Sunday, April 21, 2013
Rape. It’s wrong. It’s abhorrent. It shouldn’t exist. It angers me. It breaks my heart. These are deep, deep feelings for me. I was raised to believe that rape is just as bad as murder. It’s engrained deeply into my psyche. Yet, among my sexual fetishes is rape play.
Taking women against their will. Amid their protests. Being rough without regard for her. Turning up the intensity a little more each time she pleads for me to go easier. It goes against everything I believe to be morally right, but it makes me so fucking hot.
I think the conflicted feeling in this should be evident. How does an otherwise gentle, sensitive, and respectful man harbor such enjoyment from fantasized and practiced dark, misogynistic things?
A Little History
When my wife and I first had sex twenty years ago, she told me to stop teasing her. She wanted me to fuck her. Hard. Fast. She said, “Take me however you want me.” I finally, for the first time since having sex, laid into a woman. I pictured porn stars and did it like that. Before that, I always slow fucked women thinking that to do otherwise was disrespectful. Boy was I ever (for the most part) wrong about that.
Many, many years passed without anything resembling rape fantasies other than the occasional date or gang rape of my wife. Something I know wouldn’t likely happen for her. Although she admits she’d be scared for her life, she’s on occasion said that if she were in that wicked situation she would willingly fuck them all to the best of her ability and focus on enjoying every second.
There are three times that my wife can either definitely or at least assume that she had been raped.
The first time was when someone drugged her.
She was out for three days. Given the nature of the people involved it is almost a sure thing that she was at least fiddled with while she was out, if not passed around to multiple people.
The second time was a definite rape in the woods.
It started out as consensual. Her and her BBC lover at a stream in the middle of the woods near the California\Oregon border. His cock was huge, but she was taking it like a champ. She was up on him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. He’s holding her by the ass with one hand and lightly choking her with the other.
Something switches. An animal look in his eye. Next thing you know, she’s trying to get away from him, screaming for help from the guy who drove them there, but he’s too far away to hear.
Within seconds, he turns her into a living sex toy, clutching her by the throat and using her tensed torso to control the thrust of her pussy on his massive cock, essentially turning her into a giant Fleshlight.
After a bit of the ultra rough, though, it switched back and they ended up fucking for quite awhile longer. She looks upon this experience with a sense of pride.
The third time was back when she escorted locally.
This was the most blatant of all the times she’d been raped. The first couple times she fucked the guy, she was new to the business. Unlike many working girls, my wife had entered the profession for the sex. She was still in slut mode, which for her meant bareback creampies. When she first started, she mainly fucked most of her first dozen or so clients bareback, and many of them came inside her.
Suddenly, something shifted in her thinking, perhaps a flash of her mortality. But whatever happened, she decided to play by the rules and require condoms every time. No exceptions.
Well, one guy she’d seen a few times already didn’t like that. Refused to let her leave his remote home until his cum was inside of her. As he climbed on top of her, she told him she would never return if he went in her without a rubber. He then proceeded to penetrate her with his bare dick. She told him that she hated him the whole time, even though she came at one point. This incident she considers one of the least favorite moments in her entire life.
Why So Much about My Wife?
Why do I bring up my wife’s rapes for this particular post? They were the primary thing I would imagine or verbalize if I went to the rape arena of fantasies. I didn’t start to think up new rape fantasies until a couple years ago. They just sort of slowly trickled in to my erotic imaginings until roaring to the forefront, much to my moralistic dismay.
These three rape experiences were the most prominent I had for years. All happened within a five year period, a time in which my wife was pretty out of control. Despite the fact that I would never wish these to happen to my wife again, they continue to make both of us cum hard when I verbalize them during sex. In lies the irony. Some of it anyway.
Besides those three rapes, I didn’t have or deploy during sex rape fantasies other than the occasional, “Can you ever be raped?” \ “No.” \ “Why not?” \ “Because you can’t rape the willing. Plus all cocks are welcome inside me. I have no right to refuse a dick.” A couple years ago, that seemed to shift.
The Main Irony
As my rape fantasies evolved, they possessed a common denominator. In all the fantasies, the rapes are, in their way, consensual. There’s no coercion involved, unless it’s imagining the “victim” coercing me to rape her/him. I guess that’s how I deal with resolving this conflict, with irony.
Knowing that as she’s pleading with me to stop, as she’s telling me she hates me, as she’s fending me off with every ounce of strength she possesses, which isn’t even close to enough, that as she’s being as outside observers would call raped, she’s loving every second of it. And not in that creepy, “You know this is what you really want bitch” way either, although that line can make my wife pop in a heartbeat. It’s that as her actions and words say, “Stop, no more, you disgust me, you’re ruining my life!” her pussy or asshole is screaming “Don’t you dare stop, motherfucker!”
Every day a new story seems to get reported about a particularly wicked rape. Each one more heart-rending than the other. Depictions of brutal gang rapes. Details of the location and words written on passed out and raped teenage girls. Women and men drugged, raped, recorded and posted on the internet. Not to mention the every day brutality inflicted upon women and children globally. It’s happening right now and I genuinely wish I could stop it. How does one justify the arousal of fantasizing and roleplaying these very same atrocities?
It hurts my heart sometimes, the conflict this creates. But it turns out I’m not alone in feeling this way, in getting turned on by rape. According to the NIH, rape fantasies are a rising trend among Western women.
I’m not sure what this says about me, or about women, or about society. The studies are sure to generate some discussion about why we are turning into a rape culture. But for now, this makes me feel less horrible about fantasizing about treating women in rough and degrading ways. It still doesn’t reconcile the rift it creates between what I know to be morally wrong but erotically charged.
For now, I guess, I will continue to reconcile this rift in the only way I know how: by imagining that I’m raping or witnessing the rape of the willing.