If it was violent, you could write it off. You could take that thought and focus on it. They did that. They forced me, they beat me, they hurt me. Any lubrication was my body trying to protect itself. A coping mechanism. Easy, plausible, deniable. Not so when it wasn’t those closest to you making the greatest violation. Not family, so-called friends, or acquaintances. Who do you blame when it was you who broke?

It all started when I couldn’t move, pinned down on the floor. Folded in half and felt even smaller than I actually was. I had been there before, willing and unwillingly, in that position. Not with him, but it was an old dance. I knew when I could fight and struggle and when it was best to let them finish. When you are in agony, it’s easy to turn off your mind, at least in the moment. You just go away, staring off at some patch on the wall. No, with those, it’s only later that the thoughts won’t stop, when you slip into that spiral.

I was pinned down and he wasn’t letting me move. My panties were forced off me, his weight crushing me, pressing my legs into my chest. I expected slaps, choking, maybe even a punch to shut up my whimpers and pleading. That familiar leer that stripped me of humanity, made me an object, was there. But his actions? Those were different.

Instead of quick movements and jagged pains, he gave me soft touches, warm breaths, and teasing circles that expertly traced my folds and bud. It was terrifying. There was safety in repetition, in repeated abuses. You knew what was coming. You could prepare for it. When things were new, anything could happen. And that was scarier than any black eye. He made no move to shove himself in me, no rush to cum on my face. Just me, pinned, feeling smaller and smaller, helpless, as he touched and traced, softly blowing on me. His fingers were almost as expert as my own, even more delicate than my usual touches as he whispered in my ear.

“Relax,” he said.

I couldn’t and he knew it, but he knew something as well. He could smell it, he could see it. Glistening, aching, begging for him. I felt like shit. I had cum before when someone took what they wanted, but I never wanted them to take it before they were already using me. And now? Now I was crying, shaking, moaning. Some primal part of me wanted to scream for him to rape me. Then it would be his fault. Not mine. I could believe the lie as long as I didn’t beg.

He knew that of course. I doubt I was his first or his last, just another mark is his ledger. He watched my face grow flush, his teases even made my ass quiver, my pussy soaked, as he made me stew in my own juices. Leaning down, his weight pressed me hard to the floor.