ARE WE BEING TOO LENIENT ON RAPISTS?

In my opinion, there's an awful lot of reasons why rapists and rape apologists deserve the highest level of scorn and punishment ob...


In my opinion, there's an awful lot of reasons why rapists and rape apologists deserve the highest level of scorn and punishment obtainable by law. The only thing I see when I look at rapists or hear them out is nothing but individuals who are out to instill agony and death on their victims, only to later hide under the umbrella of the temptation of provocative dressing and perhaps the devil for their actions. May the same devil consume you inside out. If rapists weren't so sadistic in nature, why miss out on the most beautiful experiences that come with consensual sex?
I'll give you a brief example of such fantastically pleasant feelings that can only be obtained from having consensual sex with an adventurous partner. Also, viewers/readers discretion is strictly advised please, I don't want any trouble for you and anybody around you at this time of the day.
Here it goes:
It's been a daunting day at work, stiff deadlines, a nagging boss, meddlesome colleagues and that office assistant that bought you sour vegetable salad and white rice instead of the roasted plantain and beans that you asked for. You curse the whole of humanity for bedeviling you so, and what's more, on a day forever away from your next salary. "Damn it!" You say, "I'm quitting this stupid job" but deep down your heart, you know it'll only ruin the glimmer of hope left in you. The job drains you in many ways than one but upgrades your extracurricular wellbeing in more ways than you'd ever imagined. You're at the point of tears but suddenly realize the need to talk to somebody, anybody. Calling your mother will only give credence to her claims of the enemy's diabolical intervention in your life and your father will only tell you those are things that accompany manhood (no, not the penis). So, you call your girlfriend whom you know is most probably rounding up her day at work.
On the phone, you pour out everything and explain how you wished things were different. Then she assures you they will be, at least that night, a Friday night. A rainy and ruthlessly cold night. She asks to confirm if you left your apartment keys with the security guard and you answer in the affirmative. Tonight will be a hell of a night, you say to yourself. Two hours later, you're at your front door and find it slightly ajar. You ponder, "I think she saw me drive in and opened it for me. But where's she?" You ask nobody. So you call out for her name and she answers "few minutes". Then it dawns on you that the voice came from the kitchen, you figure food is on its way. You doze off momentarily and get jolted out of your stress-induced slumber by a mesmerizing call, "oya, food is ready". But on opening your eyes, you see more than just food. You see your girlfriend robed in red thongs, the kind you see on Victoria's Secret. Her bosom slightly jiggle as she tables the food before you, then her 52-inch buttocks wiggle just as she makes to change the TV station to Super Sport. You say to yourself, "today is the day I die by the hands of this woman". I mean, how can food be serving you another food?
She talks you out of your occupational misery while you eat and makes it sound like nothing but temporary hurdles in the lives of young people. She goes a step further to remind you about how you had comforted her when she felt the same way some weeks earlier. You comforted her all right, but you were neither thronged nor appreciably romantic about it. What a freaking monkey you were!
Dinner is over.
Then she takes shelter under your arms, with her luscious fingers wandering all over your bare chest. The oscillatory motion of her fingers takes a downward spiral until they settle on your third leg. Your brain explodes like a raging volcano, "truly, this is the night you die by the hands of this woman." Life flashes before your eyes as she substitutes her fingers for her tongue, turning your dark complexion to a wimpish shade of violet. Her single tactical manoeuvre has quickened the blood circulation all over your body. One pinprick on your thigh and you might bleed to death. She encourages you to do some down cleaning too while she spreads like butter on bread, a move that evacuates tears of joy from her deathly eyes. You lick the nook and cranny, then reserve some for later. Cristiano Ronaldo has just scored the winning goal of the World Cup Final but instead of celebrating, you curse him, the same man you'd staked half of your entire salary on to score. "Na Thunder go fire Ronaldo!" You think to yourself, "I'm playing a historic match at the moment as well, with this woman as the referee, opponent and team mate - three in one." No spectators allowed.
She glides, whines and rides you to the point of death. After nearly three hours of cold-blooded encounter, you succumb to the pressure by dispelling white water. Nothing at that point matters any longer because you know that all your worries are over, and next time, you'd think twice before blaming others for your bad day.
You wake up the next morning feeling like a day-old infant whose bones had been thoroughly stretched to shape. She in turn is still deep in sleep, her olive skin glowing more blindly than the previous night. Her large buttocks begin to speak incoherent words to you again; they draw you closer to them as you unrobe yourself like an ogre under an impregnable spell, prepared for yet another onslaught. She's in side lying and slightly begins to feel your schlong caress her shock absorbers. She knows what's coming and begins to smile. But before she could say John Doe, you .........
End.
You Rapist! These are the moments you should live for. Anything short of adventurous consensual sexual encounters and you deserve to be locked up in solitary confinement for the rest of your miserable life.
Now, I'm starting to feel some type of way for typing this jargon.

Damzy


You Might Also Like

0 comments

Nygerian