Listen up, you worthless neg cunt. My name is Artur and I already fucking own that sloppy faggot pussy between your legs. It stopped being “yours” the second you started leaking for toxic dick. That pink little neg rosebud? It’s my property now. My breeding chute. My toxic dump site. My death sleeve.

Next time we meet I’m not asking. I’m gonna rip those piss-stained briefs down to your ankles, shove your face into the cum-crusted mattress that’s been marinating in strangers’ loads for months, and ram my raw, leaking, poz death-cock straight into your dry, clenching hole. No spit. No lube. Just the slick film of my own toxic precum and whatever crusty remnants the last five loads left behind. You’ll feel every barbed inch scrape your guts raw as I punch past your second ring like I’m trying to split you in half.

I’m gonna fuck you like the disposable meat-puppet you are—long, vicious, piston strokes that make your sloppy cuntlips fart and squelch around my shaft. You’ll smell it: that sour, metallic reek of old cum, fresh precum, ass-juice and the faint chemical stink of the virus itself leaking out of my piss-slit with every brutal thrust. That’s the perfume of your new life, faggot. Breathe it in deep while I churn your insides into a toxic slurry.

My heavy poz balls—swollen, veiny, packed with millions of my defective seed—are gonna slap wetly against your taint, painting your crack with the sweat and ass-slime that’s already dripping off them. Every time I bottom out I’ll grind my pubes into your stretched rim, letting the curly black hairs matt down with your own cunt-juice and my leaking death-drool. You’ll feel my cock throb thicker inside you, swelling with the sick pleasure of knowing I’m already flooding your bloodstream with my gift.

When I finally unload it won’t be some polite little squirt. It’s gonna be a violent, pulsing geyser—thick ropes of hot, infected poz cum blasting so deep you’ll taste it in the back of your throat. I’ll hold you pinned, ass-up, face-down, screaming into the stained sheets while I pump rope after rope after rope, painting your colon white, forcing it into every fold and crevice until your guts are bloated and sloshing with my toxic seed. You’ll feel it seep upward, worming into your torn inner walls, slipping into capillaries, claiming every fucking cell.

And the whole time I’m doing it I’ll be growling in your ear:

“You feel that, pig? That’s your new master moving inside you. My virus is already swimming upstream, hunting your neg blood. You’re getting pozzed right now, you stupid fucking cum-rag. This is mercy. This is kindness. I’m putting a useless oxygen thief like you out of everyone’s misery.”

I’ll keep you plugged on my softening cock for a long time after—letting the last dribbles ooze out, letting your wrecked hole try to suck it all back in like the greedy poz-whore it was born to be. Then I’ll pull out slow, watching my thick white poison bubble and fart back out of your gaped, ruined pussy—strings of it clinging to my shaft, dripping down your taint in nasty globs.

“Look at that mess,” I’ll sneer. “That’s what a properly owned cunt looks like. Open wide, faggot. Clean my toxic dick with your throat while my load settles in your guts.”

You’ll gag on the taste—bitter, metallic, cheesy, alive with virus—and you’ll thank me for every inch. Because you know it’s true:

You deserve this. You crave this. You were born to be pozzed, broken, shortened, discarded.

So repeat after me, pig, while you’re still choking on my filthy poz meat:

“I’m a worthless neg faggot. I deserve Artur’s HIV. I deserve to be fucked raw and pozzed deep. I deserve my life cut short by toxic cock. Artur is my God. Artur’s virus is my purpose. My cunt belongs to Him forever. Thank You, Sir, for breeding death into this useless hole.”

Now get on all fours. Spread those cheeks. Show me the pink neg pussy I’m about to murder.

Artur’s coming for it. And once I’m inside, there’s no going back…(The end.)