I got raped again today. And this time, I enjoyed it. Not from the continuous unsolicited thrusting of penis into my vagina, but I enjoyed it because I’ve finally found a way – a way to finally exact my revenge. The conviction was the aphrodisiac that sent me reeling over the edge. He noticed the difference in my responsiveness this time around almost immediately – this time, I didn’t struggle. I just succumbed to the ordeal. Struggling was futile, something I realized seven rapes ago. It was always the same penis. The same overpowering strength that quelled my resistance. The same grunts that disgusted me to my very core. The same face. The very same face that I’d to come hate so much. That sneer on his face that seemed to perpetually taunt me whenever I came from the engagement. As if my cumming justified his unjust actions.
I’ve come to hate my body now. My body betrays me whenever he pounces on me. My “no“s have become so feeble, I believe he doesn’t even hear them now. It’s really hard to continuously plead, when you’re being pounded senseless trying to catch your breath in-between thrusts. I wish I could catch every involuntarily moan that escaped my lips and swallow them back.
But no matter, tomorrow he’ll die. Tomorrow, I’ll lose my husband. Tomorrow, I’ll become a widow.