But she had to take back what had been taken.
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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- This story ist part of the Ravished in a Flash Tournament
- It competes against The chastity belt (innocent gained) in the SF-2 match
- Theme: Innocence gained
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Can Innocence be regained?
They sat side by side in her parent’s lounge. Black leather couch, wall lamps casting dull amber illumination, old bedraggled wallpaper. She hated it all, she hated to be sitting next to him.
But she had to take back what had been taken.
She had heard them, the three of them, from her upstairs bedroom. Could discern all three familiar voices. The brand-new draw-bolt on her door always locked, unless her parents were home. She’d heard her brother and his girlfriend in their bedroom, the thin wall separating their rooms not enough to keep out the sudden onset of the wet, slobbery sounds of a blow job. Fast and slick, her raw gagging constant. Abusive. No wonder he was her brother’s best friend.
That would mean he would be downstairs, waiting for them to finish. Even though she was shivering with a low-level terror, she knew what this opportunity was. And she wasn’t about to pass up the chance to take back what he had taken from her, only last week.
Last week. She had been home alone. Parents on holiday. Brother out at party with his girlfriend and his best mate. Him. She had just got out of the shower and was pulling on her favourite pyjamas, ready to sit back and watch Disney’s Aladdin. Her favourite film. He had appeared out of the blue.
Later she had learned that he had (falsely) said he had left something in the house, borrowed her brother’s door key, knowing she was home alone.
He shoved the door open, threw her down onto the bed, shredded her favourite pyjamas and raped her. He took almost forty-five-minutes, slapping and threatening and choking until, sobbing, she gave in and cooperated. Afterwards -
“Keep your mouth shut. If you tell, it’ll just tear your family apart. That’s if anyone even believes you.”
He left her there ravaged and sore, full of his vile spunk, bruised all over. But worst of all was the insurmountable shame that he’d forced her to climax twice, while making her ride him.
A week later, the soreness and bruising were mostly faded. Fears of STI’s and pregnancy were lasting longer. However, it was that incalculable shame that she had orgasmed from her own rape – twice - that truly haunted her.
But now was the opportunity to get her own back. For a second, she thought about the knife in her bedside drawer. The big Rambo knife she had bought, the day after. Every night this last week, before bed, she had ritually sharpened that blade, honed it. She could hold it to his throat while she took her revenge…
But no. She wouldn’t do that. She went out onto the landing. Her brother angrily complaining to his girlfriend that she “wasn’t trying hard enough” and that she’d “never get him off like that”. While she coughed and groaned weakly. Then the noises began again, faster paced and with even more wet choking and sounding filthier than ever. That meant they’d still be a while before they came out of his room. She had time.
He was surprised at seeing her. Even more surprised when she sat down beside him on her parent’s couch. She didn’t waste any time.
See how he liked it! See how he liked being raped! Being forced and groped and pinned down on his back, made to do what he didn’t want to! Made to climax against his will!
She turned to him, forcing her body to do what she didn’t want to do. Leaning against him, rubbing herself against him. Smiling at him. Looking into his eyes. Putting a hand on his crotch, feeling that nasty pain-inducing weapon of his. She grabbed one of his hands and pressed it to her tit, unzipped her top and pushed his hand inside. Skin on skin, her bra left upstairs.
For half a second, he rejected, sneered, snarled. He pulled his hand off her breast, slapped her hand away from his cock. But she could already feel it filling out under her stroking palm. So, it was no surprise that when she put it back he didn’t reject her a second time, when she put his hand back on her breast he cupped and squeezed, just as harshly as that last time, pinched her nipple, pulled it.
She slid her hand into his waist band, found that hot bar. That thing she hated so much, that thing she intended to rape.
Working quickly, he shucked down his trousers, freeing it for her. No, that wasn’t right! He unzipped her top and leaned across down to suck her nipple. No, he shouldn’t want to do that! She pushed him away and then tried to straddle him forcefully. Her short, pleated skirt easy to flip clear, and no underwear to be torn off.
But he helped her, laying down, grabbing her about the hips and hoisting her up.
No! That wasn’t how this was meant to work!
She suddenly pulled away, but he snarled angrily, reaching for her. She half shrieked, tears flooding, slapping at his hands.
Successfully, pulling herself free, she ran for her sanctuary.
She had come to the dreadful conclusion, cowering on her bed, staring at the locked door, Rambo knife in hand, that - no, once it had been taken away, innocence could not be regained.
