No matter how you dress yourself up or what airs you put on; no matter how you control your body or hide your past; no matter how icy and aloof and self-possessed you may seem, I know the truth. Where you started. What you were. What you are.
Pillowfucker.
Needy, greedy, desperate little grinder, ever since you were young, maybe since before you can remember. Squirming around trying to figure out what your body wanted: curl up and clench, sweaty forehead and sore knees in the darkness of your room. Never let your hand creep down there, or couldn’t figure out what to do with it if you did. And then you tried shoving the big soft lump down between your legs, and squeezing. And oh.
Did you ever get caught? Not more than once, I bet. Some things you learn to hide quickly. But you’ve always had a hungry body, and you never could quite rein it in. Sneaking off whenever you could manage it, calculating how long it would be until you’d get to try again. Your mind wandered in school and church and family outings. Couldn’t help that. Your pussy kept leading it astray.
This is what I mean when I call you “little girl,” little girl. You haven’t really changed at all. You’re the same wet flushed sullen frantic humping pillowfucker you’ve been your whole life, and all the roles and rules and pretty words you use are just attempts to conceal it.
They don’t work. You’ve been caught a second time, and there’s no playing it off or hasty excuses, not with me. I can see what’s inside of you, little bouncer, little secret keeper, little burning ember. No point in hiding anymore.
Now show me what you can do.