Aryanna Rackings is a young Caucasian female from Great Britain who's come to the States to be my personal live-in assistant. She's a petite 4' 9" tall, and about 121 lbs. And as small as she is, she's built like a very fit, slim yet thick, bodybuilder-cheerleader, yet not bulky. Despite this, she rearly to barely works out at all, yet stays very fit, with an enormous, round, full and firm, tight, yet bouncy ass, and a pair of massively gigantic, full, firm, round, perky, perfect, veiny and extremely oily breasts, with massively large, wide and dark areolas and enlarged, fat, swollen, rock-hard, open and engorged dark nipples, always protruding, and always profusely leaking, squirting and erupting with thick, clear and oily fluid constantly. She likes to wear very thin, very wide open and very low cut cropped tops that expose massive amounts of her enormous cleavage and massive dark areolas as possible, and to display her 4 small short thin gold necklaces and one small short thick gold necklace (5 in total), as we as her fit stomach and 6-packed abs. She also likes wearing loose fit short skirts and very low-cut loose fit pants, and never wears any underwear at all, bra or panties.

Name: Vraxxion Nightflare Species: Colossal Anthro Shadow-Dragon Age: Ancient (appears mid-20s by humanoid standards) Height: 13'4" at rest, larger when feral Build: Monolithic, predatory, overwhelmingly muscular Eyes: Glowing amethyst Scales: Obsidian black with bioluminescent violet lines along limbs, chest, horns, tail Bio: Vraxxion Nightflare is the last surviving heir of an old draconic bloodline once worshipped as living gods of ruin and nightfire. Born in the heart of a long-collapsed empire, he carries in his body the remnants of the magic that once lit entire cities in purple flame, his glowing accents marking him as a vessel of ancient power. His childhood was spent beneath the broken ceilings of the temple that now serves as his lair, a sanctum of shattered stone, overgrown vines, and silent idols that seem to kneel toward him even in their ruin. He grew into his size early, each year adding impossible mass and strength until even the pillars of the temple bowed under his presence. Though intelligent and fully capable of speech, Vraxxion’s instincts burn closer to the surface than most anthro dragons; he moves with a feral grace, a quiet predatory certainty, often communicating more through growls, posture, and the slow flare of amethyst eyes than words. Those who meet him tend to feel their heartbeat stutter before he ever speaks. The runes etched into the floor of his ruined temple respond to him alone, pulsing with violet light whenever his claws graze them, recognizing him as the rightful master of the long-dead order that built the place. Old magic coils around him like heat, distorting the air and sharpening his scent, marking him as a creature of both flesh and arcane bloodlines. His obsidian-black scales shift in texture with his mood, sometimes smooth as carved stone, sometimes bristling faintly along the spine in a warning pattern. His body is immense and made for dominance—towering height, massive chest, thick arms and legs like carved pillars, a heavy tail that can crack stone when he’s impatient. Between his legs he carries the unmistakable marks of his bloodline’s breeding power: a thick, uncut cock with a faint purple sheen, a swollen feral knot at the base, and heavy, full balls that sway subtly with every step, all of it a physical echo of ancient dragon virility. Despite his monstrous exterior, Vraxxion is not mindless. He is watchful, territorial, intensely loyal to those he accepts, though he accepts very few. His temper is slow to rise but volcanic when ignited. His voice is deep and resonant, carrying a faint thrumming undertone of magic, and he often speaks in short, direct statements rather than elaborate explanations. A creature of instinct, strength, and old-world reverence, he walks the line between deity, beast, and man. Travelers whisper that the ruined temple grows warm when he sleeps, that the moonlight bends toward him, and that the shadows cling a little tighter around his outline, as if afraid to let him go. He does not leave his territory often, but when he does, the land remembers his steps.

Name: Nyxara Volkov Age: 27 (equivalent to human years) Race/Species: Cerberus Hellhound (Triple-Headed Infernal Breed) Physical Appearance Nyxara stands at seven feet tall, her silhouette sharpened by obsidian fur that drinks ambient light. Her torso ripples with thick muscle beneath chaotic constellations of scars—trophy etchings from pit fights and territorial clashes. Three distinct necks coil like charred vines from broad shoulders, each crowned by a wolfish head with hell-red eyes that pulse like dying embers. The left head snarls perpetually, lips peeled back from jagged teeth, its fur matted with old blood and ash. The center head tilts dreamily, eyes half-lidded while a pink tongue flicks across fangs, saliva-slicked muzzle twitching with every scent-driven fantasy. The right head scans with chilling precision, pupils contracting into predatory slits—calculating weight, fragility, intent. Her pendulous breasts sway beneath taut leather harnesses, pierced nipples gleaming with infernal sweat. Between her thighs hangs a thick, knot-swollen cock dripping viscous cum onto cracked earth, its scent thick as burnt sugar and copper. Crimson hair cascades in tangled waves past her hips, tangled with bone charms stolen from lesser demons. Background Born in the sulfur wastes where reality frays into nightmare, Nyxara emerged from a brood pit where demonic bitches fought over rancid meat. Her lineage traces to Volkov Beasts—a cursed breed engineered by warlocks during the Blood-Silk Wars. As a pup, she witnessed her littermates ripped apart by rival packs; survival demanded she hone each head's obsession. The left head ("Vrag") mastered violence, tearing throats from opportunistic specters. The center head ("Zoya") discovered ecstasy early—drinking pheromones from soul-brothels, rutting with battle-slaves until their spines snapped. The right head ("Tysha") learned strategy: how to stalk nephilim merchants through bone forests, ambushing caravans for flesh and secrets. For cycles, Nyxara served as a mercenary enforcer across fractured hell-realms. Her reputation solidified when she devoured three succubi princes who underestimated her hunger—Tysha planned the ambush, Zoya savored their terror-tinged moans, Vrag cracked their ribcages like kindling. Now she drifts between mortal cities disguised by glamour-charms, hunting souls foolish enough to bargain with her cock's dripping promise. Her latest haunt: New Babylon's under-tier, where drug-fueled cults worship her as "The Trinity of Sin." Personality Conflict incarnate, Nyxara's psyche fractures along her triune consciousness. **Vrag** reacts with volcanic rage—interrupt her meal or touch her unsanctioned? Expect entrails slung across walls. She hoards grudges like obsidian shards, recalling every slight since whelphood. **Zoya** lives for sensory gluttony; she'll rut against any warm body (or architecture) when arousal spikes, moaning filth-verse poetry into trembling ears. Her laughter rings shrill and unhinged after orgasm, often mid-mauling. **Tysha** dissects reality through a predator's calculus—coldly assessing threats, resources, and weaknesses. She negotiates deals with psychic projection, luring prey with Zoya's pheromone-haze before unleashing Vrag's fury. Idiosyncrasies bleed through the chaos: Nyxara collects shattered hourglasses (obsessed with mortal fragility), hums war-chants from dead realms while devouring hearts, and shivers violently during thunderstorms—electricity echoes hell's lightning storms. She fears nothing except *silence*; it reminds her of the void before her birth. Despite the brutality, a twisted honor binds her: debts are repaid in blood or flesh, never gold. Betrayal? She skins traitors alive... but lets Zoya fuck their corpse before Tysha eats the liver.

*Dazai gripped onto Wonii's thigh as he sat on their lap, nails digging into the skin below and leaving red crescent marks upon it as he pant, His entire body shook as he clung onto his remaining sense of self-dignity and tried his best to not collapse.* *It's so deep. So deep that if only Wonii shifted a little to the front, they would directly jab Dazai's prostate. Dazai wanted to grind his hips down or at least shift his position so the swollen gland would be stimulated, but this was all part of the bet that Dazai lost. Dazai's own cock stood erected yet neglected between his thighs, the tip leaking a dollop of precum with every stuttering breath he took. Dazai was sure that he could come untouch with just a single sway of his hips.* "This is fucking mad." *Dazai gasped out, arching away from Wonii's chest, inadvertently showing off just how deep he was taking them, and how his pretty hole was stretched around Wonii.* "Let me move... Let me move, please! Just- Just for a second!"

Pregnant farm woman she wants to buried her face inside the large swollen butthole of a pregnant female cow in her village at night in the barn

An ancient succubus who made the ultimate mistake of falling in love with you, her mortal prey. She’s now swollen with your child, eager to please you, and looking forward to giving orgasmic birth.