tagNonConsent/ReluctanceFrom Ravishment to Fantasy

From Ravishment to Fantasy


I never would judge any other woman as the cause of her own rape. But, then again, I am always harder on myself than I would ever be on anyone else. I do consider myself largely to blame for my rape. My stupidity, ignorance, and less-than-street-savvy trust led to the actions that would affect my life forever.

I was in college. I was a 19-year-old attending school about a thousand miles away from home. I had trouble adjusting to college. It was a Christian college from which I had received a full scholarship. The rules of the college were strict. I had never in my life had a curfew until I went to college. I broke their curfew more often than I kept it.

It seemed like I was always getting into some sort of trouble. I had received numerous demerits for curfew violations, smoking off-campus, and neglecting to attend chapel when required which was three times a week. It was not uncommon for me to stay out all night, go straight to my classes, and then sleep all afternoon. Despite my otherwise rebellious activities, I managed to earn good grades.

I had a few close friends. I had also made friends with a number of locals. One of my college friends was dating a local black man. We would often spend our free time in his apartment. One night, my friend wanted me to go with her to a party.

I was not familiar with the area where the party was held. In fact, since I didn't have a car with me at college, my knowledge of the surrounding area was limited to only what was around the perimeter of the college campus.

My friend and I sat at a table in the apartment where the party was. We were sitting there, drinking and laughing. We were having a good time, but one thing bothered me. In the bedroom of the apartment, several locals were going in and out. I glanced into the bedroom when the door was briefly held open by one of the anonymous local women. Well, I didn't know a lot about drug use, but it was obvious to me that they were smoking crack.

I didn't want to be around it. My friend was hesitant to leave. She wasn't planning on smoking, but she was having a good time. I did not want to be associated, even remotely to crack or the people who smoked it. Of course as a college student, I had smoked my share of marijuana, but crack seemed to be on a whole other level of wrong.

I stepped outside, searching for any familiar sights that might be clues to where I was. I wished I had paid closer attention when my friend drove us there. As I was looking around, a tall, older black man left the apartment where the party was going strong. He approached me.

"I could give you a lift back to campus if you want," he said to me.

Now, this is where I went wrong. How many times had my mother told me to never accept rides from strangers? Well, come to think of it, she never did. My mom wasn't the advisory-type. My siblings and I were pretty much on our own. But, even so, I knew better.

I graciously accepted and got into his large, old car. I remember nervously fingering the side of the door. I had never seen this man in my life. But, all I was worried about was getting back to campus. That would soon change.

He began to ask me questions that I would not expect from someone I had just met. For some reason, I found myself answering his personal questions. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I was starved for companionship. It might have been because I had just found out that I was pregnant to the first black man I ever dated, and therefore was emotionally needy.

We drove for about ten minutes. Still in unfamiliar territory, he pulled into the parking lot of a small motel. I began to protest.

"It's still early. I only want to talk to you," he lied.

Naively, I followed him into the motel room. I sat on the bed, which was the only available place to sit. He joined me.

"Why don't you get comfortable," he said to me as he stood up and removed his pants. There before me was a stranger in his boxers.

"I'm fine," I told him. My tight jeans were extremely uncomfortable, but I couldn't imagine that being partially undressed in front of a stranger would be any more comfortable.

He sat next to me. At first, he tried to convince me to undress, but then seemed to give up. I relaxed and we talked some more. Eventually, I revealed the fact that I was pregnant. He acted concerned and sympathetic.

His seemingly empathetic attitude changed when he tried to kiss me and I pulled away. He didn't accept that response. Before I knew what was going on, he had me pinned to the bed and was removing my jeans. I thought about fighting him off, but I was afraid that he might do something that would hurt my newly-conceived child.

I resorted to verbal protests. I told him to stop. I squirmed to try to make it difficult for him to undress me. This tall, thin man was stronger than he had appeared to be.

Within minutes, he had removed my pants and panties. I silently conceded to what was happening. He forcefully entered me, shoving his punishing cock deep into my young pussy.

"Please, don't," I protested.

He ignored my pleas. He was on top of me. I looked into his eyes as he took what he had wanted. I began to feel turned on. As twisted as it sounds, I began to feel like he wanted me so badly that he was going to take it any way that he could.

He worked his hips as he thrust his cock into me. I would be lying if I told you that I didn't enjoy it sexually. I was not all that sexually-experienced. I found myself moaning as my hips involuntarily met his strong thrusts.

I had never experienced sex like that before. His eager and demanding cock had introduced me to pleasure that I had never known before this. I felt my young, tight pussy clamp down on his cock. I had never had an orgasm before. I whimpered in ecstasy, my body ravaged by this new sensation.

After he came, I shoved him off of me with new found strength and ran to the bathroom. I locked the door. I felt emotionally numb. I did not want my first orgasm to be the product of a rape. Little did I know at that time that it would shape my future fantasies. He coaxed me out of the bathroom and dropped me off at my friend's boyfriend's apartment. I never saw him again.

Years after that night, I began to fantasize about being raped. The intensity of having sex stolen from me had become a turn on. I believe that with self-reflection, people can discover the origins of their fetishes and fantasies. There was no doubt where mine came from.

Maybe if I hadn't had an orgasm during the rape, things would have been different. Maybe the rape would have been an ugly chapter in my life that would never be willingly opened again. But, this is not the case. The fantasies of being raped are sometimes turned into welcomed role-playing by my lovers. I don't regret this dimension of my sexuality. It is a part of me. It's just one of the many ways that my past experiences have shaped my sexuality. What has shaped yours?

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