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Once he had managed to cram a couple of inches in, the battle was as good as won. No worry of his cock bending in half rather than shoving in a little more, he could start fucking her properly, every thrust forcing a little further into her body. She complained at every thrust, music to his ears. She reminded him of a spider pinned to a table, squirming and flailing, desperate to get away. Hopelessly impaled. Once he was in to the hilt, he started humping her. Her pussy managed to lubricate a little and the pain was not so unbearable. But this only meant she could lie back and thoroughly "enjoy" the emotional hell of her rape. No fear now. In fact a lifetime of fear, of being wary of "bad men" as a child, of avoiding shadows and skirting the ends of dark allies, of crossing streets to avoid dubious characters, of wondering if each new date was actually psychopathic freak, all gone. It was happening, it was all too real, and it was even more horrible than she had ever imagined.
The utter degradation of being taken, used, mounted like an animal had her bawling like a small child. And she bawled at her absolute, paralyzing helplessness; she wanted to fight back, to beat him off of her, to claw his eyes out, but her hands refused to do anything but clench handfuls of sleeping bag as if to anchor her to sanity. Yes, claw his laughing eyes out. She could do it so easily. By the time he knew, she would have her thumbs buried in his sockets. But she couldn’t. Cowardice that she knew she would never, ever forgive herself. Even as she looked up with revulsion into Lenin’s sneering, scar-marked face grunting his satisfaction at his conquest, she knew that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never be able to forget that she had allowed this horrible man to rape her without even a token resistance. She would never stop hating herself for it. "Gutless" kept echoing in her mind.