The Wrong Thing To Feel.

I turned the stool so it was perpendicular to the bed, and I looked at my husband. I look better in candlelight, but his beauty is diminished by the darkness. I find that strange, especially since of the two of us, I'm the one who shines under a spotlight, and he's most powerful in the shadows. My screams are spectacular, and his silence is as spectacular.

"They didn't understand, the men that hurt you before me," he said to me, "You are just looking to see if there's enough of a monster inside a man to punish you for the heinous things you did."

The house creaked. It does that sometimes.

I hate this house. Well, hate is a strong word, but I definitely dislike it. I know we only have to live here a few more weeks but that's hard to do when my problem with the place is so fundamental. The angle is wrong. The house is angled completely incorrectly. I don't know how to explain that, but it's not a spiritual problem that I have with the angle, it's not part of a religious or cultural discipline. It's much simpler than that. It's like I'm talking to someone but their back is turned towards me; I feel like the house has its back turned against me, and each time I try to lean towards it, it angles itself further away. I want to be able to fix it, just turn it straight, like I'd do to a candle stand that has fallen against the wall, but I cannot casually nudge a house back in place, so I feel uncomfortable inside it. I hate it.

There is one thing I like here though, it's this stool I found in the bedroom. Like all the other state-issued furniture I am currently compelled to use, it came with the house, but unlike the rest of the furniture, it actually appeals to me. It's small, and not really the shape of an actual stool, it's oblong, but it's cushioned and the cushioning is upholstered with black leather. It has the build of an ottoman, and the height and structure of a footstool. It reminds me of a stool I had in my childhood bedroom. Mine wasn't black, it was a very dull but dark green, and the fabric covering it was very soft and thick. I still remember how it felt under me while he fucked me on the stool. Thinking about that touch still makes my cunt tingle in a way I haven't felt in seventeen years. He was the only one who was able to make my cunt respond like that.

Maybe it's because he was the first, and at the time, the only sexuality I physically knew. It's funny, because while all the imagery one tends to have of rape in their head is violent and gruesome, my experience with it was something else altogether. I never had more orgasms than when I was being raped. I've never had sex more tender than that either. Even though he was the first, it was the only period in my life when I had sex that was barely painful at all. It was the only phase in which the insides of my pussy responded to being fucked with pleasure and orgasms. It never happened after him. The pleasure I experienced with him, unending and heinous, was the wrong thing to feel, I knew that then, and I still know it today.

"What heinous things do you think I am atoning for?" I asked my husband, wondering if he knew too.

He didn't.

Well, he didn't understand it quite in that moment, but he does know. They all know.  Masochism is a very comprehensible thing to me, and it poses no difficulties or conflicts, but the men I love, and have loved in the past, even when they didn't beat me, they all had to necessarily fuck me the same way. It's not about masochism. I love brutes who break my insides when they fuck me because I've been sentenced to a lifetime of atonement. Sex will never feel like the orgasmic, painless and pleasurable realm that was rape. If I had known this then maybe I would have tried to enjoy it less, but it's too late. It was too late so long ago. It's not without reason, or by accident, that I fall in love with men who see fucking me as punishing me. And my husband, his sickness aligns with mine so perfectly it almost makes me believe in soulmates. The night he first fucked me he told me I was going to cry, and I did, and I haven't stopped.

When he asked me what I was atoning for, I told him he would figure it out, and maybe I would even help him with that. He reached over to the drawer and pulled out this big, ugly appendage he sometimes puts inside me to make me scream. He pushed me back over the stool and grasped it in his hand, like you'd hold a hammer or perhaps a knife if you intended to kill with it. He pushed it inside me, one quick motion until it reaches depths that most men cannot get to. I screamed, and he let me. He lets me scream when he's hurting my insides, perhaps he knows that it is past my control to resist the response to this violation. He fucked me with it like he was punching my insides. And I wondered, what if it had just felt like that the first time? Would I have been spared the quest to find lovers who make me feel terrible? Would I have been able to just relax into the penetration and accept that it could feel good? There are no answers to these questions. It's too late now.

"Do you fucking like it?" He asked me, as I grasped the legs of the stool and cried into the candlelight.

"No," I told him, "Maybe I could have, if I hadn't done the heinous things I did."

Maybe something clicked at that moment, because the rigor with which he was fucking me increased so much, I literally felt my cunt rip, and drip the liquid you don't want coming out of there. Crimson shame, dripping out of me and onto the glass inside me.

"Maybe you shouldn't have liked it so much back then, slut," he said, "Maybe you wouldn't have had to suffer so much, at the hands of so many men, if you'd just thought about it at the right time."

"I'm sorry," I told him, apologies come so easily when it hurts inside me, "I'm sorry I liked the wrong fucking."

"It's okay," he said pulling the bloody glass dildo from inside me, "I can make it right for you, I can make it feel like it should have, that's what you want, isn't it?"

It is. It really is. I just want sex to feel how I think rape should have felt. He makes me feel that way. They all did, all but the right one, but no one makes me feel it quite like he does. He takes my wishes and makes them come true like an evil genie would. He pushed me over the stool, turning me around, and grasping my hips with his hands. His cock rubbed against my cunt, threatening momentarily, before plunging inside my aching and throbbing cunt. I screamed and he pushed his elbow into my tailbone.

"You're not supposed to scream when you're being raped," he said fucking me slowly, but so deep I thought I was being dug into, "Can you not even be raped right, whore?"

I can. Or at least, I so desperately want to be, I've spent my life looking for it. He fucked me dirty and bloody, with the stool that reminded me of the person I once was underneath my knees. There was nothing pleasurable about it, nothing at all, but it was finally right. That's how it should have felt the first time. It should have felt like pain and misery, not orgasms and pleasure. It does now. It does every single time, and that night he seemed intent on reminding me that I brought it all on myself. If only I'd thought not to moan, on the wrong night. On the wrong cock. At least I've never moaned on a cock after that. At least the man I love knows to never allow me that, but even if he did, I couldn't feel it. It wouldn't be possible.

"Is this how it was supposed to feel?" He asked rubbing his scarlet cock on my face, "Do you feel like you've paid for the heinous things you did now?"

To think that'll all be over in one night. It's too late for that. Some things cannot be fixed, and I can only pay for them. Every night in a bed in the wrong house, but with the right man. A man who rapes me like I should have been in the first place.