It’s always embarrassing when you meet St. Peter without your pants.
And a little sad, when the first word you hear your great-grandfather say is “Whore.”
I told you, I’m just checking for ticks!
What a moment, frozen in time! He’s finally hit the spot.
Not the spot where she chokes, hurts, or feels shame… nah, he hit those spots a while ago, bulldozed them. He’s hit the spot where she can hear her mother’s voice, telling her again and again that this is all she will ever have.
I would loooove to make some stupid twat lose her religion; make her do things to defile herself in the sight of her God. To leave her unclean and forsaken, a broken soul buried within a warped mind, powering a bruised and cum-spattered body.
I want to take away your shot at eternal peace with my hard cock and the back of my hand.
Well, young lady, I hope you’ve learned from this, and the next time you go hitchhiking…
Hah! I can’t keep it up. Like you’re ever going to hitchhike again… or do much of anything else, really, beyond soaking up cum. I hope no one will miss you… but again, what am I saying? Of course they won’t.
Hey there, sweetie! I just went for a walk, y’know, down by the overpass? And I bumped into all these nice, homeless men who wanted to meet you.
I fucking love her eyes when she goes back down for the second time. She doesn’t squeeze them shut or bug them out… she drapes her lids over her eyes like a security blanket, and the outer corners dip to accentuate her delectable shame.
It’s like universal sign language for “I hate myself.”
