Beyond Sweet Sixteen It all began when I was sixteen. "Sweet Sixteen" my grandpa said. I was pretty-much prettier than I thought I was. Sad girls don't know until it's too late. Tall, very curvy, nice, I guess. Long legs, 36 C, 35 inch hips, tiny waist. My hair was long then, blond. I had never had a lover-never so much as a boyfriend. I look back now and realize the boys were interested, I was just aloof. They mistook my shyness for snobbishness. My family had done it up right-big party, caterers, decorators. They'd kept me in my room for most of the day so I couldn't see the things being delivered. I was so excited! Crouching down, ear to my door, listening, trying to get some clue. And then it happened-the phone rang. My grandpa had suffered a heart attack. My parents had to leave, and that left me alone. They reassured me, it was a minor attack, Gramps would be fine. But they had to go for a short time, and I would have to take delivery of the things still to come. I was to stay OUT of the den, and was not to open ANYTHING that came. I agreed. The doorbell rang maybe ten minutes after my parents left. I went to the door, peeked out just as I was supposed to. Delivery truck, huge box. I opened the door, waved the man in. He was in his early 20s, maybe, dark hair, dark eyes, tall, built. Very handsome, I thought. He smiled, flirted as he brought the box in, set it down. Pulling out a clipboard, he fumbled, asked me for a pen. I turned, walked toward my father's desk, and he was on me. I didn't even understand what was happening-one second I was walking, the next I was tumbling to the hard wood floor, his weight bearing me down, covering me. I tried to cry out but his hand clamped over my mouth in a flash, silencing me. I still didn't understand-was he going to kidnap me? Why? Yanking my head back, he covered my mouth with strapping tape, wrapped it around and around my head as I fought. Then his knee in my back, my hands jerked roughly behind me, taped together, wrist to elbow. As he finished winding the tape around my arms, he leaned into me and I felt it. His erection, huge, rock solid, poking into my back. And I knew. Oh, dear God, I knew. I was a virgin, but I understood what that mean, I knew what rape was. Writhing, thrashing about, I struggled to get my knees under me. Laughing, he stood, dragged me by the hair to the corner where my dad's golf bag stood. Grabbing a club, he threw me to the floor, sat on my back, and began taping my legs, spread wide, to it. I fought wildly, frenzied, but I just couldn't evade his grasp, couldn't keep him from splaying my legs with the makeshift spreader. My legs tied, spread, he flipped me onto my back, onto my arms, and began to undress me. I tried to scoot back, away, but he pressed down on the club holding my legs, trapped me. One button at a time, he opened my blouse, laughing, excited by my squirming. My breasts bare, he reached slowly toward them-then balled his fist and punched hard. First my right, then my left, bruising, hurting me. I squealed behind the tape, making him laugh all the harder. Moving down, he hiked my skirt, tugged, then tore at my white cotton panties. I was helpless, I cried, moaned in horror as he shredded them, then began harshly rubbing my slit. One finger, then two, ripping, tearing at my virgin pussy. I began screaming, muffled, my hips bucking, trying to spare my hymen. But he was hateful, relentless. I began to bleed, felt it running from me. Leaning back, he unzipped his pants, and his giant cock sprang forth. I'd seen penises before, pictures. But none like this-it was huge, horrifyingly thick, purple. It looked alive. My screaming was continuous now, as I struggled in vain to escape the rape I knew was coming. Lifting the bar with one hand, he pushed my legs up, back, until the club was pressing into my throat. My pussy was up in the air, wide open, totally vulnerable. Using his other hand to guide his gigantic tool, he pressed the head against my pussy lips, pushed past, then drove into me mercilessly, tearing, stretching me wide. My screams became animal-like, hysterical with the agony of having my virginity torn from me. My back arched, my hips jerked uncontrollably as my body tried to dislodge his torturing manhood. Harder and harder he slammed into me, making my breasts jounce painfully, slamming my shoulders into the hard, cold floor. I don't know how long it took-seemed like days, it hurt so bad! My screams gave way to whimpers and grunts as his thrusting hit a fevered pace. His groans matched my grunts, and I felt his meat begin to swell, twitch inside me. And then he came-hot, thick, wave after wave spurting into my torn, abused pussy. I cried at the realization-dear God, that was sperm. Inside me. Oh, what if I got pregnant? Dragging me across the room, he pulled me into the bathroom. Turning on the water in the whirlpool tub, he hauled me up, then dropped me into the burning hot water. Thrashing, I struggled to escape the near scalding, my skin reddening, burning. Grabbing the soap, the thrust it harshly between my legs, scrubbed. Pulling down the shower massage, he turned it on, pushed my legs up and back, and pressed the steaming jets against my quivering hole, filling me with burning water, washing the cum that hadn't reached my womb out. Then a thoughtful expression crossed his face, and he pressed the jets against my clit. My hips jerked convulsively as the hard, hot spray hit my clit. And then-oh, I am so ashamed-a feeling. Tingling, warm, pleasure. Even as the water rose around my neck, my ears, toward my nose, my hips began to move rhythmically, the sensation building, building, then exploding as I had my first orgasm. Waves, my belly, my pussy, intense pleasure like I'd never known, never imagined. Pulling me from the tub, he forced me to my knees, tore the tape from my mouth and kissed me roughly. I was so ashamed, so totally stunned. I let his tongue into my mouth, let him grope my breasts, squeeze, pinch the bruised flesh. And then he stood, pressed his cock against my lips. I found my will again, struggled, whipped my head about, but he took me by the hair, held my head still with one hand while painfully prying apart my jaws with the other. Moaning as my jaws parted, I began to cry again as he drove into my mouth. Deeper and deeper, he pushed into my throat, gagging me, choking me. I couldn't breath, I was so afraid. Fucking my face furiously, he slammed again and again as I struggled to draw air around his monstrous tool. Harder and harder, his balls slapping my chin, and then he came. Pressing his meat deep into my throat, burying my face in his pubic hair, he filled me with his spunk. Thick, sour, seemingly endless, I gagged, swallowed again and again to keep from drowning. He laughed at my gagging, held my head until he'd gone limp in my mouth. Zipping up, he dragged me to the sink, grabbed a toothbrush, and slathered it in paste. He began harshly brushing my cum covered teeth. Ripping the brush back and forth, he scrubbed every bit of my mouth, then filled my mouth with Listerine, effectively erasing any trace of his semen in my face. Pushing me to the floor, he tore off the remnants of my shredded panties, jamming them into his pocket. Pulling out a box cutter, he removed the tape from my arms and legs. Forcing me back on the floor, he jammed the club handle into my bruised pussy, fucking me furiously with it as I whined, groaned. And then he pulled it out, pressed it into my hand, and shouted for me to return it to my dad's golf bag. And stunned, dazed, I did. I limped to the bag and returned the club, warm, sticky blood running down my thighs. Laughing, he kissed me again, pinched my sore nipples, and wished me a happy birthday. Told me he'd be sure to be back to wish me happy birthday again soon. Told me he'd kill me if I ever told a soul-reminded me that, even if I did tell, there was no evidence. Nothing to link him to my rape. Taking the box cutter, shoved me to the floor, and slashed an x in my right buttock. "Happy birthday, bitch." He slapped my face lightly, spat on me. And then he left. I told no one. I bandaged my slashed ass, put on dry clothes, and somehow made it through my "Sweet Sixteen" party. I don't remember much of it. But I managed. As the years passed, I-well, I didn't forget, but I stopped being afraid of his threatened return. The baby came, and my parents were really wonderful, caring for him. They asked only once, and when I refused to tell them who the father was, they let it go. I threw myself into my school work, aced my SATs, and started college 2,000 miles from home, little Stevie staying with my folks. No boyfriends, no dating, no men in my life. I wasn't afraid of him anymore, but I was afraid of men. Afraid of sex. Five years later. Graduation, I was so excited, so proud. Summa Cum Laude, class valedictorian, accepted into Stanford Medical School. My family flew in for commencement, mom, dad, my younger brother, and gramps-and my son. My beloved grandpa, there to see me graduate, my little boy, not so little anymore. And a boy in my life-a man, really. David. My first boyfriend. He knew. Not what had happened, but that something had happened. He was so slow, so gentle, never pushed. We hadn't had sex yet, but we would, I knew. And I was almost not afraid. Graduation morning. I was so nervous, I had to redo my nails three times because my hands were shaking so badly! In my robe, sitting before the mirror applying my makeup. When the buzzer rang, I ran to the door, peeked out to see who it was. Delivery man, holding the biggest bouquet I'd ever seen. I pulled the door open, agog-oh, who? My family? David? I took the flowers, breathed deep, pulling their intense fragrance into my lungs. Thanking the delivery man, I turned to close the door when he said he'd need me to sign for them-did I have a pen? I nodded happily, waved him in. He closed the door behind himself, took off his hat . . . and I knew. I recognized him, oh, dear God no! Flying at me, he knocked me to the floor, his weight crashing on me, knocking the wind out of me. I flailed desperately beneath him, trying to unlock my lungs, draw breath to scream. Laughing, he reached into his pocket, pulled out handcuffs. Flipping me onto my belly, he yanked my arms painfully behind me, locked them there. Reaching up under my robe, my dress beneath, he tore my panties from my, jammed them into my mouth. Reaching into his other pocket, he pulled out a roll of duct tape, covered my mouth, trapping my damp, lacy panties in my mouth just as my breath came back. I screamed, muffled, behind the gag, thrashing wildly, knowing it was too late, I was already caught. Turning, he sat on my back, captured my kicking legs. Using the duct tape, he bound them together tightly, ankles to knees. Standing, he crossed to the door, threw the deadbolt as I struggled in vain on the floor. Returning, he dragged me to the sofa, threw me over the arm, face down. Hiking up my graduation robe, he pulled his swollen cock from his pant, and began rubbing it back and forth across my dry, closed pussy lips. Then, with a harsh laugh, he rammed into me. I bucked, screamed with the pain-it was just like losing my hymen all over again. The pain was blinding, agonizing. I writhed under him, squealing, grunting with the tearing force of his thrusts. Harder and harder he slammed into me, pushing my face into the cushions, lifting my feet from the floor. Grabbing my hips, he began moaning as he plunged deeper, faster, his pace frenzied. I rose up in horror as his meat began to twitch, jerk and swell inside me. And then he spewed his load, filling me with his cum. Thick, hot, it coated me, sought out my womb. I cried out behind the gag, prayed, dear God, no. Please. Not again. Grabbing me by the hair, he dragged me, struggling, up the stairs, into the bathroom. Turning on the hot water, he threw me in, robe and all. Grabbing the soap, he scrubbed my bleeding pussy, My back arched in reaction to the stinging soap on my raw skin, the burning of the near-scalding water. Pulling out a box cutter, maybe the same one, he cut the tape from my legs, forced them apart, ground his soapy fingers deep inside me. My hips jerked, twitched, I sobbed uncontrollably, kicked weakly at him as he grabbed the shower massage, jammed it between my legs, jets blasting out my pussy, pressing, massaging my clit. I began to moan, muffled through my panties, head shaking in denial as the warmth spread, my body betrayed me once again. He laughed, called me a whore as my hips began to move rhythmically, my nipples becoming painfully erect under the wet material of my graduation robe. Hotter, higher, I began to thrash as the orgasm hit me, wave after wave of intense, horrible pleasure. It seemed to last forever, one after another as he held the shower head to me. Finally he stopped, leaving me weak, shaking. Pulling me from the tub, he pushed me to my knees, yanked the tape from my face, then the panties. His giant cock bobbing before my face, I turned away, tried to escape. Not in my mouth! No! Yanking my hair, he forced my face down, the head of his tool pressing hard against my red lips. "No, you fucking bastard!" I snarled, suddenly angry, enraged. Grinding his thumb and forefinger into my face, he forced my jaws open, thrust in. I could taste myself on his cock, taste my own blood. Relentlessly he drove in, pressing against the back of my throat, then down. I gagged, choked, couldn't breathe. Couldn't even scream. I tried to pull back, resigned to the face fucking, just seeking air. But he wouldn't allow even that. As his pace picked up, the fucking of my mouth became frenzied. And then his meat began to swell, jerk, spit forth its sour load. I gagged, retched violently as he pressed all the way in, pressing my face into his belly, emptying into me. I couldn't spit it out, all I could do was struggle to swallow so I wouldn't drown in his cum. Finishing, he stayed in my mouth until he was limp. I moaned around his cock, crying with shame, fear. He pulled out, wiped his dick on my cheek, then brushed my teeth, roughly, hatefully, following with a flood of Scope. He then dragged me back downstairs. Into the kitchen, he routed around in the drawers, the cabinets, the pantry. Crowed as he pulled out the broom . Throwing me over the counter, he pushed the handle into me. I squealed weakly, bucked, trying to dislodge the wooden invader. He laughed, fucked me with it relentlessly, viciously as I squirmed on the counter top. I sobbed, moaned as he raped me with my own broom. Finishing, he uncuffed my hands, yanked me down, and pressed the broom into my hands. "Put it away, whore." I staggered to the pantry, stunned. Following, he knocked me to the floor, pulled out the box cutter, and slashed another x in my buttock, next to the last. "See you again, I promise," he growled, prodding me with his foot, "happy graduation, slut." Spitting on my face from above, he turned and left. Again, I told no one, but two weeks later, when the pregnancy test came up positive, I made a decision. A terrible one. I decided to have sex with David, push the baby off as his. It was horrible, his clumsy, hungry hands on my body. It was all I could do to keep from screaming as his fingers, then his penis, invaded me. But I allowed it, I had to. Stevie came to live with us, be big brother to the new baby boy. After the baby came, David excitedly proposed another. And eagerly tried. It was horror for me, every night, his pounding away at me, heaving, panting on me. I lay quietly beneath him, hands balled into fists as he filled me with his cum. His totally dead cum. David was sterile. But he didn't know. The next baby, a girl. A new x on my ass. That was in "celebration" of my graduation from medical school. This time the entire rape took place in the bathroom-with David in the bedroom next door. I struggled, flailed, fought wildly, but my rapist overpowered me handily. David never heard a thing. I hated him for that-me, on my knees in the bathroom, thrown over the edge of the tub, giant tool slamming into me, and David was oblivious. Cum coating my pussy, invading my womb. My mouth being filled with sour spunk, my pussy raped with the plunger handle. My ass slashed yet again, his spit cold and wet on my face. And then my cruel attacker climbing out the bathroom window, leaving me moaning, bleeding, on the cold tile floor, his threat of yet another return ringing in my ears. "Congratulations, Doctor, I'll see you soon, promise." I crawled into the tub, washed the blood from my wounded pussy, my carved ass. I said nothing, dressed alone, attended the blur that was my graduation. David was thrilled about the pregnancy. I hated him even more. I have 5 Xs on my ass now. David often asks why we never have sex with the lights on. Sometimes I want to-I want to shout at him, "Look! See? See those two? You were HERE in the house when he raped me those times! See those children you call yours? They're NOT!" But I won't. Because my rapist will be back, I know. And I will be helpless to stop him. And he will fill me again, rape me, put another baby inside me. Without David, I'll be alone to rear my children. So I'll stay. Pretend. Find a way to not scream when he touches me, talks about having more and more babies. And I'll wait for the next attack. The next x on my ass. You know what really destroys me? What makes me want to die? I've only had five orgasms in my life. You do the math.
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