It would be deeply frightening, at first, being abducted and dragged into some man's bedroom. Having your clothes stripped off, getting thrown onto the bed, your legs pries open with irresistible, masculine strength. All your struggling and screaming useless as he squeezes your breasts and teases your slit with his tip. The raw violation when he finally plows into you, tearing his pleasure from your unwilling body. Feeling his weight on you, trapping you under him, your mind shuddering and dissociating from this experience. It can't be real, you're a lesbian, there is no way you are actually getting raped. This horror is happening to some other poor, sobbing girl, not you, she's the one who is feeling her body heat and her crotch begin to melt. There's no way you are the one who orgasms when he pulses inside, staining your pussy white.

And then there is the less horrifying aftermath. The way he softens inside you, absently pawing at your breasts. His warm body pressed against yours, the thrumming of his chest when he sighs happily and tells you he's going to keep you.

When he gets up and starts to make dinner, you don't know what to do with yourself. Frankly, this is the first time in weeks when you haven't been worried about paying your bills and making rent. Your slightly hysterical mind can't figure out which is worse, being raped by a man, or managing your finances. You totter into the kitchen, your cunt dripping his seed. He notices you and jerks his head to the frying pan, where ground beef is cooking. "Stir that, would you?"

He's grating cheese and it's all so surreal that you play along. You get an approving swat on your butt and a murmured thanks. Why are you even blushing like he gave you a real compliment? It feels like you're going haywire. You continue to play out this absurd charade, nude and dripping his cum and getting groped all while making dinner together, and eating the resulting tacos. You are somehow ashamed to find them delicious, even though that is the least degrading thing that has happened to you here.

Of course, his eyes are still on you, and as he hustles you into the shower for another round of fucking, some part of you is relieved that something is going as expected, even if it is being raped again. Not that you struggle much this time, it feels really nice to have his large hands play with your soapy, slippery curves. Then it's back to the bedroom for, you guessed it, even more fucking. You've taken him in each hole now, but he always prefers cumming in your pussy if he can. You experience a storm of emotions as you realize he's trying to breed you, not all of them as negative as you had thought. That, more than anything, scares you.

The next morning, you wake to him already pumping into your poor, overworked pussy. And for a moment, you just surrender to it, enjoying how he reams you better than any dildo you've had. And all too soon, he'd dressed and leaving for work, giving you the firm command of "Stay."

You can escape. He's gone, the door isn't locked, your clothes are on the bedroom floor, there is nothing stopping you from going home, scrambling to get ready for your own day at work, buying a lunch even though you really can't afford to eat out so often, dealing with all the idiots and jerks at work, and going home to an empty apartment while you scroll through overpriced dating sites and hope you don't get scammed again.

Or.

Or, you could stay here. Let some man rape (to be honest, it's more fuck than rape by now) you, and let him take care of things like rent and grocery shopping and work. Could you really settle for the life of being his sex toy?

That part of you that always shied away from the more active activists you know, that side that convinces you to buy a quart of ice cream every week, it's telling you that this isn't a bad gig. And the worst part is, you listen to that part of you more than you really should. As you pick up your clothes, you look around his bedroom and wonder if you should do a load of laundry for him.