No, Saplings, nobody wants to sex you. Quite the opposite. I want to punch your smooth little tummy until it's covered in nasty, angry bruises, black and blue, as you cry out in pain. I want to grab your arm and pinch all over your boyish chest, painfully pulling and tweaking your nipples, forcing them to harden as they hurt. By your hair I'll grab your head and slap your face, spitting into your mouth each time you open it. I'll force you to the ground, looking in disgust at your tented skirt, your cock hard because you're a degenerate who loves abuse. I'll rip that feminine garment off, just to see that your shameful erection is still hidden by a pair of panties. "You freak!" I'd be forced to comment as I flipped you over, pulling those panties down and placing a hand in front of your mouth. "Spit!", And you would, the lube for your little asshole. I would take no pleasure in your moans as I fingered your your hole, fingertips probing and massaging your prostate. Nor would I take any more that the most basic enjoyment as I cast aside my pants, thrusting my cock into your twitching orifice, thrusting as you gyrated on the member penetrating you. I would feel insurmountable disgust as we both came, you first then myself as your tighted and milked it out of me. When we lay there, in the afterglow, the kisses you'd peck onto my neck and and face; and the fact that I would be running my hands through your hair and telling you how much of a good boy you are would be meaningless, deep inside myself I'd still hate us both.
