A Letter to the Man Who Raped Me

I didn't cry when you got out of your car to abduct me.

I didn't cry when you sucker-punched me in the face.

I didn't cry when you slammed me into a wall, put your hand over my mouth, and put a knife to my jugular.

I didn't cry when you hissed in my ear, threatening to slit my throat if I moved or made a sound.

Or when I offered you my purse and you wouldn't take it.

Or when you punched me in the face three more times, the third time so hard you broke my nose. Or when you taped my mouth shut, put a hood over my head, bound my wrists, and threw me in your trunk.

I didn't cry during the hour-long ride to your house.

I didn't cry when we arrived and you shut your engine off and opened the trunk again. When you took my hood off so you could "inspect" me. Grabbing me by the hair, leering at one side of my face, twisting my head to see the other. When you started molesting me, squeezing my breasts so hard I screamed, twisting and pinching my nipples.

I didn't cry when you boasted about how you were going to hurt me and about how much fun you were going to have doing it. When you put the hood back over my head and tossed me over your shoulder.

I didn't cry when you opened your front door, took me down the stairs to your basement, and chained my hands to a pole. When you took off all my clothes, then doused my body with ice-cold water just to make me suffer.

I didn't cry as you struck me with a rattan cane. I didn't cry as you whipped my breasts until they were splayed open with wounds. Until my right nipple was split down the middle by one deep, cavernous lesion.

Until the left one was as well. Until no nerve of my body was a refuge from pain. Until no patch of my skin was left dry of my own blood.

I didn't cry when you took my hood off. When you taunted me, calling me your "whore," your "little rape toy," your "plaything." When you told me I could yell all I wanted because no one would hear me.

I didn't cry as I watched you drill holes in the cane. As you gagged me with my own panties, turned me over the foot of your bed, and then whipped my ass until it was raw and numb.

I didn't cry when you dipped your fingers in my blood and wrote the words RAPE PIG on my forehead. When you just had to rub it in by holding a mirror up so I could see.

I didn't cry when you pulled out a camera and started taking degrading pictures of my body. When you spread my labia with your dirty fingers and a speculum so you could take more degrading pictures up close.

When you stuck a finger inside my "cunt" and I screamed, and you took a glowing brand out of the furnace. When you said you would "mark me as your property" unless I "behaved."

I didn't cry when you spat in my face. When you belittled me and mocked me. When you called a "little woman" in that sneering voice. When you called me your "sperm dumpster."

I didn't cry when you choked me with a rope until I almost passed out. Pulling the ends of the rope so tight I thought it would snap in half. I heard every filthy, vile name you called me as you were doing it. I felt you grinding your nasty tool against my face.

And yet I didn't cry.

I didn't cry when you pressed the blade of a straight razor into my neck and shoved your penis so far inside my mouth that I gagged. When you told me to get your disgusting member "nice and wet for daddy."

I didn't cry when you bragged about how you were going to sodomize me.

I didn't cry when you latched on to the fear I had tried to conceal. When you suggested that you would spare me if I got on my knees and begged you "like a good little girl."

I didn't cry when I did beg you, only for you to laugh at me and say you were going to do it anyway.

I didn't cry when you bent me over the foot of your bed and got behind me. When I wasn't relaxed enough, and you pulled my hair, balled your first in my face, and threatened to beat me if I didn't "open my hole."

I didn't cry when you went in. Yes, I screamed because the pain was excruciating. Because you were hurting me and didn't care because I was nothing to you but a piece of meat. Because you were violating me in the most sadistic, humiliating, inhuman way imaginable.

I didn't cry when you ordered me to "give you a show" and touch myself as you were raping me. When you went inside me as deep as you could, boasting about how you were going to "stretch me out." When you asked me how it felt to be "put in my place," or whether any other man had "done me this good." Or whether you were "breaking my butt cherry."

I didn't cry when you said that you were going to come. That you were going to shoot your load so deep inside me I'd be "spitting it out my other end." When you teased me about how I "wouldn't be able to walk for a month" when you were through with me.

When I felt my body start to clench despite itself, I came very, very close to crying. When you latched on to my shame, when you laughed at me, said "you know you want this you slut," went straight for the gut and told me I was "asking for it" by walking alone as a woman, when you went full misogynist and said I was "begging for a real man's cock" by wearing what I had been wearing.

I felt a lump in my throat. I felt my stomach rise. I felt a need to go somewhere and splash some cold water on my face.

But I didn't cry. Not yet.

I didn't even cry when I did come despite myself. When you groaned with pleasure as you ejaculated inside my rectum and I could feel every pump of your semen like a dagger.

When you pretended to decide what to do with me and ultimately decided to take me home. When you made me thank you for being "merciful." When you were about to do it but just couldn't resist tying me back to the pole urinating on me first. When I tried to keep my lips and eye closed but got your piss in both.

When you threw me bound and hooded back in your trunk. When you stopped an hour later; took me out; put just my dress on; and made a show about keeping my bra, panties, and purse for yourself. When you stuck a $50 bill between my breasts, said "thanks for the fun, whore," and then shoved me so hard I tripped and fell face down into a puddle of mud. When you speeded off, leaving me all by myself on a desolate street. In a bad part of town. With no phone, no ID, and almost no money.

Up until that point, I didn't cry.

I was going to be strong, I told myself. I was going to be strong, I was going to clean myself off, I was going to go to the clinic.

And then I was going to get home somehow.

Above all, I wasn't going to let you win.

And then I cried, because I realized you *had* won.

Because as much as you had used me, as unclean as you had made me feel, as thoroughly as you had broken my heart and polluted my body and made me feel like a refugee in my own soul...

... as much as I hated myself for it... as ashamed as I was that I could imagine the words...

... I enjoyed it.

And as I cried into the early morning, I reached behind me, traced the inside of my bum with two fingers, and rubbed a little of your sperm in between them. As the last heaves of my good cry left me, I felt something inside me akin to withdrawal from a drug: my body aching with absence and desire, panting for the medicine that would heal me even as it killed me.

Panting at the chance to be your whore once again.