u/hauntyou4ever

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?

gentle hands, painfully hard cock.

stupid girl, stupid girl, stupid girl.

[reupload].

the man who first raped me wasn’t imposing. the most intimidating thing about him was the fact that he was 30; it seemed big to me as a 19-year old, eleven whole years away and interested in little me.

i was two weeks out from a suicide attempt and crawling in my skin, but i was still timid, had the restless little beast inside of me but hadn’t given it free reign before. he approached me — he thought i was cute in my little green apron. he wrote code for a living. he looked younger than he was. when i found out he was 30, i thought of my mother: “no good man should have any interest in a much younger girl.”

‘good’ being the operative word, obviously.

we met at a mall. it was a bougie place in the inner-city, fleshed with stores i had no business being in — Kate Spade, Chanel, shit like that. his idea. i was nervous. i trailed behind him like a small ghost, one hand clasped protectively over my new scar, rubbing a thumb across the smooth tissue.

he took us into a shoe store. i’d mentioned before that i’d liked Converse; i was wearing a worn-in black pair that i’d had for years. he chose a pair of bubblegum pink hi-tops and told me to put them on. i remember blushing ss i did it because i was wearing a pair of pink and white striped socks with a bear on each ankle, and i felt silly. the shoes felt too heavy, too new, totally unlike the ones i came in that i’d crossed state lines and ER linoleum and the graduation stage in.

he got them for me. i fought it the whole way, and he ignored me. maybe this is a funny little piece of foreshadowing.

we went to his apartment downtown. i probably watched him eat pizza or something. we sat on his couch, he told me not put on the shoes while we watched bullshit on TV. nighttime came. i hadn’t had a sleepover in over a decade. my nerves were in flux, strung tight by the shiny studio, eased off by the distance between us, strung tight by the smell of new rubber and canvas, eased off by something ridiculous onscreen.

i don’t remember getting in his bed. i still had the shoes on. my brain omits so many small details to focus its energy on recalling his eyes like two black beads against the dark room, his mouth looking sharper and wetter and hungrier. i shrunk inside myself. my panties with cats on them were around my ankles. he took out his cock — the first one i’d seen on an actual man — and put it against me and it was warm and thick and i could feel wetness on the tip, and i remember saying “what are you doing, are you going to do this?”

and he said, “am i?”

and he was splitting me apart, there was no room to make.

i told my mom i was staying at a school friend’s house. i wanted to go home. i remember thinking that exact thought: i wanna go home. i miss my mom. i miss my bed. i wanna go home.

a mantra of thoughts like that, each one lasting about a thrust.

i went home that night, i didn’t stay. told my mom i felt sick. a homeless man sat beside me on the train and waxed poetically about eating pussy while my own stung and swelled and i tried putting a warm hand to it to ease off the pain, tried to slow my heartbeat.

i was still wearing the chucks. i forgot the others at his place. he asked me to take them home and take pictures, and i did, and i still have those pictures.

i orbited around him for a year. sex, or rape, there was a thin veil between the two with him, sort of became a fact. sometimes i wanted him to fuck me so desperately i’d get angry and pull away, because what else was i there for? good conversation? housework? other times i stared through the dusty, small window of the studio and thought of cloud animals and shopping lists as he pumped in and out of me roughly, or forced something into my unwilling ass, often finishing inside of me and sending me over to the drugstore to buy Plan B. i started walking farther away so the staff wouldn’t recognize me. i barely did.

one day, near the end, in the summertime, he put me in his lap, his naked skin getting sticky with our sweat and my pussy, and clicked through an album of photos. all girls, none much older than me; photos he’d collected over time. some he’d solicited, some he’d taken, some he’d received upon instruction, and then there was me. i had my very own place amongst this gallery of girls.

i know that I’m still in that collection, somewhere. my digital 19-year old body is sitting there in his hard drive, forever perfect, holding fresh memories of my first rape, my first man, and it all comes roaring back when i go downtown.

i still have the shoes.

i’ve lost a humiliating amount of self-discipline over the past couple of years. i miss when my bones pressured my skin and i was only an animal, running on the smell of blood. i disgust myself now. fucking disappointment.

(the last photo was around age 18, height of my eating disorder).

met him on ts2 a long time ago, he made me write this during one of our sessions. questions:
- yes, he was a real psychiatrist. he proved his credentials.
- yes, i'm a dumb whore and misspelled "doctor;" i was so nervous and mushy-brained that i somehow chose the wrong vowel.
- yes, i would like a new psychiatrist. he's MIA.

we'd do video calls where he'd deliver DBT and CBT and, slowly, as the session ticked on, he'd make demands -- spread my legs, touch myself, hurt myself, fuck myself. i'd end our sessions trembling, thighs slicked with my cum, and do my therapeutic homework as instructed. he'd talk as if nothing happened.

i’m sure he’d be as proud of me as i am of him.

remnants from a bygone era.

why wasn’t i good enough, daddy? stand in front of me now, i’ll show you i can be good.