Anonymous Ecstasy

Content Warning: noncon, humiliation, stalking, mind break, psychological trauma, exhibitionism, forced orgasm, body betrayal

Marcus was too nice, and that was the problem.

“I’ve heard some amazing things about this exhibit,” he explained, opening the door to the Freasea Modern Art Gallery.

After the nice dinner and the nice conversation, I really just wanted to go to a dive bar and maybe drink shots until he took advantage of me. An art gallery was not how I imagined ending a Saturday night.

He guided me in with a hand on the small of my back. A gentle hand. I practically rolled my eyes. So sweet.

Just like dinner, he paid for everything, and we entered the first wing of abstract masterpieces. I smiled, sweetly bored to tears as he stared deeply at paint swirls, asking me what feelings the blobs and dots instilled. I was anxious, I didn’t want to be here, standing with a glass of wine, in an evening dress, murmuring in low whispers about soft pastel shapes on palettes of white. He seemed to hang on my words, laughing politely at lame quips while I wanted to fast-forward through the rest of this.

My friends had bullied me into this date. And honestly, a year ago, I would have rated it as amazing. But… things had changed. Janice, my closest friend, insisted, “You’ve got to get back out there. You can’t hide from life forever.” But she didn’t understand. That night… it broke something.

It had been a night like any other. A weeknight. I never imagined things like that happened on weeknights. I woke to someone in my room, looming over my bed, watching me. Before I could scream, he was on me. Pinning me down, shoving my own panties in my mouth. Blindfolding me with worn nylons. And then… He destroyed me. I couldn't beg, but I resisted every way I could. It stopped nothing. For hours, he tormented me. Used me. Raped me. Just thinking it made me feel filthy. Dirty. Broken.

He left me battered and abused. In a pool of our fluids. Dirty and soiled. It changed everything. There were months of nightmares. Jumping at shadows. Flinching when any man got too close. I stopped trusting anyone with a dick. Locked myself away in my home. I didn’t live in their world anymore. They still got to play normal normal. Still got to smile, relax, enjoy simple things, while pretending the world was safe and gentle. I lived in a different one now, where everything had teeth and sensation and hunger.

My therapist warned me, and she was right. I started going to dive bars alone. Just to get a hint of that terrified feeling. To relive even a fraction of it. Dangerous situations. I kept putting myself in them, chasing that horrible, shameful high. That sick elation when my body betrayed me. Forced me to cry out and clutch at him. When I came. She said it would all lead only to more trauma. “You’re trying to relive it, Tanya. That’s not healing.

And this was? Looking at a squiggle of paint. On Saturday night. My date would be horrified, no, disgusted, if he knew I was imagining it as my rapists sperm in my womb. Broken. Danged goods. There was no happy ending here.

And that was why it wouldn’t work. Why there could be no happy ending. Once he found out how damaged I was. That I came like a slut even while trying to fight my rapist off. He’d be revolted and ghost me. Or worse, look at me with those hungry eyes, imagining it as his gaze wandered down my body. Undressing me like he had that night. He’d expect me to do all kinds of fucked up, disgusting things, just like I’d done that night. Nice guys always turn into something else when they smell weakness. Men were weak like that. They smiled, asked permission, played at being safe, but underneath it, I knew the truth. Any of them could turn. That was the terrifying part. Nice was just a mask, and masks could slip.

When we got back to the lobby, I was tempted to call it a night, but he raved about the next display wing. The main exhibit. He’d heard so much about it. I smiled sweetly, dying inside at the thought of another forty minutes of wandering aimlessly.

“Sorry,” he explained, “Too much wine at dinner. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere…”

Where could I go? He’d picked me up. Held the door open for me. Helped me out of his car by holding my hand. Ugh…

Was this really what I’d wanted a year ago? Before things changed? Before I’d been torn to bits and pieces. Men were so weak. He asked for everything. Just like all the men I’d ever dated. Except the one. The one who had taken what he wanted. The one that had changed me. Left his mark and his cum all over me.

I stood awkwardly for a moment, watching couples enter the main wing. “Anonymous Ecstacy,” the placard read. At least the name sounded exciting. Bored, I ignored his request, entering the gallery wing. A little coy, hard to get, wouldn’t hurt him.

The lighting changed, dimmed as I moved around the screening wall and into the gallery. This exhibit hall was dark, an expansive space with walls set at random to break it up.

Spotting a table with wine flutes, I moved to it and took one. A nearby attendant in a white jacket and black bow tie smiled and guided me back to the exhibit.

I stopped to take a sip and heard bland elevator music playing softly in the background. When I heard a groan, I listened a little closer. It was impossible to hear clearly, but it sounded like a couple was having sex just under the music. I smiled, certain Marcus would be horrified if he heard it. He’d been so prim and proper all night.

Spotlights lit up a massive photo stretched across a wall in a shadowy cubby space. Sipping my wine, I approached, taking in the bodies on display twice as big as life.

Something in my stomach twisted. The photo was of a man’s back. Bare. The back of his head hid the woman under him. Her arms held apart on a bed. Black and white, except for bright red fingernails. Something about it was jarring, disjointed. I took a nervous drink, a long drink, and moved on.

Walking around a wall, I spotted another photo, gigantic, glowing in black and white under a set of spotlights. A couple stood staring up at it. Discussing the piece with dispassion, just another work of art. The shot was the upper torso of a woman. There was something stuffed in her mouth, then tied in place with nylons. They wrapped around again, covering her eyes. Her eyebrows arched in worry. Her breasts bare and spread across her chest. A thick masculine hand pinned her wrists against a pillow. The only color whore red lips. I felt sick. It was too close to home. Too much like…

No, I realized in dawning horror. It wasn’t like my assault. It was it.

I shrank away as the couple discussed my rape, “Such raw power in the way he holds her down. The artists captured her true surrender beautifully.”

I walked away, my mind a churning chaos of loathing and disgust. My violation was just a piece to be dissected. They hadn’t even considered that I didn’t want to be there, surrendering.

It was surreal listening to them discuss something that had been impressed so intimately onto my soul, as if it were made to merely entertain. My stomach churned. I could feel it wrestling with the wine.

Somehow, I end up in front of another piece. A close-up of a woman’s crotch. My pussy. Thick fingers spread it open, showing slick thighs forced apart, and a floating strand of something syrupy bridging fingers and cunt.

“The involuntary muscle spasms in this frame are exquisite. You can see the exact moment her body betrays her mind.” A stranger said to his buddy. Both of them stared at me. Not me, but the me enlarged, my pussy twenty times larger than life. The only color in the photo is a subtle red tint to my pubic hair, drawing my eyes to it. To me.

I stood there clutching the wine glass, a burning heat throbbing between my thighs. As if the attack wasn’t humiliating enough. Here I was displayed for all to see. And I walked among them, knowing it was me, while they were oblivious.

I glanced around, perhaps they knew. I wondered if this was some sick joke that they were all in on. Every single one of them knew it was me. Laughing at the cunt on display, the pained look, the bound wrists. I felt tiny and alone. I needed to hide, but I stood there behind the two men, terrified that at any moment they would turn and recognize me. Then ask if I wanted some more of what was on the wall.

And I could feel my other self basking in this sensation. Even standing there surrounded by polite strangers, a part of me was testing that edge. Looking for the drop. Hoping for that overwhelming feeling to hit me strong enough to make me feel alive, but still let me go home afterward. It never did. It was never enough anymore.

I turned and walked. The clicking of my heels was lost in the sappy elevator music. Then I heard it again, a moan just underneath it. A panicked sigh. Sobbing. Once again, it was me. Mouth stuffed, trying to beg. Grunts and squeals were being forced out of me whether I wanted them or not. The heat between my legs was repulsive. What the fuck was wrong with me? Closing my eyes to force it all out of my head, I could only hear and imagine it all so much more easily.

Another photo. My face was twisted. Body arching. Fingers raked bright red lines down a man’s back. Legs lewdly wrapped around his. It was obvious I was climaxing. Cumming like a whore as a stranger fucked me. It wasn’t me, not what I wanted at all. My body did that. Betrayed me.

And because of that, he stayed longer. Said I needed it. Fucked me again, and again. For hours. Stealing climax after climax from me. With fingers. Lips. Cock. My therapist was right.

A firm grip on my hip made me nearly jump out of my skin. The wine splashed out of the glass and spilled onto the bare concrete floor.

Shaking uncontrollably, I turned into the body next to me. It was Marcus. He was looking up at the photo, admiring the framing of my wet cunt. I turned back to the photo. I couldn’t let him see how panicked I was. If he looked in my eyes, if he saw what I was thinking, he’d know. Know that I was filthy. Dirty. Came like a needy whore. Came more times than I could count that night. Intense sweeping ones, and the little rolling ones that just went on and on. Like a nasty, desperate slut.

“This isn’t really… The type of thing I… Usually… Can we go?”

“Well, this one is a little risque,” he said, unable to tear his eyes away from my pussy displayed on the wall. “Maybe we should take a look at the others?”

I pulled away, wanting to leave, to run, to get away from the shame hanging on every wall. And he followed. I hurried my pace, desperately trying to ignore the many other pieces. Like the one where my face was twisted in orgasm, or with my ass up, back arched, and a bright red handprint on one cheek. Trying to ignore the comments, knowing that at any moment I would hear men talk about how the bitch deserved it, or what they’d like to do to me, or how slutty and whorish I was. I walked fast.

Then a placard caught my eye.

I turned and slowed, curious and horrified to discover who had done this to me. With every step closer, I felt an icy fist squeezing my chest tighter. With growing dread, I approached the info card with a picture of the artist at the bottom. My steps slowed to a crawl as my chest constricted and breathing became nearly impossible.

I stopped and stared.

At the bottom of the card was Marcus, my date, the artist who had photo’d my rape.

“Six times,” Marcus whispers in my ear. “You came six times that night.”

The mask of nice was gone. In its place was the man who took what he wanted. Me. And so help me, that was what I wanted. What I needed. Not him. Not Marcus. But a monster who could make me feel alive again. The one my therapist warned me that I was chasing. I didn’t need to know him. I only wanted what he could do to me.

My whole body shook in fear. I could only stare at the photo of him. I didn’t dare look at him, knowing what he did to me.

“I watched you for six months, imagining all the ways I’d have you. All the ways I’d make you mine. I knew before I had you, before we made love, that you’d be mine.”

I could feel every bone, every muscle, every atom shaking violently in me. It was totally impossible to breathe as I wondered what I did to deserve this.

His hand gripped the back of my neck, a collar of flesh. He leaned in to me to whisper, his hot breath caressing the side of my face. “I can’t wait to complete the next exhibit. You. On your knees. Collared. Sucking my cock.”

He guided me away from the picture, and my feet moved slowly following his lead. I reached back, I didn’t know why. My body couldn’t stop betraying me. I reached back and took his hand. Not because I wanted Marcus, but because he could give me the only thing that still felt real. The fear. The force. That high. I was already gone. I walked willfully into the darker world. And for the first time… I wasn’t fighting it.

The man who ruined me. It was like I wasn’t even in my own body, I was watching this farce of my life. A person playing me was walking out into the parking lot with the man who destroyed my life. Made it impossible to sleep. And the person playing me was leaving with him.

Marcus, always the nice guy, opened the door to his car and guided me in. I sat there in a stupor. He chose me for his art. He chose me.

Once he got into the car, he started it and looked over at me. Without a word, he reached over and took me again by the back of the neck. He pulled me toward him, and I opened my lips for a kiss. Instead, he pressed me down into his lap, and I knew exactly what he wanted.

To make art.