Meeting My Rapist

He'd already raped me more than 20 times. Of course, it depends on your definition. I choose to count the number of encounters we'd had since we finally broke down our mutual suspicions and fears and met at that nondescript Holiday Inn. I counted and we met 20 times before the last time in November of 2015.

In those 20 times I cannot count what the law would count as acts of rape. But here's my best estimate:

He raped my cunt at least once every time we met, and often more than once. Final guess: 30 times.

He raped my mouth at least once every time we met. He seemed to enjoy raping my mouth less than other things, so let's say an even 20.

I'm a big girl I had to tell him, more often than not, that my ass was out of play. I know he raped my ass exactly half a dozen times.

So that's something like 50-60 times.

You can say rape isn't the word, since we discussed, negotiated, then acted.

I say rape because it's what I wanted him to do to me, and what I allowed myself to feel it was when he took me. When I was bound, gagged, blindfolded, slapped, kidnapped, filmed, forced to crawl, forced to kneel in front of him and suck his cock, forced—by word and deed and threat—to lick up his come, to beg him to rape me again, to beg for mercy, for him not to rape me.

We met online.

The first time we talked there, it was ungodly late and I was foolish drunk. I shared far too much and there was a phone message waiting for me when I got ready for work the next day. It simply said, "Good girl." I couldn't remember what I'd done to please him, or having given him my number. And yet he didn't abuse it further, instead waiting for me to contact him again online. My sheepishness evaporated with his words—he could spell, for one thing. That's a joke—he was able to connect with me on a level that I suspected (it is the internet) but which got to me nonetheless.

He shared very little about himself, even when we started to reach the point when we'd have to commit or bail. I shared more, but didn't have much to share—single, alone, overweight, clean, etc. I was suspicious, I was wary, and, ultimately, I didn't give a fuck. Depression, recklessness, aching, actually painful loneliness (and horniness)‚ fuck it.

A day, a time, a hotel. He paid and sent me the details showing he had. I agreed to meet him.

My limits I set out with what I claim is my signature ballsiness. No body waste, no blood, no permanent injury. No outside parties. I explained that anal would be a game day decision—I'd email him in the morning.

And that was it.

What we'd discussed was rape. I wanted him—this cultured, intelligent, articulate man I had never seen (he refused to send me pictures, and I chose not to care) to rape me. I chose.

For our first time—my first time actually letting myself be this woman going to this hotel room—I choses something basic. I would enter, leave the door unlocked. He would burst in at a time I'd be in the shower. When I came out—naked, wet, drying myself awkwardly—he would seize me, throw me on the room's big bed, gag me with the black panties I'd leave where I stripped them on the floor, use the rope he would bring to tie them in place. Blindfold me (he would supply an appropriate scarf). Wrench my arms behind me. Tie them together.

Once so made helpless, unable to protest or fight—then he was to act on his dark desires as well. And he did.

He had me to himself for 14 hours.

It's what I wanted. It's what I'd always wanted.

I cried during the night. I slept at times and awoke with him inside my mouth. I awoke again to the feel of cooling come all over me, seeping from me everywhere. My arms went numb, my mouth went slack. My cunt chafed and ached. My asshole screamed (I sent that email giving the okay, with trembling fingers).

When daylight broke, I was lifted (I didn't think he'd be able to lift me, especially as limp as I'd gone, but he did) and tumbled, still bound and blindfolded into the hotel tub. Soaked, soaped. Fingered all over. Forced to suck his cock one more time, gagging and swallowing his come, exhausted. It was so thin it went down like water.

Tub drained. Left to shiver while he, no doubt, watched. Toweled off. Thrown onto the stripped bed. I heard the harsh clack of a folding knife and shivered more. He sliced my bonds and my arms fell useless to my side under me. He left my blindfold on. Gripped my face until it hurt. Kissed my roughly and coldly as he gently stroked my breast.

Left.

I lay motionless for—who knows how long. When I became colder, I pulled the wet blindfold off. My eyes ached. It was eight in the morning. Checkout was at noon. I lay there and felt tears pooling on the bed by my ears. I let my left hand stray to my abused cunt and winced when it found purchase between the folds. I absently stroked my clit but it was too painful to continue for long.

I heaved myself out of the bed, found my wobbly feet. Dressed. Found my bag, with its non-drool-soaked pair of fresh panties. When I walked past the desk in the lobby, I kept my eyes straight ahead and forced myself to walk steadily through the pain. Pain in my cunt, insistent pain from my anus. I imagined my lips swollen from his abuse of my face, but I'd verified a dozen times that it looked, impossibly, normal. My car in the parking garage. Eyes in the rearview mirror, suddenly wet with tears I didn't understand. I drove home—weekend, no work.

I had gotten exactly what I wanted.