Ruthless

Chapter Three

The worst part about being raped isn't being raped; it's afterwards. It's the nightmares. It's waking up every hour on the hour because you think she, or in my case, he, is in your room watching you. It's being afraid to walk down the street at night because you think he's going to drive by in his small, four-door, black compact car and kidnap you and do it all over again. It's wearing baggy clothes because you think tight clothes make you look like you're "asking for it."

I ran into my third rapist about three weeks ago. I haven't been able to sleep the same since.

To be raped three times in 8 years, can't tell you what that truly feels like, but I'll damn well try. You may be asking yourself why I care if people know what that feels like or why I care about what random people on the internet think about rape. Well, if you don't care, who is going to? If the youth doesn't care about rape, what's that going to do to the voices that are able to heard in government? Take the United States of America for example. If the American youth doesn't care about rape, then rape culture will always exist, and the "pretty" girl in the short dress and heels will always be at fault when the average male sticks in his pulsating dick in her without her consent. Who is going to care about her consent if we don't?

But I'm not here to be political or controversial or convince you to take part in your government. I'm here to tell my story, so here it is.

It was late at night. I was laying in his bed, against the back corner of the room, the dresser, bathroom, and closet to the right. I was asleep. My soft, even breathing must have been a turn-on because suddenly his hard penis was against my ass, and I awoke to him grinding against me.

"What are you doing, B****?"

He didn't answer. Just grabbed me and kept grinding, and I shut my mouth like men past have told me to do, and I let him have his way with me. I let him flip me over, and I kissed back when he kissed me. I let him grip my thigh and hoist it over his hip, and I let him grab my hair.

"Suck my dick," he mumbled, and I said, "No."

And when he kept asking, I kept saying "no," and he was fed up. He grabbed me by my hair, pushed my head by his dick, and he repeated that phrase one more time. And when I said "no," he grabbed his dick, shoved it in my mouth, and I felt his throbbing dick against my tongue, teeth, inner cheeks. I felt his penis in my mouth, moving in and out, and I gagged when he shoved his penis all the way down my throat so far I thought I was going to vomit. He moaned when he felt me choke. I guess the way I cried made him harder. I screamed around his penis, and angrily, he shoved himself further in my mouth to where I had no choice but to swallow his hot come or drown when he finally released himself inside of me.

I let him drive me home that night after I insisted on leaving, and I let him kiss me once before I got out of his mom's white SUV, and went inside my apartment. I immediately went upstairs and called my best friend, W***, and cried my eyes out.

I wish I could say that night was the last night I saw B****.