Like in My Books

I realized as I struggled, though, that my body still didn't care what I wanted. My pussy had been desperate to get the boy off since he'd started, and as he climaxed, I felt myself join him. Unwanted pleasure crept into my cries as my pussy squeezed him, urging his cock to fill me and drawing his cum deeper into my womb.

The blonde watched me flail and fall apart with an expression of something like awe. She was still grinning like a villain, and she looked definitively horny, but she also had the satisfied smile of someone who'd gotten something she'd desperately wanted.

"Oh, that was beautiful," the blonde said, as I tried to catch my breath. "Wasn't she good?"

The boy patted my hip. "She's my hero," he said.

The blonde laughed, and the boy chuckled as his breathing fell back towards normal. I whimpered as I felt the shame, which didn't feel all that different from my thoroughly sated lust.

"You'd better go," the blonde said. "We don't want her to see your face. But put your name in my phone, okay? You're a good henchman."

I saw his hand reach past her and feel around until he found her phone. I craned my head, but I couldn't see anything else.

"He's cute," the blonde said. "I'll tell you that much."

I gasped as the boy set her phone on my stomach to put his number in. "How can you do this?" I said softly, sounding less like a hero and more like the damsel in distress that I was.

She let one of my wrists go and caressed my cheek. I could have hit her, but instead I held very still.

"For one, I enjoyed it," she said. "It's fun being a villain. But for another, you liked it too."

"No," I said.

"You wish you didn't like it, but you still did," she said. The boy returned her phone. He patted my hip again, then slowly withdrew and set my hips back down. I could feel something dripping from my pussy, but I suspected he'd gotten his cum too far in for much of it to drip out.

The blonde listened as the boy pulled his pants up, then stepped away along the path. "And if there's one thing I love doing, as a villain, it's giving people the thing they can't admit they want."

She released my other wrist, then stood. I looked down at my half-naked body, at the wet spot I'd left beneath me, at the empty circle where the boy had been standing moments ago. I hated myself for enjoying it, and I hated her for doing it to me.

She took her own wallet from the stack, then handed the rest of them to me.

"You might need these," she said. "Good night, hero."

She flashed me one last smile, then turned and walked away.

--

I should have called the campus police, but the blonde was right that they were useless, so I walked home. I took a shower, and I lay down, and I tried to act like it hadn't happened.

That pretense lasted until the morning. I couldn't banish the memory, the thought of how sweet the helplessness had felt. I got my vibrator out, and tried to imagine what the boy's face looked like, and jilled myself stupid.

For the next week, I spent my free hours imagining the blonde holding me down, or imagining strangers holding me down and filling me up, and masturbating to the thought. I told myself that it was a response to the trauma - I was recontextualizing what had happened, and helping myself manage it. I found books where characters were ravished, and I imagined myself in their shoes instead of the hero's shoes. It worked; my feet were pretty small anyway.

A week later, I discovered that while masturbating to your own ravishment helps you come to terms with it, it's a poor substitute for birth control. I was pregnant, and all I knew of the father was that he was allegedly cute.

I should have leapt into action, like the heroes always did. But every weekend, when I told myself I was going to go to the clinic, I ended up thinking about it again. I thought about how helpless I'd been, and how being pregnant with my ravisher's baby made me more helpless still. And, instead of doing anything productive, I jilled off some more.

I still read a lot of books - mostly fiction, and including the same series about the lady thief. Books are good, and fiction is good. But I also read romance novels about bondage and ravishment, and one or two books about childbirth. While it's good to broaden your horizons, it's also good to know what sort of person you really are, and I am a damsel in distress.

--

I want to thank Shadysweet for her editorial help.