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Fourth of July.

Here's what she wrote:

Of course, I was terrified from the moment you forced your way into my hotel room on that fateful night when you changed my life. Not surprisingly, the scariest part of the ordeal was the anal rape. I instinctively tried to get you out of me, because it HURT SO BAD. But even as I struggled and begged, you began to screw me into passivity. The pain was unreal.

A couple of times in my life I had considered trying anal sex. But the thought of a boyfriend spreading my slightly plump buttocks apart, and gazing into such a private valley, well, it's just too mortifying to consider seriously. And there would be no benefit to going even that far, for I knew for certain that as soon as I tried to take a big, throbbing cock up my rump to please a partner, I'd be asking my lover to stop. Probably just as soon as the penetration began. And I knew that a lover would stop. Therefore, I'd never even bothered to try it. But you, YOU! You were not a lover...

You are a rapist. As real as any incarcerated sex-offender. And I was your victim. As real as any damsel who'd ever been in distress. And gawd, what distress!

I barely had time to be embarrassed when I felt your rough hands peeling me apart, and I almost passed out during the initial penetration. I'd known it would hurt, of course. But the sheer volume and intensity of the pain caught me off guard. Blindsided me. And I screamed for you to pull out, told you that I couldn't handle it; that I'd go out of my mind. But rather than stop, you forced the remaining inches deep into my guts with a buttock-flattening thrust. As my teardrops flowed like open faucets, the fucking proceeded in earnest.

After a while, the pain began to yield just a bit to the utter humiliation. The very idea! You assfucking me like I was some passive blowup doll, just an object to be used for your pleasure. Can you imagine how it felt? I reeled from the objectification, being treated as if my mind and emotions and existence did not matter: all that mattered to you was the pleasure you could steal from my body's tightest orifice. GOD! It was so precisely wrong that I immediately knew it was right: THIS the way I've always needed to be treated.


Despite the constant distraction of the pain, I was thinking hard about the shame imposed by the brutal buttfuck; how outrageous and humiliating it is to be entered in this way while helpless to prevent it. The most maddening part of the rape for me was that I was taught--as most women are--that my body belongs to ME, and that NO man can enter it unless I give him express and explicit permission, and even then, if I withdraw permission, he must vacate MY orifices immediately. So the idea of someone ramming himself up the tightest and most hidden of my holes while I pleaded with him not to, and causing me such shockingly unspeakable agony just to arouse himself is so incredibly perverse that it takes my breath away!

We were each keenly aware that your pleasure was purchased at the cost of my pain. I knew of your pleasure while I screamed my head off. You knew of my pain as my tightest opening involuntarily sucked you closer and closer to orgasm. Our orgasm. For we both desired the same thing, but from entirely opposite ends of the experience. And my end (unfortunately for me, but that's how it works) was one where I REALLY DIDN'T WANT what you were doing to me--while you was doing it. I would have given anything to stop it--while it was happening.

RAPE is the only word that describes it. Yet you had placed me in a position where I would have to suffer through it, without any choice, without any ability to control it or stop it. And it had to be that way, because there is no other way to feel this way.

When you came, I groaned coarsely and went limp, trying shamefully to hide the signs of my own orgasm.

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