Got raped regulary for eight months five years ago

[ChaddeusPeuterschmit]

I'm married now

 

[Deleted member 5180]

tl:dr but what a disgusting whore

 

[ChaddeusPeuterschmit]

tl:dr but what a disgusting whore

tdlr: Got raped regularly for eight months, i'm married now

 

[.👽.]

What the fuck did i just red.

 

[KingOfRome]

He tells his trusted friends to when he's away.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA MAKE IT STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!

 

[Chadeep]

It makes me Sick in my stomach. Stupid whore

 

[Deleted member 1813]

lol tbh

 

[Deleted member 2352]

All women are Queens

 

[ChaddeusPeuterschmit]

All women are Queens

And all men are scum bags

 

[Deleted member 4671]

stop womens right's now!

 

[Ritalincel]

What the fuck did i just red.

A lot of this is going to be from my /r/sex post from around Christmas 2016, when I started getting help. I want some closure, I guess, and to eventually tell the rest of it now that I've got perspective on it.

I had a problem. For a long time my number one fantasy had been, you guessed it, forced sex. I've only ever had the courage to speak to a couple of more experienced women about it, and they were supportive and open-minded, but their vision of the act went along the lines of the girl finding the guy kinda hot, but opposing the act in the moment. I asssumed this kind of semi-consent was the only way to do rape play. We're also pretty conservative around these parts, so I figured most guys would be into this or at least wouldn't be opposed to it.

My first two sexual partners were my long-term relationships. First lasted around a year and a half, the second went on for almost five full years. Both were wonderful men, and while the first relationship ended with us losing the chemistry, we broke up peacefuly. The second relationship had every chance to last a lot longer if we didn't have to move to cities thousands of kilometers away for reasons we had no control over. Both were wonderful men, but closer to the topic, I managed to convince both to try my fantasy out, and they learned to enjoy it to different degrees. The problem was, the "secretely consenting but not really" way didn't satisfy me nearly as much as expected. I wanted something more convincing, more realistic, like a home invasion or an assault in the park or a similar scenario, but no matter how much I asked my second BF (we generally had a bad sex life, looking back on it), he wouldn't agree. He refused as much as to hurt me for real, while I did it stealthily and enjoyed a lot.

Long story short, I was devastated after our forced break-up, and in a new city, without close friends or family, I started drinking. In the evenings, on the weekends, pretty much in every situation with my co-workers out of sight. I also slept with guys I had no ties, much less relationships with. It was a sad time.

So one night, stumbling out of a bar, I saw a couple of thuggy looking guys near the entrance and thought "hey, they can make my dream come true". Thankfully, that time around I still had some brains left. Not for long, though. I first got myself in trouble just a few days later. I counsciouly dressed as skimpy as it gets before people consider you a hooker, consciously went to a place with a bad rep, consciously drank myself half-numb, went out the back exit trying to look scared and lost. I don't even remember that time clearly, I just switched off after the first guy. There was definitely more than one though, I do remember that much. I called in sick the next day and spent the whole day trying to process what happened.

And I did it again after a few days. And then again. And many more times. The rational part of me said it was wrong and terrible and everything, and I cried my heart out and called for help and begged for them to stop during the acts. I tried to hate myself and them for doing it, and when I couldn't, the irrational part asked if I didn't dream of this very thing. I did. And my body just screamed in pleasure. I started a journal to keep myself sane. Wrote descriptions of the acts as dry and detached as I could in it. It helped for a while, I took frequent STD tests at a private clinic and kept a normal appearance at work. I grew accustomed to that crazy life.

Then one day the clinic had to fix my displaced shoulder in addition to the regular, and one of the nurses got me to confess the whole story in private. I cried like a high schooler, but she remained patient and compassionate and somehow made me promise to call her daily and just chat about life. I came home and re-read my journal. There were twenty-eight entries there over the course of eight months. I felt sick, anyone all right in the head would. I decided there wouldn't be another one.

That was the end of November. Around the twentieth of Devemder, I went outside and got myself violated again with no second thoughts until I was on the ground, like I was going to a movie. I told nothing to the nurse, but hid the journal far away and pinned a reminder to think first inside my wardrobe. A week later I caught myself going through my clothes again and sat down to write that story out on Reddit.

It helped. People said I had to go to therapy, and for some reason strangers saying it was more convincing than my own mind. I still go to my therapist once a month or so, as a safety measure more than anything. Him, people from our local rape support groups and BDSM community helped a lot. People that cared about me (which made me lusty over them) not having sex with me helped. I got it under control.

I'm married now. He fulfills my need, regularly, with little mercy. He tells his trusted friends to when he's away. I love it. I'm finally in a place where I feel I belong.

 

[Deleted member 4671]

A lot of this is going to be from my /r/sex post from around Christmas 2016, when I started getting help. I want some closure, I guess, and to eventually tell the rest of it now that I've got perspective on it.

I had a problem. For a long time my number one fantasy had been, you guessed it, forced sex. I've only ever had the courage to speak to a couple of more experienced women about it, and they were supportive and open-minded, but their vision of the act went along the lines of the girl finding the guy kinda hot, but opposing the act in the moment. I asssumed this kind of semi-consent was the only way to do rape play. We're also pretty conservative around these parts, so I figured most guys would be into this or at least wouldn't be opposed to it.

My first two sexual partners were my long-term relationships. First lasted around a year and a half, the second went on for almost five full years. Both were wonderful men, and while the first relationship ended with us losing the chemistry, we broke up peacefuly. The second relationship had every chance to last a lot longer if we didn't have to move to cities thousands of kilometers away for reasons we had no control over. Both were wonderful men, but closer to the topic, I managed to convince both to try my fantasy out, and they learned to enjoy it to different degrees. The problem was, the "secretely consenting but not really" way didn't satisfy me nearly as much as expected. I wanted something more convincing, more realistic, like a home invasion or an assault in the park or a similar scenario, but no matter how much I asked my second BF (we generally had a bad sex life, looking back on it), he wouldn't agree. He refused as much as to hurt me for real, while I did it stealthily and enjoyed a lot.

Long story short, I was devastated after our forced break-up, and in a new city, without close friends or family, I started drinking. In the evenings, on the weekends, pretty much in every situation with my co-workers out of sight. I also slept with guys I had no ties, much less relationships with. It was a sad time.

So one night, stumbling out of a bar, I saw a couple of thuggy looking guys near the entrance and thought "hey, they can make my dream come true". Thankfully, that time around I still had some brains left. Not for long, though. I first got myself in trouble just a few days later. I counsciouly dressed as skimpy as it gets before people consider you a hooker, consciously went to a place with a bad rep, consciously drank myself half-numb, went out the back exit trying to look scared and lost. I don't even remember that time clearly, I just switched off after the first guy. There was definitely more than one though, I do remember that much. I called in sick the next day and spent the whole day trying to process what happened.

And I did it again after a few days. And then again. And many more times. The rational part of me said it was wrong and terrible and everything, and I cried my heart out and called for help and begged for them to stop during the acts. I tried to hate myself and them for doing it, and when I couldn't, the irrational part asked if I didn't dream of this very thing. I did. And my body just screamed in pleasure. I started a journal to keep myself sane. Wrote descriptions of the acts as dry and detached as I could in it. It helped for a while, I took frequent STD tests at a private clinic and kept a normal appearance at work. I grew accustomed to that crazy life.

Then one day the clinic had to fix my displaced shoulder in addition to the regular, and one of the nurses got me to confess the whole story in private. I cried like a high schooler, but she remained patient and compassionate and somehow made me promise to call her daily and just chat about life. I came home and re-read my journal. There were twenty-eight entries there over the course of eight months. I felt sick, anyone all right in the head would. I decided there wouldn't be another one.

That was the end of November. Around the twentieth of Devemder, I went outside and got myself violated again with no second thoughts until I was on the ground, like I was going to a movie. I told nothing to the nurse, but hid the journal far away and pinned a reminder to think first inside my wardrobe. A week later I caught myself going through my clothes again and sat down to write that story out on Reddit.

It helped. People said I had to go to therapy, and for some reason strangers saying it was more convincing than my own mind. I still go to my therapist once a month or so, as a safety measure more than anything. Him, people from our local rape support groups and BDSM community helped a lot. People that cared about me (which made me lusty over them) not having sex with me helped. I got it under control.

I'm married now. He fulfills my need, regularly, with little mercy. He tells his trusted friends to when he's away. I love it. I'm finally in a place where I feel I belong.