I Deserve To Be Violated.

"You can't do anything to me now, I'm hidden," I say, pushing my face into the pillow and placing my hands on the sides of my face.

He puts his hand on my butt, rubbing the cold object in his hand against my skin, but he laughs and plays along.

"Oh no baby," he says, "Now that you are ostriching, how will I ever find you? Where did you go?"

I laugh into the pillow, but on the inside, I am scoffing at myself. The reality of my childlish wonder is chimeric, my childishness is like a stolen dress that's not even my style, and I don't play this role to feel safe or loved, I'm not tapping into residual hope or innocence to express joy, it's mathematical, it hurts more to be violated when I'm occupying a state of mindless vulnerability. Playing a little girl feels like mindless vulnerability, it feels like being in the before-times, before I knew to doubt good intentions and before I knew men could rob my soul from between my legs. I am not even sure I ever really lived these times, but I know how to create them inside my head. I suppose, it is a pathetic form of innocence, to be bright-eyed and eager, because you know no better.

"I know how to find you," he says, making his way between my legs with the cold, glass-made phallic appendage he is holding in his hand.

"No!" I scream into the pillow, loud enough for it to be heard even outside this room, "Daddy, no, please."

The math on that is that I am supposed to mean it when I say no, but not really because we've already, and repeatedly had the talk where I consent to no meaning yes and rely on his judgement to decide the best course of action, it's the point at which math turns to calculus and everyone starts dropping the class. I am not sure for whom I insist on the prevalence of perfect consent and communication, for me the fact that I agree to enter, from time to time, a grey area, is enough and at play only within my very adult relationship, I have no interest in creating a prescriptive model, but as I tell my stories, I feel more and more compelled to cushion the blow. As he pushes his toy inside me, I scream my dissent, I am pullulated with resistance and while this stage is part of a well-rehearsed play, the resistance is real. You can summon and experience a real sentiment, even in the most artificial of settings.

"Stop fucking screaming," he changes his tone and grits his teeth, pushing his toy in and out of me with an inconsiderate vigor, "or else I will kick this inside you."

I'd rather be kicked in the face, but my alacrity for pain and violence has no meaning to him right now, this isn't about that, it's about him, and the sick, specific compulsion to hurt my cunt with which he has infected me. This one really was him, I know I am often responsible for the sadistic devolution of the people who love me, but he is responsible for this. His fixation on making a bad thing worse, especially if that bad thing is my sore and broken cunt, is almost pathological. He asks me every day, if my insides hurt, and each time I say yes, he cannot help but make it worse.  I didn't even know, not until he fucked me, that I could get to a place where I wouldn't be feigning resistance anymore. I have always had a love-hate relationship with penetration, my brain loved it and my body hated it, but he made me just hate it. He had me live in terror of it and as perspicacious as I may pretend to be, I don't know what this terror indicates, I just know that when I now say no, I seem to mean it.

I mean it, with my body too, I shake and thrash against his assault of my cunt, and try to climb up the headboards. He climbs on top of me, holding me down with the weight of his body. With the one hand he fucks me harder and with the other, he grips my hair and pushes my face into the pillow so hard, I can barely breathe. I move my legs, like I am running in place, I don't want to, I would like nothing more than to behave the way he wants me to, if for no reason other than that I know he will hurt me less if I do what he wants, but I cannot stop. I cannot convince my body to take this, it doesn't like it quite in the same way that it doesn't like it with I accidently touch a hot stove, it knows nothing but to attempt to get me out of this. So it tries — it screams, it shakes, it pushes, it kicks —it attempts to throw him off itself. It attempts to tighten the access to my hole making it worse somehow that he is undeterred, unmoved, practically unaffected by my fight. He just continues to fuck me harder, shaking my head from side to side by the hair. The pain goes from my cunt and up my abdomen, into my lower back, the screaming begins to abate, appearing only intermittently followed by a vague attempt to shake him off, and then disappears completely. I stop moving, and I start to cry instead. The lassitude that emerges from this resignation stuns me into a suspensorial state, every bit of energy seems drained from me all of a sudden, and my eyes begin to get heavy.

I unclench my muscles, my legs begin to spread just a little,  and I feel him shift off me and to my side. I turn my head and through the wetness of my hair, I can see parts of his face. He looks the same as he did before I went to bury my head in the sand, but my eyes seem to have changed, I am not *looking* at him the same anymore. Maybe it's the tears, they distort my vision, they disable my resistance and they make me want the worst things. They make the violation of this unnatural cock inside me seem, suddenly, desirable.

"Please rape me," I whisper to him.

"What is that?" He asks, pushing my hair off my face.

"Please. Rape me." I ask, again, choking in the middle of my own sentence, on my own words.

His grip on his toy tightens again, he shakes it inside me, until it feels like he is punching me with it.

"You poor girl," he says into my forehead, "You don't even know you aren't supposed to like it."

I apologise, immediately and then again when I feel my cunt start to leak out into his hand. I apologise for not knowing I am not supposed to like it. It doesn't even make sense, really, am I apologising for accidentally enjoying "rape" I consented to many days before it happened because I may dislike it in the moment later but was supposed to pretend not to like even though I really didn't like it but definitely will tomorrow? That's a real question. That's the thing with calculus, you get to behave like it is irrelevant to you, until you learn to ask the questions that make it relevant. Asking the questions doesn't give you answers, but it makes you realise you shouldn't have dropped the class.

"Why are you sorry?" He asks, not because he wants a particular answer, any answer will do, I think, he just likes asking the question.

"I'm sorry that I deserve to be raped," I say, not knowing until I say the words that I was going to say these words.

These words make me sad. For a moment, a moment so ephemeral that even as I live it, I can only see it in retrospect, he stops. He stops fucking me, he stops speaking, he even stops breathing, I don't think he expected those words either. I am not sure what they mean, and how much of them is mined from the *real reality*, outside this simulated reality. I say the words to myself, again, in my head and it makes me need this more physically than it did before.

"Rape me with your fingers," I beg him.

He evacuates me like a building under threat of explosion and replaces the cold object of torment, with a colder one. His hands made all the cracks in my previously impervious structure and inside me they don't just destroy, they plunder. They attack like an enemy who has no intention of ever rebuilding this land, they attack not to use, but to ruin. I cry but I moan as well. I apologise but I request as well. I cannot explain it, my knowledge doesn't extend to this sphere and while I am an expert at organised thought, this is outside the realm of comprehension. Like an irascible man whose damage even they cannot predict, this is outside the realm of my control. I am recovered, healed, empowered, happy, and I am begging for rape I deem I deserve. I'll play the game of pretending those are unrelated, for a bit, until it fades.

"Why are you so fucking wet?" He asks, in the tone of many men before him, "No one will believe this is a raped cunt, isn't it?"

That shouldn't be true, it has been true in my life, but it shouldn't be. I know that, but it still makes me wet to hear it.

"I'm sorry for being wet," I tell him, unabashed at how much of my insides are showing, "I'm sorry for making you rape me."

He takes his fingers out of me and pulls me up by the hair. His hips contour mine as he begins to push his cock inside me. I can't tell one type of pain from the other anymore, the pain in my ribs stands out the most, I wish I didn't forget sometimes that I have to keep breathing.

"Say that again," he asks as he holds my arms down beside me.

"I'm sorry for making you rape me," I say, crying tears that feel more like arousal than pain.

He bites my shoulder as he comes inside me. I hate that this is the only part of penetration I really like, I long for it. He slides off me and onto my side again. I turn my head and look at him again. He isn't looking at me. He is flicking his wrist and massaging his hand. I suppose this lasted a lot longer than I expected.

"Thank you for raping me," I tell him, reaching out to touch his chest.

"Massage my hand hand," he says, as I grab it, "It hurts from the labour of raping you."

I ignore the spasm in my lower body and begin to massage his palm. I'm so sorry to have hurt him this way. In some ways I guess it never stopped being like the before-times, I am a stupid little girl and I will never know better.