Sometimes when I am walking down a street at night, I pass an unlit alley, and just for a second, I hope.
I hope that just as I pass, hands reach out from the darkness. One pressed against my face, palm hard against my mouth, fingers curled harshly under my chin to keep me from biting; the other clutching my hip in bruising grip as an iron band arm captures me and pulls me into the darkness.
I find myself shoved face first into the dirty wall of the alley. My cheek burns as it scrapes against the rough surface of the bricks. I feel his heat behind me. I struggle, legs kicking, but I am no match for him. He has me caged against his body.
He has my hands above my head now, both wrists held firm in one massive hand, my body still flush against the wall. I have never felt so small. His other hand appears, holding 2 zip ties, and my panic ratchets up a level. Using his broad body to hold me against the wall, he reaches up and secures my hands to a pipe above my head.
It is in this moment I realize it’s not only fear I feel, it is shame. I have thought of this possibly, late at night, fingers buried deep within myself. I am pure in only one way, but I long to be fully sullied. It is the choice I fear, not the act.
But now the choice is gone. By body is racked with chills as grimy hands scrabble at my hips, yanking down both jeans and panties. They bunch around my knees. I feel the cold stone on my quaking thighs. This is it. This is the moment I am taught to worship, to cherish. After this I will be changed. I hate that this is exactly what I imagined.
I hear the sound of a zipper, and the tears I’ve been holding back fall. I feel him behind me, feel him line himself up to my entrance. He has one hand over my mouth again, muffling my screams.
His hips slam forward and for a second my whole world is pain. He uses me, fills me past bursting and keeps going. The sound of flesh slapping echos through the alley. I can feel blood dripping a hot path down my cold bare thighs. This is a pain I have never felt, a deep, cultural pain. I am a thing, and this is my use.
I hear him grunt loudly, just once, and then he is gone from me, physically at least. I hear footsteps retreating behind me, and I am alone. Alone, broken, with my pants and underwear collecting the steady drip of blood and semen pooling around my ankles. I am still tied to the pipe, arms above my head, cheek to the brick. I am a thing, and I have been left for a new owner to find. Used and broken.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/kum4xb/im_a_virgin_but_sometimes
Ted Cruz up to his old tricks again. He was never the same ever since Trump cucked him publically.
Now he turned into a monster, preying on virgins in the dead of the night, desperate to prove his status as a man, no matter how misguided his intentions are.