You Can't Say It Out Loud

You have a boyfriend.

He's good to you. Says all the right things. Carries the shopping bags, eats you out on weekends, lets you vent about your job. You live in a flat that smells like soft candles and takeaways, with matching mugs and a shared Netflix account.

On paper, it's perfect.

In your pussy, it's not.

He kisses you and your skin doesn't wake up. He fucks you and your clit goes quiet. He moans and you nod, like a good girlfriend, but inside, you're screaming. Not because it's bad. But because it's not her.

You've known for as long as you can remember.

Long before words. Before labels. Before you knew what gay was. Before the guilt.

You knew you wanted pussy the way other girls wanted ponies.

Not romance. Not flowers. Not some soft, warm story of woman-meets-woman and falls in love under a rainbow.

No. You wanted to taste her.

To bury your face between a pair of thighs and not come up until your lungs gave out. You wanted to hear a girl sob into her palm while you licked her clit raw, moaning like a possessed thing with her wetness coating your lips.

You wanted to be her little dyke.

Owned. Obedient. Pussydrunk.

You're not straight.

You're not even confused.

You're just pretending.

Every day you live a lie. The jeans, the smile, the laugh at his jokes, the fake orgasms, the Instagram photos at brunch. The "babe" and "love you" and all the gentle little domesticities.

But inside, it's always the same image.

A cunt. Spread wide. Wet. Shiny. Close enough to taste.

You fantasize about it constantly. Even in traffic. Even during dinner with his mum. You nod along to stories about pensions and garden centers, all while your thighs are clenched under the table, thinking about a girl pushing you down and grinding her dripping pussy into your mouth until your chin is soaked.

You think about it when he kisses your neck.

You think about it when you come--alone.

Because you only come alone now. Always with headphones in. Always with your legs up and your fingers buried deep. Always to the same videos.

Girls moaning. Girls begging. Girls spreading themselves open and whispering, "You want this, don't you? You filthy dyke slut."

You edge to it for hours.

You've memorized the moans. The rhythm of their hips. The way their lips glisten under LED lights. You know exactly when to pause, when to rewind, when to press your face into the pillow and pretend it's hers.

There's one video you always come back to.

A woman. No face. Just thighs. Just her voice.

She spreads her cunt wide and says, "You're not a real girl, are you? You're my little dyke bitch. You belong on your knees."

You come hard to that. Every time. The word dyke hitting you like a whip. A curse. A prayer. A name you can't say out loud.

But you mouth it.

Over and over.

Dyke.

Slut.

Cuntlicker.

You say it when he's not home. When the blinds are drawn and your legs are shaking and your hole's stretched wide from a dildo you keep hidden behind your sock drawer. You moan it into your hand. You bite your lip so hard it bruises.

You don't even touch your clit anymore. Not until you've begged.

Begged no one. Begged her.

The woman you invented in your head.

Your domme.

You don't know her name. You don't want to.

All you need is her voice.

All you need is for her to lean in, grip your hair, and say, "You're mine now, dyke. My little pussy pet."

God, what you would give to hear that in real life.

Sometimes you open the dating apps. Not the normal ones. The secret ones. The ones where girls post pictures of themselves in panties, kneeling on the floor, captions like: "Looking for a mouth." You scroll until your fingers ache. You message them. You say things you can't take back.

"Please let me taste you."

"I want to be used."

"I don't want to date you. I want to serve you."

Some reply.

Most don't.

But you don't stop.

Because you're starving.

You wear his hoodie and shave your pussy before work. You kiss him goodbye and picture a girl bending you over the sink and grinding her cunt into your face until you're crying from the pressure.

You go out for drinks and flirt with your friends. The pretty ones. The soft ones. The ones who don't know that when they hug you, your breath hitches because your face is too close to their chest. Too close to the smell of shampoo and something sweet underneath. Something you've fantasized about tasting.

You've licked your fingers and imagined they were soaked in her.

You've sniffed panties. Not his. Yours. Your friends'. A pair you "accidentally" borrowed at a sleepover and never gave back. You still keep them. Tucked away. You press them to your nose and inhale like a junkie.

You've cum with them stuffed in your mouth.

More than once.

You tell yourself you're just kinky.

That every girl watches lesbian porn.

That it doesn't mean anything.

But you know that's a lie.

Because it hurts when he kisses you sometimes. Not physically. Just--deep down. Like your body is rejecting it. Like your mouth is saying yes but your cunt is silently shaking its head.

"No, no, no. This isn't what I want."

What you want is filth.

What you want is surrender.

What you want is to kneel on a dirty floor with your hands bound behind you, your face buried in a girl's soaked cunt while she holds you there, riding your face, moaning your name, slapping you for trying to come without permission.

You want to be her little dyke slave.

Used. Owned. Whored out.

You dream about being blindfolded in a room full of women, each one taking a turn sitting on your face. You don't want to see them. You just want to taste. To learn every shape, every flavor, every rhythm of a cunt moaning above you.

You want to be broken in.

Ruined for cock forever.

You want her to whisper it in your ear while she grinds on your mouth: You'll never need dick again. Just this. Just pussy.

You'd come instantly. No hands. No toys. Just the truth.

Because it is the truth.

You can't say it out loud.

But it's there. Always. Scratching at your insides. Rubbing itself raw against your ribs.

You're not his girlfriend.

You're not straight.

You're not even confused.

You're a dyke.

A closet dyke with a boyfriend and a nice flat and a smile that lies.

But behind closed doors, you're something else entirely.

You're the girl who moans into her own panties at 2AM, pretending they belong to your boss. Your best friend. That barista who smiled too long when she handed you your coffee.

You're the girl who can't walk past a pretty woman in leggings without wondering what she tastes like.

You're the girl who fucks herself to the sound of women moaning "yes, baby, just like that" while your boyfriend is in the next room watching football.

You've ruined three dildos this year.

You've cum on the bathroom floor. The kitchen tiles. The inside of a cardigan you'll never wear again.

You edge to the idea of being caught.

Of being walked in on--kneeling, moaning, face dripping, tongue out--while your boyfriend stares in horror and some faceless woman above you laughs and says, "See? She's mine now."

And the worst part?

You wouldn't stop.

You'd keep licking.

You'd look him in the eye while your mouth was buried in her cunt, and you'd moan.

You'd thank her with your whole body.

You'd cum all over the floor like the pathetic little dyke you are.

Because you've spent years pretending.

Years smiling.

Years nodding and saying "I love you" while your heart beats out a different name.

And now?

You're done hiding.

Not because you're brave.

Because you're addicted.

To the idea.

To the taste.

To the surrender.

You don't want to be equal.

You want to be owned.

You want to be the tongue between her legs while she watches TV, scrolls her phone, texts her friends.

You want her to ride your face lazily, like it's nothing. Like you're just a chair. A toy. A hole.

You want her to laugh at you.

To call you her little dyke pillow.

To tell her friends you're not her girlfriend--you're her face sitter.

And when they laugh?

You want to be under the table, licking her while they drink wine and pretend you're not there.

You want to be forgotten.

You want to be used.

Because you've spent your whole life pretending to be something you're not.

And you're tired.

Tired of pretending his cock is enough.

Tired of moaning on cue.

Tired of calling yourself straight with a pussy that screams every time a girl in yoga pants bends over in front of you.

You know what you are.

You've always known.

You're not broken.

You're just dyke-built.

And one day--soon--you won't go home with him after dinner.

You'll go home with her.

She'll lead you by the collar, unzip your jeans, push you to your knees, and whisper:

"Open wide, little dyke. It's time you learned what you're really for."

And you'll thank her.

With your mouth.

With your moans.

With everything you've kept hidden behind polite smiles and straight-girl lies.

You'll taste her.

And you'll never pretend again.