02

Hi! Thank you so much for reading my story. These take me a long time to write, but I really love the process and I would love any feedback. I need to warn you about a few things. 1 - This story contains rape. Rape is wrong, but fantasy is not. 2 - This particular chapter does not have a lot of sex. It contains some flashbacks and a lot of mental manipulation. 3 - If something has happened to you, therapy can be a great resource. Therapists are generally not like Dr. Graham. I hope you enjoy it!

Prologue

It had been a few weeks since the frat party, and I'd done a decent job of pretending nothing happened. That night's dress and panties were shoved deep in the back of my closet under a suitcase I wouldn't touch until May. There were even moments during the day that I'd forget how it felt to be used like a toy for 3 men. I'd heard about girls that fell apart after being raped. That wasn't going to be me. I kept going to class and the gym. I had unblocked Jess the following day, and we were hanging out like nothing had happened. I was even able to keep my humiliation from my roommate Megan, and although sometimes it seemed like she could read my mind, she just seemed to think I was just having 'boy problems'.

It was always the hardest at night. Lying in bed with no friend or coursework to distract me, I could do nothing but let thoughts creep in. Tonight was no different. I was listening to Megan's even breathing, jealous of how easily sleep seemed to come to her. I wondered if she ever let anything bother her longer than a few moments. She'd probably laugh this whole thing off with a flippant comment like, "what do you expect when you're such a sexy bitch, lol."

I roll my eyes at the imaginary remark, replace my phone on my bedside table, and turn onto my stomach in an attempt to force myself to drift off. It's only a few minutes before I groan and roll back over, knowing I'll never succeed. I have three options. Stay awake until 6am and miss my morning class, take some NYQuil and feel drowsy all day, or rub my pussy imagining one of the guys from the bonfire sneaking into my room to use me again. I sigh, knowing what I'm going to choose.

I'm on my back, my panties pulled down around my thighs, my fingers lightly tracing the edge of my pussy. I know I'm wet. I'm always wet now. Sometimes it feels like losing my virginity broke the floodgates and now I'll forever have a dripping pussy, ready and waiting for a hard cock to fill me. I roll my eyes at this humiliating thought even as my pussy gushes a little more.

My mind works like a rolodex, picking through memories of the three men before settling on a man's voice growling in my eyes, "Don't be selfish, slut. A man wants to use your mouth." I gasp quietly, my fingers pressing against my opening as my lips part, imagining his friend sliding a hard cock into my mouth. My mind shifts, out of my control, to another man pressing me face down into the dirt. "I love how much you love this, slut" as he breaks open my ass to make himself feel good.

I feel everything building, my body is tingling all over, my pussy dripping around my fingers. I could cum at any moment but I need more. I need to hear the third man. Feel him enjoying me. I teeter on the edge, as his voice fills my mind, ""You're made for this slut, take my cock like a good whore." The last word barely forms in my mind as I moan softly, shaking around my fingers, rubbing my clit and pressing gently against my hole. I ride the waves, feeling rough hands on me, holding me down, laughing at my humiliating pleasure.

As I reach my end, I know what's coming, but I hope I will be asleep before it arrives. The guilt and shame that washes over me after feeling such intense physical pleasure at my own abuse. On the best nights I can escape with no more than a twinge. Not tonight. My body sinks into the bed as though it is falling asleep without my brain. I try to close my eyes, but I only see them over me. I open my eyes and imagine they've entered my room. I just want to escape.

"Stop being a whore" I whisper like it's a mantra I can repeat until I'm fixed. It's no use. I grab my phone, recalling a search I'd done on another sleepless night.

Rape crisis hotline

. I stare at the phone number for a few minutes. I almost feel angry. How can I call a stranger to talk about what happened? I can't even say it outloud. Let alone find the privacy to go into details.

I click the number, careful not to let it call, and save it for a future date. As I add it to my contacts under the name "RiCH", I pause. Quickly I write a message, "I was raped." and press send. I know the number is probably a landline, but even telling an imaginary person lets me close my eyes, and fall asleep. .

When I wake up there is one message waiting for me. "Confirm your appointment with campus counseling. Reply Y/N". I reply Y before I can change my mind.

***

Chapter 1***

I'm on time for my appointment. Being prompt was instilled in me at a very young age. Even now, looking around this air conditioned waiting room that I Do Not Want To Be In, I take a little comfort in remembering that they didn't steal everything from me.

I'm still me.

I look down to my sundress, this one is red and white gingham style that almost makes me look too much like a picnic table cover, but I love how it hugs my waist and flows around my thighs.

I still have me.

I press my arms down my dress, feeling my flat stomach.

Most of me.

I shiver as the air conditioning kicks up a gear.

They only stole one thing. Just some things.

I picture one of them pushing me down as his cock leaves my asshole, letting his cum leak down onto my freshly used pussy.

Important things.

The door to an office labeled Dr. Graham opens abruptly, jarring me from a mental spiral that I could not have easily escaped. A man in his 40s walks out. He looks over to me standing in the middle of the room where I had frozen on my way to picking a seat. I feel foolish standing there, awkwardly pressing my hands against my stomach, but he doesn't seem to notice as he says, "You must be my 5 o'clock." He looks me over briefly before saying, "Please, come in." He steps aside and waves me into his office.

He smiles down at me as I walk by him into the office and settle onto the edge of the love seat. I place a pillow across my lap as though it will protect me from evil. He takes his spot in the chair opposite me. There is a notebook on a small side table next to it and I can see my name next to another word.

Victim.

I squeeze the pillow closer to me.

"I appreciate you coming in today. Do you prefer Susie or Susanna?" He looks up from his notebook, pen poised in his right hand.

I hesitate, not at the question but at the fact that it feels like I've stopped breathing. The room feels so hot I'm sweating and so cold I have goosebumps.

Victim?

He coughs a little, and I look up at him staring at me. His smile turned to something a little more cautious. I am determined not to lose control. Deep breaths. "Only my dad calls me Susanna." I reply.

"I understand why your dad likes it. Susanna is a beautiful name." I look at him, not sure how to respond, but he doesn't notice as he's making a note.

"Okay," he starts, "your intake form says you are working through some trauma. Do you want to tell me about it?"

I feel my chest tighten more. I expected more time to ease in and build my comfort. I look at the door to see how easily I can run out.

"Susanna, this process only works if you participate." My eyes flit up to his briefly before returning to the door.

"I can't sleep." is all I can offer.

"I understand. How many hours a night would you say you're able to get?" His pen is ready to record my answer.

I think back to the last few nights, "Maybe 3 hours. Sometimes none."

"And did you have trouble sleeping before your rape?"

I freeze.

My rape.

He prompts me again. "Susanna? I need a response." I shake my head, keeping my eyes fixed on his shoes.

He writes something on the notepad and puts his pen down.

"Okay, we can go at this one of two ways." I'm gripping the pillow so my knuckles turn white, but he carries on, "Approach one is traditional psychotherapy. How long this takes will depend on you, but it generally is a lifelong process. We will meet weekly to examine your traumatic experiences and build a toolbox for coping with the fallout."

He pauses for a moment to let me digest this. I imagine myself years from now still unable to sleep through the night or go out with friends. Pretending I'm normal so that people won't judge me. I shake my head almost imperceptibly.

"If that does not appeal to you, approach two is cognitive therapy. In simple terms, we rewrite your interpretation of your experiences to help you shift your understanding. This technique is much faster but I should warn you Susanna, it is a novel method and in my experience most women cannot handle it."

I let his words sink in. If there was any chance that I could get over this quickly I wanted it, but one thing bothered me, "Most women?" I ask, "Can men handle this approach?"

He looks at me with a small smile, like he's humoring a child. "Men do not get themselves into the situation you found yourself in. But, to answer your question, yes, men can more easily wrap their minds around this technique. Consider a man that experiences a trauma, say he's mugged or carjacked on his way home from work, he generally interprets the experience in a way that will benefit him. For example, imagine an 18 year old man is mugged. What will he do?"

"Go to the police." I answer immediately.

"Exactly," he nods, "Did you go to the police after your experience?

I shake my head, remembering how I held my phone, thumb shaking over the 9 button. I had pictured an officer asking me how much I had to drink while someone else shoved Q-tips inside my pussy and ass, further invading what had already been ruined. I'd shoved my phone in my purse and made my way home to shower off any evidence before I could change my mind.

"Then you understand," he continues. "But it goes beyond his initial response. Men are naturally inclined to fight and defend themselves. The man that is mugged can work through his experience by improving his ability to defend himself. To put it simply, he can go to the gym, take a boxing class, join a rugby team, etcetera, etcetera."

I imagine joining a boxing class, and I almost laugh at the idea that anything could help me defend myself against three men, or one man.

"You see. Generally speaking when something negative happens to a man he will get angry. When something negative happens to a woman she usually feels a more passive emotion. Which response is more likely to initiate action? Anger or remorse?

"Anger" I offer.

"Exactly. The average woman cannot react in the same way as a man. Therefore, in the cognitive approach we will work on a more feminine response to this experience. When you think back to what happened to you, what is your primary feeling?"

"I feel..." I hesitate before finishing. There's a thousand feelings but they're all too humiliating to name, "...naive."

Dr. Graham shakes his head. "I have no doubt that is part of what you are feeling. But I asked for your primary emotion.

"I'm.... scared."

He smiles kindly. "That's very good Susanna. I appreciate your honesty. That is a particularly feminine response and it can work nicely."

I look up at him, my hands still clenched around the pillow.

"If we continue, you'll need to understand that I don't mince words and I expect full participation from my clients. Regardless of the approach you choose, my goal is that you are able to live a happy and full life alongside these memories. The choice in how we move forward is up to you."

I look at my hands. Anything that lets me sleep and move past that night is worth it. "Please can I try cognitive therapy? I need to fix this."

He nods and pulls a paper out from the back of the notepad. "This is a release form. You'll need to sign it so we can continue." He hands me the form and a pen. "And you will have homework due the next time we meet. I want you to write down everything you remember from the events in question. Be detailed and descriptive. Include your emotions. I understand you have difficulty expressing yourself, but you are not to leave anything out. Do you understand Susanna?"

I nod, trying not to think about how each detail of that night is scarred into my brain like it's a film playing on repeat. I sign the form and hand it back.

"Good girl. I will see you in one week."

***

Chapter 2***

I hadn't slept much all week. Putting my story down on paper kept me thinking about everything that happened, and the replay was getting stronger than ever. While every other aspect of my life felt shrouded in confusion, these memories were growing crystal clear. When I couldn't sleep I'd pull out my journal and add to my recollections.

I felt helpless as he pulled my dress and bra down so that my breast popped out. My nipple would have been exposed to the dance floor if his hand wasn't mauling it. "I love tiny tits..."

Last night was the worst. I had laid in bed trying to close my eyes, but every time I tried I felt more vulnerable and exposed. I could smell the woods and the fire, feel their hands on me, and hear their laughter. I rubbed my pussy three times recalling how they held me down and filled me with cum. Each time Dr. Graham's deep voice invaded my thoughts before I felt myself cum. I tried to push him out only to hear him telling me "Good Girl" as I moaned softly to the memories of my virginity being stolen. After the third time, I laid awake with my fingers brushing my clit until I heard Megan getting up for class.

Now I'm outside his office, clutching my assignment and wishing I knew how to stop this. The door opens and Dr. Graham's deep voice calls me inside. When I enter he's returning to his desk. Today he's wearing light gray pants, white shirt, and a striped tie. The dark blue stripes almost match the trim on my skirt. His suit jacket is draped across his chair. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and I notice how thick his muscles are pressing against the thin material. I swallow nervously and offer a little, "Hello."

He sits down behind his desk and looks up at me. "Thank you for being on time, Susanna. Do you have something for me?"

I take a few steps and place my notebook on his desk. I had recorded everything in a journal that I got from an aunt as a graduation gift. She had sewn my name onto the cover. It was sweet and felt out of place here. He opens the journal and scans the first several pages while I take a seat on the edge of the loveseat waiting to be told what to do next. I watch as he takes a red pen and underlines several words, but I can't make out what they are. He pauses about halfway through and looks up at me.

"This is thorough Susanna. You follow directions very well." He smiles. "I will read it more closely in a moment, but before I do, tell me how it felt to write all of this down."

I look at my fingers and start playing with a chip in my nail polish. "I thought it would be hard, but it all kind of came out so easily. I couldn't write fast enough to keep up with my thoughts."

"Why do you think it was so easy for you?"

"I guess I think about it a lot. Every night at least. I remember everything that happened. It's like I relive it."

"And what purpose does reliving it serve?"

I look up at him, "I don't know. I can't help it. I try to stop thinking about it but it just pops into my brain over and over. It was so humiliating."

He makes a note. "Susanna, you're getting something from reliving this moment. Otherwise you wouldn't be doing it. Before we reframe your interpretation of these events, I need to know what that something is. What happens when you're lying in bed remembering that evening?"

I look back at my fingers. I've already picked all the polish off one nail and I start on another. "I try to sleep but it feels like they're with me. If I close my eyes I see them."

"And do you respond in the same way when you 'see' them?"

"Yes. I freeze, like I did that night, and..." I can't say it outloud.

"...And does your body respond in the same way?" I keep my eyes on my hands and nod. "Good. Now tell me exactly how your body responds."

"I..I get wet...I mean, aroused, and I can't...I can't think about anything else unless I c-cu-...I mean...unless I orgasm."

"Very good Susanna." I hear him turning the pages before he continues. "And it seems they liked you cumming when they were using you. You say here that after you orgasmed from being used, Jason tells you,

'You're such a whore Susie, cumming on my cock like that.' He groans and you can feel his cock throbbing as he fills you with cum. He thrusts into you a few more times, pushing his cum deeper inside."

He looks up from the passage he's reading, "Would you agree they enjoyed your orgasm?"

"Th-they thought I was a whore." I feel tears streaming from my eyes, already running down my cheeks.

Dr. Graham nods and looks through the journal again. "Right, they do say that a few times don't they. But a whore is someone who sells herself which you do not do. You seem to be more of a slut here, since you are finding pleasure in being used by three men. I suppose they're using 'whore' as a synonym of slut rather than in its actual meaning." He looks back up at me, "This may seem like semantics, but it's important we fully understand your current interpretation and meaning of this experience before we make adjustments. So if we assume they did not mean whore as in prostitute, do you believe they liked how much of a slut you were?

I look up at him, my eyes blurry with tears. "I...I don't know."

He flips a few pages in. "Susanna you write at the very end that you are a slut. Why did you write that?"

I squeeze my right hand with my left and answer, "I...I felt like a slut because I orgasmed when they were r-raping me."

He nods and makes a note. "And now you cum to the memory of them using you. It's safe to assume that you enjoy these orgasms, so what is it that you do not enjoy?"

"It's h-humiliating." I mumble almost pleading.

"That's confusing Susanna. You said earlier that you felt humiliated when they used you to make themselves cum, but that clearly made you feel so good that you not only orgasmed twice while being used, you now make yourself relive it every night while you lie in bed. Why are you saying that you don't enjoy being humiliated?"

I look up at him, confusion and embarrassment filling my eyes. He takes a breath and slows down.

"Susanna do you feel humiliated now?" I nod, feeling waves of humiliation washing over me.

"Good girl. You have been brave but we're now at a crucial moment. Humiliation has been giving you pleasure while not hurting anyone else, therefore it is positive, but you have convinced yourself that it is negative. This may be a result of societal expectations around sex, your own neurosis, a side effect of your experience with those boys, or something we have yet to identify. Since we are using the cognitive approach we don't need to identify the cause, which is lucky because that would take a long time. Instead we only need to make sure you understand that your humiliation is helping you, not hurting you. In fact, it seems that your humiliation not only benefits you but others as well. You've helped at least three young men to date."

He turns back a few pages and points to my writing. "You were selfish before weren't you Susanna? Mike helped you realize that. You even write here you rejected your friend Will when he wanted a blowjob. Does remembering how you treated Will make you feel good?