My Body for Yours

By: PeytonBlack

Page 1, They say you can\'t rape the willing. They were wrong.

Note To Readers:  It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while I tap into something dark and terrible.  This is not just a story of rape.  It is a story of absolution by any means necessary.  I would like to take this opportunity to say that I do not condone rape, but I understand what drives people to fantasize about it.

Originally I wanted it to be raw but sexy in such a way that the reader might enjoy it and then wonder if they should have.  (I admit that I like to push the boundaries a bit sometimes…)  In the end it turned out to be so much more. 

As I developed the character and her motives for her actions, all that slipped away. Her guilt and suffering far out shadowed any erotic tones in the story.  But the more her story unfolded the deeper desire I had to share it with you.  Please follow the story of this unnamed woman as she journeys from tragedy to acceptance, and hopefully healing.

And please, don’t forget to tell me what you think; good, bad, or indifferent…


I feel the churning begin in my stomach as I walk home from the bus stop.  I don’t know which is worse, the awful numbness that usually surrounds me, or the slow building dread that gnaws on me every October fourth. 

Every year I think maybe it won’t happen. That it will be different.  That I won’t remember.  That I won’t be sick.  That I won’t do the awful things that I do.  But every year it is the same. 

I remember what it had felt like turning the corner and seeing the red blue strobe lights of the police cars and the ambulance, how it felt to push my way through the crowd and see my mother’s tearful face bitter, accusing, hateful. 

I try to swallow back my regret and shame, but it billows up as acid in my throat. I find the nearest receptacle to vomit in. I haven’t eaten in days. It’s just acid that burns like lava and makes it hard to breathe.

People give me a wide berth, eyeing me as if I am some kind of freak or druggie. I turn away in shame, feeling again the pain of my mother’s hand across my face stopping me in my path, the rain of blows I could not evade, the officers dragging her off of me.

I walk down the recessed stairway to my belowground entrance.  I pause before I put the key in the door.    I could hear children playing, one of the neighborhood dogs barking, and the swirling swish of dead leaves blowing on the chill wind.  It smelled like fall. 

I slide the key into place.  Tears fall freely down my face.  Tonight I’ll go to the bar. The only night of the year I ever go.  I deserve it.

I turn the key, step inside, and lock the door, sliding the chain in place.

The blow came out of nowhere burning my cheek, making my ear ring, and slamming me into the wall.  Dazed, I feel my body crumple and slide down to the floor.  A hand grabs a fist full of hair, drags me across the floor, and sends me rolling.

Instinctively I roll into a tight, shaking ball of fear. ‘Ami? Are you watching?’

Rough hands claw at me, tugging me in every direction, ripping my clothes and dragging them from my body. Nails bite into my flesh and scrape across my skin. I try pushing them away, pulling out of their grasp, anything to make them stop. ‘Please stop.’

The slap across my face stuns me.  My brain is numb even while silently screaming.  I forget to fight, forget if there is anything worth fighting for. 

The hand pinning me to the cold hard floor is slowly tightening around my throat; draining the oxygen from my body, and stealing my will. I welcome the darkness, finally, peace.

I wake to forceful thrusting, a horrible driving force slamming into me.  I realize I am alive and start to cry.   I try to move, to struggle fiercely but my hands are held tight on either side of me.  I hear myself whimpering and hate that the sound has even escaped me.

“That’s it bitch.  Take it.” The pounding becomes more aggressive. 

I grit my teeth, swallow my tears, and remain silent.  It only makes him angry, more forceful as if he is trying to make me cry, make me scream, make me plead.  I hate every second he is inside me, but I force my mind to stay here in this room, to know what is happening to my body.  I know when he comes. I can feel every release acutely.  I hate him, I hate his seed, I hate me.

When he moves, I just lay there.  I don’t know what they expect from me.  I don’t even care.  I look into the dark corners of the room. ‘Is he here with me?  Is this his doing?’

I must have made them angry. Was it my silence?  One of them is kicking me.  I turn into the blows absorbing the impact with my body. When the kicking stops I lay there sobbing, frightened, bruised.

Hands roughly grip my breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh and twist painfully.  I scream and willingly move wherever they want me just to ease the pain. ‘I love you, Ami.’

I cry.

Rough hands fist my hair jerking my head up so I am standing on my knees, head held to the side.  I feel vulnerable and helpless and pain is seeping through my body just as that vile wetness drips down my legs.

One of them is standing naked in front of me but I refuse to look at him.   So proud of his cock he waves it in my face trying to get my attention.  I look into the darkness and I see him.  Relief floods me unexpectedly.  He is here with me.  I draw strength from his eyes.

“Be a good bitch and suck my cock.”  Defiantly I clench my teeth, hatred burning within me so strong I can barely think.

The point of a knife presses into my cheek, twisting until it pierces my skin. I open my mouth to scream and he buries his cock in my throat.  There is no sucking, just a mindless will to stay alive, to find a rhythm, remember to breath. I close my eyes in shame.  I can’t look in his eyes with this thing in my throat.

I let my mind drift trying to relax trying not to gag, trying not to panic and lose control.  The rough hands are touching my breasts again; digging, twisting, and pinching me until my only desire is to scream or clench my teeth.

“Stupid bitch,” the cock suddenly leaves my throat… raw, empty.  The slap tosses my head to the side.  I feel more blood trickling down my cheek.  “You want to bite me?”  I feel his fury; a spray of spittle against my face.  I want to be frightened but it is just a dull warning before he grips my hair with both hands, pulling my mouth over him while thrusting his cock down my throat again and again in a relentless punishing pace.  I push against his hips as hard as I can my nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck!” he curses. “Get this bitch off of me.”

Strong hands twist my arms behind me, pinning them.  I lose control.  I start to panic, I can’t breathe. I gag, but it doesn’t stop. I gag until my stomach and chest squeeze so tight I think I’m going to die.

My struggles only excite them, he starts groaning loudly and thrusting wildly. ‘Oh, God, will it ever end?’ 

My mind begins to fog and I see once again the flashing lights of blue and red, my mother’s crying face, her mouth is moving but I can’t hear what she is saying.  With shock I realize she is yelling at me.  I blink, it seems to take forever.  My eyes catch sight of a gurney moving between our apartment building and the back of an ambulance. I blink again before I understand the person on the gurney is covered in a white sheet. Dead?  My brain shouts at me.  I know what I am seeing, but I don’t want to believe.  I look again to my mother’s face.  She is hitting me, driving me to the ground under the weight of her body, attacking me…

The pain in my throat and chest drags me back relentlessly.  There is nowhere to hide.  No place to escape the horrible things I’ve done.  I deserve this.

Cries of pleasure, husky and guttural, crawl down my spine as the man before me buries himself so deep my nose is pressed against his belly.  It doesn’t matter that I can’t breathe.  I feel his release pulsing against the back of my throat keeping tempo with the spasmodic jerking of his hips.  It feels erotic even while I’m suffocating.  A final lurch and I can breathe.  The smell and taste of him floods my mouth and I gag again. He pushes me away, his seed dripping from my mouth and nose.

I struggle to take in great gasps of air tainted with the salt of tears and the pungent aroma of semen. I hear my own hoarse sobbing as if it is coming from a stranger. Absently I feel pity for her.

Strong arms drag me across the room and shove me over the coffee table.  Before I understand what is happening, one of them mounts me from behind, a piercing invasion with a quick pounding pace.  I cry out with each thrust even though I had decided I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. ‘I’m so sorry, Ami!’

I look at him. I need his strength as he sits across the room.  I never asked him to be here.  I never asked him to stay.   My stranger. 



I forget the man pounding into me and remember the night I met him.  I had gone looking for trouble and I had definitely found it.

I had been dancing with a man and flirting outrageously with his two friends.  I could feel the aggressive anger building as the night wore on, and his friends were just drunk enough to not care what he thought.  I teased and touched and brushed against them until one of them tried to clutch my breast possessively.  Then I just walked away, leaving them all on the dance floor calling out protests behind me.

I found an empty seat at the bar and sat next to him, this stranger.  I ordered a coke. No rum just a coke, I hadn’t been drinking alcohol all night.

“You play a dangerous game young lady.”  He said it quietly.  I liked the strength in his rough voice.  I liked his green eyes and sandy hair, and the greying stubble on his jaw.

I looked him straight in the eyes.  “I know what I am doing.”  I said it clear and slow so he would know the truth of it.

After a long moment he shrugged. Saluting me with his drink he said, “To each their own.”

I was surprised by the sharp anxiety warring inside me.  It felt like a slap to the face.  I didn’t want him to think of me the way he did.  I tried to hide my pain while I struggled with these new feelings.  I was surprised to find tears sliding down my face. What difference did it make what this stranger thought of me?

“It’s not like that.” I said defensively.

He looked at me doubtfully. “Really?  How is it then?  Enlighten me.”

A hand gripped my arm roughly and dragged me into a massive chest.  “Look somewhere else buddy, she’s mine tonight.” I looked behind me one last time as I was being dragged away.  Regret filled my heart and made me ache inside.  So much regret in my life.  Would I ever feel anything besides? 

It wasn’t until morning that I realized he had followed me.  Not until they dragged me out to the middle of nowhere and raped me all night.

As soon as they left, he came to my side.  After a long moment where he just looked into my eyes, he nodded once, and helped me to my feet.  I trembled and shook so violently, he had to dress me.

“Is this what you wanted?”  I was surprised by the gentle voice free of condemnation.

I nodded.  So full of shame I couldn’t speak.  I hadn’t known how Ami suffered until that night. ‘Oh, God, Ami! How could I have left you alone that night?’  I curled into the arms of my stranger and cried great sobs full of pain. 

I hadn’t known there were so many ways to hurt the female body.  I hadn’t known how bad it would hurt the first time.  I hadn’t known the fear one could feel when alone with violence. ‘Oh, God, I am so sorry.’  It hurt to move, to breathe, to think.

He lifted me to his chest and carried me to his pickup. A gentle kindness I clung to and hated myself for it, because it was more than was offered to Ami.   

He settled me into the passenger’s seat, even going so far as to buckle the seatbelt in place.

“So how often do you do this to yourself?”

“Next year same time,” I whispered as I drifted off to sleep.



He was close enough now I can see a bleakness in his eyes; a quiet pain that was never there before.

Without his strength I crumble inside.  I barely notice when the man between my legs is done. I wouldn’t have noticed when he was replaced except the next one was so big and I was already in pain.

If that had been the end of it, I would have blocked it out too, but when he pulled out I felt an awful dread and started shaking uncontrollably. It felt like fire as he shoved himself into my ass, a tearing agony dragging deep guttural cries from the pit of my belly.  Only to be replaced with a high pitched scream as a blinding burst of pain left my limbs weak.

Something was shoved into my mouth to quiet me, but I screamed anyway.  All my hate and anger at the injustices of life poured out.  I raged at the madness thrusting inside my body.  I had never felt so helpless in my life.  Every time before I felt some form of control.  I knew I had asked for it, knew I wanted to suffer, wanted to pay for my sins with my body. At that moment I knew exactly what happened to Ami, how empty and helpless she felt inside.  So I cried. Not out of guilt or self-pity that I the stupid selfish sister was still alive, but that my sweet little Ami was gone, ripped from this world by a vicious assault never meant for a girl so young.  ‘It’s okay if you hate me, Ami, I understand.’

I cried until there was only the violent pounding, the awful groans of his pleasure, and the deep guttural sobs pressing through cloth.   And the terrible look in his eyes: A look of compassion and pain, of understanding and grief.  And when I saw his tears, something broke inside me shattering into a thousand pieces.  ‘Oh God, please tell her I understand…’

I never felt him leave my body, never heard them leave my home.  I lay sobbing helplessly on the floor.  All the years of self-hatred left me making me feel all the more empty.  

“Are you done?”  He asked me, his quiet voice bringing me back to reality.  I was disconcerted by the tears running down his face.

Still sobbing helplessly, I nodded. Because I knew the pain he was suffering was more than what I had been carrying inside.  Because six years of torture was long enough.  Because no matter the suffering I couldn’t change the past or bring my little sister back from the grave.

“Next year I’m not going to find you in the bar again?”

I shake my head no. “Never again,” I whisper hoarsely.

A look of utter relief crossed his face. “Do you want a bath?”

I nod, too weak to do anything else.

He lifts me in his arms and carries me up the stairs to the tub.  He sits beside me as the tub fills with water. I don’t deserve his kindness, his gentleness.  I look into his green eyes and follow the lines etching his face.  I wonder why he was there for me. My stranger…  “I don’t even know your name.”  I whispered. I would have laughed if I wasn’t so tired, so broken inside.

“I’m Jacob.” It’s a strong name, a healthy name.

“Are you going to- can you- will you stay this time?”  I look away unable to meet his eyes.

“If you’re asking, I’m staying,” he says quietly. I drink in the sound of his gravelly voice.

I nod. “I’m asking.” I can barely hear myself and I wonder if he can even hear me.

“Then I am definitely staying,” he says fervently.

“Will you hold me?”  I wait, barely breathing.

Without hesitation he strips off his clothing and climbs into the tub with me.  He wraps his arms and legs around me and leans me back against his chest.

“You don’t even know my name.” I point out helplessly.

“There’s no hurry, you can tell me in the morning.”  He pushes the hot water across my skin.  His fingers trace the faint scars that mar me.  He knows each one intimately.  He remembers everything and everyone that ever touched my body. My witness, my stranger, my savior.

I want to cry all over again at the gentleness of his touch.  The only gentle touch I have ever known.  “Why are you always there for me?”  I was surprised that I had spoken aloud.

“If you tell me about Ami, I will tell you how my wife died.”  He kissed the top of my head.

I didn’t say her name out loud this night, but sometime in the past I must have.  I felt a sudden fierce ache for him and his loss.  For whatever inner pain drove him to do things he didn’t want to do.  Was I his penance?

“Ami was my little sister, and she was the sweetest thing.  She was fourteen, and I was supposed to be babysitting…”



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