Love Story


We met in class my junior year. I knew who he was; he sang in one of the choirs and he had been on student government with me, but we had never really spoken or anything.

He had just changed majors to history, which was my major, so we had several classes together. At first, it was just, "What did you get on the paper?" Then it was talking to each other as we passed on campus. He started walked me to my next class, and then he visited my own choir singing, which was almost proof of his intent. He knew no one else in choir but me. There was no other reason to visit. The problem, however, was that we only talked about class. Our discussions were solely based around academia. Frustrating as that was, what was more frustrating was the fact that it was nearly Christmas, and he hadn't asked me out.

I was starting to give up hope when I found out he had planned his spring schedule so he could take as many classes with me as he could. He liked me! I knew he must! But still, he never said anything.

After Christmas break, we continued our old routine of debating lightly his conservative beliefs with my liberal convictions. We found excuses to meet outside of class: working dinners, dropping by each other's work, borrowing a text. As Valentine's Day approached, still nothing happened. Until one day after class, he asked me if I wanted to go see A Chorus Line on Saturday night. My first reaction was, "Are you gay???" My second was, "Yes!" The rest of the week flew by as I anticipated our first date.

When we left my apartment for the long drive to Los Angeles, my apartment was in shambles. Spurned clothes draped the bed and dresser in my room, and shoes were littered over the living room. But he thought I looked lovely in a black wrap dress and stilettos. All I could think was, "He sure does clean up nice!"

The evening ended in just a kiss, but we were soon spending several nights a week together, usually doing homework. When we weren't working or in class, we were together. I am a very independent woman, so after a month of this, I told him it had to stop. "I can't be around you all the time. I need space!" I explained.

He was less sympathetic. "I like you so much; I just want to be around you all the time!" He couldn't understand my frustration, so finally I gave up the fight. At least during the summer we would be apart. Or so I thought.

I was staying over the summer to work, and he lived only thirty miles away from campus. Our weekends were still spent every minute in each other's company, but he would call every night to make sure I was ok. It was rather sweet, but I was 21. I could make these decisions for myself.... Right?

But the unthinkable happened. I was walking home from work; it was almost nine o'clock, and it was a safe campus, but I was pulled into a car, taken across town to the Orchards, and raped.

I think he blamed himself for not being there to get me from work. I'm not sure why. He probably would have gotten hurt. But he grew even more protective. He was already living off campus the next year, so he asked me to move in with him. I was hesitant; that was a huge step to make. But I felt as if I had no choice; I certainly didn't feel safe on campus anymore.

Living with a man that is worried over your safety is not fun. Lightening doesn't strike twice, I told him. I was just glad I wasn't pregnant. But he didn't like me going out alone at night, and he insisted on meeting me after my shift at work. I suppose you could call it sweet; I called it stifling.

About a year after we were together, I started a terrific fight over his protectiveness. "I'm a twenty-first century woman, and I don't need protecting!"

"You're just going to accept that for who I am. I love you too much to let anything harm you. I admit I may be going too far, but after what happened, I want to make sure nothing like that ever happens to you again." He seemed so calm and rational I had to give in and ask for forgiveness for complaining. After that, he wasn't quite so restrictive, but he still worried if he didn't know where I was.

We hadn't ever slept together. I know, I know, we were living together! But he had been so worried about hurting me, because he was too big and might lose control, so he kept pushing it off. I know he hated doing that, how it hurt him. He wanted me so badly. And I wanted him! I didn't remember my rape, didn't remember what sex was like. I thought I would go crazy wonderingFinally, to save my sanity, I decided so seduce him.

"Red negligee's drive men wild," my sister assured me. My best friend, Mandi, gave me a pair of fuck me heels, so that with a red see through negligee. He came home from work a little late, and I was waiting for him, with barely and clothes on. One look at me and he practically snarled, "Go put some damn clothes on!"

I simply walked to him and kissed him. After a few minutes he wrenched himself away and growled at me. I said, "Honey, I want to do this. Please."

His eyes burned as they took in the high heels, the scanty clothes and G-string. He backed me against the door and said, "If I lose control, tell me. Promise?" I did, and he started to devour my neck and mouth. I felt like he was trying to brand me with all the hickeys he was giving me. He lifted me up, ripping the negligee from me, exposing my breasts. He sucked my nipples, hard, and bit them. It hurt, but I didn't know what else sex was supposed to be like, so I just accepted it as normal. He was panting as he lifted me over his shoulder and carried me to the bedroom. I closed my eyes in anticipation of losing my virginity (I didn't count the rape as actual sex). He laid me down on the bed and got on top of me. This is it!


That hurts!


I didn't say them. I just laid there as he started fucking me. It was horrible. I tried to think of England, but all I could think was, this hurts! Even though I had already been raped, I've learned that I wasn't aroused enough.

I thought things would get better when we started having sex, but they just got worse. He was busy, not taking me out anymore. And I needed time with my friends, which he never let me have.

"Look," he said, "I want to protect you and keep you safe. That's just who I am. I'm not trying to stifle you; I just don't want to lose you."

"You're going to lose me if you don't let me be free," I warned him. "I need space in relationships. I can't be with you all the time."

"We live together," he pointed out. "It's almost impossible to avoid being together."

"Just let me go out with the girls a few times a week," I pleaded. "Don't keep me in so much."

"And where would you go?" he asked. "A club? A bar? Are you asking for another rape?"

I gasped with horror. "How dare you!" I waited for him to apologize, but he didn't. "I think we should take a break."

"Why? Nothing will change. I'm still going to look out for you. I'll stalk you if I must, but whatever I have to do, I will keep you safe."

I slumped with defeat. "I guess there isn't much point then." I didn't doubt his word. He was the kind of man who would kill me to protect me.

Nothing changed in our relationship, except that he went out with me more, so i wasn't in the house all the time. But enough was enough, and I decided it was time for a little rebellion.

I told him I was going to the library with Mandi, my best friend, to study for a midterm. He asked me to call him when I got there and when I left, and I needed to be home by one am. Like I'm sixteen and need a curfew, I fumed.

In actuality, the midterm had been two days before, and Mandi and I decided to go celebrate. In her car I changed into a red mini skirt and a black sheer top that left nothing to the imagination. We went to a club where I danced, flirted with strange men, and drank to my hearts content. I was a little drunk when I came home at 12:54, but I blamed it on sleepiness.

The next six months flew by, with me spending more than the normal amount of time at the library. When I started graduate school that fall, he gave me a new zippy little car as my present. Little did I know what the present was actually for.

Mandi and I continued our subterfuge, only less often, because our studied demanded much more time. It was nearly Thanksgiving when i came home from one late night of dancing to find him pacing the living room, red as a pepper.

"How was the library?" he asked softly.

"Good. I got a lot of reading done."

"Could I show you something?" He reached onto his desk for a pile of papers. I moved closer to see what he had. "Can you explain why at least once a week you have been going to a night club?"

I grabbed the papers. "You've been tracking me??"

His cool stare frightened me. "You lied to me."

"I wanted to have fun!"

Suddenly, he grabbed my computer bag, unzipping it and pulling out what I had worn that night: a teeny black skirt that ended half an inch above my ass and a purple sheer bra. "Go put these on."



When I came back in the revealing clothes, he motioned for me to come to him. I stood next to him, wondering what he would say. His arms circled me around my waist, and then forced me down onto his lap.

"What the hell are you doing?" I screamed. The first smack was my answer. "Don't you dare hit me! Stop this now!"

"You're dressed as a slut," he said. "Good little sluts like getting spanked don't they?"

Blow after blow rained down on my creamy smooth ass that had never felt a spanking. After only ten smacks tears ran down my cheeks as I sobbed my regret. But he kept hitting me, over and over, until I was sure my ass was bleeding. Finally, he stopped.

"Don't lie to me ever again," he warned.

"Yes, sir," I hiccupped. "I won't."

He drew me up and carried me to the bedroom, where he tucked me into bed, letting me snuggle against him.

The next few months were perfect, but, as always, I got antsy. I asked him if I could go out, but the answer was yet again, "Not without me."

He was working on his thesis, so there was no time for him to take me out. After a couple weeks, I called Mandi up, and we restarted our whole routine of sneaking out. He didn't catch me, so I got bolder until I was staying out until 3 am and coming home more than just tipsy. I don't know why he never said anything. Maybe he felt I should get raped again to learn my lesson. I don't know.

I do know that I slept with another man, coming home with that man's seed still in my pussy. I didn't even bother to shower, just crawled into bed with him. I'm not sure what happened, how he guessed. But at four am, I was shaken awake by a very irate boyfriend.

"You fucked another man," he hissed.

"What? Huh? No I didn't." How did he know?

"I can smell it on you. You lied to me, snuck out, and fucked another man." He went to the closet and pulled out several ties. I scooted back on the bed, wondering what he was going to do. He walked towards me, setting the ties down on the bed but one. He grabbed my wrists, tying them together, and then forcing me to lie on my tummy, he tied my arms to the bed posts. I was screaming, twisting and kicking, but he was so much stronger. Then he quickly tied my legs to opposite bedposts.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I demanded.

"Doing what I should have done a long time ago." I could hear him take something out of the closet, but I had no idea what it was until I heard the whistle of leather though the air smacking down onto my ass. Screaming, I pleaded with him to let me go. But he didn't. He kept spanking me with his belt until welts formed. I was beyond crying; I was so shocked. But I was more shocked when he got onto the bed, grabbed my ass (which was horribly painful), and started fucking me. It was not for my pleasure – I was as dry as the Sahara. It hurt so much, and I could feel my vagina tear from the force.

"That's too good for you, isn't it?" I heard him say. He withdrew and tried to force his dick into my ass. I screamed; I was an anal virgin, and there was no lube. I begged him to stop, but he didn't listen. His dick was in me, and he went in and out, calling me a dirty slut, a filthy bitch that needed to be taught a lesson. When he finally came, he untied me. I was too weak to move; too sore to protest when he stuck is dirty penis in my mouth. "Good little sluts clean up after their masters, don't they?"

I sucked the foul tasting thing, choking when he let out a stream of urine in my mouth. He pulled out of my mouth, still urinating, splashing it on me, "marking" me as his.

Then he collapsed on the bed, spent. While he snored, I got up, quickly showered, and quietly packed all the belongings I could in my suitcase.

I stayed with Mandi for a few months, until I had a steady job so I could afford my own apartment. I taught school in the day, taking my graduate classes at night. I don't know if he followed me. I didn't care, although I changed my cell number and got a restraining order. Mandi had convinced me to go to the hospital to get a rape kit done, but there wasn't enough evidence to put him in jail. It was ok. I didn't care.

It was years before I could go out with another man. Oh, I knew all men weren't like him. But I didn't want to date. It didn't interest me. I had already gotten my Ph.D. and was teaching at Columbia University before I had my first date with the man I would marry. He's bald, short, funny. The total opposite of the man that abused me. My husband is wonderful, letting me be free, and not worrying about me all the time, as far as I know, at least. He teaches English at New York University, and we're expecting a baby any day now. I guess my life has turned out amazingly well for a victim like me.

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