A butch's thoughts as she (begrudgingly) turns her one-time "sexual assault" into a running breeding date with a man.
He cornered and overpowered you, that's all that happened. It was sexual assault. It was *rape*. You should be telling someone, either for support or for justice. You should be doing, well, anything. Anything except what you *are* doing, which is just thinking about it, over and over. Feeling the warmth between your thighs as the memories come back to you, and burning shame in your chest at the way your body reacts now, and how it reacted then. A victim having an orgasm during the assault doesn't make them any less of a victim. You've said that with certainty to so many teary-eyed faces over the years, you know it to be true. But then it happened to you. Happened after he pinned you between his hips and the rough edge of the table, his hand splaying to palm what he could of your ass and hips before shifting up to your waistband, curling his fingers, nails against your bare skin, and yanking your sweats and boxer briefs down with one tug. You know you struggled the best you could, but your brain keeps asking why you didn't do more, try to kick or flail or scream. You had to have done everything, right? You just didn't scream out of fear, didn't flail because you were pinned so thoroughly, right? It's so hard to remember. Everything just...got fuzzy when you felt it. His bulge rubbing against your ass, through his clothes first before making you feel it skin on skin. He laughed at the way you shuddered, kept laughing as he felt the utter betrayal by your body, your soaked cunt waiting to receive him. It was all so fuzzy, but you remember the feeling each time your hands have sunk between your legs since then, and you remember that laugh.
It shouldn't have happened in the first place, and should have never happened again. He should be beaten up, or hell, even locked up. But he isn't. You knew exactly where he'd be, he told you himself. Said he'd be here when you wanted it again, all smug and satisfied, not even bothering to hide his cock as it softened and dripped with the mess of both of you. You could've used that information to trap him, or ambush him, or just avoid him. And yet here you were. That same heat you felt every time you remembered what he did to you, it reemerged seeing his smug smile again, tinged with an obvious and infuriating joy at your arrival. The heat was, of course, born of anger alongside the other feeling, but that impotent rage just roiled in your stomach with the need that you refused to acknowledge. It's hard to remember what delusion you told yourself to wind up here. Confrontation? Closure? None of that is here now. Your pants are laying on the ground, tossed without care for them and your torn boxer briefs, ruined to reveal your traitorous cunt as fast as possible, are now slowly peeled off of you. They're sticky from your wetness, soaked through where they once hid your cunt, and even attempt weakly to remain connected to you by an embarrassing but mercifully short-lived strand of your stickiness. He doesn't let them have the same unceremonious fate as your pants, leaving them to dangle off your ankle as he holds your leg steady and continues his assault on your cunt with aplomb. He can't even give you the decency of getting straight to using you, to bending you over and rutting into you so you can at least try to dissociate. No, he keeps you painfully present, giving you reprieve from his fingers in exchange for his tongue. His licks start as teasing and quickly grow insistent, eager. Hungry. It makes you shudder when you look down and lock eyes with him, seeing the expression on his face. The shudder doesn't stop, you realize you're white-knuckling the table's edge, hurtling towards your *own* edge at a speed you weren't expecting, didn't even think was possible. You never cum this fast, claimed it as a point of pride to prevent it from being an insecurity. Anyone you were with needed multiple sessions and/or careful guidance to help bring you to an orgasm, and it wasn't exactly an easy feat on your own either, so why was it so easy for him? It takes everything in you to not grind into his face, you know you should try and keep from him the satisfaction of making you cum, especially like this, but you can already tell resistance is futile. You settle for just taking it as the orgasm racks your body. All the tension in you goes out, clenching and writhing and whining from his abuse until you collapse, not even able to hold your legs up. He doesn't stop or pull away either, he holds you in place and tortures you through the ordeal, only relenting when you're too weak to do anything but jerk away from him out of sensitivity.
"You needed that, huh?", he says pridefully, his face dripping with you. God, his whole face is drenched. He's covered in *your* cum, cum he forced out of your cunt like you were some straight girl willingly submitting to his talents. The second time he's made you cum, and he didn't even need to use his cock. You came for a man, because of how well he did something you've had countless nonmen attempt with you, how receptive and eager your body was for him. You wish you had the strength of body or mind to snap at him, for his sly remarks and for debasing you like this, and for the sickening thought that you're actively trying to push out of your head, but all you can do is watch as he stands from kneeling, frees his cock and balls, and tells you he'll "give you everything you need". Staring at it dumbfounded, you can't defend against the thought returning: after making you cum like that, the hardest you ever have? He's earned his place inside you.
There that cock is again, the accursed thing. You can't help but stare at it, watching your stomach rise and fall with each breath, repeatedly hiding and unveiling the fat, leaking head that starts to slide against you. Each time, he lets it just barely catch on your cunt before angling away and grinding against your clit. You try each time to anticipate the way it feels, to keep the noises buried, and you fail each time to stop the desperate whimpers. He's squeezing and rubbing your sensitive inner thighs as he toys with you. His hungry gaze takes in every inch of your body that's exposed to him, then adds to the cruelty by baring more of you, leaning in close to unclasp your bra. He gives you a stubbly kiss as he pulls back. His lips press against yours and remain for a beat, then he chuckles at your pathetic noise of indignance. He relieves you of the bra with a single fluid motion, letting a hand abandon one of your thighs in favor of this new way of torturing you. Your nipples were never sensitive, so why does it send a jolt through your body when he gropes your tit then pinches one between his fingers? The feeling makes your legs stir awake again, and as he feels the motion around him, he uses the hand on your thigh to position you: legs spread open, bent knee practically touching your ungroped tit with how he pushes it back, free leg weakly attempting to follow suit. The adjustment makes your hips tilt up towards him, baring your cunt in all its shameful, traitorous, greedy glory. He marvels at you as he grinds, and allows himself to just barely slip inside when you least expect it. You've never heard yourself make the desperate whimper that escapes you in that moment, but you can see on his face that he recognizes it, seems to glean its meaning. He rolls his hips, letting you feel more and more of his cock before taking it away. You open so easily for him, to an outsider it would be hard to believe this is your second time taking your first cock. But evil as this man is, he is skilled in playing your body like an instrument, and drinks in the music of your body's reactions as if it were life-sustaining for him.
You're so lost in the sensations, both in the attempts to resist them and the futility with which you fail, that it's only through the sharp sensation of his head hitting your cervix (at least, that's what you can assume it is) that you realize you've easily taken every inch of his length and girth, feeling stretched to your limits but not uncomfortable. God, what are you thinking, all this should feel uncomfortable. But he gives you an earnest thrust, withdrawing most of himself before pushing in quick, smacking against the most sensitive parts inside you like they were the back wall of some cocksleeve, and the noise you make is downright pornographic in its sluttiness. You thought women only made noises like that to inflate the egos of the men who were inside them. Shit that actresses do in porn and in bed with their husbands. But now you understood the power of the person rearing up for another mind-breaking thrust. The power to destroy you with pleasure, make you into something you aren't, that you never wanted to be, that you always could be and refused to believe your potential for it. He slammed home again, grinding hard and groaning deeply, and you found the words, loath as your rapidly disintegrating mask(masc) of an old identity would be to hear them: there was a cockslut inside you all this time, and each stroke was prying open the bars of her cage, already loosened by the "rape". It wouldn't be long now until she was free. Until the "you" you built had lost to the "you" he's bringing out of you. The pleasure was too great, you could feel the jailbreak of an orgasm building, you were going to cum from penetration for the second of two times, because of him. So lost in this spiral, it took a moment for you to register that he'd stilled balls-deep inside you rather than gearing up for another thrust. You focused your eyes and found his in front of them, and mixed with the lust in them was...is that affection? Softness? His face descended, and you expected another stubbly kiss but instead felt his facial hair brush against your cheek as his lips meet your ears.
"Good girl. Go on, cum for Daddy. Cum on Daddy's dick, baby girl."
And with that, she broke free.
Truth be told, the rest of that second time was even more of a blur for you than the first time. Daddy insists on teasing you that you're the one who begged him to breed you first, and he merely obliged you. Though you don't remember that, you do remember locking your legs around him when you felt the first erratic throb of his cock inside you, and you remember the way your cunt pulsed and clenched as it fulfilled the purpose you'd long deprived it of. You only realize now that it was your second time being bred, that Daddy never had a condom on and never pulled out when he fucked you the first time. You were so wrapped up in your own head, calling it rape and denying your feelings, that you didn't realize you were fucking His cum deeper into you. You find it incredibly romantic now, your origin story.
Daddy allows you to go on calling yourself a lesbian, acting as you always have. He likes knowing you're out at events with your cum seeping out of you onto the new panties he bought for you. For now, at least. He always says, after you come home to him, strip and get started serving him, that once you get pregnant the "silliness" will have to stop, and you agree. You just wonder how excited he'll be when you tell him the good news.
