The Worst Betrayal is Your Own

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.

"Tell me to do it," he ordered with no threat.

It wasn't enough for him to take. He had to break me, make me give it to him. I tried as every part of me shrunk, his weight bringing back older memories, of times when I was tinier. And then, I broke, shaking violently, about to explode if it wasn't for him stopping every time I got close. I broke.

"Fuck me," I whispered, hating myself.

And he did, pushing hard into my ass that he had slathered with my own juices. He had teased both holes until they needed filling, anxious for anything, to make me feel briefly alive. I closed my eyes, tears running down my cheeks as he raped my ass. No. Not rape. I had given it to him. Told him to do it. The only person at fault here was me. He wasn't gentle anymore, but that didn't matter. The pain felt good. The thrusts felt good. I tried to touch myself and he would not let me. Simply held my hands as he fucked my ass so hard that when I tried to shit later that night, I would be in tears. Long minutes passed, then all his weight crushed me, my knees driven into me, as hot fire filled my rectum. And then done, I expected him to make me clean his cock. He pulled me up to my knees and made me look at him. I could smell his dick. My mouth even began to open out of habit. Tasting my ass would have been better than what he wanted.

"Now, look at me and touch yourself," he said.

And I did. I cried, almost hysterically at parts, but my eyes never left his. Locked together, my fingers brought out what he had denied me, even his cum leaked out of my ass. My fingers parted my folds, teased my clit, pinching it even, forcing myself over that finish line that he had denied earlier. Because he had wanted this. To watch me demean and rape myself. When I was done, I squirted hard, my body shaking. I could barely breathe when he got up and started to leave. I hated myself so much at that moment but still, I begged.

"Please, don't go," I said.

"You have nothing to offer me anymore," he replied.

And then, he was gone. I never saw him again. At least when I was awake. He would visit me every night for the rest of my life, however. Haunting my dreams, the one person I couldn't lie to. Because of him, I would never be alone again.