You took my half dozen, and maybe one or two more, with your hand and guided it inside, loving the feel, the warmth, the size. You took my half dozen, filled yourself with cock and guilt, moaning, saying my name worrying you're a whore, not the virgin-slut cock-tease bitch you wish you were. You took my half dozen, in and out, decided it was rape had your cake, ate it and fed your identity as a hapless victim a silly girl. You took my half dozen but wanted me behind, put your ass in the air, was it for your cunt or did you want me to fuck your ass like daddy used to do or was that the babysitter or your own mangled vegetable fuck? You took my half dozen with glee and venom a moment of passion a lifetime of hate, said "in california, that's rape," told the cops you were passed out, didn't remember how good it felt. But you remember my half dozen, touching yourself at night or sometimes in the bath rape-fantasy, damn that feels good touch me, rape me, fuck me from behind. You took my half dozen worse than a rapist, repeat-offender psychological nutcase fuck bitch, you wander a fog of lies hurting women who don't consent, casting doubt on their abuse, hurting men you thought you loved.