I was never sexually attracted to E, something he was aware of because he seemed to be very attracted to me. E needed to remedy that, so that he could feel like I wanted him. His method was to shame me. It started with shaming me for having adult toys. He did such a good job that I threw out anything I had. He proceeded to shame me for never having had an orgasm, he told me I wasn’t normal, my body must be broken. What followed was what really broke me the most.

He raped me. He wouldn’t stop until I had an orgasm, something in which my body refused to do. It was over an hour of him forcing himself on me as I separated my body, and mind, and begged for death. He only stopped because he got tired. I was never the same after that. I felt like he had a point, maybe my body was broken, and maybe I needed a master of some sort. He wasn’t the first to rape me, but maybe he would be the last. Maybe it was all my fault. After all, I was the only common denominator. That night was only the first of many like it.

I learned early on to fake orgasms, and fake loving him. Much like Cassie, I wrote him notes of excitement for sexual encounters that I was dreading, because it made things easier for me. I wrote love letters that he felt were for him, but it was self preservation. The more loved by me he felt, the easier he was to live with. The less yelling, less hitting. The quicker the rapes were. It’s amazing what you are capable of doing and writing when you just want to survive as best as possible. Getting out when you’re this far gone, doesn’t seem possible. I only had fleeting thoughts of escape, followed by the heaviness of knowing this is just my life now. Who would believe me anyway?