Rape

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence and rape which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

“Drop ‘em,” Mark burst in through the kitchen door.

“Huh?” I turned, surprised, from the counter where I was chopping tomatoes and lettuce, preparing a salad.

“Drop your fucking shorts,” Mark shouted as he fumbled with his jeans buttons. I could see the outline of a huge erection in his crotch.

“What the …?” I stood facing my lover, frozen, like a rabbit caught by headlights in the middle of the road.

It took Mark two strides to reach me, his jeans already around his thighs, as he pulled down his briefs, exposing his big cock, fully erect and dripping.

He slapped me across the face, hard.

“Drop you shorts, you FUCK!” he screamed at me. I could detect the smell of sweat and perhaps beer. This smell had always made me horny for Mark, but now I was apprehensive.

Mark and I had been together for two months now. He had moved in with me after a weekend of lovemaking which followed an introduction in a local bar. We were a formidable couple. No one would have taken us for a gay couple. Both of us are of masculine build although Mark is more macho-looking than me. I am not a sissy-looking guy either. We both sport light beards and the tattoos on Mark’s left side of his neck accentuated his manliness look.

The pattern of our relationship revolved around love-making, a lot of kissing and groping and such. This usually was followed by slow cock sucking, each trying to pleasure the other. Then Mark would rim me and as soon as I was wet and ready, he would fuck me, slow and long, evolving into hard and deep pounding, culminating in wild orgasms. There were a few variations to this pattern, of course, but the outline of events was basically the same. With an 8-inch thick cock, Mark always made sure that I was ready to take him into me before he ever entered my tight ass.

“BITCH,” Mark slapped my face again, bringing me back from my surprised stupor. I couldn’t fathom what kind of look he had, but, as if in a dream, in slow motion, my face cheeks stinging from the slaps, I turned around, pulling my shorts down to my knees and bending over the counter.

Mark penetrated me dry, forcefully, mercilessly.

I cried out as the pain of forced penetration seared my body. Mark immediately wrapped his strong hand around my face, covering my mouth, as he rammed viciously into me, slapping my butt brutally. My knees went weak and I had to support myself onto the counter. This was not fucking. This was rape. I tried to say something, but all that came out of my mouth were muffled sounds behind Mark’s strong hold.

A minute later, I felt Mark freeze and explode inside me. I was almost suffocated, on the verge of losing consciousness. My head swam. My ass was on fire. Mark’s hand was still clamped onto my mouth, making it hard to breathe. But worst of all was my failure to understand what the fuck was going on. Why had Mark just raped me? I loved him, with passion. I also was fairly sure he loved me. But this? In my own kitchen? Violated over my kitchen counter by my lover? My mind reeled, tears streaming down my face cheeks, shame and anger and anxiety mixed in my heart.

I remained in the bent-over position after Mark pulled out of my ass and removed his hand from my mouth. Taking quick breaths, feeling the tears on my face, I just froze in my position, my ass bare and stuck out. Cum was seeping out of my hole and I faintly registered the pinkish, creamy drops hitting the floor as my eyes focused down between my spread legs. Mark’s cum was apparently mixed with some blood as he had torn my ass apart.

I couldn’t move. I knew that I must have looked ridiculous with my ass bare and up in the air, fully exposed… raped!

“Baby? Steve?”

I heard Mark as if he were miles away. My mind was trying to register what had taken place in the past five minutes or so, but for me it felt like ages of torture.

“Steve?”

I shook all over. The cum, seeping out onto my thighs and dripping, was beginning to dry. I felt cold. I felt raped. I was fucking raped!

“Baby?”

Mark sounded like a broken record. I felt his hand on my shoulder.

Instinctively, not even thinking or planning, a certain force suddenly filled me. I straightened up, turned around and punched Mark right in the middle of his stomach, hard, followed by a hook up into his startled chin as he doubled over. In a daze, I watched Mark stumble back, hit the kitchen table, and shake his head from the force of my blows.

This scene must have looked ridiculous, to say the least. Me, shorts at my knees, ass dripping man cum mixed with blood, punching this hot macho guy, whose jeans were still around his ankles and his dick limp and glistening.

It was as if a river dam broke inside me. I had never been a violent person. On the contrary, I am more of a pacifist. But I bore down on Mark with such venom that his look of pain changed to that of alarm. I watched him raise his arms in useless defense as I started punching him, on the face, the sides of his head, in the stomach. A torrent of punches flew out of me without control, vicious, unrelenting. All the while, I was heaving with sobs of bitter tears, of shame, of humiliation.

Mark was weeping.

“Steve. Baby. I’m so sorry. Oh, man. Fuck. So fucking sorry.”

This was too lame for me. He was sorry? Raping me? Lame, my ass!

I felt like resuming my punching. Mark didn’t put up any real defense. He could have easily punched me back, floored me actually. But he just leaned against the kitchen table and took my fists wherever they landed.

Finally, I was able to control myself. I moved away from Mark, reached down and pulled up my shorts. The pain from my ass was minimal compared to the pain from inside me. I looked at Mark. Pitiful. We were both sobbing shamelessly. But Mark’s tears were tears of guilt whereas mine were those of shame, of rage and… of regret.

Without a word, I managed to get into the shower. I let the hot water stream over my body. I felt so dirty. It was very strange, knowing that Mark had seeded me plenty of times. His semen had filled me with both satisfaction and love more times that I could count.

But now, I simply felt dirty. I was still shaking but the stream of scalding water started to relax me. I was now able to consider what had happened in the kitchen earlier more rationally. What the fuck had happened to Mark? Why would he force himself in such a way on me when he knew that he could have had me in any way he liked at any time he liked? Why? He knew how sweet I was on him, how fuckingly madly in love with him. He knew, damn it! I cried.

I didn’t notice that Mark had followed me into the bathroom. He stepped under the shower with me and hugged me, his naked front glued to my back. Oh, damn and fuck and shit to hell! This was the Mark that I loved, that I desired, that I would die for. The loving hug, the strong male arms around my waist, the tight fit of his front with my back, the lips on the side of my neck.

And then, in my head: the vicious slaps, the bending over, the rough penetration without preparation, not even any spit.

The urge of resuming my punches returned fiercely. Mark’s whispering of apology in my ear did not ease the internal pain I felt. For Christ’s sake, he had just raped me!

“You know that you have to move out, Mark,” I heard myself say in a low but hoarse voice, still maintaining my position, not turning around, not wanting to look into his green eyes that used to kill me with lust, or his beautiful face that I had always wanted to smother with kisses, not moving away from the warm embrace either. I just stared at the wet porcelain wall in front of me, my eyes blurry with my tears.

“Steve, man, I said I was sorry,” Mark whimpered, holding me tighter. “Really, I am. I don’t know what came over me. Steve. Please, forgive me, baby.”

I felt his body press harder on me. On other earlier occasions, this hug invariably made me grovel for Mark and his sex. Now I pitied his groveling in spite of his naked body glued onto mine, his arms around me.

“Mark,” I said in the same tone, now more sure of myself, “move the fuck out of my fucking place. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“I love you, Steve,” Mark begged.

“Move the fuck out Mark or you will regret it.” I was shaking. I was crying.

But my voice remained hard and cold. I desperately tried to hide my regret at losing a lover that I cared so much for. But I knew that Mark had to leave, that it was over for us.

“When I get out of this fucking shower, I don’t want to see any trace of you, your hear me?”

Mark left. He left the shower. He left the apartment. He left me. Well, I was the one who kicked him out, technically, but he had raped me, hadn’t he? The fucker!

For the next couple of days, I basked in self-justification at throwing my love out. But I started to feel the emptiness, not just in my bed, but in my life. Mark had been my love. We had shared fantastic moments, hell, fantastic hours and days. Was it such an unforgivable act, there in the kitchen, after all? Mark had fucked me a thousand times before. Why did I think of the kitchen episode as rape? Why was I such a prima donna? Mark’s cock plowed my ass numerous times and I was sent to such high levels of ecstasy as he pounded me and then filled me with his love juice. I loved his cock inside me. I loved his sliding in and out, his grunts, his kisses, his ejaculations.

I picked up the phone, but then dropped it. What was I going to say? It’s ok for you, Mark, to rape me in the middle of my kitchen? I want to suck on your cock that raped me? What?

But I ached for him. As the days passed, Mark was always on my mind. I needed him, naked, holding me, throughout the night. My sleep was fitful. My work in the office lacked my usual dedicated attention. Mark was everywhere.

Mark never called me either.

It was one full week since Mark had raped me. I was feeling miserable. A Saturday. I just moved aimlessly around the apartment. I prepared a salad, but I remembered the last time I was making a salad and how I was raped. I threw the salad away, crying. I tried to read but could find no concentration. I saw Mark’s face on every page and the words bleared with my tears. I had no plans. I didn’t want any plans either. I wanted Mark. But I had lost him.

There was a hesitant knock at the door. Who the fuck would that be? I looked at my watch. 6:00 pm. I was in no mood for anyone at this moment, today, any day. Besides, I had no idea who would visit me. Perhaps a neighbor who wanted to borrow some coffee or something?

I shambled to the door, miserable and upset, and opened it.

Mark.

I moved a couple of steps back in shock and froze. The last person I expected to see. The last person I wanted to see. The person I died to see. The only person I wanted to see.

“Mark?” I mumbled.

“No apologies, Steve,” he said, as if from a thousand miles away. “Only three words and you can kick me out again: I. Love. You.”

My heart dropped onto the floor. I couldn’t breathe. My stomach churned, as I needed to throw up. I wanted to scream: with anger, with shame, with love. I just froze.

Mark held up one hand. I recognized the bag: from a sushi take-out place where we used to order home delivery from, after having sex. We would eat the sushi in bed, invariably feeding each other, laughing, kissing, tasting the soy sauce on each other’s tongue.

I melted.

His other hand held a bottle of Japanese sake.

I melted further, not realizing the tears that were streaming down my cheeks, the trembling that wracked my body.

I looked up at his face, and I just couldn’t resist. The sweetest, most adorable face of my lover.

The picture engraved in my mind during all of last week, that of chopped lettuce and tomato in the salad bowl right under my nose as Mark plowed mercilessly into me, me bent over the kitchen counter, being ruthlessly raped… that image… miraculously started to fade.

I extended my shaking arms. Mark dropped the bag of food and bottle of sake onto the floor and flew into my arms in the sweetest hug I had ever experienced. He smothered me with kisses. I was so grateful that he did not apologize or grovel. He just exuded love into my body, my soul.

We made love wildly. Right there on the floor, among the scattered sushi pieces, fully dressed except for our crotches. I took him inside me with passion, and he emptied his love inside my bowels. We didn’t even bother with closing the door. Thankfully, we were done before anyone walked by.

I love Mark. I hate him for raping me. But I love him, nevertheless. We are still together and I don’t see any reason why we should not remain together. Raped? Well, it’s just a memory. Mark, however, is very real, very much in my arms.