Always the Victim

She always was. She always had been. She didn't know why, or what attracted them, but they had been present throughout her life. Even now, in her early twenties, it continued as much, if not more, than before. It didn't matter if she dressed nice or frumpy. It didn't matter if the skirt was short or long. None of it mattered, least of all her.

She had been so happy to have been promoted to executive secretary. She was so proud of her work. And then, late one night while bringing her new boss some paperwork, he'd sighed, looked at it, and rested his hand on her ass. And then, the kneading had started. She was a deer in headlights, frozen, as he had stood up, told her how pretty she was, as he pressed gently forward on her back. Still frozen, she'd heard the zippers. First her skirt, then his pants, and he'd pushed into her, rutting in her for several long minutes as she grunted under him. Finished, he pulled out, pecked her cheek, and said that she had a great future at the firm. Then he had pressed her head down to clean him. Later, she vomited in the bathroom, puking up her stupid belief in her abilities.

When money was tight, she had prided herself on ways to skimp and save. She had started riding the bus. Between not having to pay car insurance and gas, she had saved so much money. And then one day, a large man sat beside her on the loaded bus. She had whimpered when he started groping her, pawing at her chest. She wanted to scream, but a lifetime of abuse had effectively silenced her. Instead, when his hand worked at her panties, she'd taken it, and his fingers. Shaking as he licked them clean, he had pulled her hand under her coat in her lap, bringing it over to him. She hadn't done anything. He used her hand to jack himself off, cumming on her hand and coat. She had sat there silently, missing 3 stops before realizing her purse was gone along with the man. All that was left was her coat and the drying cum on her hand.

When she started jogging, for months she had felt so good running through the park every morning. She had lost twenty pounds, felt proud of her hard work, strong and capable. And then one early morning, she'd been tackled by 3 young men. They took turns with her, one after another, leaving her body bruised and bleeding. When she got home, she looked in the mirror as she held her running outfit. Red stained the crotch of her shorts; her knees and palms were bloody. Her nose and lips were caked with drying blood. That led to her first abortion and she never ran again after that day.

When she went dancing with friends, she always ended up separated from them, lost in a sea of people, drowning in the sound. There would always be a man there, one that ground against her, that groped without asking. She never forgot the look on her once friend's face as she found her on her knees beside the club, cum on her face, choking down a man's piss. She tried to explain that she hadn't wanted it. Hadn't asked for it. That they wouldn't take no for an answer. Another friend lost, deleted from her contacts.

At bars, there was always a groper or a pusher, who brought her to their home or to hers. She didn't embrace them, but when they shoved their cock up her ass, she cried but didn't say stop. She took it, licked the shit off their cock, and asked for cab fare or for them to call an Uber when they told her to leave.

None of them ever stayed or asked her to stay. None of them wanted her around. She saw how other women had boyfriends or at least friends with benefits. All she had was users and abusers. No one wanted long conversations with her. No one asked her out on dates. No one wanted to keep the victim.

So, one day, she decided that she couldn't go on like that anymore. She had to take control of her life. She cut her hair cute and short, dying pink highlights into it. She painted her nails and smiled as she finished with her makeup in the mirror. Her lips were full, bright red, and tasted of cherry.

She went through the clothes she had and threw most of them away. So much of it was unneeded. She had used it to hide from the world and she was through hiding. The skirt she pulled on barely left anything to the imagination. Her boss had picked it out for a dinner he had taken her to. When he had left her with a client and whored her out for the night. She matched it with 7 in heels and a blouse that accentuated her braless chest. She thought about a thong, but left it in the drawer and headed out to the bus stop.

On the way to work, a man sat down next to her and smiled, eyeing her. She smiled back and spread her legs. No man would force her ever again.