My Rapist Doesn’t Know He’s Not Raping Me…

I’ve been living on my own for a few years now, though my little house on a quiet, deserted street still bares reminders of when I used to be half of a couple. My wedding picture is still on the mantle, and none of the rooms in my house have been particularly girly-fied.

I’m stuck with this house though. Between the mortgage-plus-interest payment, and having to insure it for its rebuild cost, and property taxes that get higher every year that the local school district’s dropout numbers go up, I figure another 324 easy monthly payments, and it’s mine, all mine.

I’m white, and female, and I work for a living, which makes me a triple minority in my city. So property values are particularly horrible around here, making “white flight” something that’s not an option for me. It’s got me to thinking that there must really be something to that whole “once you go black” saying. I mean, based on the W.I.C. and A.D.C. stat’s around here, somebody clearly keeps mating with these dead-broke dads. And it ain’t because of their hot job prospects, or their ability to pass on to their offspring respect for law and order.

So it must be the dick. The big, black cocks. Does it taste like chocolate, or what? I was going to find out….

Did I mention that I haven’t had a dick in my mouth, or in my snatch, for that matter, in about 3 years? Who has time for dating? But there’s always Craig and his List, isn’t there? So I picked the bro with the biggest, blackest dick-pic, and sent him a Whazzzzzuuuuppp? And he was interested enough to send me a one-word reply: Pix?

Now, I’m not a young hottie. But I figured, what a great way to quickly weed out all the guys who don’t find me attractive. I’d figure out how to use the camera on my iPhone, and how to get the pictures from the phone to the computer, and then, from then on, just start attaching the pictures to every ad I answer. Surely if I sent it to say, 100 black guys, one of them might be drunk enough or desperate enough to at least let me give him a blowjob, right? My feelings might take a hit, from the other 99 rejections, but I’d get over it.

Turns out, I had nothing to worry about. That very first guy suddenly became very, very interested. Evidently, my old iPhone takes such great photos, that it makes my ass look like Kate Winslet’s—a little on the big side, but not horribly ugly. And it turns out, that in some cultures, a “big bootied shorty” is actually rewarded for skipping the gym and scarfing down Ben and Jerry’s. Also, that thing about white women lusting after black dick? It turns out, that also works the other way around.

So the guy, whose name I didn’t know, and still don’t, so let’s call him Mr. Big Black Rapist, he wants to come over. And I want to let him. Do I live alone? He asks…

Now, call me a racist, if you must. But I really don’t want a black stranger to know that I live alone. I want him to come over ONCE; maybe even once in a while. But I always want him to do so with the knowledge that he has to leave. Soon. So the lie I tell him is easy to think of, because it used to be true.

I tell Mr. Rapist that I live with my husband. But that he works late every Friday, and always calls when he’s leaving work, to ask me what I want him to bring home for a late supper, so I don’t have to cook. “Today is Friday” he points out, correctly. So, against my better judgment, I gave him my address, telling him I’d be home at 6 o’clock and that my husband never comes home before 7 o’clock on Friday. Then I spend the rest of my workday at the shop trying to figure out how to assign my husband’s old ringtone to the phone’s timer, and set it to go off at 7 o’clock, so I can fake taking a call and get rid of this dude. I figure an hour is the most I want to devote to this endeavor. I stare at his dick-pic some more, and realize that whether I love it or hate it, anything more than an hour with that thing in my body will make it so that I either can’t chew, or can’t walk, or both, all day Saturday. “The shop is closed until Monday, because I’m sitting here in this pillow, gumming some apple sauce.” …is a message I don’t want to have to record on my business’s voicemail.

I got home a little ahead of time and spent an hour in the bathroom getting ready for this date that wasn’t a date. Shaved, perfumed, and just before 6 o’clock, powdered my nose. Oh, and I also had the forethought to dig through the dresser drawer and find my old wedding ring, sliding it onto my finger. Then I put on a pair of heels, and my husband’s old but rarely worn London Fog overcoat. And nothing more. See? I’m no spring chicken, but I know the difference between a date and what kids today call a “hook-up”.

Like a white guy to a job interview, Mr. Rapist arrived right on time. Came right in, made himself right at home on the couch, and unzipped. His cock was twice as big soft as my husband’s had ever been hard. Twice as thick, twice as long, and growing, just from watching me slowly undo the belt of the overcoat, and even more slowly slip it off my shoulders and letting it drop in a puddle at my feet, somehow managing to step over it in those ridiculous heels without taking a dive.

I sank to my knees between his legs, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and took it into my mouth. My head instantly reeled with the shame of so willingly taking the penis of a black man into my mouth. Shame from realizing that my mouth had literally been producing drool in anticipation of this humiliating act. And more shame from realizing that it wasn’t the only orifice on my body to do so.

I sucked hard, slowly gliding my head up and down, surprised to find that I could fit almost half of the monster cock in my mouth. The slightest moan escaped from his lips, though I sensed that he’d tried to suppress it. I took the moan as a compliment, which I might have been a little starved for. He’d been so complimentary in the E-mails, yet hadn’t said a word upon arrival.

I sensed his arm out-of-place, and opened my eyes and looked up. Did he have his phone in his hand? Was he really texting someone while I was sucking his cock? “Are you really texting someone while I’m sucking your cock?”

“Naw baby! I’m just putting it on ‘airplane mode’ so we won’t be disturbed. You just keep suckin’, Bitch.”

Bitch? Really? He slid the phone back into his pocket, and used the hand to instead push my head back down on his cock. But it was different now. Using both hands, he wouldn’t let me reverse at the half-way point like I had been doing. And from there, he pushed down hard. While I used both of my hands to push away.

Turns out, he was stronger than me. And I gagged. And the instant I gagged, I lost all my strength, and the cock went all the way into my mouth, and into my neck. He mashed my head down farther, grinding my lips and nose into his pubic hair, which was as scratchy and abrasive as steel wool. I found I was able to exhale through my nose, but when I tried to inhale, the vacuum pressure sealed my windpipe tight around his cock. He relaxed his grip on my head, but now, because my lungs were desperately fighting to suck in air, I needed to use the same pushing motion of my arms just to pull my head off his cock!

His cockhead popped out of my throat like a cork from a Champaign bottle, because it had been lodged in there just as tightly. He let me pull my mouth completely off his cock, I’m guessing because my teeth must have scraped it quite a bit during the ordeal. I wasn’t trying to, but I felt like I was fighting for my life for a moment there, and the last thing I was worried about was his comfort.

But he still had his grip on my hair. “Muh dick needs a break, Bitch. Why don’t you suck on dees nuts for a while.” And with that, he mashed my face against his balls, twisting my hair painfully until I opened my mouth and sucked.

They were sweaty. And unshaven. And smelly. Unclean. But I was cleaning them. Giving them a tongue-bath, something that had never occurred to me to do with my husband, and that it had never occurred to him to ask me to do. And if he had, I would have thought that the idea was too degrading to even consider seriously.

And STILL, my pussy had not stopped drooling. “Harder” he said, as I sucked the big hairy balls clean, taking each one into my mouth and racing my tongue all around it before releasing it and sucking in the other one. Each one was a mouthful, and I couldn’t help picturing the sheer volume of semen that must be contained within them.

He was jacking his cock hard now, and I began to worry that he was going to spray that cum all over my face and hair, dousing me with a bucketful of the disgusting fluid.

It was starting to look like my poor pussy wasn’t going to be breaking its losing streak tonight after all. Suddenly, he pulled my face from his balls, and mashed his throbbing cockhead to my lips, which I kept tightly pressed together, for a moment anyway. “Open” he said, jacking his cock furiously with one hand, while holding my hair with the other. I shook my head “no”, and his eyes grew huge and angry. “OPEN!” He screamed, pulling his hand from his cock for a moment, and making a threatening fist. “OPEN, YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT!”

I opened.

He forced several thick inches of it inside my mouth, but left himself room on the shaft to resume his masturbation, harder than ever. “NOW SUCK, BITCH!”

I sucked.

He exploded. Burst after burst of hot cum catapulted into my mouth, filling it up completely, until some began leaking from the stretched corners of my lips.

We hadn’t discussed whether I would allow him to cum in my mouth. In my day, some girls did, and some girls didn’t. But the guy at least had to ask. Evidently, times have changed. We also hadn’t discussed whether I’d swallow it if he did cum there.

I waited for him to release my hair. And to let me pull away. But he didn’t. “Swallow.” He said. Again, I shook my head no, which now caused his cockhead to “stir” the cocktail of cum and saliva that my overfilled mouth barely contained. And again, I saw his eyes widen, and his fist pull back and clench menacingly.

I closed my eyes, and swallowed. Once, twice, thrice, four times. And after he pulled out, a fifth time, to keep from throwing up. He tilted my head upward, toward the light, and again said “open”. He looked inside my mouth, all around. And I realized he was inspecting me there, like you might a Golden Retriever to see if she had swallowed her heartworm pill. And as if to confirm that ignoble thought, he announced “Good Girl.”

He stood up, and helped me up. Then sat me down on the couch, and asked “You OK, Bitch?”

I nodded. He pulled some Subway napkins out of his pocket, and handed me one. “You done great sucking the cum outta me, n offa me, but I still gotta wipe you spit off da shaft. These my lucky underwear, and I don’ wanna git ‘em all icky.”

“Look, I know I was a lil’bit rough wit chu, baby. But that because you so sexy an fine! I could-n controw ma shit!

He tossed the soiled napkin onto the coffee table, next to my iPhone. “Look” he added, reaching into another pocket. “Here 20 dolla. Buy youself sompin, sompin jus fo you. A sexy bathin’ suit or sompin.” He slapped the wadded bill onto the coffee table. “There more where dat come from. Maybe I see you nes Friday, if I gots time. OK?”

I nodded. Knowing that that wasn’t going to happen. Knowing I was going to delete the throwaway CraigsList account the minute Mr. Rapist was out the door. I was pretty sure I’d gotten my fill of black cock, and then some. It would probably be a while before I wanted ANY dicks shoved in my face again, let alone a big black one.

And thankfully, before the conversation could get even more awkward, my iPhone sang “Who’s your Daddy! Who’s your Baby? Who’s your Buddy? Who’s your Man?” My husband calling, from beyond the grave, to rescue me, just a little too late. I lunged for the phone. 7 o’clock. I’d been having my face fucked for pretty much a whole hour.

“Shh.” I gestured to Mr. Rapist, my finger to my lips, as I put the phone to my ear. “Hey Babe! Yeah, Chipotle sounds good. Chicken, white rice. We’ve got wine. OK, see you in a few. Love you too! Bye.”

I guided Mr. Rapist toward the door, actually pushing him to hurry him up. And he submitted to the pushing. This time, it was his strength that was drained, and mine that was coming back to me. He was pushing at the door from the outside, while I was pushing it shut on him. “I be in touch nes week!” he stammered, and watched me nod one last time, just before the door latched, and the satisfying CLUNK of the deadbolt hitting home echoed into the darkness as I flicked the porch light off.

That last nod was a lie. I made a beeline to the computer to delete the account. But the previous nod, when he asked me if I was OK, right after he’d raped me? I was telling the truth. I was OK. I would be OK. There would be no grieving, no meltdown, no PTSD, and no therapy. And it wouldn’t be YEARS before I could look back on this and laugh. It would be a day or two. As soon as my mouth quit being swollen and sore. Because I’m not a teenaged blonde, not anymore. I knew the risks. I even knew the statistics on black crime. I knew there wasn’t just a passing chance that I could get myself raped by doing this. There was a serious chance. And if it happened, I knew it would be the type of rape that you couldn’t report. That there’d be no justice. That I would not be avenged. I cry rape; he says “Kindly look at these E-mails, Mr. Police Officer sir.” And this time, he’s suddenly speaking perfect English, and not Ebonics.

Case closed. Case dismissed. And the only thing to come from it is that I’m exposed for the lonely, cock-craving fool that I was guilty of being. So I had already known, in advance, that if it happened, I’d be ready to move on. It’s the promise that you have to make yourself before you put yourself in this position.

A part of me thought that even if I did get raped, I might enjoy it, at least a little. I mean, 3 years without any cock? If he’d have accidently rubbed his leg against my pussy while he was forcing me to suck his balls, I’d have probably had an orgasm. Seriously, I think that the only way that even a rapist could have avoided making me cum that night was by completely ignoring my vagina. Which he did.

He didn’t hurt me, really. And of course, he didn’t kill me. But I had known that he wouldn’t. And that’s a luxury many rape victims don’t have. I was lucky. The “she was askin’ for it” defense goes right out the window, if I would have shown up at the ER, black and blue and bloody all over, with broken bones and his skin under all my fingernails. And if I’d have ended up dead, everybody in my inbox would have needed to clear themselves with a quick DNA sample. So he couldn’t really hurt me, and we both knew it.

Still, I was on an apple sauce diet the next day, and it took a half a bottle of Scope to fully rinse the bitter taste of “diversity” out of my mouth. And it took even less effort to hit “Delete” on my computer, and delete Mr. Rapist from my life entirely, and forever…

Or at least until the next Friday. At 6 PM. Not having thought of him all week, I didn’t give a second thought to opening the door in answer to a friendly knock. He forced his way past me, after pushing a huge bouquet of flowers to my chest. He sashayed over to the couch, sat down, unzipped, and pulled his cock out, almost before I could say “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”

“GET OUT! I’M CALLING THE POLICE.” Where the fucking fuck had I set my phone down?

“No, Baby, please. You don’ wanna do that! I’d have ta esplain to ‘em that we was jus having a little lover’s spat. I’d be showin’ ‘em the E-may’s I saved. I’d tell ‘em how much fun we had, on our lil’ date las week. Or maybe I tell ‘em you a ho, and I paid you for that head job you gave me las week. I wroted down the serial digits. Gots it ri-here, in muh pockit. You still got dat twenny? In yo purse, or in dat little piggy-bank over dere?”

“I SPENT it, you bastard. And it didn’t quite buy me a whole bikini, by the way.”

“Did it buy ya a halfa one? Cuz I always wanned to see a ho model a once-piece bikini fo me!”

“The money’s gone. And the E-mails are gone, from my computer. And so is the account. Completely erased, like I never had it.” THERE’S my phone. I lunge for it, and dial, while speaking the numbers out loud “NINE-ONE-ONE. Do you want me to hit ‘send’?”

“You do what you gotta do, Baby. But I’ll still be here, and so will they, when yo husban get home. Mos they gonna do, once dey finish writin’ they repote, is ax my black ass to leave. Then YOU gots to esplain why they was a black muthafukka on you couch, hopin’ to get his dick sucked. Again. Jes like las week.” Then he pulled his phone out. And showed me the video. That he took last week, when I thought he was texting. The video of me, pulling my face off his cock, opening my eyes, and asking ““Are you really texting someone while I’m sucking your cock?”

“Now, maybe I make a Hi-Def DVD of dis, and slip it unner yo door, while you be at work, and yo huspin be at home. Or maybe I figgure out where he work, and I mail it to his boss. Or I figgure out where y’all work, and mail it to you boss.”

“Or maybe, jes maybe, we keeps it a secret, jes between you and me, how much you love suckin’ on the ole Big Black Dicks. How ‘bout dat? And how’s about to shows me a little ‘preciation for keepin’ it down-low, you come ova here and suck dis cock s’mo! You don’t gotta suck it as hard, or as deep, or as long dis time. Cuz dis time, I be gonna blow deez nuts deeper in yo white cunt than anybody’s eva been!”

Now, here’s the thing: He was sitting there, so cocky. So, so, cocky, and cocksure. And I’m smiling. Because I knew he didn’t have jack shit to blackmail me with. My husband is literally NEVER home. And he doesn’t have a job, so he doesn’t have a boss. AND, he’s dead.

And I don’t have a boss either. I have a tiny little shop, of which I am the owner, and the sole employee. And he could play that DVD, on the TV in my shop, and it would be a week before anybody even noticed it, and even then, nobody would give a shit. He thought he had a straight flush, but all he had was a big pair.

Oh, and another thing: My shop? It’s a FLOWER shop. And these flowers that he just handed me? Pathetic. Probably under $10, at Kroger. VERY unimpressive. Well, except in the sense that it really is the thought that counts, even under conditions such as these. It proves that although he may be an evil rapist and blackmailer, he’s still probably not all that bad of a guy, on some days, and in some ways. See, girls really do love to get flowers. And they tend to over-forgive the men that buy them. My very livelihood depends on it.

Still one more thing: He was smiling too. Smiling back at me. Because he didn’t know that I wasn’t smiling at him; that I was smiling because I knew that something that he did not know. And smiling because I knew that he did not know what I knew.

And just one more goddamned thing: My mouth was watering. Again. And my pussy was leaking. Again. And I decided that I just didn’t have it in me today to break the news to him that I was blackmail-proof. So instead, I stripped, and dropped to my knees between his legs, and serviced him with my mouth. And this time, there was no violence, until he shoved me away, onto my back, and very violently rammed his cock all the way up my pussy, fucking me like he was trying to kill me with it.

Initially, I screamed. But I quickly realized that that’s a form of violence that I can live with. In fact, it might just be a form of violence that I absolutely cannot live without.

By the time he came inside of me, I was retarded.

I could not speak. I could not move, except for twitching, trembling, and quivering. Doing a quick self-diagnosis, I could not rule out having had a stroke, or a brain aneurism. But as my breathing slowly went from “person involved in a gorilla attack” back to “normal suburban homeowner”, I began to realize that all that was wrong with me, is that I had cum TOO hard. Over the course of MULTIPLE orgasms, which until that moment, I had sincerely believe were a myth, propagated by the porn industry, and believed only by women who had never actually known a single orgasm.

He was off of me and zipped, offering to help me up, but I shook my head and waved him off, knowing that it would be a little while before the concept of standing up was anything short of laughable. And then I did actually laugh, out loud, and hysterically, for no apparent reason, like a crazy woman.

“Does you wan me to git you anythin’, a towel or sumpin’?”

“No. Just Go.” I managed to stammer. And he did. And shortly thereafter, I wished I had made him get me a towel. I was completely covered with sweat, and I didn’t know what percentage of it was my own. And I knew that when I stood upright, like, a gallon of disgusting white goo was gonna leak out of my no-longer-tight, forever-stretched cunt, and onto my carpet, and create a crunchy stain that would make the guys from Stanley Steamer refuse to honor their “Any room, $39.99” offer.

At the doorway, he offered “See ya next week. There’s one more hole I wanna get myself into.”

What? What hole? What “one more hole”? My earhole? My belly-button? Or did he mean, could he mean, could he possibly have meant, my BUTT hole? RIDICULUOUS, right? He might just as well have meant “the hole that the shoelaces in your tennis shoes go through.”

So obviously, I’m not going to answer the door next Friday. Better yet, not gonna be here at all. Can’t risk anal rape, from a huge cock, right? That’s crazy!

I mean, every girl likes the THOUGHT of being raped. The thrill of uncontrolled sexual violence. Nobody wants to fall down a mountainside, but millions of people every year opt for the slightly more controlled plunge down a roller coaster. Lately, VR glasses have been bred with some roller coasters, to make the controlled plunge seem less controlled, and more like falling down a mountainside.

The difference between rape and anal rape, is the tale of two roller coasters. One that’s metal, and gentle, and padded, and fun, and goes WOOSH! The other is wood, and rickety, and jerky, and goes CLACK! BANG! SCREETCH!, and actually hurts you, a little bit. But is also fun.

And you know that the smooth metal coaster is a longer ride than the bouncy wooden coaster, but you swear that the wooden one was much, much longer. And the next day, you’re sore all over, and you know which ride is to blame for your soreness. But still, you had fun. And next time at the park, you know you’ll ride both coasters again.

So yeah, I will be here next Friday, and I will open the door. It’s only for an hour; how bad could it be? Besides, in a way, I have a “safeword”, even though my rapist doesn’t know it. I could blurt out to him, any time, that his blackmail video is worthless, that I’m not married, and that I don’t have a boss. That MIGHT make him stop and reconsider. [Of course, using that tactic also poses some risk to me: he’d know my husband isn’t coming home within the hour, and might decide to stay and rape my ass all night!]

I feel like I should add a jumbo tub of Vaseline to this week’s shopping list…

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