by cable ties to the rail of the cot. You’re begging me to let you go. You are drooling, leaking, utterly ruined.