I remember transitioning to my own room, a full sized bed, retiring from the bunk bed I’d been in as long as I could remember.

One night I woke to him in my bed, his body curled against mine.

I had a habit of pretending I was still asleep so I didn’t react but groggily began assessing the situation.

I was no stranger to waking up to his hands between my legs, sometimes his mouth, or sometimes him just masturbating and coming on me.

This was different though. My shorts and underwear were pulled to my ankles—again, nothing too out of the ordinary, but it essentially bound my legs together. I felt a slight panic at this realization.

I don’t think he knew when I woke up.

He had his hand on my hip and I could feel him moving. I knew the slight jostling of the mattress meant he was jerking himself off.

What I didn’t expect was him to slide his dick between my thighs, right along the seam of me.

He adjusted himself, pressing his hips to mine, both of us on our sides.

Then he began to thrust.

Slow, tentative movements, determining if it would wake me. Still I pretended to sleep.

Seemingly satisfied I wasn’t roused by his actions, he continued, his thrusting increasing in speed and length.

I could feel myself getting wet and how that made him glide against me more smoothly.

He shifted again and then —oh

Between the wetness and his adjustment, his cock had begun to brush my clit with each pass.

It was dizzying.

I tried to not respond.

It was repulsive—he was repulsive and I hated him for this.

But he continued.

And I remember having a distinct moment where I gave up caring.

His rubbing against me had been building up and I decided I didn’t care any more, I just wanted to orgasm. I was selfish. I was disgusted with myself but the pressure building up outweighed that—outweighed everything.

So I began pressing back into his movement. Similar to what I’d done with stuffed animals but I realized I couldn’t manage the same motions on my side, so I tried to adapt it.

I learned when I timed it right I could feel more of him against me until his cock was rubbing against my clit more than it wasn’t.

By then he knew I was awake.

He gripped my hip and I remember him moaning, encouraged by my panting and participation. I was sweating. I could feel his breath sticking where it reached my neck. My hair clung to my face.

I could feel myself being so close, almost there, just a bit more, almost there.

Then he came. His breath guttered out to a moan he tried to trap in his throat.

His hips stuttered before he slowed, stopped.

His come, wet and hot, had almost been enough—almost made that bursting energy of pleasure break through me—almost.

But the heat left quickly.

I remember gasping in frustration.

I’d finally stopped caring for the sole purpose of finding my own enjoyment and it had been ripped from me.

I was so angry. Angry at him. Angry at myself. Disgusted with myself. Disgusted I felt disappointment. My skin crawled with all the warring emotions.

I stayed on my side. I remember him cleaning me off with some type of cloth. I didn’t look at him.

He left my underwear and shorts at my ankles. Before leaving, he asked, “you liked that, huh?” and I could hear the feline smile in the question and I hated him all the more for it.

I tried to touch myself, to at least find some relief. It wasn’t the same. I pulled up my clothes and went back to sleep.

Later I began dating a guy my age. He’d been molested, too, and was very pushy about having me touch him.

I came to like it.

He came to learn I was much more willing if he’d slide his big cock between the apex of my legs. He was bigger than my dad. Even when his thrusts became vigorous his cock never left my clit. I loved it. I loved coming on him that way, loved the way he was undone by it, the way his come pooled between us, searing my over sensitive nerves. Still, I’d cling to him, wrap my arms around his neck and grind against him, wanting more—allowing more. And he’d gladly obligue me.

He and I fell into such a strange dynamic: him, wearing down my no with his desperate pleading, always trying to undo my pants or slide my hand down his.

And when he’d win, I’d relish the power in having what he wanted so badly, in getting to control his pleasure. I loved his whimpers and moans and begging.

I loved how hungry he was for it.

How much of that hunger was driven by a need to replace the memories of what he’d gone through—I loved that, too.

I liked asking him about the things he’d been forced to do while he fucked between my thighs.

I liked how uncomfortable it made him, his brows furrowed in anger and disgust and yet—still that desperation.

The price of using my body was the admission of the memories he reviled and yet he was willing to pay it.

And I relished being the collector.