I have gotten out of a very abusive relationship.
It started when we were dating, with requesting and then demanding being masturbated in his car. Eventually he wanted oral sex. When his parents were out, he took my virginity, over my objections, and after that regularly wanted sex.
He got an apartment, and had me move in with him. I did not pay in, but paid in sex as he wanted it. I had no real say in when, what or how much we did.
As we went into our second year, he started to show me for friends. Starting with being partially clothed and doing hand or oral sex acts, to full sex shows. He did not share my services, but showed his control.
At that stage, I felt that I had to do things to keep him. It would not occur to me to refuse, or find a new lover. I did not think the words, but I felt that it was all I deserved to be. I had breasts for his enjoyment, a mouth to be used and not heard, and a vagina for his pleasure. I was available to receive and remove his semen, while my own orgasm was my own job, given available time, unless done in a display.
I was never beaten, or struck, or burned, and this I found was evidence that I was cared for, and it would be improper to not respond with sex.
I had a cousin that I would talk to about sex, and she disapproved of the lifestyle. My insistence that it was necessary did not sway her opinion any more than her opinion swayed mine.
It has been several months since the police came to the door. They had the news that he had been killed instantly in a car accident. I can tell you I did not cry. I felt like a toy being put on a shelf as a child went to college.
I did not have a black outfit appropriate for a funeral. One of his friends bought one for me. I did not cry, I did no more than say thank you to the mourners. I did not have feelings at all.
After the services, I was driven home. The friend that bought me the dress wished payment for it, and held me on the couch to collect. I still had no feelings, so he could do that without objections.
Over the next week, several more friends visited expecting that with him gone, I was available for their own lust satisfaction. In their way, they were correct, and satisfied themselves.
My cousin moved me out of the apartment, and into one with a roommate who wasn’t inclined to molest me. She arranged appointments for examinations, and therapy. They said PTSD, Bipolar, and Low Self Esteem, and placed me on medication.
They required me to change my life, supposedly for my own safety. I have a long way to go, it seems.
— Kim, age 20