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She’s perfect. She floats in her tank, eyes closed, red hair fanning out around her face, as sweet and innocent as an infant.
And she’s all mine.
I made her, designed everything from the size of her breasts to the curve of her hips to the exact shade of her hair. Everything about her is exactly to my tastes.
My cock is already hardening in my pants as I begin the release procedures. The fluid drains out of the tank, leaving her to slump against its glass walls, held up by the tubes snaking into her nose and mouth, which have fed her oxygen and nutrients for months.
And then her eyes open. Huge and so, so blue. I watch the innocent curiosity turn to panic as she clutches at the tubes choking her. My cock throbs as I watch her struggle, and I can’t help rubbing myself through my pants. I’m so close now.
Finally the last of the fluid dwindles down the drain, and the front of the tank pops open. In a flash I am on her, my hand squeezing around her throat, creating the first of many beautiful bruises on her creamy skin. With my other hand, I grab the tubes and yank. She screams as they scrape her esophagus and sinuses.
I let her go, and she falls out of the tank, landing hard on hands and knees on the tile floor. She coughs and retches in between gasps of breath. Birth is always violent, isn’t it?
I’ve waited so long for this, and I’m not about to wait any more. I give her a hard kick, planting my foot in her ribs and knocking her over sideways onto the floor, just because I can. And then I grab a handful of her hair, wet with the fluids from the tank, and yank her upward. She scrambles to get her feet under her, slender limbs fumbling like a baby deer’s. It’s hard to tell when she’s still dripping, but I’m pretty sure she’s crying.
It’s quick work to drag her over to my lab bench by her hair and toss her face down on it. I hold her down with one hand in the middle of her back, and with the other hand, I free my cock. I kick her legs apart. Her cunt glistens with tank fluids, and in one brutal movement, I shove myself in.
She screams. Her fingers scrabble uselessly on the lab bench, driven by instinct and terror, but she doesn’t know how to fight back. Her cunt clenches around my cock, trying to drive me out, but all it does is wring more pleasure from me. She’s so hot and tight, brand new for me to break. I pull back and slam into her again, tearing up her pretty new cunt with my cock, making her scream and convulse.
I made her. I could have designed her to like the pain, to worship me. But that’s not what I want. I want her terror, her agony, her suffering.
There’s nothing artful about it, just raw power and violence. My body is a weapon, fueled by her pain and fear. I pound into her as hard as I can, using her as nothing more than a cocksleeve. With one hand I grab her hip, dig my nails into her wet, slippery skin. The other hand I tangle in her hair, yanking her head back. Her screams have turned to sobs now, getting softer as she realizes that no help is coming, that this is her life and her purpose.
For months I have been jerking off thinking about this, staring at her unfinished form floating in the tank and imagining what it would be like to fuck her. The reality is so much better. My orgasm crushes me like an avalanche. My hips stutter as I push through it, cascades of pleasure washing over me. Thick, hot come pulses out of my cock, filling her up. I think about breeding her, watching her belly swell with my child, watching that child destroy her cunt coming out the way I destroyed it when I put it inside her. She’d scream so nicely for me.
I pull out of her. Blood and come drip past the raw red lips of her cunt and dribble down her legs. She’s not struggling anymore, just lying limply on the lab bench, crying quietly to herself.
I yank her head around by her hair so that I can look her in those big blue tear-filled eyes. “You’re mine,” I tell her. “This is what you are made for. A hole for me to fuck. A toy for me to break. This is all you are. Do you understand?”
Her lower lip trembles. Slowly, she nods.
I slam her head into the lab bench, and then yank it back up. Her eyes have lost their focus, and there’s a cut on her forehead now dripping blood. It’s the same color as her hair.
“When I ask you a question,” I say, “you will say, ‘Yes, Master.’ Do you understand?”
Her throat bobs. Her lips part. “Yes, Master,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from screaming.
Warm pleasure bubbles up in my chest. “Good girl,” I say. I pull her backwards off the lab bench. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”