You alleged that I raped you, told the world that's who I am and forced me to disprove your allegation over and over again, which I did, successfully. Nothing came of your lies, not because I'm a better debater (which we proved in a proceeding) but because truth is on my side. You say "I know the facts," which is why you failed the lie detector, which is why you should have a warning label: I'll stroke your cock to wake you up, I'll put you inside of me, then I'll tell the police, your boss, and your friends that you're a rapist. You say to me, "You know what happened." We fucked. Both of us. You weren't as tight as I hoped you'd be. You must pick huge-cocked men to fuck and accuse of rape. You wanted it in your ass, probably dry and painfully, but I didn't give it to you, enjoying what I thought was a beautiful moment, not knowing you were preparing to re-tell your story of abuse and victimage. You brag to me, "you have to live with this for the rest of your life." Is this your triumph -- that you scarred me permanently -- or is it your proclamation that you want to be like this forever, miserable, abused, victimized. How many men will you torture like this? One at a time until someone goes to jail for the sins of your father? You're a rape charge waiting to happen.