gurosmut for guroanon

It's another fine day on the rift as you march down botlane. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, both teams are down one champion each, lost to the whims of the void somewhere, and so it's down to you facing off versus Sona. Quite frankly, this should be an easy matchup. After all, Sona is just a useless enchanter, right?

Sona: ["Only you can hear me, Summoner. What masterpiece shall we play today?"]

As you approach the midway point of the lane, you notice a curious sight. Sona is not floating; she's not even standing. She's sitting on the ground, her legs folded to one side, with her etwahl on her lap. Sona's looking down intensely at her etwahl, not out of neccesity but in adoration, as she strums the most beautiful music you've heard on the rift.

Sona: [From my mind to yours.]
(You): ???

Disarmed by the sight, you sit down and listen appreciatively, resting your elbows on your knees and closing your eyes to take in the melody. A quick _staccato_ surprises you and knocks you down on your back, and you hear a loud thud as you open your eyes and look to the side. You see the etwahl in an indentation on the ground, and you infer from the thud that the etwahl is much heavier than seems plausible. Furthermore, though no one is strumming the etwahl at the moment, its beautiful music still emanates from... somewhere. That etwahl is no ordinary instrument, and Sona is no ordinary support. As you move your eyes to look down in the direction of your feet, you see that your clothing has been torn open by the tones and a leg stands on each side of your body. A billowing robe casts a shadow over you as you look up to find Sona standing over you.

Your eyes open wide in astonishment. Sona's robe, though usually not exactly modest, is undone from the front, revealing an immodest and quite shocking sight. Far from the gentle maiden she appears to be at the outset, Sona is a _big_ girl, and she definitely lifts, at least her etwahl if nothing else, and you understand now that Sona does not train with her etwahl in the usual sense -- she trains _for_ her etwahl. Sona's thunderous thighs and buttocks, as well as her strong core with a faint hint of definition, speaks to the strength necessary to float around with an etwahl everyday. Yet her strength is also accompanied by her feminine charms, as two bursting half-teardrops rise out of her chest, adorned with intimidatingly large nipples, each the size of the tip of your thumb up to the first joint. A sparse patch of faint, fine, blue-tinted fuzz grows at the lower extreme of Sona's torso, highlighting her full, fatty labia. This should answer the longstanding question around the rift concerning matching drapery.

Sona: [Shall we resolve this dissonance?]
(You): If this is what will bring harmony to the rift today, then very well.

After all, if she offers pleasure for both of you in exchange for a truce in botlane, how could you refuse?

Sona plops down on your abdomen and holds down your upper arms. She is much heavier than you anticipated, and you are surprised that you are unable to even wiggle against her weight. She looks at your face longingly, seemingly trying to parse out your desires. Never the mysterious type, your face gives it all away as you wonder if they are real or not. Sona drags her booty forward, her puffy vulva sliding along your torso, and lowers a breast in your face. You closely examine the fullness of her breast with your eyes, and then you crane your neck upward to take in her nipple and areola with your mouth. Instinctively, you start to suckle, like a marksman in 2017 with no agency of your own. Sona's nipple swells and stretches inside your mouth, as each suckle brings forth a burst of sweet, viscous, healing down your throat. They're real and they're spectacular. Satisfied that you're at full health, you release her and she slides back down your body, matching her groin with yours. You feel yourself growing between her slit.

Sona squeezes her thighs, locking your torso between her legs and your porcelain rod between her folds. She buries her head in your chest, her long blue hair draped over your neck, as she slides back and forth, taking care to rub her nub along the center of your shaft and right down the frenulum. Sensing that you're ready, Sona looks up at you and you nod. Sona raises her crotch and tentatively positions just the tip past her entrance, but her canal is strong and does not yield easily. Sona clenches her muscular thighs against your sides tightly, making you just a little uncomfortable, and then sharply hilts herself with her full weight crushing down on your pelvis.

Sona: [A sublime duet.]
(You): You're in luck. A more fragile champion could never withstand this.
Sona: [Accelerated movement, I concur.]

Sona rides up and down, slowly at first, but with increasing _tempo_. Though you knew that she was fit on the outside, you didn't truly expect her to be _fit_ on the inside as well, as Sona's softer features hide the hardness inside her body. It feels almost too tight, and you're not sure if you're stretching her out from the inside or she's squishing you down from the outside. On each of her downstrokes, you struggle to bore past her walls as they threaten to crush your glans and split you open at the meatus. On each of her upstrokes, gooey pressure builds up and massages the ridge of your glans, sending tingles down your thighs. Your palms are sweaty, knees weak, and your arms grow heavy. As Sona humps ever faster, you feel more and more _diminuendoed_, and her thighs grasp ever tighter around your abdomen. It feels difficult for you to expand your lungs to breathe.

(You): S-sona, I-i...
Sona: [... :)]

A bubbley froth forms along the base of your shaft as your and Sona's fluids mix within her and get worked out of her lair. It smells... almost predatory. A warmth develops deep inside you as you start to do a little gasp of pleasure each time she pounds down on your member. But each gasp you exhale only gives Sona more room to clamp down on you like a vice. As your warmth grows past the point of no return, you reflexively hold your breath, expectantly awaiting waves of pleasure to pulse through your penis.

But Sona, her body in full communion with yours, her thighs pressing down on your body, senses your rising heart rate just as well as you. She lets go of one of your arms and deftly reaches behind her, and then she squeezes -- hard -- and twists. A look of sheer terror appears on your face as your eyes bulge in horror. That breath you were holding? You gasp out your last breath in surprise and raise your free arm in protest, trying to grasp at her nearest breast to beg her for mercy or at least to extract your revenge. Your fingers dig into her mound, drawing blood as her nipple bulges against the palm of your hand, but all you see on Sona's face is a devious smile. Those waves of pleasure you were expecting? You're not really sure about those at this point. They may or may not happen. They may or may not be happening. They may or may not have already happened.

All you feel right now is a tremendous, dull, hollow pain inside your abdomen, like an opening to the void sucking up your innards from the inside. You throw up a little, but all you feel in your mouth is a little wet heave. Sona's thighs have literally squeezed all the air out of you, and they are clamped down around you so tightly you can't even empty the contents of your stomach. The lack of oxygen, the pain, and the shockingness of Sona's actions all conspire against you as you pass out under their combined effects. Your chest, though unable to expand anymore, starts bobbing up and down erratically. This is a sign of impending cardiac arrest from hypoxia, and only Soraka can save you now as your soul dribbles uselessly from your penis into Sona's vagina.

[As an aside, Soraka is in a bit of a predicament right now. A few weeks ago, she pinged to her lane partner that she was going to clear a pink ward in the dragon pit, and not a single peep of goat noise has been heard on the rift since. In fact, the pink ward was a delicious bait laid there by one Warwick, who, frustrated by a Riot-decreed meta that banished him from botlane, latched onto her with the jaws of the beast and took her home with him. He desires -- no, requires -- her, and he has a special part for her to play.

At this very moment, Soraka is restrained on all fours in Warwick's barn. Her ample mammaries, long used to nourishing botlane marksmen, swell up painfully and are relieved twice daily by two milkpumps. This finest of goatmilk is sold to be manufactured into refillable potions for Runeterra's champions, and the proceeds cover Warwick's expenses but not much more. For the troubles she has caused him in the past, and for her _role_ in his new life, Warwick repays Soraka with agonizing pleasures that he has designed. An electrostimulator inserted into Soraka's anus activates every five minutes, causing Soraka's futacock to painfully stiffen and contract and squeeze out another goatload. Her astral infusion is collected in a drain pan and used to top up the life-sustaining vial on Warwick's back. In between comings, Soraka's softened goatrod droops and sways with the shifts of her body, kept in a state of drooling semi-arousal by a Warwick-designed stuffed-Vel'koz fitted over her vulva and extending its autonomous noodly tendrils deep inside her vagina.

Another shock, regular as clockwork, sends Soraka twitching as another fire shot out from Soraka's purple ward. Soraka, exhausted and with her face contorted in an ahegao, wishes pink wards still had an expiration time. Vague goat gasps echo through the barn over the background hum of pumping equipment.]

Sona: [Pathetic. I wasn't even ready. Your soul is worthless to me where it is right now.]

Sona stands up. No longer restrained but unconscious and unbreathing, your heart continues its inevitable descent as it shudders with no rhyme or rhythm. Your penis, still full in length but not quite rigid anymore, falls out of her and flops onto your abdomen. A trail of semen arcs down from her taint to your tip. Sona needs to come to a climax in order to take a man's soul into her womb, but this is a difficult dance to perform with a dying champion's limp dick. She retrieves an etwahl string from her robe pocket, bends down, and loops it around the base of your shaft, gently tugging the string tighter. Your member grows purple as another glop of semen squeezes out from the tip. Sona tries to rub her swollen clit along your stiff stick, but the angle isn't quite right to exert the pressure she desires.

Sona: [Well, you won't be needing it anymore.]

Sona examines the string around your shaft, and then her arms flex as she pulls the string at both ends. The etwahl string strangles, and then cuts into, the base of your penis. Blood gradually seeps out from the bottom as more semen remaining inside the shaft oozes out at the top. With a sudden snapping sound, the etwahl string pulls taut and slices your penis cleanly off your body. Sona puts the etwahl string back in her pocket and picks up your dismembered member with one hand. Holding it upside down, she licks at the pink goo oozing from the tip. She looks down.

Sona: [Lestara taught me never to let things go to waste.]

With her free hand, Sona reaches within your wound, inside your scrotum, and digs out your testes. She takes both bloody oysters in one hand and pulls them away from your body as the spermatic cords stretch. With one bite, Sona severs both cords with her incisors, permanently liberating your jewels, bruised and abused as they are, from your dying body.

Sona: [Lightly breaded and deep fried, these will make fine Poro-Snax for the Howling Abyss.]

Refocusing on her primary task, Sona sits down on her butt, her legs slightly bent and splayed out in front of her in a very unlady-like manner. She holds your penis in one of her hands and mashes it down against her clit, flicking it this way and that. Really, only Sona's own strength can conquer her own clitoris, and she wields your rapidly deflating segment against her own body in a frenzied duel. Backed by her full might, Sona's body rapidly concedes. Sona's chest, normally pale as snow, and even now only stained by bloody fingerprints, start to develop a deep pink flush. Sona's heart races as she braces for the inevitable. She arches her neck back, eyes squeezed shut, jaws wide open, as her neck grows taut. Sona tenses every muscle in her body, trying to prolong the moment, before a _crescendo_ of dissonant chords ring out around botlane. Losing control of her body, Sona heaves forward and trembles as her nether region contracts rhythmically out of her control. With each wave of contraction, Sona's cervix opens and closes and laps up a portion of your soul into her womb. Finally sated, Sona holds her arms, fists still clenched, against her chest to try to calm herself. There is an unexpected mushy feeling against her chest. Sona looks downward and opens her fists. In one hand, she held another rubbery trophy to add to her collection. In the other hand, she had crushed your testicles into a bloody pulp, and they were no longer suitable for making Poro-Snax with.

Sona: [Well, I can still use that to make a pâté.]

A wanted poster flies into the wind. Ahri is still on the run, wanted for stealing mens' essences and leaving them as rotting corpses, but she knows she is innocent, and she is determined to bring the real perpetrator to justice. You softly decompose.