[MF] That time I fisted and “raped” my best friend on prom night. (Consensual non-consent! Eighteen year olds! Memories!)

(CW: This story features consensual non-consent/rapeplay, as well as implicit reference to real life sexual assault and self-harm. Everyone in the story is 18 years or older!)

“Please,” Nikki whimpered through her sobs as I forced her legs apart. I noticed the pale, feathery scars on her inner thighs–of course, I did. I remembered when she had made them in the first place. But they had faded into her flesh, and it was only in the orange glow of the suburban street lamps that I could trace their presence. Her hairless cunt was already soaking wet and in seconds, my car smelled like pussy. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll give you money. Anything.”

She thrashed in my hands as I plunged two fingers hard into her slit. Her body suckled them in and she arched, gripping my arm. I slapped her–hard, but not as hard as I used to slap her–and she squealed. She thrashed for me, and I cupped her face, forcing her to look at me as I kissed her, chewing her lips till I felt the coppery sting of warm blood. She cried into my mouth and shook hard for a few moments before I let her go.

“Fuck,” she whispered after a few deep breaths. “I really, really needed that.”

~

That was a few weeks ago, over Thanksgiving. Nikki and I, we’re in our early thirties now, but we met for the first time our freshman year of high school. We were pretty much inseparable throughout high school, and then we grew apart, as most high school friends do. We hadn’t seen each other in about five years–we live on different sides of the country now, and it’s usually only over the holidays that we end up in the same place. For one reason or another, things just didn’t line up for several years, and it was only recently, from instagram, that I realized Nikki was staying at her parents’ house for the holiday.

I messaged her, and we met up for lunch. I wasn’t expecting much. I figured we’d catch up. I figured we’d have a moderately priced, moderately nice meal at the Cheesecake Factory. I figured, maybe, just maybe, we’d screw around.

Instead, when I sat down across from Nikki, she took a deep breath and looked at me with this deadly serious expression on her face, as if she were about to cry.

“I want to get this out of the way before I say anything else,” she started. “I’m so, so, so sorry for everything I did when we were in high school.”

I stared at her. What had she done?

~

In short, it was a misunderstanding. We both did a lot. To each other. Sex stuff, I mean.

We were both massive nerds. Hideously massive nerds. Acne. Pudgy. Terminally unattractive. At least, that’s how I remember it, but when I look at pictures of us our senior year of high school, at eighteen, I realize how goddamned cute we were. You’re really never as unattractive as you think you are. I was tall, with an unruly mass of brown hair that desperately needed cutting. I thought I was fat, but I’m actually pretty skinny in these pictures–if I had even of the ounce of the confidence (or indifference) I have now, I would have been so much happier.

But enough about me–Nikki was a goddamned cherub. I always thought she was kind of cute, and I would clumsily tell her this during her bouts of self-loathing. She did have awful acne, admittedly, but who doesn’t as a teenager? Her face I had always thought was especially cute–small, with an upturned nose and lips and dark, quick eyes. She would complain about her body, and I’m sure my lusting after the most gorgeous girls in our grade didn’t help. She was skinny, but with the awkward collections of pudge that hit after puberty, while your body is still filling out: she had small breasts, a small ass, and thin thighs, but a swell of belly fat that drove her insane. In retrospect, I have a lot of affection for her belly–digging my nails into her flesh as I rode her from behind, leaving her covered in bruises that she would count proudly in the mirror. And, of course, she had pink hair, because it was 2007 and, you know, Naruto.

I’m getting ahead of myself, though. We met when we started high school and immediately bonded over being weird, awkward nerds. We went to a preppy suburban high school and, predictably, we were positive we didn’t fit in. We liked anime and played video games and eventually got involved with theater (naturally). In fact, we had a pretty normal high school experience. We had a social circle, we hung out most days after school, we bitched about unrequited love and made stupid jokes and stressed about getting into college and other things that seem so distant now.

We were always just friends, though. In retrospect, it’s pretty obvious to me that Nikki wanted to be more than friends, from the very beginning. I never thought of myself, then, as anyone that someone would have a crush on: always the crusher, never the crushee. Guys can friendzone too, in as much as the friendzone is actually a thing–I would develop passionate infatuations with girls I barely talked to, but I would tell Nikki all about them and she would give me advice that usually didn’t pan out, and then we’d always end up going to dances together in a group with our theater friends.

Nikki had a weird way with me, and others, that probably pushed a lot of people away. She was dramatic and loud, but powerfully anxious and self-conscious. She always worked on the tech side of theater productions, since she got terrible stage fright. And when we were with our friends, she would always joke about how I raped her–or was about to rape her–or something like that. Or how she was going to rape me. It was the kind of joke that seemed pretty funny in the mid-2000s, but kind of chills you to the bone right now. She loved to grab at me–my nipples, my junk, my butt–and did it so often and so publicly that I really thought nothing about it.

That, in fact, was what she apologized for fifteen years later. I had all but forgotten about it, but ever since the beginning of #MeToo, it had been nagging at her, in spite of the relationship we eventually had. I took the opportunity to apologize for being too boneheaded to appreciate her feelings.

If I’d been smarter and more observant, though, I would have realized that Nikki had a lot of things she was working through. I knew her biological father had been, in her words, “an abusive piece of shit,” and her mother remarried. I didn’t realize exactly how abusive for a long time, though. Nikki would cut herself pretty regularly, but we even joked about that at the time. Again, it was the mid-2000’s–it’s pretty amazing how different the way we talk about mental and sexual health is now, or maybe it’s just that I’m an adult.

This was our friendship all four years of high school. I asked her to prom in a big dramatic way, with a cake in the cafeteria, and we pretended to make out right then and there, and it kind of became real making out, but we were just friends and it was a stupid bit, so who cared? Right?

Prom was fun in that bittersweet, twilight of high school kind of way. We went to a party with our friends after the dance and shared a single solo cup of coke with one shot of rum in it, because we were dorks and too scared of drinking. After making sure I definitely wasn’t too drunk to drive, we went home. As usually would happen on nights after parties, she had me stop at the 7-11 down the street from her parents’ house for a diet Sprite and a bag of Sour Patch kids. Then, we’d drive the two blocks to her house, and sit in the driveway, usually talking for another hour or so.

That night was different, though. That night, at Nikki’s request, I raped her.

Let me explain. Obviously, it wasn’t actually rape. Not in the slightest. Later, I’d learn about BDSM terminology, and consensual nonconsent and safe words and stuff like that, but this was pretty organic and spontaneous.

It was probably two in the morning when we got to her house, and immediately started gossiping about our friends who had hooked up that night. During a lull in the conversation, I watched Nikki tear apart the neon green candy bag.

“You know,” she said. “We’re all alone. If you really wanted to rape me, you could.”

I stared at her. “What?”

“I mean, I probably couldn’t fight you off, and I’d probably just let you do whatever you wanted. If you wanted to.”

I let that sink in, and hazarded a guess: “Is that what you want?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” she said, and hung her head. “clusterms, I’m really, really, really fucked up.”

I leaned over, at the point, and kissed her. It just felt–natural. I remember, to this day, how her lips tasted sweet and tangy from the soda and candy. We made out, tongues dueling, and I slid a hand under her dress. I ran my finger tips over the fresh scars from her cutting, almost by accident, and she sighed, half in pain, and half in pleasure.

“You’re still doing this,” I murmured. She took my hand and pressed it to the raised ridges of flesh.

“It’s gross, right? It’s because I’m a needy, selfish bitch and I want attention,” she whimpered. I slid my hand up her inner thighs and found the soaked silk of her thong. I’ll never forget the sticky-wet tangle of flesh and hair. Nikki gasped and kissed me hard.

“Don’t touch me there,” she whispered and when I pulled my hand away, she laughed. “No. Do.”

We quickly figured out a system. If one of us needed to pause what was happening, we’d say “scene,” like in theater class. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was rock hard and Nikki’s eager resistance was more fun than I realized it would be. I undid my belt and put my hand in Nikki’s hair, ruining her prom night ‘do as I forced her face onto my cock. She gagged hard and I pulled her off my cock to make sure she was all right but she scowled.

“What are you doing? Let me suck you,” she growled and pulled out of my hand to slurp at my cock, impaling her face on me. As I sat there, moaning, savoring the feeling of her unpracticed tongue dancing over my cock and teasing the tip, she looked up at me, almost on the verge of tears. “This is all I have to do, right? If I make you cum, I go home? You won’t rape me?”

I guessed at what she wanted: I pressed her face back to my cock and she eagerly gathered me up into her mouth, slurping hungrily, dripping spit all over my balls. Soon, I couldn’t take it anymore–it felt like forever, but I’m sure it was probably less than two minutes. I released my load into her mouth and I felt her gag around me, pressing her face deeper into my pubic hair. When she finally pulled off my cock, she stuck out her tongue proudly.

“See? All gone. Now you’ll let me go, right?” The tragic thing about her stage fright was that Nikki was actually a pretty good actor when she felt comfortable. I didn’t say anything, so she started to get out of the car. A furtive glance from her eyes told me to follow her and she took off, dashing around the back of her house.

I followed and she let me catch her and pin her against the stairs leading up to the deck. I prayed to God her parents were still asleep through all this as I forced her dress over her butt.

“No,” she whispered. “You said you’d let me go. Please, don’t rape me. Don’t rape me again. Don’t hurt me.”

I was rock hard all over again, and Nikki’s ass pressing against my cock didn’t help. I pulled her thong down but we couldn’t coordinate our movements well enough to get it off her thighs in that position, and in frustration, I just snapped it off. She yelped in obvious delight, which I supposed I was to take as surprise and fear, as I stuffed her ruined panties into her mouth. She suckled at my fingers as I leaned into her, pressing the tip of my cock against her wetness and forced myself inside of her.

Nikki quaked around me. She was crying and bouncing her hips against me, mumbling gargled through her panties: “Just don’t kill me. You can do anything you want to me, just don’t kill me, please. Don’t hurt me.”

I felt myself starting to get more into the role. I hissed in her ear: “I’m going to rape you every single day for the rest of your life, whore.” She reached back to me, gripping at my belly and my hips. I pulled at her hair and she arched her back, her tits almost falling out of her dress. Before long, I was on edge again and I lost it: I bit her shoulder hard as I filled her with my second orgasm of the evening. She whimpered and hung her head, her pussy spasming around my cock as her hole practically milked me.

Now, at the time, I had this idea, from porn, that female orgasm necessarily involved squirting–after all, my own orgasm involved squirting, didn’t it? I didn’t realize that, in true romantic fashion, we had actually cum together (Nikki, to this day, is still the only girl I can manage this feat with), sometime around when I bit her. When I pulled out of her, she stood up and turned around, reaching for me to kiss me, but I put my hand on her throat and held her down once more. I slid my fingers into her slippery hole and began to pound my hand in and out of her.

“No, no, no, no,” Nikki moaned, softly, practically mouthing it, even as she nodded eagerly at me, practically grinning through her smeared eyeliner. I forced three fingers inside of her, her pink wet hole dripping with my cum, and then another finger. And, soon, another. I felt her pussy spasming wildly around me, and she shook, half-sobbing, half-laughing, and trying to keep from screaming. Before I knew it, I had my entire fist inside of her and her mouth was hanging open in a silent scream of pain and pleasure.

Finally, she patted my hand frantically to release it from her throat and she moaned: “Scene.” I slid my hand out of her with a wet pop and she gasped. She grabbed at my shirt, pulling me in and hitting me and kissing me and giggling. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You fucking put your fist in my pussy,” she gasped.

“I wanted to make you cum,” I admitted. She stared at me, and then doubled over in silent laughter.

“You retard,” she whispered. “I came like six fucking times.”

We cleaned up a bit and she went inside. The next morning, she texted me to give her a ride to the pharmacy: she’d need the morning after pill, of course. We ended up fucking again in the parking lot at CVS, naturally.

In fact, we slept together practically every day that summer, from the end of school to the week we left for different colleges. No one suspected a thing–for some reason, it seemed necessary to keep it a secret–because we’d always been so close. I’d come over in the morning, after her step-brother left for summer camp, and Nikki would leave the door to her house unlocked. I’d sneak around until I found her, and then “force” her to do a huge gamut of degrading things. Our imaginations really ran wild–the first week, we had anal sex practically every day. Nikki had this way of telling me what she wanted in a scene, where she pretend to be bargaining with me–telling me I could fuck her face, so long as I didn’t rape her pussy, or telling me I can fuck her cunt once, but please, please, please don’t rape my ass. Or telling me I can rape her, just don’t slap me, don’t hurt me, don’t choke me. Of course, if something was actually wrong, we would just pause, which we did, often, but it was almost always boring stuff–if one of us had a cramp, usually.

On one of those afternoons, covered in sweat and cum in her bed, she confessed that she could only orgasm when she was thinking about rape. That she had these uncontrollable fantasies and she hated herself for it. That it all started with what happened her father, when she was little.

But also, she said that fooling around with me made her feel beautiful and sexy. That she didn’t feel broken with me, that she didn’t hate herself when I “raped” her.

As you can probably guess, we fell for each other pretty hard. It was the worst possible time for it, and we didn’t handle it well. As summer ended, we would have screaming matches about nothing, which would dissolve into rough, sloppy makeup sex. Ultimately, I think, neither of us wanted to break up (not that we called ourselves a couple) but knew we couldn’t stay together, and we took it out on each other, since we were still dumb eighteen-year olds. Each of us wanted the other to be the one to beg to stay together during college, and I think we were both pissed when we held our ground.

Still, we’d always fool around during holidays. Through college, and then a few years after. Nikki joined a sorority, dyed her hair brown again, became a graphic designer, and does her best to embody the basic bitch lifestyle (her words, not mine). I, uh, grew a big beard, got a lot of tattoos, and became an underpaid marxist college professor. We all grow up, eventually.

Or maybe not. Somehow, in my car, the other week, we were eighteen again, stupid and fooling around, Nikki’s lipstick and foundation smeared on my cheek and neck, Cheesecake Factory leftovers box tossed into the trunk so I could fold her in half in the backseat, pounding my cock into her needy cunt as she trembled, kissing me and cursing me. Her body was different–her scars have faded and she uses Crossfit now to hurt herself until she can’t feel anything anymore, she shaves now and she’s got a little tattoo of her sorority’s Greek letters on the swell of her mound which even she admits was a bad choice–but the feeling was the same as that first night, and if I close my eyes, it’s like no time at all has passed.

We’ve already made plans for when we’re home for Christmas, to stay out too late, to make fun of our high school friends who didn’t move away, to stop at the 7-11 on her street at two in the morning (thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Gupta, for being the only consistent adult supervision in our suburban American Idiot adolescence), and to treat the confines of my dad’s 2003 Toyota Rav-4 as if they were the last undiscovered province of our hearts.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/eb42wf/mf_that_time_i_fisted_and_raped_my_best_friend_on