I rush into the bathroom, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind reeling from the events of the past hour. I feel dirty, used, violated, and the only thing that can wash away the filth that coats my skin and soul is the hot, steamy water of the shower.

I turn the knob as far as it will go, cranking the heat up as high as I can stand it. The water scalds my skin, and I wince at the pain, but it is a pain that I deserve. It is a pain that I welcome, because it covers the pain that I feel inside, the pain of being used and discarded like a piece of trash.

I step under the spray, letting the hot water wash over me, and I begin to scrub. I use a loofah, a washcloth, a rough sponge, anything that will take away the feel of their hands on my body, their cocks inside of me. I scrub until my skin is red and raw, until it feels like I am scraping away the layers of my own flesh.

But no matter how hard I scrub, I cannot escape the feeling of their grease, their lust, their cum, coating my skin, my hair, my soul. I am disgusted with myself, with my body, with my mind, with my soul. I hate myself for letting them take me, for allowing them to use me like this.

The hatred grows, and I begin to imagine harming myself. I slap my body, my face, leaving red marks on my skin, bruises that will serve as a reminder of my weakness, of my shame. I pinch my skin, pull my hair, dig my nails into my flesh, anything to inflict pain, to cover the pain that I feel inside.

But then, as I continue to hurt myself, I begin to feel something else. I begin to feel pleasure. It is a pleasure that I do not understand, a pleasure that I do not want, but a pleasure that I cannot deny. It is a pleasure that comes from the pain, from the feeling of my own hands on my body, from the feeling of my own fingers inside of me.

I am horrified by this pleasure, by the fact that I am aroused, that I am turned on, by the thought of what has just happened. I am disgusted by myself, by my body, by my mind, by my soul. But I cannot stop, I cannot resist the pleasure that I feel.

And so I continue, using my hands, my fingers, one hole, then all of my holes. I use the shower head, the water pleasing me, soothing me, arousing me. I insert the whole showerhead, feeling it fill me up, stretching me, pleasing me. I defile myself, because I want to reclaim myself, because I want to hurt myself to rebuild myself.

And when it is over, when I am finished, when I have used every last ounce of pleasure and pain to cleanse myself, I step out of the shower, a sore and destroyed victor. I go to bed, my body aching, my mind reeling, my soul shattered.

But even as I lay there, in the darkness, I cannot escape the truth. I cannot escape the fact that, despite everything, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the pain, I enjoyed the pleasure, I enjoyed the feeling of being used, of being wanted, of being desired. And that, more than anything else, shames me.

Because in the end, it is not the fear and the anxiety that I will remember. It is not the danger and the threat of violence that will haunt me. It is the pleasure, the physical reality of it all, that will stay with me, that will torment me, for the rest of my life.