She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Why those thoughts assaulted her, day in, day out, never ceasing. She was broken, she knew that. Damaged goods, a ruined cunt of a woman, a mockery made flesh. At least that was how she felt most days. There were brief periods of normality, where that lie could be lived, if only for a moment that she would try to stretch to eternity. Only it would always come crashing down around her. The truth was that either awake or asleep, her mind told her one thing and one thing only. She deserved it.
She had deserved it when she was younger. When her first serious boyfriend had refused to accept the word no. It is a terrifying world that we live in, where one can simply disregard societal norms, take a declaration to stop, and ignore it. And he had. He needed her too much, he told her later, as she lay balled up beside him. That he loved her so much it made him crazy. That when she’d told him no, she was tired, it had felt like a rejection of his manhood and he’d lost control. He had kissed her forehead and stroked her hair as she cried, bloody cum leaking out of her ass. She understood what his words meant. He was apologizing but his words were clear. It was her fault it happened.
Later, it would happen again. Drunk, jealous, angry, there was always a different reason, a different explanation for his actions. But it didn’t matter, she knew. Ultimately, each time, it was her fault. It was her fault that she didn’t spread her legs, her fault that she made him horny, her fault for not helping him vent. She was the one who pushed him to do such things. Each time she would feel his cum leaking out of her bruised body and know that if she had been somehow better, this wouldn’t have happened. Thus, it wasn’t a surprise when she came home and caught him with a younger girl, likely more accepting of his rough affections, prettier, tighter. Better.
She had been depressed for weeks after that. She cried in bed, dreamed of him taking her, needing her so bad she had to hurt because of it. But every time she woke, wetter and wetter, the bed contained her alone. It gnawed at her, that emptiness, those dreams, the fucked-up desire to be hurt because her man was so lost that he couldn’t control himself. The ever-present whispers in her mind poked and prodded, and the dreams taunted what she could not have. She called and begged for him to take her back. He blocked her number, needing her no longer.
It was from there which lead her down the next step of her journey downward. A spiral that likely started the moment she was born. Some are born to shine, her mother had told her, some to exist, some to crash, and some to flicker out too soon. None of that mattered when she went to the nearby bar, got drunk, angry and alone. But under the haze of alcohol, a man gave her that needed drug, attention, and she latched onto it for dear life. He groped and kissed her, she barely knew his name, but she didn’t care. She was drowning from its absence. But when in his car, behind the bar, he got insistent, she told him no and asked to go to his apartment. He told her his wife was there, they were here, and it was happening. She struggled briefly until he backhanded her and flipped her over in the cramped backseat. Then he’d raped her, shoving her head against the fabric as he called her a whore.
She came during that assault and for that betrayal of her body, she never allowed herself to recover. The man quickly dumped his load, had laughed when she’d come, and said he’d known she was a whore. And he was right. If she had cum, had gotten wet, then her boyfriend was right, maybe she did deserve it. For a brief moment, she had mattered, and with him wiping his cock on her dress and kicking her out of the car, he drove off and she was alone again. She walked home, white clinging to her pale legs. When she got there, she touched herself, thinking of his need and perhaps hers as well, and came again before sleeping.
She visited bars more often after that, but the random hookups felt hollow. She couldn’t place her finger on what was missing. The sex was often better than what she’d had before, often worse, but none of it made her feel anything. It lacked a singular passion that she was searching for and needed. Attention itself was not enough. She needed the men to be driven crazy. Lost in need.
And so, she started to pretend and tease. It became almost a game. A game she lost most nights, but not in the pleasant ways. The men would go away, dejected, defeated, blue balled, and frustrated. But they remained the one thing she couldn’t understand or accept. If she hadn’t been so broken, perhaps she could have had a normal life. She didn’t want gentlemen or even good men. Not even the assholes were enough. She needed a man who could be so full of passion that he’d just have to take her. She didn’t even process it as rape. She didn’t really process it at all. It was just there, day and night, in her, a need begging to be fulfilled.
Some nights she found them. The next one made her lose her job as his passion had led him to rape and rob her. He had punched her repeatedly, kicked her, and left her ass bleeding as he pulled out and wiped a shit-covered cock in her hair. He had stolen her credit cards and left, leaving her sobbing. She never called the police, but after missing several days at work as she recovered, they let her go. She would have hated that at one time, but her mind only circled the pain and the cause, as she touched herself to it again and again. She was obsessed with it, came to it, cried to it, and desired to be wanted and needed like that again.
Most were healthier. The men forced themselves, sure, but they only hurt her a bit. Slapped her, choked her, and held her down as they used and abused her. Some even stayed the night once they knew she wasn’t going to report them. Called her whore and cunt, made her gag on herself, or beat her with a belt. She cried, curled up, came, and cursed herself. But never them. They couldn’t help themselves. She had teased them to that point. She had deserved it.
Some would date her briefly before getting bored of her or her of them. Her ability to navigate the world diminished as she drifted, lost in a forest of need, a cycle of abuse that she ran toward not from. She would milk her abusers for money, rent, and a roof over her head as much as they would milk from her the fragments of her soul, body, and dignity in a form of symbiotic mutual destruction. She didn’t weep for herself though or whine about it. She didn’t seek out ways to make it better. She was lost and she did not care.
And so, she found herself at a biker bar, drunk as yet another man fucked her barely conscious body. She was surrounded by men, none who cared for her, but all who wanted her. Needed her so bad they didn’t care that she was barely there. Cum glistened on her face and chest, soaked with sweat, the smell of beer and smoke filling the back room. A few had slapped her around when she resisted, but they all knew her truth now as she lay exposed, fucked again and again. She came, and even though she struggled, they laughed at her wetness. None of them were wearing protection, they weren’t using lube, even as her cum-filled holes grew raw from friction. She wasn’t a person but she was needed. They would fuck her all night, well over a dozen men. She would be fed bottles of beer, first to drink, then fucked inside her. They saw a broken hole and ran her into the ground, using up the last bits of her. And she would cum. And then they hurt her, bored, needing to break her more.
And that was fine. They could do anything to her. She deserved it.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vo66m7/she_deserved_it_revised_rape_gang_rape_rape_bait