The|Rapist Ch. 03

"Now Anna, I know that this will be hard for you, but I need you to go back to that basement in your head again for me. Let's use the time that you were being caned. That one wasn't too bad, right?"

This had become our routine. Three times per day, I would go with him to the bedroom (he said that I seemed to feel safest there) and I would recount my time in the basement. He wanted to know every single detail. It was important. He didn't want me to transfer my fear of my father on to him (which I felt absolutely horrible for doing), or anyone else. He said that it was common, when something hurts so much and our brains try to warp the memory to be something easier to handle.

Obviously, I had no control over it, but he told me about how I would become angry and violent when I started taking drugs again, how I had been picking fights with him and calling him all of these terrible names, and he just didn't make the connection that the combination of these drugs and my trauma had me so confused.

I hated having to recount these moments, I hated having to go back to this pain that I promised to never think about again... all those disgusting ways that he would use my body, how the drugs made me go along with it, how I had to pretend to like it sometimes. But we had to bring them to the surface. It was the only way that I could heal. He knew all of the stories anyway, and he could help fill in details that I had repressed, and help me understand what parts were real.

He had taken more time off of work just to be with me more. He'd go off to the grocery store while I was sleeping, so I never had to be alone. We'd watch movies together and cook together and... it felt comfortable. Like things were meant to be this way. I found myself reaching out for his hand during scary parts on TV, and dozing off into his arms on the couch. He had so much patience for me. He was really letting me take things at my own speed. We would have these "sessions" for as long as I could go on. Eventually I would just shut down, and shake and cry, and he'd hold me and read to me and tell me fun stories that made me laugh.

To make it a little easier on me, we'd go through a nice little relaxation exercise before I started talking. He laughed when I asked if it was like hypnosis, and said that people use stuff like that as just a silly buzzword. Nobody could make anyone jump up and down and squawk like a chicken, or take off their clothes on stage. That was just a performance. This was just a way to calm my mind, clear my head, let me focus on my breathing, and just make it easier to talk.

I was lying flat on my back in bed, my eyes closed, the room felt cold, and I could smell stale cigarettes. I could hear the buzz of the lamp above my head. I took a deep breath.

"OK. I'm in the basement."

"Keep your eyes closed. Tell me what you hear."

The room had soundproofing material, so it absorbed sounds. When I was alone, the silence was overwhelming. It was oppressive, like it was... heavy. The first few weeks, all I could hear was the ringing in my ears. There was nothing to distract me. No clock ticking. No distance washing machine. No pipes clanging. It felt like I was entombed. When he entered the room, there was so much noise all at once; I thought my eardrums would burst. I couldn't tell if he was yelling or whispering until I saw his face. It was just noise.

"I hear keys jangling and metal grinding, he's unlocking the chains that are keeping me suspended."

"Is he talking?"

"Yes. He's... excited. That could mean that he's happy to fuck me, or he's excited to hurt me. I never could tell. He's untying my legs now and putting me down on the ground, face down."

"He's going to feed you now, right?"

"Yes. I'm so hungry. I don't care what he's brought me. It hurts so badly. He's pulling me up by my hair. He wants me to kneel in front of my placemat while he opens the can. It's hard though, my hands are still bound behind me up to my elbows, and my legs are so weak it's hard to balance. He hates it when I keep falling over though. I just want him to hurry up. But I can't whimper or make a sound or else he'll walk always and just make me stare at my food bowl out of reach. He has both cans of Ravioli open now. I can smell it. My mouth is watering."

"But you stay kneeling while he fills your bowl, right?"

"Yes."

"Good Puppy! So he puts your food bowl down now, like usual. But... he doesn't untie you yet, does he?"

"No. I have to fall forward and basically put my whole face in the bowl. It makes such a mess. My face always gets covered in sauce. I practically inhale the food. I lick the bowl clean. He doesn't have to tell me. He pats my head and ruffles my hair. It feels... pleasant."

"Of course it did, you've always been a Good Girl, and you deserved some recognition. But-- you must be filthy, right? How embarrassing. You need him to clean it up, right?"

"Yes. There was no running water. The only way that he could clean me was to unzip his pants and take out his pen--"

"Cock. Anna. It's a cock. Remember? You need to use the words he made you use."

"Right. I'm sorry. He takes his c-cock out and th--"

"What does it look like? Is Daddy's cock hard?"

"Y-yes..."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, my Daddy's cock is rock hard. He gets up to my face with it really close and starts to uri-- he starts to piss all over my face. To clean it up. I have to look up at him and smile or else he'll kick me."

"Ugh...disgusting...and how did that make you feel, sweetie?"

I felt filthy. I hated this part. I hated that it was actually effective at cleaning my face, and that I looked forward to it.