Then surprise me

It took most of my life to see the woman who destroyed me for who she really was. Maybe someone thought it was an over-reaction to move away. I won't get into the prayer and testing that went into that decision over several months. It wasn't predicated on one thing, and I made it clear to God what I wanted, but He allowed doors to close and opened only one, so here I am. I will come across others like the one who hurt me in a deadly way, but facts like this show how important it is to seal those poisonous people off forever and never speak to them or come across them again. They are literally spiritual vampires. I believe the nature of our relationship and how it was ended was so poisonous, it was literally killing me to stay there. The funny thing is, I knew we were trauma bonding early on, even saying so. It felt good to leave that darkness behind, otherwise it would wear at me every day and constantly fatigue my immune system. 

If anyone was concerned about my health, the best explanation is here, and I can't elaborate without getting into my charts, which would greatly bore me. Just because I refused doctors' treatment doesn't mean I didn't seek a solution. I researched and saw much of heart disease is inflammation, which can be managed by controlling things like diet and stress, etc. Life is stressful, so focused on diet. The best diet for controlling inflammation is the carnivore diet. Can't expect it to reverse tissue damage, but it may slow the progress. In any case, I am not worried, as my eternity is already secure in Jesus, who I will meet sooner or later. I hope sooner. I have not let my issues impact my activities. I will not live life in a disabled way. If I drop dead, oh well. Gotta go sometime. Because I chased after something to my own hurt, I don't believe God has an obligation to save me from this situation, so just looking forward to going home. 

I recognize the last couple posts may have seemed harsh (the truth can come off that way), so to lighten the mood and cleanse the palette, how about some good, old-fashioned rape porn? Not actual rape, you sick fuck. It's come to my attention most women have a rape fetish, as in, the idea of rape turns them on. They ask their boyfriends/husbands/FWBs to rape them. You know: put this mask on and rail me. Sounds like we are going backward, fine feminists, but I shrug in your general direction. Still, I'm never one to screw around when it's time to ... screw, ahem, so, on with the raping and pillaging. Is this rage bait? Pretty sure if anyone is still reading here, they are a full-blown psycho anyway. Enjoy a perverse twist on a familiar theme. The villain arc continues. 

Disclaimer: this is for entertainment purposes only. The situation depicted is within a safe and loving relationship. I am not promoting rape. 

***

The first time you brought it up, I couldn't believe my ears. We were at a fancy restaurant downtown. The lights were dim, the music loud, and the service overbearing. Our booth allowed you to scoot in close. You leaned toward my shoulder, tipped your head to my ear, and told me, flat out, you wanted me to fuck you, but with a twist — you wanted me to rape you. My jaw dropped. Now, living with a hot woman, I endure my fair share of crazy. The hot ones are always crazy. But I never expected to hear those words from a college-educated, well-to-do Christian girl whose favorite fetish, to my knowledge, was sitting on my face. (Yeah, not the most sigma of positions.) She knew how much I enjoyed dominating her, but rape was extreme. Was she throwing me a bone? Or was this some sort of sick game where she would turn it around on me later, like, "WTF, you really want to rape your wife?"

I didn't think much about it until you mentioned it again. This time, it happened at a boozy get-together at a friend's. There were so many people packed in that house, we felt claustrophobic. But closeness with you is always hot. In stressful situations, surrounded by so many people, you shine, greeting everyone and remembering everyone's name like you're a politician. I fetched us more drinks and we stood in the corner, overheating, but happy to spend time together. I smile at the man who sells real estate as he tells me about the interest rates and bubbles, crashes, new neighborhoods being built, and the kind of people moving to town these days. A lull in the conversation allowed you to move in close, chest to chest, raise your chin to my ear, and say those intensely flattering words, "I can't wait to fuck when we get home," then, "I want you to rape me." I laughed it off the first time, but now it was no lark, no strange, obscene thought bubble that burst. Still, the thought that you were drinking ...  and didn't you say something about a new medication for anxiety? I will check the medicine cabinet when I get home and look up the side effects. 

But you didn't drop it at the party. On the way home, you asked if I ever thought about raping you. I said, "Honey, I can't rape you. You want it. By definition, rape is against your will." She said, "Then surprise me." But that still wouldn't be against her will. So what she was asking for was simulated rape. I had to look it up. Apparently, a lot of women have this fantasy. Held down. Against their will. Overpowered. Dominated. Struggling. Sweaty. Biting. Clawing. Animalistic. Have we grown so tired of the thrill of freewill that we now want to be sexual slaves? It's not enough to have whatever we want. Now we want what we don't want? What happened to women's lib and sexual liberation? It's all about choice, right? Now women are choosing rape? Women who have been raped described being turned on, even feeling guilty about it later. All of this made me feel ill, like I discovered my wife was an alien, a spy, a pervert, all in one. I felt distant from her. But why? Why do women, when they could have a safe, loving relationship and the security of a good man, choose toxicity? It must be a feeling they crave, but are there good feelings associated with rape? It made me wonder what my wife was up to before we were together. Maybe she wasn't the little angel I thought she was. I imagined drunken frat-party scenes, gang bangs, threesomes, back-alley blowjobs, bisexual escapades, and nudes on the internet until my stomach knotted. I was no prude, but suddenly I felt inadequate, which made me hot under the collar. 

My wife wasn't alone in her desire to be fucked against her will. Sixty-two percent is a high number when it comes to women desiring something as undesirable as rape. My thoughts went a thousand places over the next few days. What had I gotten myself into? Who was this woman? Was I the first one she asked to rape her? Did she see someone and think he was hot and then fantasized about him breaking in and ripping her clothes off, ravishing her like a beast? It stirred something chaotic and crazy in me. It made me sad, then mad. This was a part of herself she kept from me. This was a deep, dark secret she was withholding. It was then, in that dark place of thoughts and feelings that made no sense, I decided to rape my wife, just like she asked. 

I am a good guy. I go to church, teach my kids right from wrong, pay taxes, and sing the National Anthem. I like fireworks and lemonade in the summer, hot cocoa and football in the fall. This wasn't on my radar. If she really wanted this, we needed a plan. After sex one evening, I broached the topic. "We need a safe word," I said, "If you want me to rape you." It was such a beta thing to say, but she said, "Yes. How about taco? It has nothing to do with sex. No one says 'taco' by accident." Are you fucking kidding me? She already thought of the safe word. Everything was already planned in her mind. She continued, "You have to do it when I least expect it. Do it during my period. I would totally not expect it, since you hate period sex." I couldn't believe my ears. Who was this woman? The mother of my children planned her own rape. I felt like a hired dick. 

All I knew was I had to rape my wife. She was asking for it. How did I get into this? I should tell her I can't, but the anger generated by this strange, new situation was infectious. My beautiful, dutiful wife was suddenly a slutty stranger. I hated that she put me in this position. What other dark fantasies was she hiding? Had she done this before with another man? Could I even trust her anymore? My head was suddenly hot, my thoughts boiling. My heart pounded; I perspired. Waves of hate and nausea washed over me. It seemed plausible I could actually rape her. Just needed a plan. But not her plan. It had to be a surprise. 

The wheels started turning. I plotted, planned, schemed. Scrapped it all and went back to the drawing board. Fuck it. My wife knew me well enough she would suspect something if I planned it. It has to be spontaneous. So, on a random Friday evening, when I knew she would be home alone and I would be arriving late, I decided to rape my loving wife. Parking down the street, then creeping around the side of the house to the rear, I entered the door by the garage and pulled a ski mask over my face and gloves on my hands. It even felt illegal. This was legit. It was really happening. My heart was racing. My head hurt from the spike in blood pressure and weeks of overthinking. It was go-time. I slinked through the house, snapping off lights as I went. I found her — taking a shower in the guest bathroom — which was odd but gave me the advantage of an ambush. I stood quietly in the shadows of a bedroom off the hallway. A few minutes later, light shone as the bathroom door opened, then shut off as she made her way down the hall, where I waited. In my hands was a handkerchief, which I forced in her mouth and tied quickly at the back of her head, muffling her screams. She kicked and punched, but I held her fast against the wall. The terror in her eyes softened as she recognized mine commanding her to be still. By now, I had her hands tied in front, so turned her around and tore down her shorts. She wasn't wearing underwear and was still moist from the shower. I entered her from behind so hard it hurt us both. My right palm slid up the back of her neck, my hand making a circular motion in her hair until I had a fistful of it. Sometimes she would tell me to pull her hair during sex, so this part felt natural. Her face was against the wall. I could make out swear words and my name as she clenched hard on the handkerchief. Within seconds, it started to feel good as I rammed her roughly, never breaking character. Her swearing turned to moans and grunting as I goaded her with questions like, "This is what you want, huh?" and, "Do you remember asking for this?" All the rage from all the women who hurt me surfaced, took over, spilled out. I was afraid of myself. 

She didn't answer. When I turned her to face me, her eyes were glazed over. A perverse pleasure had taken hold. I took off the handkerchief. She sputtered, "I didn't think you would actually do it, you asshole." She glared at me hard, then practically spat out an invitation, asking, "What took you so long?" Which, of course, made me madder. I pulled her into our dark bedroom and continued to have my way with her, her arms still tied. I alternated between fucking her mouth and pussy. I figured a proper rape wouldn't be possible unless I fucked her ass too, but I have my limits. This isn't prison. This is my home. This is my wife. I have to look her in the eyes tomorrow over breakfast. So, I put her on her knees at the foot of the bed and destroyed the back of her throat until she repeatedly gagged, looked up at me, and begged for mercy as tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. Thatagirl. Throwing her on the bed again felt good, like she was a rag doll. I was on top of her immediately, my hands on the backs of her knees, pushing her legs back so it was hard for her to breathe. Her ankles bounced up and down on either side of her head, and her eyes were still wide. With every thrust, I could tell she was laboring to breathe, but she was fine. Don't worry, dear audience. Remember our safe word? Her tummy trembled every time I violently slammed into her. Her jaw seemed glued to her chest, then her head went back and a soft, broken moan left her throat. Any sign she was enjoying herself pissed me off, so I abruptly stopped, flipping her over. 

I pulled her hips to mine and destroyed her pussy too. I didn't care if she came; rapists don't give a shit. Pretty sure with all the noise coming from her, she did, but I freed myself from the desire to know. I was furiously pounding, sweat dripping from my brow in the darkness. It was strangely exciting to see her beneath me, a body in the darkness, her slim figure and hair moving against me, imagining her as a stranger I cruelly humbled. The only thing left was to finish. But it had to be humiliating, so I pulled out, put her on her knees again on the floor and unloaded on her face. The surprise on her face could be seen in the dim light as she gasped and sputtered, my cum splashing into her eyes, her open mouth, and down her bare chest. I had never done that before, but it felt good. I was drained. And she was stunned. The silence in the room broke when she said, "Next time, tell me to close my eyes," as she laughed, then,"Have you been eating pineapple?" fumbling on her way to the bathroom to wash her face. 

When she came back to the bedroom, I was on my back, nearly asleep. She climbed in close and put her head on my shoulder, looking up at me with freshly-washed face and a glow I had never seen. She enjoyed being raped. My darling wife. I don't understand her at all, but I knew it wasn't  the last time we did this. She whispered in my ear, "Do you know how hot that was?" I sighed. What had I done?