Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 {This an old one, from Rapestories.  Alluded to By VLL, this is pretty much
how she read it, waaay back when, and reposted for clarity.  Also, either
she only read, or remembered half of it, but here's the whole thing.}

   My "True Story" {mF/m Rape}

   I guess I didn't have too bad an upbringing.  Sure, we had problems, but
with 65% of American families qualifying as dysfunctional, I figure mine's
about average.  I wasn't the greatest kid, so I got kicked out a lot.  On
the night in question, I can't even remember what it was about.

   I headed down towards Put-Put to try and bumb a cigarette, but didn't
make it there for a while.  At only fifteen, I couldn't just walk in the
store, and buy some.  Not that I had money, even if I could.  They didn't
make them easy to steal.

   Anyway, I see this lady smoking one, and ask if she had another.  She
said she'd left them in her room.  As it was right out front of a Day's
Inn, I didn't think that too odd.  I thought my self lucky when she offered
to go up, and get one for me.  I followed her up, not wanting to let her
out of my sight.

   She wasn't unattractive.  Early thirties, maybe about 5′8", 150lbs
give or take.  Her blonde came out of a bottle, but didn't look bad.  Nice
casual middle class suburban clothes.  The room was fairly nice.  She
showed me to the balcony, though it was a smoking room.  It was a Benson,
and Hedges Special Light, if that tells you anything about the date.  We
talked.

   First small stuff, I'd never had one of these before, the rounded edges
on the pack where cool.  She told me she just wanted to walk when I asked
her about it.  Her husband didn't let her smoke in the house, and now she
couldn't stand sleeping in a room with stale smoke or dirty ashtrays in it.
I pointed out the tan line on her ring finger.

   We finished with the fags, and went back in.  She poured herself a
Vodka, and offered me one.  I figured it wasn't her first for the night,
and accepted.  She told me about the husband.  She'd left him, he'd plowed
some teenager in the neighborhood, and she got out.

   We talked some more, and drank some more, and smoked some more, then she
makes a pass at me.  By this time, I'm pretty drunk, but she's pissed.  I
don't know why I didn't want to do it, but at that point I balked.  I
hadn't really done much up to that point, experimented as a kid, and made
out as a teen.  Lied to my friends about more.  There was a lot of
performance anxiety, I knew it was harder to get it up when I'd been
drinking.

   She didn't take no for an answer.  She wasn't violent, or even
particularly rough.  I could've easily fought her off, but I decided I just
didn't want to hurt her.  All my friends talked about how they'd never hit
a girl, and I guess I picked up some of that misguided chivalry.  I just
gave in, and let her.  I basically went numb.  I didn't feel numb, but I
just lay there, and didn't do anything one way, or the other.  She pulled
my pants open, her's off, and fucked me.  I just sat back and watched, like
this was some weird dream, or a show, or something.  I tried not to feel
anything, not emotionally, just the mechanical action of it.  It didn't
even feel good.

   She didn't have a condom, didn't ask for one.  I didn't have one anyway,
so it wouldn't have mattered.  Rather than putting me in her, she just sat
on it, and ground it into my belly.  After a wile, I got off, but I don't
think she did.  That done, she turned around, and fucked my face until she
did.

   At that point, she just got up, gave me the pack of cigarettes, and went
into the shower.  I left.  I just walked around after that, went to put
put, smoked some cigarettes, had a boring night.  Didn't tell anyone about
what had happened.  Untucked my shirt to cover up the wet spot, and ignored
it.  I was in deep denial, and stayed there.  Didn't come out for a couple
years afterwards.  When I did, I didn't even think about it.

   I don't even know if what happened was even rape.  I felt raped, but
can't really technically call it that.  Was it prostitution?  I got
cigarettes for it.  I certainly can't say I got lucky that night.  I never
bragged to my friends about it, just went through the motions of lying
about getting to this base, or home run, whatever.

   I can also say that it changed me.  I was celibate for a couple years
after that, by choice, though I hid it.  That's what tells me there was
something wrong with it.  I found the need to hide it.

   On the other hand, a lot of my sexual obsessions came from it.  What I
call frottribado pressing the vulva against the phallus instead of
penetrating, rape fantasy, domineering (In both ways) women, came from
that. Before then, I was a fairly typical teenage boy.  Now, I'm pushing
thirty, bisexual, sadomasochistic in some complex way, and incapable of
wearing someone else's collar.

   I'm at peace with it though.  I realize that I would not be who I am
without it.  Looking at who I would've been, I see dull unoriginal
weakness. That which did not kill me had made me stronger, but only because
I learned something from it.  It also made me do things I'm not proud of.

   I started realizing I was attracted to guys during the whole denial
period.  I just didn't think about what'd happened.  Anyway, I came out as
Bi even while I was still celibate.  At this time, I was already to the
point of passing my sexual fantasy off as experience.  Then, I realized
that their lies weren't even as interesting as mine.

   Well, this redneck jock came up to me, and admitted he was curious.  I
swore to the strictest confidence, and we got together to try it out.  It
was a mistake, but I was still pretty young, and naive.  It turns out he
was a latent with some serious internalized homophobia.  To break it down
to the good old plain english, he wasn't out to even himself because of
social programming against faggots.

   Now I don't like that word, it aint much nicer than nigger.  Having that
pounding through your brain has a tendency to fester into a lesion of self
hatred.  This is what people like to call "issues".  To make a long story
short, I went down on him.  It was my first time for that particular act,
and once again,it wasn't a good first impression.  I guess there are lots
of virginities you can loose.

   He responded with obscenities.  These degenerated to unflattering
epithets like faggot, and cocksucker.  I wasn't in any position to fight
him, so I went to work in the hope of getting it over with.  Finally, he
got off, and I spat it in his fucking face.

   This kind of changed the mood.  It was damn near violent before, I
could've escaladed it a lot less, and still ended up where we did.  Let's
just say I was pissed.  It turns out, I was pissed enough to over come him,
then had the lack of inhibitions to rape him.

   Now, I was never a big fan of sodomy.  It's the shit thing, mostly, you
pretty much have to move on to blood, or vomit to find something less
sanitary.  Hell, urine is practically sterile compared to it.  I much
prefer the other end of the intestinal tract.

   On the other hand, I was pretty fucking annealed, and there ain't a
whole hell of a lot of ways to rape a man.  I was in sufficiently sadistic
mood to do it the most painful way possible.  I also took the opportunity
to whisper less than sweet nothings into his ear.  I told him what a stupid
weak pussy faggot he was, and how if he ever told anyone, they'd all know.

   I'm fairly good with words, always have been.  Till then I never knew
how powerful they could be.  A week later, he committed suicide.  No note,
no goodbyes, just as much of the medicine cabinet contents as he could
choke down.  Those where two virginities I'd rather not have lost.  I've
raped now, and someone died because of it.

   Now, I consider myself a bit of an expert on rape.  I've seen it from
both sides, and I can pick the symptoms out of a lineup.  I'm not proud of
myself, wouldn't even admit to these things if I thought they could be used
against me.  Don't ask for proof, you won't get it.  I don't even expect
you to believe it.  I'm a Fiction writer, and admitted pathological liar.
Wouldn't be the first time.
   It is however as best as I can remember.