If it was violent, you can write it off. You can take that thought, focus on it. They did this. They forced me, they beat me, they hurt me. Any lubrication was my body trying to protect itself. A coping mechanism. Easy, plausible, deniable. Not so when it isn’t those closest to you making the greatest violation, not family, so called friends, acquaintances. Who do you blame when it was you who broke?
It all started when I couldn’t move, pinned down. Folded in half and feeling even smaller than I actually was. I’d been here before, willing and unwillingly in this position. Not with him, but it was an old dance, I know when I could fight and struggle and when it was best to let them finish. When you’re in agony, it’s easy to turn off your mind, at least in the moment. You just go away, staring off at that patch on the wall. No, with those, it’s only later that the thoughts won’t stop, where you slip into that spiral.
I was pinned down, he wasn’t letting me move. Panties forced off me, his weight crushing me, pressing my legs into my chest. I expected slaps, choking, even a punch to shut up my whimpers and pleading. That familiar leer that stripped me of humanity, made me an object, was there. But the actions, those were different.
Instead of quick moves, sharp pains, he gave me glancing touches, warm breathing, teasing circles expertly tracing my folds and bud. It was terrifying. There is safety in repetition, in repeated abuses you know what is coming, you can prepare for it. When new, anything can happen. And that is scarier than any black eye. He made no move to shove himself in me, no rush to blow a load on my face. Just me, pinned, feeling smaller and smaller, helpless, as he touched and traced, softly blowing on me, fingers almost as expert as my own. But even more delicate than my usual touches as he whispered in my ear.
“Relax”
I couldn’t and he knew it, but he knew something as well. He could smell it, he could see it. Glistening, aching, begging him. I felt like shit. I’d cum before from someone taking what they wanted, but I’d never wanted them to take it before they were already doing it. And now, now I was crying, shaking, moaning, some primal part of me wanting to scream for him to rape me. Then it would be his fault. Not mine. I could believe the lie as long as I didn’t beg.
He knew that of course, I doubt I was his first or his last, another mark is his ledger. He watched my face grow flush, his teases even making my ass quiver, my pussy soaking, making me stew in my own juices. Leaning down, his weight pressing me hard into the floor.
“Tell me to do it”
It wasn’t enough for him to take, he had to break me, make me give it to him. I tried as every part of me shrunk, his weight bringing back older memories, tinier and tinier. And then, I broke, shaking violently, about to explode if it wasn’t for him stopping every time I got near, I broke.
“Fuck me”
And he did, pushing hard right into my ass that he had slathered with my own juices. He’d teased both holes until they needed filling, anxious for anything, to make me feel briefly alive. I closed my eyes, tears running down as he raped my ass. No. Not rape. I’d given it to him. Told him to do it. The only person at fault here was mean. He wasn’t gentle anymore, but that didn’t matter. The pain felt good. The thrusts felt good. I tried to touch myself and he wouldn’t let me. Simply holding my hands as he fucked my ass so hard that when I tried to shit later that night, I’d be in tears again. Long minutes passed, then all his weight crushed me, my knees driven into me, hot fire filling my rectum. And then, done, I expected him to make me clean him. He pulled me up to my knees, made me look at him. I could smell his cock, my mouth even began to open out of habit. Tasting my ass would have been better than he wanted.
“Now, look at me and touch yourself”
And I did, I cried, almost hysterically at parts, but my eyes never left his. Locked, my fingers brought out what he had denied me, even as white leaked out my ass. My fingers parting my folds, teasing my clit, pinching it even, forcing me over that finish line that he had refused to give me him. Because he wanted this, to watch me demean and rape myself. When I was done, I squirted hard, body shaking. I could barely breathe when he got up, starting to leave me alone. I hated myself so much in that moment but I still begged, asking him not to go.
“You have nothing to offer me anymore”
And then he was gone. I never saw him again. At least awake. He visited me every night for the rest of my life however, haunting my dreams, the one person I couldn’t lie to. Because of him, I would never be alone again.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/rwxa3w/the_worst_betrayal_is_your_own_mf_manipulation