Mickie and Laurie Pt. 15

As it turned out, the question of telling Mickie was taken out of my hands. Shortly after Drew had left, my phone rang. I had been lying on the living room floor, bawling. I saw that it was Mickie, and I knew I had to pull myself together. Once I had my sobbing under control, I took the call.

"Hello?" I said, trying to keep any shakiness out of my voice.

"Laurie!" said Mickie. "I wanted to know how your appointment went."

I paused. I had already forgotten about the morning's activities and the clinic. I tried to collect myself, and said, "Oh. Yes. That seemed to go pretty well."

"Come on, tell me more," said Mickie.

"Well," I said a little haltingly, "The doctor talked to me a long time, and he kind of gave me the impression that he wanted to recommend me for treatment. He was nice." Then I messed up and had an involuntary sniff, left over from my crying, and thinking about Dr. Shapiro being nice. To cover it up, I added, "He said you would need to come to some of the appointments too."

Mickie had picked up on the fact that something was not right. She said, "Laurie, tell me what's going on. I can tell you're upset about something."

I tried to brazen it out saying, "Everything's OK Mickie. I'm just kind of tired."

"Bullshit!" said Mickie. "You think I can't tell you've been crying? You tell me right now what's going on."

Somehow, hearing Mickie say the word "crying" opened the floodgates and I started crying again. It took her a while to get out of me what had happened, and she was still a little bit unclear on it when I finished. But she understood that I had been assaulted in our home.

"Did you call the police?" she asked.

"No," I cried. "How could I?"

Then she got mad and started yelling at me, which made me cry harder. Finally, she realized her mistake and told me she would be home right away, and I should just sit tight.

When I hung up, I realized I was still just wearing a bra with no top, so I went to our bedroom and changed into some sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. To my embarrassment, I discovered that I had peed in my panties, probably when Drew slugged me in the stomach or after one of his slaps. I had to change out of my gaff, panties, and skirt, and quickly sponge down my underside. Then I looked at myself in the mirror, and saw that my mascara had run down my face. My cheeks were bright red from Drew's slaps, there was a scratch on one cheek where he had run the point of the knife, and it looked as if he had drawn a little bit of blood. I looked like a mess. I took some Kleenex and tried to wipe off the worst of it. I thought about Drew's cum in my stomach, and tried to throw up into the toilet by sticking my finger down my throat. Eventually a little be of liquid came up, but not much. I went back into the living room and sat on the couch hugging my knees.

Mickie was home pretty quickly, and when she came in she just sat with me on the couch and hugged me. That made me start crying again. Finally she managed to get me talking coherently. She puzzled out how he had happened to come after me (realizing I was there by myself), and that he had hurt me. When she noticed the slap marks and the scratch on my cheek, she kind of flipped out for a while, then got herself back under control. I told her how he took my money and made me blow him. Then I explained the lack of evidence.

"He made me swallow his cum," I said between little sobs. "Then he took my blouse with him because a little bit dripped on it. And he wiped everything down. So how do we prove he was even here, or that he assaulted me?" Mickie nodded in sympathy. I was not sure she totally agreed with the decision not to call the cops, but I think she did understand my state of mind at the time.

"Plus there would be problems, because all my IDs say I'm a man named Lawrence," I continued. "And the cops would probably decide it was some sex thing that went sideways." She nodded thoughtfully, and then I mentioned the last thing.

"Also, he said if I called the cops, he would come back here and cut up my face." I was crying quietly as I said this.

"Oh, honey," said Mickie, and once again gave me a tight hug, then kissed me all over my face. "I am so sorry this happened." I nodded my acknowledgment, but didn't say anything. What was there to say?

I spent the rest of the day in bed. Mickie tried to get me to eat something, but I just couldn't even consider it. I felt sick and worthless. In the late afternoon, I called into work to say that I would miss the next day due to illness. The truth was I knew I would not be able to face work yet, and I was also concerned about getting questions regarding the scratch on my face. Mickie had put some antibiotic ointment on it, and it was not causing me any pain. But it would take several days to heal up, and I needed to think about a cover story.

I slept intermittently, and woke up at one point to find Mickie gone, along with my phone. I could hear her talking quietly in the living room. I wondered who it was, but did not have the initiative to get up and check. The next morning when I got up, my phone was back on the bedside table.

I had told Mickie that I would be staying home another day. She asked if I needed her to stay with me, but I told her she should go to work. I would make sure all the doors and windows were locked, and just spend the day trying to pull myself together. What worried me most was going back out into the world. I felt so vulnerable now.

Once Mickie was gone, I decided to try to do some physical activity. I was not ready to go outside for a run, so I focused on core. I did front and side planks, then some work with light dumbbells that Mickie had recently purchased to get my arms more toned, and finished up with half an hour of yoga poses. By the time I was done, I was actively sweating and felt a bit tired. I put my hair up and jumped in the shower. I spent a bit longer than normal just letting the warm water run down my body while I zoned out. When I finally turned it off and toweled off, I realized that I felt a bit more normal. Maybe I would get through this.

The slap marks were long gone but the scratch on my face was still apparent. I decided to experiment with make-up to minimize it. I brushed on some liquid foundation on both sides, and found that if I used a bit more than usual, the scratch was mostly covered up. With a little bit of blush, it was even less visible. This looked as if it would work.

Having already started, I continued with mascara, eye shadow, and even a bit of eyeliner. I needed practice, and today was a good day for it since any imperfections would not be seen by anyone but Mickie. Finally, I put on a red lip gloss, and looked at my face from all angles. I had done a credible job, and now the scratch was barely noticeable. I let my hair down and played around with different styles before settling on combing it back and holding it in place with a headband.

With that done, I next turned to my wardrobe. I did not want to wear anything fancy, but I also didn't want sweats. I picked out some cute leopard patterned yoga pants, and matched them with a black sleeveless knit top. I looked pretty good--not that I was out to impress anyone.

I had skipped breakfast, and was feeling a little bit peckish. I scavenged in the fridge and found enough greens and vegetables to put together a small salad, which I then topped with a vinaigrette dressing. I ate it slowly, trying to savor each bite rather than bolting it down. As I did so, I reflected on my recent past, and tried to foster some sort of sense of perspective.

On the negative side, I had been victimized the day before. A very bad man had walked into my own house, physically hit me, threatened me with a knife, taken my money, and forced me to perform oral sex on him. This was a big deal, and it serve no useful purpose to try to minimize it. Probably the worst part, though, was his threat to return. That left me feeling extremely vulnerable and somewhat paranoid.

On the other hand, I had a loving wife who wanted to take care of me. I had had a very encouraging appointment the day before at the gender clinic, and was optimistic that they would accept me for treatment. I was gainfully employed and valued in my workplace--although this was perhaps up for debate once I petitioned to be treated as a female. And I really liked what was happening to my looks. I liked my new body, and I loved my long hair. Other people seemed to like it too.

I tried to tell myself that the good outweighed the bad, and by a lot. Even though this was true, I couldn't stop replaying in my mind the assault by Drew. I had made some mistakes, such as not checking the lock on the front door. And I had not stood up for myself--maybe if I had tried to fight back he would have left without sexually assaulting me. A little voice in my head told me this was an irrational thought, and that fighting might have led to much more serious injuries for me. But I still could not help criticizing my actions or lack thereof.

I scraped my plate and put it in the dishwasher along with the utensils, then I put some music on the sound system. To cheer myself up, I chose one of Mickie's upbeat dance playlists, music that she had played on many occasions when we were fucking. I did not feel very sexy--in fact, I felt dirty and undesirable, even though I had been happy with my appearance--but the irrepressible dance beats got me fired up anyway, and eventually I was dancing around the house, pretending that I was back at that lesbian club Mickie and I had gone to. Partway through, I stopped to check and make sure the blinds were down. Knowing that Drew had peaked in our windows before walking in left me extra cautious about what an outside observer might be able to see.

When the mix was finished, I decided to do some reading to take my mind off my situation, and picked up a book I had recently started: Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters. It was really good, but also daunting. The characters were sharply drawn, and I felt connected to all of them. And frankly, they were all dealing with serious situations--far more serious than my own. But anyone in the midst of or even contemplating a gender transition would respond to this book as a cautionary tale.

I read for an hour or so, and then got a text notification. It was Mickie, and it said, "Going to be a little bit late. Can I pick up something for us to have for dinner?"

I replied, "Sure. Whatever looks good or is convenient." I did not intend to eat much, so I really didn't care too much what Mickie brought home. She had an amazing metabolism, and could put away a lot more food than me without gaining an ounce. This was one of the many things I envied about her.

With my concentration distracted, I decided to skip reading and lie down for a while. Before doing so, I went around the house again and rechecked the doors and windows to make sure they were secure, and I had not overlooked anything. As I did this, I fully acknowledged to myself that this was silly--I had already done this. But I needed to do it again before I would be able to relax. This heightened threat level was one of the lasting things Drew had given me after yesterday's attack.

I lay down in bed with the lights off and tried to turn my mind off. Unfortunately, I wasn't very tired, and found myself jumping from one thought to another. Eventually I found myself dwelling on Drew's attack, and I could not distract myself as I relived it. To stop the recrimination, I told myself, "At least he didn't rape you. It was just a blow job." This didn't hold much water.

Unfortunately, as I had this thought, I started imagining, "What if he had?" I pictured him putting me on my hands and knees, throwing my skirt up and pulling down my panties, then violating me. I felt a wave of relief and gratitude wash over me that this didn't happen, but lurking underneath was something sordid. Imagining getting raped actually seemed to be causing me to feel arousal. What was going on? I later learned how feelings of fear and disgust can be short-circuited in our brains and misinterpreted as sexual arousal. But at the time, I simply felt as if I needed to act on what seemed to be turning me on, even though I was appalled with myself.

I knew from what Mickie had explained to me before that simply masturbating my penis was nto going to get me anywhere, so I went into the bathroom and douched myself. Then I found the smaller of our two dildos and our lube, and pulled off my yoga pants and panties. My tingling clit swung free; it was not hard, but it was a little engorged and seemed to be crying out for some attention. At the same time, my butt also seemed to be in need of stimulation.

I lubed up my asshole, and was pleased to find that the soreness from my session with Jamal was now completely gone. I went back into the bedroom, and applied lube to the dildo, then gingerly started penetrating myself while lying on my side. I went slowly, because I was still a little bit gun-shy after having been so thoroughly reamed. The head pushed in, and I gasped at the feeling of having it slide into my rectum. Soon I was sliding it in and out with big thrusts, and started rubbing my clit with my other hand. However, this position was not really working for me, because it did not correspond to any I had experienced previously while on the receiving end of a fucking.

I left the dildo in, and rolled over onto my back. Then I pulled my knees up the way they were when Mickie or Jamal had fucked me, and started thrusting the dildo again while rubbing myself. Now it was working--I could feel the pleasure building. I imagined Mickie with the strap-on, and then Jamal. Slowly the feelings grew. Then my mind took a left turn and I imagined that Drew had taken me into the bedroom and raped me on the bed. Instead of immediately quenching my arousal, this caused a big spike. I went further, and imagined him holding my hands down, the way Jamal had done with Mickie. I imagined him violently fucking me against my will, then shooting his load deep inside me. Even though I didn't want to, I felt extremely turned-on by these thoughts, and found myself pulling out and pushing in the dildo more and more vigorously, while furiously rubbing my clit. Before I knew what hit me, a big orgasm exploded in my pelvic region. I felt my anus tightly clenching the dildo, and stopped sliding it. Meanwhile, my new ejaculation format was occurring, with a steady flow of white cum leaking out onto my belly. I was making lots of high-pitched involuntary groans as this happened.

When my climax ebbed, I felt drained, but also flooded with shame. Why was I masturbating to a rape fantasy? As I mentioned, I did later gain some insights into how such a thing could happen, but at the time I could only conclude that I had some serious pathology in my sexual make-up.

I looked at the puddle of sperm and thought about Mickie's rule. I really should scoop it up and eat it. On the other hand, my most recent encounter with cum in my mouth had been decidedly unpleasant, and I was not sure how I would react. Eventually, my habitual desire for the calming effects of whatever trace hormones were found in semen won out, and I dipped my fingers repeatedly in the cum until I had transferred most of it to my mouth. I let it sit there for a few seconds, then gulped it down. It seemed fine, and I concluded that Drew's assault had not ruined swallowing for me.

I gingerly removed the dildo, and went into the bathroom to clean it off, along with the sticky spot on my tummy. Then I carefully put everything away (dildo, lube, douche), because I did not want Mickie finding out I had been masturbating. What would she think of me? I got dressed again, straightened up the bedspread, and went back out to the living room to look for something to do while I waited for her to come home.

When Mickie eventually came home, she brought several entrées from my favorite vegan restaurant. Smelling them, I realized that I had a real appetite, and eagerly set about getting everything ready. I gave her a kiss and thanked her for bringing the food. She stepped back while holding me by the arms and looked at my face.

"I see you put on some make-up," she said. "It looks really good--you can barely see anything." I nodded in agreement.

"And you seem a little bit calmer," she added.

"Yes, I'm not going to let this ruin my life," I replied. "But I'm still feeling paranoid about doors and windows, and I'm not sure how I'm going to do when I have to go out."

"One day at a time, sweetie," Mickie said, as we sat down and dug into the delicious food.

After dinner, as I was cleaning up in the kitchen, Mickie stuck her head in and said that she was going out for a while. I was disappointed, as I had been looking forward to spending the evening with her. She saw it on my face, and was very apologetic.

"I'm really sorry, honey," she said. "But this is important. I'll try to get back at a reasonable hour."

"Where are you going," I asked.

"I'll explain to you later," she replied. I realized that I would have to be patient.