So as the title says I was engaged once. My ex (we’ll call her Jess) and I started dating at 24 while she was in grad school. It was all apple-pie for the first few years and had all the trappings of a timeless storybook romance. We clicked in many ways but most importantly we couldn’t stay out of bed. She had mostly dated safer academic men up to this point in her life and I was a little different. Less refined, taller, muscular, rebellious, aggressive, and passionate. This opened up some sexual parts of her she didn’t know existed and we both enjoyed this dynamic for the next 4 years of dating. We got engaged and started preparing for the next steps.

That’s when everything changed. The rape. Stomach churning, soul crushing, gut twisting, world shattering words you never imagine could happen to someone you love. Everything changed. Both of us started therapy. PTSD was the new leader of our relationship and she wasn’t the only one affected.

At first I was a champion. A white knight. There for every appointment, never concerned about the fact that we weren’t having sex, forever a shoulder to cry on. But slowly resentment started to plant its seeds in me. I was dying to have sex. I was exhausted trying to be a caretaker. And when she would open up and tell me more about the event… I found myself getting aroused. I felt pure fucking shame. It became one with the resentment and I could feel myself withdrawing.

I explained to Jess where I was. What was starting to happen and she was very understanding after we talked it through. I didn’t reveal the pangs of arousal I would feel when she talked about the event. But she wanted to try and be intimate again. So we did. It was slow going and we had to go in baby steps. She was on so many meds that she couldn’t cum. I wasn’t into it at all because I knew she wasn’t. But still we tried, and every time I would dare to let the vision of her getting ravaged in a parking deck become a little clearer in my mind. Slowly it broke me down.

Things took another turn when, unbeknownst to me, Jess stopped taking her meds. She became hyper-sexual in a way I’d never seen. The noises she would make while we were fucking, the orgasms she was having. I should’ve known something was up. And maybe on some level I did…. But I didn’t care. And all the while I would let more of the images of her getting raped into my head.

I was always rough with her, but I became an animal. I would pull her around in our King bed by her hair changing positions. I always made her suck my dick between positions. I made her ask for permission before she could orgasm and slap her if she didn’t say “thank you daddy”. I would tell her she was nothing but a slut, my toy, my broken pussy.

And you know what? She fucking loved every second of it. It was like our little secret. This well educated professional woman fully embraced that she was purely a piece of meat. Her shame became the most powerful aphrodisiac either of us had ever experienced. Things carried on like this until her mental health got the best of her and our relationship.

To this day she remains the absolute best I’ve ever had. We did not live happily ever after and now I too am a traumatized slut.