Julie's Blacout

This is a short, very dark story about non-consensual sex. It involves a young woman experiencing significant psychological trauma. If you are not interested in exploring this subject, read no further.

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Perhaps because of her rigid Catholic upbringing and "good girl" sensibilities, Julie had assumed that she would be a virgin bride. She rarely thought about sex, and refused to go on a date until her senior prom. A gorgeous 18 year old who was made all the more unattainable and desirable by her aloofness and purity, she was highly sought after, and when one of the most handsome football players in her class asked her to be his date, she decided it couldn't hurt to have a little fun.

She was wrong. Her date slipped her a dose of Rohypnol at the dance. Once she was "good and loose" he slipped out of the dance with her and drove her to a motel room, where he raped her repeatedly.

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Everything changed for Julie after that night. She was overwhelmed with guilt and depression. She couldn't sleep. She complained to her doctor about the insomnia, but was too ashamed to tell him its cause. He gave her a prescription for Ambian.

Her guilt was amplified by the new urges she felt. She remembered little of her ordeal, but she thought about it constantly. Everywhere she went, she thought about sex. Every time she met a man, she imagined being raped by him. Finally, two months after her prom night, she renounced the "God" that had abandoned her, and pledged that in college she would do whatever made her happy.

She tried dating, but with little success. She was apprehensive about having sex again. Every time she got close, she would back out and refuse. What frightened her was that she didn't refuse because she was scared of having sex with these guys; she refused because she wasn't interested in that. The guys she dated were nice enough. That was the problem. The craving that she felt wasn't for some nice boy who would awkwardly sidle into bed with her, slip on a condom, and be gentle with her. She wasn't craving sex. She was craving rape.

All the images that floated into her head when she lay in bed were of men having there way with her, being rough with her, taking her against her will. Consensual sex just didn't interest her.

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Julie woke up one morning knowing what she had to do. She poured herself a shot of vodka from her roommate's bottle and drank it. Then another. And another. Then she lay back on her bed, head spinning, end fell asleep.

She woke up in the late afternoon. It was late November, so the sun was already close to the horizon. She had a headache. To cure it, she poured herself a large glass of vodka, which she nursed slowly. As she drank herself into oblivion, she began pulling out clothes. Not her own prudish garments but her roommate's. A white vest. A red miniskirt. A pair of black heels. A pair of grey panties.

By 9:00 PM she was drunk. She stumbled down her dormitory stairs. She walked across the street into the noisy frat house party that was already getting started. She knew no one there, but didn't care. She was quickly offered a drink. Then another. And another. As she held her third large drink in her hand, she reached into her purse she pulled out her bottle of sleeping pills. She shook three into her mouth and washed them down.

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The first thing Julie was aware of as she awoke was the taste. Her mouth was filled with it. It was the strong, musky, soapy taste of semen. She brought her fingers to her cheeks, and felt sticky streaks of dried cum. In her blond tresses, too, she felt the stickiness of drying jism.

As she opened her eyes, she saw the dilapidated ceiling of the frat house basement. As she bent her neck to look down at herself, she saw the lines of dried cum that striped her bare tits, exposed by her open vest. Her hands crept down her body. Her legs were spread whorishly, and she could feel dried cum on her bare thighs.

As she touched her panty-clad crotch, she found it wet and sticky. The gray had been turned dark where the semen had trickled from her pussy, pooling wetly in her underwear at the base of her slit. Some had continued to trickle down her crack, leaving a sticky trail from her slick pussy lips down to her asshole. She peeled her panties away from her crotch, and saw slimy ropes of jism hang between the fabric and her slick, matted pubic hair.

She wondered how many men had had her, and how many times they'd each come back for another round. She wondered if they'd used her one at a time, or shared her, one at each end. She wondered if her limp body been flipped over and taken from behind. She wondered if they'd teased her, laughed at her, made jokes about what a slut she was. She wondered if they'd taken pictures of her, as they fucked her, or after, as she lay there, completely exposed, their semen smeared on her face, on her tits, on her belly, and on her thighs, and dripping out of her sore, gaping vagina. Finally, she wondered whether this had quenched her thirst, or if she would find herself in that basement again next week.