I was raped again last night. Again. It was a small rape. Un petite râpé (it sounds so much softer, less threatening, in my mangled French). A rape with a soft small limp dick, no bigger than three inches at its height, that felt barely even there. There was no tearing, bruises, or visible scars to prove it had even been there afterwards (or at least until an STD test result says otherwise). It was like being violated by a mushy intrusion of Play-Doh. Turn the crank and the Play-Doh extrudes like a sick soft grayish tongue.
The actual non-consensual penetrative event lasted for less time than it takes to produce a one-minute egg.
Here is my One Minute Rape story:
I was on my back when it happened. In his bed. It was the wee hours of the early morning, the magic hour as it is known in film. Not quite night, not quite day. Not quite rape. He had kept edging closer and closer, despite my protests that he must wear a condom, pushing his button head under the hood of my clitoris, circling the lips of the opening. He had continually promised to wear a condom. As I’d laid in his bed, he’d said, I respect you, I respect your boundaries, I’m not that guy, all while edging closer and closer to violating them. I’m just trying to rub it on your pussy to get hard, he had said, putting the onus of his lack of an erection squarely on the shoulders of my requirement for a condom. I promise I’m not going to put it in without a condom, he’d stated repeatedly, up to the moment right before it happened. I respect you …