Rape Fantasy Pt. 02 - Fundraiser

I can't believe that they came to this. He brought his fiancé to the fundraiser. My body went instantly into fight or flight mode. I needed to leave. I needed to leave now. I couldn't. This was my event. I was the host.

As soon as she saw me across the room, she made a beeline towards me. We had always gotten along. We attended the same church, went to the same Catholic high school. We weren't close, but we were friendly.

Her smile was as infectious as his--pure warmth and sweetness. She was stunning. Hair, face, makeup, clothes, walk, energy; she was perfect--the perfect girlfriend and fiancé for a man who was up-and-coming. The only problem was that she was engaged to my rapist.

She pulled me into her for a deep hug. "H______, I just wanted to thank you for everything you did for J____." I couldn't concentrate. Looking into her warmth, all I could think of was your boyfriend raped me. Your boyfriend brutally raped me. Your boyfriend anally raped me. Your boyfriend is a rapist. Run.

"I know this all must have been so hard on you, but it really was the best thing that could have happened to us." She has no idea. She has no idea that she's married to a sexual predator.

"The position you found for him was just perfect. It's like you gave him a promotion." Do you know what he is? Does he hurt you?

She looked so pure and innocent... relaxed. Not like me. Not after being raped by him in my own office. Always afraid of my own shadow. Crying for no reason.

She's a person to him--someone to love and cherish and make a family with.

"You know we're getting married in the Fall."

You're marrying a rapist. You're marrying my rapist.

"You are SO getting an invitation. You're part of the family now!" All I could do was nod and smile. Smile that blank, empty smile that was all that he left of my personality.

For the next hour, I was on autopilot. Luckily, I had done these things so many times that it didn't matter that I wasn't really there.

It was like he had gifted me with a broken superpower. Now I could tell how little the men cared about what I had to say. Before, I would work so hard to be intelligent and witty, and on top of things. Now, I just laughed and nodded and smiled at their stupid jokes, blushed at their leers, and pushed in when they touched me. They didn't see me as a person. They never had. J____ was just honest about it... man enough to treat me the way every other guy wanted to. Disposable.

Eventually, I lost myself in those essential minor details that make or break a successful fundraiser. It's nice just to lose yourself in your job. Are there enough snacks? Is VIP #4 getting enough attention? Do we have enough scotch?

I slipped away for a second to run into the supply room to grab bottles of scotch, bourbon, and vodka.

After that, time just stopped working.

He's behind me, covering my mouth and pressing himself against me. I'm squirming, screaming into his hand, but it just sounds like mousey squeals. I've always hated how my voice sounds like a little girl's.

I can feel his crotch pressing up against my ass. I can feel his thickness. My squirming just makes him harder. I can feel him. I can feel him hard. I can feel it right now. His cock pressing into my ass is a sense memory that's locked inside my head now.

Each thing just compounds what was before. He never held me like this before. I never got to really struggle with my whole body like this as he wrapped himself around me. It was terrifying and liberating. My entire body just let loose, using all my strength to try to escape from him. Now, as it loops inside my head over and over, I can feel how it only made him harder... caused him to let out that innocent giggle he has.

"Have you been a bad girl?"

The question bounces around in my head. I'm a bad girl. I've been raped. Men RAPE me. I'm soiled. I'm not pure. I can't stop thinking about being raped. I've not a good girl. Good girls don't get raped. Good girls are married and have families. Good girls aren't wet from seeing their rapists.

Flash to his fingers pressing against my cunt.

That's when I remembered how wet I was. It wasn't just that I was wet now, and I knew it from his fingers playing with my cunt through my panties. It's because I've been wet the moment I saw him walking in. My cunt instantly responded to him. I immediately started juicing, preparing itself for my rapists and hoping that he would do it again, praying for a chance to feel him hurt me. Hurt us. I didn't notice it at the time. It was there, but my conscious mind didn't register it. On the surface, I was feeling pure terror, but this other part of me was excited at the idea that I would be raped again. My whole body was betraying me and had started betraying me from the moment it saw him.

It was like I was two people. There was this woman, intelligent, strong, successful, dreaming of the day she would find the perfect man and raise the ideal family, and then there was this cunt, this perv that could only get off on being used and discarded by men. It was always there, waiting for J____ to just rip it out of me. Now, it was taking over, turning me into a broken doll whose body gave itself willingly to the man strong enough to just snap me in two.

"Why you have been a bad little girl." That laugh. That melodious voice and that innocent laugh. He was raping me and sounded like he was telling a joke before a church gathering.

The words "bad little girl" made my body spasm... made my cunt just start humping against his fingers. I was a spectator in my own body as he turned me into his fuck puppet. The words just looped in my head, playing their own twisted music, making my cunt dance on his fingers. Made me NEED his cock inside me.

His hand was off my mouth. As one made my sex dance on his fingers, the other roughly pulled my tits out of my bra. He struggled to get them out. My bras are always too tight. Frustrated, he tugged hard, causing the top few buttons to just burst off, exposing my bra to the open air.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. As my body openly danced to his manipulation of my body, my conscious mind focused on how I would repair my blouse so nobody would notice that I had just been raped.

Replaying the scene now, I can feel how the violence of his actions made my cunt juice so much more. I loved this. My body was singing to this. It needed him to brutally rip the clothes from my body, even as it made me struggle twice as hard to escape. He was ripping me in two. Whatever person I was was gone, replaced with a mask of lies and a cunt defined by who raped me.

"You know good girls don't wear panties."

I was a bad girl. The texture of my soaked lace panties openly, wantonly humping against his fingers. I was a bad girl. I wore panties. When I humped, it felt so good. My sex was out of control. It had no connection to my terrified self. The one he was drowning with the filth buried inside me.

I could hear myself repeating, "no, no, no." I don't really know what I was responding to. It was a collective no. No, don't. No, good girls wear no panties. No, good girls don't hump their rapist's fingers. No, good girls' nipples don't jut out painfully while being raped.

"You know that I need your pussy always available for me, H_____."

My name. His saying my name raped me more than anything. It forced the two parts of me to come together violently. He wasn't raping a random cunt. He was raping H______ _________. Me. He was raping me. He was raping me, and no matter what anybody said or did, I would always define myself by what he did to me.

He could tell I was lost at that moment. With one hand, he slapped my face, and the other pushed my panties aside and entered my cunt.

"I need your cunt always open and available to me, H______."

The words started looping in my head. "Open. Always open. Always open. Open."

They weren't really words to me; they were feelings that were being scarred into my brain. "Open and available. Always open and available."

He's slapping my face.

"Take them off."

I don't understand. His fingers are inside me. He's talking to me. He slaps me harder. "Take your panties off."

I struggle to pull them off as he violently twists on my twists my tits.

Holding his hand out, he tells me, "give them to me."

Trembling, I hand my soaked panties over to him.

Slapping my face hard to punctuate ever work, "you, don't, wear, panties. Your, cunt, needs, to, always, be, open, to, me."

The word cunt burns into my brain. I remember the shock the first time I heard him call someone that last year. I remember how shocked I was to hear anyone say it. Cunt. She was a cunt. She was a nasty cunt. I blushed and laughed. Later on that night, I touched myself thinking about him, turned on by how wrong he was. She was a cunt. She was a nasty cunt. I remember how attractive I thought she was. I was jealous that he called her a cunt. I wanted him to call me that. Now...

I'm losing my mind. I can feel my back arching for him, making my cunt more available to his fingers. I'm terrified, but it's as much by how my body reacts to his abuse as it is to what he's doing.

SLAP "Open." He's holding my panties in front of my face.

He starts twisting one of my nipples painfully as his other hand presses my soiled panties against my lips.

"Open cunt face." I don't know if my lips open to moan from the pain or just instinctively because he is in control.

The disgusting flood of senses that comes from tasting myself as my panties fill my mouth opens up all of my senses. His breathing is crystal clear to me. His cologne is one I remember liking when we worked together. The way his whole body pressed against me, making me feel imprisoned inside him. The adrenaline pouring through me gives me superhuman powers of observation. One's that as I write this make my whole body come alive as I relive it. It's real every time I remember it. It's happening right now as I write this.

I don't remember him unzipping his pants. It's just a flash, and I can feel his thick cockhead pressing against my cunt. At that exact moment, as I moan "nooooo" into my panties, my legs widen apart, and my back arches making my sex more accessible to his cock. My consciousness is a spectator in my own body. He controls me, with my body acting as a willing participant that makes me moan and struggle even more. What is happening to me? Why....?

His thick cock slides into me so easily.

"You love this so much, don't you H______?" Suddenly, I get control of myself and try to go into a fetal position. He just laughs and twists my tits hard.

"Don't worry; I know you want it in your ass. I just need to lubricate my cock." As he says lubricate, he starts sliding his cock deeper in and out of my sex.

I feel it. I feel it start to happen. My whole body starts to spasm just as he pulls out. I let out a guttural involuntary moan of frustration. My cunt desperately tries to impale itself again on his cock. He just laughs.

"No, no, no, my nasty ass to mouth whore." The words flash to the moment he made me kneel and clean off his cock with my mouth. Looking up to see him filming me with my own phone. It was a video I had touched myself to dozens of times, climaxing to my depravity. I was an ass-to-mouth whore. I was his ass-to-mouth whore. I had never even heard of that before that night. Since then, I had watched dozens of the most disgusting videos I could find, locking in that the whores on those videos were just like me. I was an ATM whore. I pictured going into a tattoo parlor and having the letters placed on my body in my darkest moments.

In those moments right before, my body was filled with a desperate need for his thick cock to go back to stretched open my cunt. Then, all at once, my desperation was replaced by intense, blinding pain.

His hands were holding my asscheeks wide apart. I don't remember him doing it, just that when the pain started to center, I felt him pulling me open for him.

He just laughed as my body fought violently against his invasion. "Yes, that's it. I like it when you struggle." His voice was angelic. His voice was terrifying.

"Open for me H_____." As he said the words, his hands started violently squeezing my breasts. Every other time, he'd left dark purple bruises on them.

The word open combined with the pain was like a magic spell. I could feel myself opening for him, making my ass more available to him. I didn't want to, but what I wanted didn't matter. He commanded it, and my body obeyed. At this moment, I was his slave, his puppet.

"Good girl." His words contrasting with the intense pain of his thick cock splitting my ass open created a perfect cognitive dissonance that would dominate my therapy sessions for years. Always opposites. Always. My feelings are never simple. They are always opposites, and the more extreme they were, the more alive I felt. Sometimes, I wonder if a man can ever understand this. It's not that they're smarter than us; they're just more straightforward, more direct. They don't feel like we do. They don't know the beautiful madness of our feelings. Only we can feel this way, and only they can create these feelings. Perfect symmetry.

At this point, for me, the actual rape began. This is the moment that I've become addicted to. The way the more he hurts me, the more pain his cock slices into my body, the closer I get to cumming. The pain doesn't become pleasure... it is pleasure, and my empty, needy cunt translates one into the other. He is transforming me, and there is nothing I can do about it.

This is his rape. This is his gift to me. I am a pain slut now. I need pain to cum. I need it more than anything. If my tits aren't bruised and swollen, if my ass isn't on fire, if I don't feel debased and entirely out of control, I can not climax.

When I replay it, I marvel at how expertly he manipulates my body to make me cum just when his cock starts pumping its seed into my ass. I have no idea it's happening at the time. Honestly, I had no concept of time at the time. The romantic might want to say that we were becoming one. That we were joining together in a perfect union of two bodies, climaxing together as nature intended. That isn't it. He's killing me. He's killing my soul and making me his. He's making me his flesh puppet, existing just to impale itself on his cock.

The feeling, the pumping, the way his cock swells, the way my cunt clenches onto him, that moment, that's his rape. That's what defines it, what defines me now. I am this moment. I exist for no other reason than this moment. All my dreams, hopes, ambitions are wiped away and replaced with this one perfect, horrible moment.

This is the terrifying thing about it. It's not what they do to us; it's how we respond to what they do. It's the way they take all the illusions we've built up and replaced them with their animalistic urges. Men can walk away from this moment. We can't. I can't. I am my rape now. It's my fault, because I am too weak to stop chasing that feeling every chance I get. As I write this, it's taking all of my willpower not to stop, force a plug into my ass, stuff my panties into my mouth, and maul my tits as I pathetically touch myself. He's inside me. He owns me. I am his rape. I belong to him.

The pain of forcing his cock into my ass is nothing compared to the despair when he finally pulls himself out. I am not thinking. I am not a thinking person. I am not a person at all. I am a hole with needs. I am an asshole that wants nothing more than to be filled with his cock.

Then my brain wakes up. I picture all the people happily drinking, unaware that a girl was violently raped only yards away from us. I can see his fiance merrily discussing their wedding plans with a CEO's wife and a state senator. The horror makes me shudder, and then I notice that I've been crying this whole time, and now I'm crying more.

His fingers are forcing my mouth open, pulling my wet panties out of my mouth. Then he's pressing them into my ass. "Can't have my spunk leaking all over the ballroom, now can we H_____?" All I can feel are the echoes of our climax sounding like an offering plate being dropped in an empty cathedral. That's when I feel him turning me around.

"Give me your phone." I pull it out of my purse. I feel like a zombie. I have no control over my actions. He tells me to do it, and I do.

He punches in the passcode. I hadn't changed it from the first time he made me tell it to him when he was raping me bent over the desk in my office. "Smile!" Insurance, he called it.

Then he's pressing me down on my shoulders. It's only as my body instinctively starts to squat in front of him that I realize what he is about to make me do.

Revulsion and lust fight for control of my soul. If I were stronger, I wouldn't have made myself cum to the memory of this act. I wouldn't have repeated his words as I watched the first video. "Ass to mouth whore. I'm an ass-to-mouth whore. I'm an ass-to-mouth whore." Louder and louder, not caring if my roommate heard. Hoping she could listen to me because that is what I was, and I needed everyone to know it, especially her.

As I write this, my phone is next to my computer playing the image of him looking down as my mouth eagerly cleans my ass juices and cum off his cock. My disgust with myself only makes me suck and lick harder. I wasn't doing this for him. I was doing this for me so that I could see myself over and over. So I could witness myself reduced to his ATM rape slut. This is why I clean out my ass every morning. This is why I googled everything I could find about anal sex. This is why I lick the toilet for anonymous men online. H_____ ______ is an ATM slut now. I'm his creation. His perverted Sistine Chapel. A prisoner locked in his rape, desperate to relive it over and over again, just as God made me.

==========

His cum is my entire world. The acidy taste mixed with my ass, the thick texture coating my mouth. Ropes of it painting my tits; glasses blurred by it; hair streaked with it. Globs leaking out of my nose. My throat choking from it. The mindless way it drools out of my open mouth. I don't notice him leaving, his semen dominating my senses. My body is sore, but I don't really feel it. His cum is my entire world.

How do you describe it? How do you explain how hundreds of conflicting feelings feel like all competing for attention inside your head? They aren't coherent thoughts. They're just intense, burning feelings that roughly translate into words. TRASH. RUINED. HORNY. WORK. CUM. NEED. LOATHING. SLUT. MINDLESS. OFF. WHORE. BRAINLESS. HOLE.

As I start to come back to reality, it's as if my mind is frantically running around picking up the shattered pieces of my brain, desperately striving to put it back together again. It decides that I need to focus on what I'm here for. I'm hosting a reception. I'm here to get alcohol. The top buttons of my blouse are missing exposing my bruised tits. I'm covered in cum.

I can solve that. Without thinking, I dial the number for Michael, who's helping me with the event. "Michael bring sewing kit in my desk please 8-)"

"Where are you?"

"Suppluy closet. Wardrobe malfunction :-)"

I see a container of wipes right within arms reach, so I grab it, not even bothering to get up from the splayed position on the ground.

Even though his cum covers my glasses, face, and breasts, I focus on trying to get it out of my hair. All it does is spread it around more. This just makes me try to get it out more frantically, which only makes things worst.

When Michael opens the door, a feeling of relief floods through me. He's always been the person I trusted the most to solve a problem. Always cheerful, helpful, a real go-getter.

Looking up at him, I smile, but I can't talk. Slowly a mask of eager innocence drops from his face. "You fucking slut." He's doing the laugh, making that smile, just like J_____.