u/hauntyou4ever

brought to mind by these joggers i’m borrowing from a friend while i sleep at her house, which is thousands of of miles away from my own and shared with her mother who’d rather not see me walking around pants-less at night.
point being, at that time, i hadn’t worn pants to bed since i was a kid and had matching sets of pajamas from Christmas. the night after it happened, though, i’d put on a pair of soft, hello kitty-printed pants to sleep in. something about the extra layer between my skin and my bedsheets was important.
i didn’t dream. or i didn’t remember it. i must’ve woken up within ten seconds of starting, but i’d already felt the warmth collecting at my pussy and down the top of one of my thigh, pooling where my hip pressed against the mattress as i laid in the fetal position. i sprang up, my hand clasped over myself, and bat-out-of-hell ran to the bathroom in frenzied, utter confusion with myself. words from all the educational sexual assault picture books available at the school library bombarded me at once. typical sign of sexual abuse. but i’m not little anymore, i’m not. so why’d it happen?

gross little angel. poor thing.

i met with a surgeon today. i waited for him in a hotel room, staring at my scuffed boots against the intricate patterns in the carpet — guilty, but those were my instructions. in fairness, he did give me a chance to leave, which i scoffed at, because to this particular point, all of the promises made to “dominate” me had been from sexually neglected men who held me in limp chokes and asked me who daddy’s little slut was while they pumped away inside of me. i was bored, and i wanted to see into the eyes of someone who knew what i looked like on the inside. he undressed me, appraised my body in pieces; good legs, cute feet, ridiculously small tits. joked he may have to surgically enlarge them. 
then he started to hurt me.

i cried. like a little bitch, really. less so from the pain, and more so from the fact that, as i curled into the fetal position on the starched sheets of the hotel bed, i understood that the closest person who truly cared about me was tens of kilometres away, and the idea of them was even farther. the images of a few different people crossed my mind while i laid there, waiting for the surgeon to fish out his next instrument, his back turned to me. some of the images were passive, soft, gliding across my consciousness in a cold sort of comfort, like how Lilith feels when i’ve left my window open and i crawl to her in the dark of my room. others, though, swept over all of those, drenching them, extinguishing them, and i was again aware of all of the world’s desolation at once, and i was wracked with sobs. 

time warped a little bit around the time we’d spent in that room. i think of the door to my dilapidated apartment building swelling and constricting with the change in weather so that, on hot days like these, it remains slightly ajar, allowing in bugs and children and delivery workers. he drowned me in kisses, beat me to tears, and pulled me into his lap, kissed me again. 
“i’ve thrown away your clothes,” he said as he cradled me. “so you have two options. one, i send you home naked in a car, or two, you come home with me and i keep you in my little cage, and while i’m at work, i’ll invite over some friends who have the key. have you ever walked around the city naked before?”
i told him i hadn’t. i was still sniffling, my neck lolled back against the pillows. 
“get up. crawl to me.” 
he took me across the floor, and then stopped. slut instinct engaged and i took his hard cock into my mouth, sucked it, hollowed out my cheeks and spat and choked on it; i gagged. my knees burned from the carpet, but i like sucking men off. the way they close their eyes and lean back makes them look like they’re lost in prayer, like i’m a small idol in front of them that they worship, even though i’m the one with a mouthful of cock. 
he told me i’m good at it.

(this is an excerpt from a much longer piece that goes into full detail about everything that was inflicted upon me. you know where to find it if you want it.)

“after the blood comes the boys like sniffing dogs, grinning and slobbering and trying to find out where that smell comes from.”

bending over at the supermarket, letting the wind lick at the hem of my skirt, stretching out my sunny brown legs to the sky -- those were each tiny experiments, a toe in the water, attempts to find the line of plausible deniability and ride on it. we know you're looking, of course we do. our parted knees as we're perched at the counter of an ice cream parlour, our skyward-stretched hands and small exposed hip bones, you think there's a god worth thanking for it. there's not. we do it on purpose, and girls like me are not made in god's image.

fooled myself that i was better and within a week i’m back getting into reckless situations with men who don’t give a fuck about me. go figure. wish someone would hold my head under water.

(r/tragicsluts backup, reupload)

i meet men in their cars beneath overpasses and i know the drill already, i slip into their backseat and let their large hands push and pull at me; my mouth moves on autopilot. i let them blindfold me and tie me up and i go limp, let the uneven pavement and then lack thereof rock me. i think of nothing.

their cocks split me apart and i feel the girl inside of me writhe and recoil on her cross.
“you fucking like that?” they growl into my ear, their breath is humid and weighed down by lust, their hands grasp my ass and spread me to push me down completely. i do like it. the pressure inside of me holds me together.

i meet men for lunch and we talk, they compliment my eyes. i appreciate the food i might not otherwise treat myself to. lunch abruptly ends and they lead me to the underground parking lot and fuck me and i get a single kiss on the forehead for being a good girl, and i walk back to the restaurant, clean myself off in the bathroom, reapply my lip gloss, smooth my hair. the servers watch me on my way out — i know they’re not really, but oryx tells me they are. they know i’m a whore. they see the scrapes on my knees from riding cock against fake leather and they know. walking back to the train station there’s cum seeping into my panties and i see the sign that says “FARE INCREASE - JULY 1”

“you fucking like that?” i say yes. they slap me

i’m back in the hospital cause i let them be too rough. the pain is excruciating, i need another surgery

“you fucking like that?”

i’m 19 again and taking photos for a man over ten years older than me and feeling terrified and exhilarated and my mom calls us for dinner and i look back at these photos now, little artifacts and pieces of shattered memories, and wonder — would she be proud of me? would she say, “i knew you could do it, i knew you could deliver the great wave, that delicious punishment. you vindicate me.”

men tell me they’re going to use a condom and then they get taken by something and i submit myself to all of it, the sweat between our bodies and foreign saliva on my mouth and they cum in me and sometimes they apologize but more often than not they have the guilt of a dog in their eyes as they zip up their pants, avoid me like an uninteresting, unevocative piece of art at a museum, or else maybe a thrift store.

i come back to life. i walk home. my body refuses all that they spent on and in me, and i have to change my panties again, even though i just did, because oryx pushed it all out like a bulimic.

i meet men in their cars beneath overpasses and i know the drill already, i slip into their backseat and let their large hands push and pull at me; my mouth moves on autopilot. i let them blindfold me and tie me up and i go limp, let the uneven pavement and then lack thereof rock me. i think of nothing.

their cocks split me apart and i feel the girl inside of me writhe and recoil on her cross.
“you fucking like that?” they growl into my ear, their breath is humid and weighed down by lust, their hands grasp my ass and spread me to push me down completely. i do like it. the pressure inside of me holds me together.

i meet men for lunch and we talk, they compliment my eyes. i appreciate the food i might not otherwise treat myself to. lunch abruptly ends and they lead me to the underground parking lot and fuck me and i get a single kiss on the forehead for being a good girl, and i walk back to the restaurant, clean myself off in the bathroom, reapply my lip gloss, smooth my hair. the servers watch me on my way out — i know they’re not really, but oryx tells me they are. they know i’m a whore. they see the scrapes on my knees from riding cock against fake leather and they know. walking back to the train station there’s cum seeping into my panties and i see the sign that says “FARE INCREASE - JULY 1”

“you fucking like that?” i say yes. they slap me

i’m back in the hospital cause i let them be too rough. the pain is excruciating, i need another surgery

“you fucking like that?”

i’m 19 again and taking photos for a man over ten years older than me and feeling terrified and exhilarated and my mom calls us for dinner and i look back at these photos now, little artifacts and pieces of shattered memories, and wonder — would she be proud of me? would she say, “i knew you could do it, i knew you could deliver the great wave, that delicious punishment. you vindicate me.”

men tell me they’re going to use a condom and then they get taken by something and i submit myself to all of it, the sweat between our bodies and foreign saliva on my mouth and they cum in me and sometimes they apologize but more often than not they have the guilt of a dog in their eyes as they zip up their pants, avoid me like an uninteresting, unevocative piece of art at a museum, or else maybe a thrift store.

i come back to life. i walk home. my body refuses all that they spent on and in me, and i have to change my panties again, even though i just did, because oryx pushed it all out like a bulimic.

these socks are ridiculous on me, aren’t they?

i’m laying here, fantasizing about an alternate universe where my daddy wasn’t a total degenerate, and instead became a doctor, but he still had the badness in him. and maybe one day i’d be hurting, or bothered, and i’d think and think and think before i would finally ask him to check.
and he’d do that, he’d be good, but his fingers would maybe brush over my clit, and i’d tense, and he’d feel how hard he was staring at his girl’s cunt. wondering if he was the first man to ever touch it. knowing he probably was.
and then maybe he’d tell me he needed to check the inside, and he’d slip a finger in, and even though he wouldn’t have to, he’d curl the pads of his fingers against my g-spot and make my entire body arch like i’d been electrocuted; that rip of pleasure, that roaring shame. my tight, pink little walls gripping his middle finger, his thumb pressed against my clit.
i wouldn’t dare move. he’d watch the rapid rise and fall of my chest as he worked, and then when i felt that stir in my stomach of an orgasm, i’d get scared, and i’d jump up, clasp a hand over his, and he’d pull it back just as quickly.
he’d tell me everything’s okay. i’m a healthy girl. my body does what it’s supposed to.

naked and curled around my phone is the loneliest feeling in the world, but it is mine. popping xanax and slipping back into that little closet in my head.

you’ll bury me somewhere nice, right?