Her Disorder

Theresa had a whole host of disorders. She was messed up. She’d been diagnosed with Takophobia, Genophobia, Viginitiphobia, and RBC syndrome. She wanted to be normal - but she couldn’t. Her mind was just different.

When Theresa looked over across her college campus and saw a woman being raped on the street, instead of smiling and walking on like a normal person, she felt an intense fear. She went out of her way to avoid the encounter even though the rapist was occupied. Then she went out of her way to avoid that man - sometimes causing her to miss classes or social engagements.

Rationally she knew that the war needed more men. She understood that men raping women would both up the birth rate and breed for aggressive go getters - the sort of men who wouldn’t have the epidemic of Battlefield Cowerdess Disorder and could protect her country. Protect her. To some extent her Traumatophobia helped counterbalance her other disorders - but she worried about that. Would she pass her fear of war on to her sons? She was just a mess, unworthy to have children.

But the government needed her to have children. As a woman she couldn’t help the war effort in the front. She couldn’t even really help behind the lines because the BCD men did that. Sure she could tend her victory garden and donate food to the front, but the thing a patriotic woman could do the best was spread her legs and get pregnant, and Theresa had Takophobia.

When she was being raped, skirt around her waist some hot dominant man thrusting between her legs, all she could do was worry about getting pregnant. That was the whole point of the laws. She knew, rationally, that she should be praying for a child from such an aggressive man. She should be trying to orgasm from his rough touch and large cock, increasing the likelihood of conception, but she defied reason, hoping that he wouldn’t make her orgasm. Hoping she wouldn’t get pregnant.

She wasn’t so messed up as to resist the rape, but she resisted in subtle ways, shifting her own rhythm to avoid orgasm, or squirming away when he started to fondle her clit.

She wore thick bras to protect her nipples from rapists fondling, and thought about other things than being raped while it was happening, trying and failing to will herself to not get wet.

After he had finished cumming inside her, and had replaced her vaginal plug to make sure the cum stayed inside her, slapping her hard on the ass and sending her wobbling on her way, she would often feel compelled to do the most insane things imaginable. Sometimes she would remove her plug, allowing the cum to creep down the inside of her thighs, surreptitiously dabbing with the inside of her skirt. Other times she would lock herself in a bathroom stall, back to the security camera, and actually use toilet paper to intentionally remove the rapist's sperm. When she got home, instead of positioning herself on her back with her legs up like the women on TV did to soak the most possible sperm into her cervix she would shamefacedly splash water up her vagina in the shower.

She had been caught doing it once. The campus police responded to “failure to accept impregnation” brutally, taking turns questioning her and raping her, laughing as they used her mouth saying things like “You want us to cum in your mouth instead of your pussy don’t you,” which was so wrong and yet true, and then finishing in her pussy anyway, giving her no time to act out her ridiculous ritual of defiance before raping her again. She was more careful with the security cameras now.

She couldn’t hold a relationship of course. All the other women had caught a soldier who would send back some of his pay and visit her when he had leave, but needless to say no man would put up with her avoidance of sex and pregnancy - and without a relationship she had no hope of happiness of course. She knew that depression reduced her fertility even more, and in some sick part of her mind she relished it for that reason.

She was a chronic liar, posting the wrong dates on the ovulation charts in the hall and complaining about her period just before she was at her most fertile. She’d been caught and reported more times now than she could remember, and they summoned her to the doctor’s office at unknown intervals now to probe her vagina and double check, but she still lied. She was tested now for her medication too - the pills to make her more likely to have twins or triplets. The mood suppressants and Dopamine releasers. She cheated most on the RBC suite, which made her more fertile and less afraid, but of course being more fertile made her more afraid.

Just to make sure she was getting some sperm in her system the doctors always made sure to rape her during their checkups, making her strip naked and dance for them before fucking her. They would force her to orgasm between each time one of them came inside her, fondling her unprotected breasts and making her moan and thrash as they pumped in and out of her. There was some normal part of her that enjoyed being raped, but she couldn’t get past her fears.

With all her countermeasures she often went over two years between a pregnancy, almost half the rates for a normal woman. Other women spoke fondly of the time after they started to show and the rapists headed elsewhere - most women did endure some of the rougher rapes rather than actively enjoy them, that seemed to be pretty normal - but not Theresa. She dreaded the next part, the discomfort moving into pain.

Theresa had SSD of course. When she handed her sons over to the doctor to take to the military training facility, she spent the next several months in a depressed torpor. Even if she had a daughter among her triplets, rarer given the drugs she had to take, her nursing which normally helps Son Separation Disorder, didn’t seem to do that much, and after the 20 day nursing window (after which she had to stop because it reduces fertility) she had no comfort.

She’d tried cheating there too of course, nursing past the designated time, but they had just given her drugs to dry her milk up, raped her, and sent her home.

It was of course, just as her SSD was beginning to fade that she was fair game for the rapists again, and as with any fresh meat on the market she would find herself taken over lunch tables and at bus stops and in her front yard after she had gone out to get the mail. The best rapists were always disabled veterans, and even though she went out of her way to avoid them, they tracked her routes and she would emerge from a crouch, making her way behind some bushes, to find a man, cock already out and stroking, ready to grab her.

Those men liked it if you struggled, and they made sure you did, spanking, pinching, pulling hair, until trying to get away had them hard as a rock. They would slide inside of her and then make her struggle more, enjoying the play of her insides as she tried to get away. When they came inside her she felt like she could feel the added aggression in his sperm, swimming inside her to rape her waiting egg. It seemed the more she avoided those men, the more they hunted her.

The other kind of men were the weak ones who had some sort of disorder that stopped them from functioning as soldiers. Battlefield Cowardice Disorder coupled with Stress Collapse Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, or Impulse Control Disorder. She had long ago learned that these men often didn’t have the will to rape her if she didn’t give them an opening. If she stayed around them, engaged in conversation, or laughed at one of their jokes she would find herself on her back, legs spread, vaginal plug in his hands, cock thrusting in and out of her as he mauled her breasts and told her how beautiful she was. She had gotten good at not doing those things.

She knew she was messed up. Not that she spent much time around other women, but she knew they only feared the rough rapes and she was sure she was the only one who avoided getting pregnant. When she passed a woman in the halls getting fingered by some tattood ODD guy she watched in fascination as the woman might lean in for a kiss, or guide his cock between her already parted legs. Theresa wished she could be one of those women, but she wasn’t that normal. She was different.