billy desperate
02-19-2013, 05:50 PM
I was raped four-years and two-months ago by a guy I thought I knew pretty well. Too much liquor and misplaced trust got me a long nightmare of a night and then a long nightmarish couple of days re-living it, not believing it happened, but remembering everything he did and said to me, or what he me made do to him.
But then just as fast as my life was turned upside down, the turmoil disappeared. It started fading day by day and day by day I worried less about it and when I did think of it, I would embarrass myself by remembering that although I didn’t like the humiliation, I seemed to recall and embrace the excitement of the absolute fear and terror I felt at the time and admitted to myself that in the end, the sex was good, too good.
I was barely 19 and celebrating a return to a city I had spent a year working in and loved for its wild night life and because about fifty percent of the bars, some very high dollar ones included, never checked ID and would serve anyone who was bold enough to try. The bars I liked the best
It was in one of those bars I met this man—about 35—and he was always friendly and seemed to do pretty good with the ladies. I ran into him my first night back as I was waiting at a light to cross a busy street. I happened to be exceptionally fucked up after over 18 hours of infusing Bacardi and was making small progress trying to get to my luggage at the airport bus terminal and then get a hotel room.
I was teetering there on the curb waiting for the light to change when I had a flash of sobriety and I felt the hair on my neck stand up. I turned around and a black man was standing back just bring his eyes up to mine when we recognized each other from a couple years before. We stood there talking and he wanted to know where I was headed, I told him, and he told me I was too drunk to be roaming around that neighborhood alone, so he escorted me up to pick up my travel bag and we headed us to his place because, “it was too late to get a room (more than likely it was only about 8P); you can stay at my place a day or two”.
On the way there we made a slight detour so I could get a jug of Bacardi and a pack of smokes. He said he just showered so I could clean up if I wanted, so I dug out some clean underwear, my shower kit, and climbed in the shower to clean up from the overnight plane travel that had started over 24 hours before.
I recall he came in a few times to make sure I was okay, but he never asked me until he would pull back the shower curtain and look me over and then ask, “you okay”? It was much later that I would recall he was only looking at and speaking to my ass whenever I turned to answer him.
I managed to shave without cutting myself but then couldn’t find my underwear. I wrapped the small towel around my 34-inch waist and holding it went out to find the clothes I was sure I took to the shower. Thinking back I must have looked like a whore on the prowl displaying her arsenal with the short towel slit all the way up to my waist.
I went back to my bag, but he asked, “What are you looking for” and after I told him, he pointed and said, “You left them here”. Sure enough, they were on the bed next to the big chair he was sitting in (this place was an efficiency apartment with a small kitchen, one big room with a Murphy bed in a sleeping alcove. I didn’t actually notice he was in a robe until I tried to get my underwear and stretched out over him to grab them and he ripped the towel off of me.
When I looked at him, he had his hand wrapped around his cock and his robe was wide open. Even as I started into a drunken rage he already had me by a wrist and pulled me down in front of him. I was less than a foot and eyes to eye with a good sized black, hard cock. I was close enough I could still smell soap from a recent shower, but over that I could also smell a musky scent, which later I was sure was the lubricant oozing out of his Johnson
He pushed his cock towards me and told me to kiss it, but before I could finish saying, “Fuck you”, he had my hand bent nearly double at the wrist and a straight razor shining in my eyes. I kissed it on the side of the head. “No” he said, “Kiss that cock right in the cum hole kid, French it”, and laughed like crazy.
I shook my head and then the pain went up in my wrist, so I did as he insisted and kissed and licked the head of his dick and then sat back. He screamed, “I didn’t tell you to stop, boy . . . you get to kissing and licking that black snake and do it like you like it, do the good spots or I’m gonna use this razor on you”. Laughing like crazy was one thing, but being crazy was something else all-together different.
I was soon using every trick I had learned from the women in my life. Some of those women could really suck cock and knew exactly what to do and I did what I liked. Licking and kissing his cock on the bottom of the glans, tonguing his cum hole, licking his nuts, and licking the length of his shaft. He loved it and started pushing his salami into my mouth and down my throat.
He was telling me what a wonderful blowjob I was giving and that he could get use to four or five of them a day as he as stroking himself but I took over without being told. He was soon face fucking me while he sprawled in his chair with both hands on the back of my head while I was on my knees with my head bobbing between his legs. He didn’t last long after that and I was soon squealing (in delight?) and snorting cum up my nasal passage while I was swallowing a quart of it.
He ended by pulling his cock out and shooting a load onto my face. I couldn’t believe I had lost so much control and had enjoyed making this prick happy. He made me scoop cum off of my face and chest and swallow it, so I imagine that was my reward.
I had another four ounces of rum and told him I was going to sleep, but I didn’t have the play book, so what did I know? He grabbed me and forced me down of my knees and stepped up to me. Surprise, his cock was hard as a nightstick and I knew what he wanted, but I started bitching at him that it had barely been 20-minutes that I finished sucking his cock, but all he did was tell me to shut up and grabbed my hair again.
Once again on my knees, once again being dominated by this freak, I started in on his cock. I was thinking that if I could get my hands on that fucking razor, I’d flush both his dick and balls down the toilet. It was a nice thought and then I realized I was teasing that cock with my tongue; licking here and there, kissing him in sensitive places, and then dragging my tongue along the underside of his shaft to the special head meets shaft place.
“What the fuck? I think, “This mother fucker raped and abused me and I’m giving him a $400 blow job”. But I couldn’t stop—no, I wouldn’t stop. I was hooked on the compliments I was hearing and the power I had talked myself into believing I had over him. My fucking throat— literally my fucking throat— voice box, nasal passages, nose and sinuses were still coated in thick cum of course and whenever I said anything it sounded to me like I was underwater and speaking with a nasal twang.
Once again he was face fucking me and I have no idea how I was getting my mouth around that head and cock, but I did know he had squirted female lube on it when we started. He was really into fucking my face, mouth, and throat now and I could tell this fucker was about to erupt again. Then he was praying to god again and I, once again, was out of control. He was pumping his cock into my mouth, blowing load after load, I was stroking him, squealing and slurping, and snorting that cum into my nose and trying to swallow all of it, but it was almost like one continuous stream of thick cum.
When he was done, we were both breathless and cum was running out of my mouth and nose. I got up and croaked out an announcement (from ten-feet below the surface), “Fuck you, I’m going to bed”. I poured four more fingers of rum, drank most of it and collapsed on the bed buck naked and covered only by cum. I don’t know what time it was, but I went to sleep immediately and when I woke later to pee the lights were off and the rapist mother fucker was sleeping next to me. When I came back to bed I did a quick look for his razor ‘because his cock was laid out perfectly to be shortened by about 7.5 inches, but it wasn’t in sight.
The next time I woke he was kneeling between my legs and I thought, “It’s about fucking time I get a blow job”, but that wasn’t on my rapist’s mind. He lubed his cock and fingers up and he stuck a finger up my ass to lube me, but it felt like a broomstick and the next thing I knew he was trying to push his cock up my ass missionary style. I twisted and turned and screamed “No, no, you’re going to hurt me”, but the fucker had his forearm across my chest at my throat and while he was pressing that into my throat, he pushed his sizable cock up my ass.
Oh, that really hurt, then he pushed some more, and then a little more and then slowly started pulling it back and I tried to squeeze him out so he drove it back in to the hilt. God damn it hurt. I was scared, angry, pissed off, humiliated, and suffering some pain even though I was really drunk and even though he lubed me and his cock up. My asshole was virgin and tight and he was fucking me with close to an eight-inch cock that was probably five-inches around and an inch and a half thick. Not the biggest dick on the planet I would find out later, but plenty big that night or morning.
I have to admit once I submitted—lay back and enjoyed it as the girls once were instructed to do—he was actually gentle about fucking me. Slow, steady, and deep and he was back to talking dirty to me. It wasn’t long until the pace picked up and I was fucking like a Winnemucca whore interviewing for a Las Vegas call girl job. He was telling me I was the best piece of ass, woman or man, he’d ever had, I was his whore, and I had the best pussy he‘d ever had. (Pussy?) The problem with his dirty talk was that I believed it and liked it.
He was holding on pretty good considering the tight fit and he was really excited, as was I; I found both of my hands on his back as he drove in and out, while I was bucking and fucking. A half hour earlier my cock was dead from all the alcohol I had swallowed, but right then I could feel it and it sort of hurt and sort of itched, so I dropped a hand and felt my cock and it was hard as granite when I tried to scratch the head. Right then he stopped and told me, “Don’t fucking move, don’t even twitch”.
I first thought, “What the fuck did I do now”? He was in me to his balls and I soon figured he was trying not to cum, but my cock felt so funny it could only be one thing, so I moved my hand back to his to his back, then slid both down to his ass, waited as long as I could, then croaked out through the accumulated cum, “Just fuck me, you can have more”, bucked once, and we were off again. Two minutes later he was still holding on when I started spewing cum all over him and a minute later he started pumping cum up my ass.
It might sound differently, but I hated this son-of-a-bitch, hated him badly and I seemed powerless. Then again, this was all new to me: Forced into the role of a woman, yet apparently enjoying it. Going from being scared out of my wits to being thrilled to a tingle or vibration by the terror I felt the anticipation of what he would do to me or make me do.to him and of course, .I had the excuse of being drunk and of being raped.
One thing about whatever his name was, he was a clean SOB, because he drug me off to the shower and told me to wash the cum off of me, but to sit on the toilet first and let the jizz drip out. Such a gentleman.
It was just daylight when he woke me up with a cup of coffee and a hard cock to suck. He didn’t have to threaten me, but he didn’t know that, so I played my role and gave him another ration of crap and a top notch blow job. We fucked twice more that day, he thought I did it out of fear, and I let him think so. Both fucks were very good and I got off both times. The last fuck I insisted he do me horse style and he insisted he didn’t want to, but I really fought him and then he mounted and really fucked me cross-eyed for a few minutes, then rolled me over and we went back to missionary. I felt more dominated when he was riding my ass, but the sex was better on my back watching his eyes.
We went to sleep in the late afternoon and when I woke from my drunken sleep, I noticed he was really out. I showered, got dressed and he was still dead to the world. I got my stuff together and packed, took what was left of the rum and a bottle of brandy he had, found his wallet with a $133 in it plus $65 in the same drawer as his wallet. I wrote his phone number on my hand and split expecting him to wake when I opened the door, he didn’t, and I left it open.
About 10:30 that night I called that asshole and when he answered I said, “Hi”. He wanted to know where I was, so I told him “Fuck you”! He told me he called the cops for the money I stole and I laughed at him, and then told him he got $3000 worth of blow jobs and pussy from me for $198 and I was coming back for the rest and I was bringing my own razor to do a little trophy hunting. I hung up when he started telling me what he was going to do to me.
It took a number of years to find out I wasn’t queer like I thought, nor was I even Bi-sexual, although same sex, sex wasn’t repulsive for me after this experience. At the time it happened, I had no idea that manipulating a prostate gland could make a man cum, nor that about 60 to 75% of male rape victims will respond to getting butt fucked by humping their attackers. There are physiological reactions, so I reacted in the expected manner, didn’t know it was considered a normal reaction, so thought I was a gay, or Bi. .I also, at that time, did not know that a man who rapes a man, will also rape a woman and wasn’t, in all probability, a homosexual. It is about domination and rage and not about the sexual orientation of either party.
The first time a homosexual hit on me, I was about 14 and he was well into his thirties, but I played dumb. The older I got, the more encounters I had, but I had absolutely no interest. All of my, “suitors”, were white males and all but one in his thirties or early forties, I think. After this incident I seemed to get a lot of interest from Black males in their thirties—could they tell I wondered—and I admit, I was tempted to see where it would lead a few times, but didn’t bite (oh my, another pun). I dodged the bullet over four-years, but when pussy became scarce from time to time, I admit I would start thinking of trying a male lover, but I never came across any of any color I was interested in.
But then just as fast as my life was turned upside down, the turmoil disappeared. It started fading day by day and day by day I worried less about it and when I did think of it, I would embarrass myself by remembering that although I didn’t like the humiliation, I seemed to recall and embrace the excitement of the absolute fear and terror I felt at the time and admitted to myself that in the end, the sex was good, too good.
I was barely 19 and celebrating a return to a city I had spent a year working in and loved for its wild night life and because about fifty percent of the bars, some very high dollar ones included, never checked ID and would serve anyone who was bold enough to try. The bars I liked the best
It was in one of those bars I met this man—about 35—and he was always friendly and seemed to do pretty good with the ladies. I ran into him my first night back as I was waiting at a light to cross a busy street. I happened to be exceptionally fucked up after over 18 hours of infusing Bacardi and was making small progress trying to get to my luggage at the airport bus terminal and then get a hotel room.
I was teetering there on the curb waiting for the light to change when I had a flash of sobriety and I felt the hair on my neck stand up. I turned around and a black man was standing back just bring his eyes up to mine when we recognized each other from a couple years before. We stood there talking and he wanted to know where I was headed, I told him, and he told me I was too drunk to be roaming around that neighborhood alone, so he escorted me up to pick up my travel bag and we headed us to his place because, “it was too late to get a room (more than likely it was only about 8P); you can stay at my place a day or two”.
On the way there we made a slight detour so I could get a jug of Bacardi and a pack of smokes. He said he just showered so I could clean up if I wanted, so I dug out some clean underwear, my shower kit, and climbed in the shower to clean up from the overnight plane travel that had started over 24 hours before.
I recall he came in a few times to make sure I was okay, but he never asked me until he would pull back the shower curtain and look me over and then ask, “you okay”? It was much later that I would recall he was only looking at and speaking to my ass whenever I turned to answer him.
I managed to shave without cutting myself but then couldn’t find my underwear. I wrapped the small towel around my 34-inch waist and holding it went out to find the clothes I was sure I took to the shower. Thinking back I must have looked like a whore on the prowl displaying her arsenal with the short towel slit all the way up to my waist.
I went back to my bag, but he asked, “What are you looking for” and after I told him, he pointed and said, “You left them here”. Sure enough, they were on the bed next to the big chair he was sitting in (this place was an efficiency apartment with a small kitchen, one big room with a Murphy bed in a sleeping alcove. I didn’t actually notice he was in a robe until I tried to get my underwear and stretched out over him to grab them and he ripped the towel off of me.
When I looked at him, he had his hand wrapped around his cock and his robe was wide open. Even as I started into a drunken rage he already had me by a wrist and pulled me down in front of him. I was less than a foot and eyes to eye with a good sized black, hard cock. I was close enough I could still smell soap from a recent shower, but over that I could also smell a musky scent, which later I was sure was the lubricant oozing out of his Johnson
He pushed his cock towards me and told me to kiss it, but before I could finish saying, “Fuck you”, he had my hand bent nearly double at the wrist and a straight razor shining in my eyes. I kissed it on the side of the head. “No” he said, “Kiss that cock right in the cum hole kid, French it”, and laughed like crazy.
I shook my head and then the pain went up in my wrist, so I did as he insisted and kissed and licked the head of his dick and then sat back. He screamed, “I didn’t tell you to stop, boy . . . you get to kissing and licking that black snake and do it like you like it, do the good spots or I’m gonna use this razor on you”. Laughing like crazy was one thing, but being crazy was something else all-together different.
I was soon using every trick I had learned from the women in my life. Some of those women could really suck cock and knew exactly what to do and I did what I liked. Licking and kissing his cock on the bottom of the glans, tonguing his cum hole, licking his nuts, and licking the length of his shaft. He loved it and started pushing his salami into my mouth and down my throat.
He was telling me what a wonderful blowjob I was giving and that he could get use to four or five of them a day as he as stroking himself but I took over without being told. He was soon face fucking me while he sprawled in his chair with both hands on the back of my head while I was on my knees with my head bobbing between his legs. He didn’t last long after that and I was soon squealing (in delight?) and snorting cum up my nasal passage while I was swallowing a quart of it.
He ended by pulling his cock out and shooting a load onto my face. I couldn’t believe I had lost so much control and had enjoyed making this prick happy. He made me scoop cum off of my face and chest and swallow it, so I imagine that was my reward.
I had another four ounces of rum and told him I was going to sleep, but I didn’t have the play book, so what did I know? He grabbed me and forced me down of my knees and stepped up to me. Surprise, his cock was hard as a nightstick and I knew what he wanted, but I started bitching at him that it had barely been 20-minutes that I finished sucking his cock, but all he did was tell me to shut up and grabbed my hair again.
Once again on my knees, once again being dominated by this freak, I started in on his cock. I was thinking that if I could get my hands on that fucking razor, I’d flush both his dick and balls down the toilet. It was a nice thought and then I realized I was teasing that cock with my tongue; licking here and there, kissing him in sensitive places, and then dragging my tongue along the underside of his shaft to the special head meets shaft place.
“What the fuck? I think, “This mother fucker raped and abused me and I’m giving him a $400 blow job”. But I couldn’t stop—no, I wouldn’t stop. I was hooked on the compliments I was hearing and the power I had talked myself into believing I had over him. My fucking throat— literally my fucking throat— voice box, nasal passages, nose and sinuses were still coated in thick cum of course and whenever I said anything it sounded to me like I was underwater and speaking with a nasal twang.
Once again he was face fucking me and I have no idea how I was getting my mouth around that head and cock, but I did know he had squirted female lube on it when we started. He was really into fucking my face, mouth, and throat now and I could tell this fucker was about to erupt again. Then he was praying to god again and I, once again, was out of control. He was pumping his cock into my mouth, blowing load after load, I was stroking him, squealing and slurping, and snorting that cum into my nose and trying to swallow all of it, but it was almost like one continuous stream of thick cum.
When he was done, we were both breathless and cum was running out of my mouth and nose. I got up and croaked out an announcement (from ten-feet below the surface), “Fuck you, I’m going to bed”. I poured four more fingers of rum, drank most of it and collapsed on the bed buck naked and covered only by cum. I don’t know what time it was, but I went to sleep immediately and when I woke later to pee the lights were off and the rapist mother fucker was sleeping next to me. When I came back to bed I did a quick look for his razor ‘because his cock was laid out perfectly to be shortened by about 7.5 inches, but it wasn’t in sight.
The next time I woke he was kneeling between my legs and I thought, “It’s about fucking time I get a blow job”, but that wasn’t on my rapist’s mind. He lubed his cock and fingers up and he stuck a finger up my ass to lube me, but it felt like a broomstick and the next thing I knew he was trying to push his cock up my ass missionary style. I twisted and turned and screamed “No, no, you’re going to hurt me”, but the fucker had his forearm across my chest at my throat and while he was pressing that into my throat, he pushed his sizable cock up my ass.
Oh, that really hurt, then he pushed some more, and then a little more and then slowly started pulling it back and I tried to squeeze him out so he drove it back in to the hilt. God damn it hurt. I was scared, angry, pissed off, humiliated, and suffering some pain even though I was really drunk and even though he lubed me and his cock up. My asshole was virgin and tight and he was fucking me with close to an eight-inch cock that was probably five-inches around and an inch and a half thick. Not the biggest dick on the planet I would find out later, but plenty big that night or morning.
I have to admit once I submitted—lay back and enjoyed it as the girls once were instructed to do—he was actually gentle about fucking me. Slow, steady, and deep and he was back to talking dirty to me. It wasn’t long until the pace picked up and I was fucking like a Winnemucca whore interviewing for a Las Vegas call girl job. He was telling me I was the best piece of ass, woman or man, he’d ever had, I was his whore, and I had the best pussy he‘d ever had. (Pussy?) The problem with his dirty talk was that I believed it and liked it.
He was holding on pretty good considering the tight fit and he was really excited, as was I; I found both of my hands on his back as he drove in and out, while I was bucking and fucking. A half hour earlier my cock was dead from all the alcohol I had swallowed, but right then I could feel it and it sort of hurt and sort of itched, so I dropped a hand and felt my cock and it was hard as granite when I tried to scratch the head. Right then he stopped and told me, “Don’t fucking move, don’t even twitch”.
I first thought, “What the fuck did I do now”? He was in me to his balls and I soon figured he was trying not to cum, but my cock felt so funny it could only be one thing, so I moved my hand back to his to his back, then slid both down to his ass, waited as long as I could, then croaked out through the accumulated cum, “Just fuck me, you can have more”, bucked once, and we were off again. Two minutes later he was still holding on when I started spewing cum all over him and a minute later he started pumping cum up my ass.
It might sound differently, but I hated this son-of-a-bitch, hated him badly and I seemed powerless. Then again, this was all new to me: Forced into the role of a woman, yet apparently enjoying it. Going from being scared out of my wits to being thrilled to a tingle or vibration by the terror I felt the anticipation of what he would do to me or make me do.to him and of course, .I had the excuse of being drunk and of being raped.
One thing about whatever his name was, he was a clean SOB, because he drug me off to the shower and told me to wash the cum off of me, but to sit on the toilet first and let the jizz drip out. Such a gentleman.
It was just daylight when he woke me up with a cup of coffee and a hard cock to suck. He didn’t have to threaten me, but he didn’t know that, so I played my role and gave him another ration of crap and a top notch blow job. We fucked twice more that day, he thought I did it out of fear, and I let him think so. Both fucks were very good and I got off both times. The last fuck I insisted he do me horse style and he insisted he didn’t want to, but I really fought him and then he mounted and really fucked me cross-eyed for a few minutes, then rolled me over and we went back to missionary. I felt more dominated when he was riding my ass, but the sex was better on my back watching his eyes.
We went to sleep in the late afternoon and when I woke from my drunken sleep, I noticed he was really out. I showered, got dressed and he was still dead to the world. I got my stuff together and packed, took what was left of the rum and a bottle of brandy he had, found his wallet with a $133 in it plus $65 in the same drawer as his wallet. I wrote his phone number on my hand and split expecting him to wake when I opened the door, he didn’t, and I left it open.
About 10:30 that night I called that asshole and when he answered I said, “Hi”. He wanted to know where I was, so I told him “Fuck you”! He told me he called the cops for the money I stole and I laughed at him, and then told him he got $3000 worth of blow jobs and pussy from me for $198 and I was coming back for the rest and I was bringing my own razor to do a little trophy hunting. I hung up when he started telling me what he was going to do to me.
It took a number of years to find out I wasn’t queer like I thought, nor was I even Bi-sexual, although same sex, sex wasn’t repulsive for me after this experience. At the time it happened, I had no idea that manipulating a prostate gland could make a man cum, nor that about 60 to 75% of male rape victims will respond to getting butt fucked by humping their attackers. There are physiological reactions, so I reacted in the expected manner, didn’t know it was considered a normal reaction, so thought I was a gay, or Bi. .I also, at that time, did not know that a man who rapes a man, will also rape a woman and wasn’t, in all probability, a homosexual. It is about domination and rage and not about the sexual orientation of either party.
The first time a homosexual hit on me, I was about 14 and he was well into his thirties, but I played dumb. The older I got, the more encounters I had, but I had absolutely no interest. All of my, “suitors”, were white males and all but one in his thirties or early forties, I think. After this incident I seemed to get a lot of interest from Black males in their thirties—could they tell I wondered—and I admit, I was tempted to see where it would lead a few times, but didn’t bite (oh my, another pun). I dodged the bullet over four-years, but when pussy became scarce from time to time, I admit I would start thinking of trying a male lover, but I never came across any of any color I was interested in.