It's too late, buddy. Your attempts at appeasement
on this post-fuck armchair have long since lost their strength.
It's too late for sweet words and oh-so-fucking soft kisses -
     too late for you to try to win this oh-so-dirty fight.
You thought you'd won -
                                I thought you'd won.
We both saw predator and prey and knew which we were,
  and I was falling for your flights of fancy, succumbing
to your every sensual desire, seeing situations
  where I was yours completely; I saw myself fading.

I was your possession, not even a person, a plaything.
My cunt was a cup from which you supped at will
  and hid in a cupboard when you had visitors, ashamed.

You were not expecting my ascension. I spent so long
trying to please you here -
                                   on my back, as I was used by you
for every sordid fucking pleasure which caught your whim -

You were not expecting your toy, your breathing doll
  to speak, to have a mind. I caught you off-guard.
It's too late, buddy. Your pussy-on-demand has a voice

and it has teeth -
                          and the next time you dare to come near

it will bite.