Dear Diary,
It’s been a long time since I wrote anything. Not since last spring. I’ve been carrying this around for months, wanting to tell someone, anyone, but every time I thought about it the shame and the fear shut me down. I kept rejecting every friend, every possible confidant, until I almost convinced myself that no one should ever know.
I’ll start from the moment I picked up the two guys at the gas station.
It was last spring. My tank was nearly empty, so I pulled into a self-service station off the highway. I was standing there with a coffee when two guys approached me. Twenty-five at most. They asked where I was headed and if I could give them a lift into the city. I never pick up strangers. That night I said yes.
One sat in the passenger seat. The other got in the back. They barely spoke for most of the drive. Then, about thirty kilometers from the city, the one behind me said he had a knife and that I was going to do exactly what they told me or he’d stick me with it. I never saw the blade, but the certainty in his voice left zero room for doubt.
I followed every instruction. Turn here. Slow down. Take that side road. They clearly knew the area. After a few more kilometers we were deep in the woods, completely alone. They made me get out of the car.
There was almost a full moon. Visibility was good. It wasn’t particularly cold. One of them moved behind me, grabbed the lapels of my blazer and yanked them back hard, pinning my arms at the elbows so I could barely move. His other arm locked around my throat while his friend searched the car.
I could feel his cock hardening against my ass through his jeans. That was the moment I understood they weren’t just going to rob me.
They found my purse, dumped everything on the roof of the car, and went through my wallet. Not much cash. The one in front started getting pissed. He took the money, my cigarettes, my lighter, my leather address book, my silver keychain. Then he turned on me.
“Pockets. Now. Give us everything, you fucking slut.”
I was too scared to answer fast enough. He slapped me across the face. Hard. After that they emptied every pocket, took my watch, my rings. The one in front noticed my necklace. When he undid the clasp his fingers brushed the tops of my breasts. He dropped the chain into his bag and came back to stand in front of me.
He looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. Then, almost gently, he started feeling my tits with both hands, weighing them, mapping their shape. The second I tried to move, the guy behind me tightened his arm around my throat until I went completely still. He grabbed my jaw with one hand and held the other open in front of my face, ready to hit me again.
“Stay still.”
He went back to my breasts, squeezing, testing, rolling one nipple under his thumb.
“Nice set of pears,” he told his friend, giving them a rough squeeze.
When he finished groping he started unbuttoning my blouse. I expected him to just rip it open. Instead he took his time, one button after another, eyes locked on every new inch of skin. When he reached my waist he pulled the blouse free and opened it all the way.
“Jesus Christ. Those aren’t tits. Those are beach balls.”
The way he stared made me feel suddenly self-conscious about how big they were.
I watched his face the whole time. The aggression had drained out of it. He looked calm. Almost peaceful. A little smile that never quite left.
I didn’t even see him pull the knife until the blade clicked open right in front of my eyes. He rested the flat of it against my cheek and slowly dragged the edge across my face, between my lips. I opened my mouth without being told. He made me lick the blade, wetting the steel completely, before he trailed it down my throat and over my still-covered breasts. The tip scraped across my nipples. Then he slid the blade into my cleavage, twisted it, and cut straight through the center of my bra. My tits bounced free an inch before the ruined cups still held them.
He hooked the knife under one cup and peeled it away, then cut the strap. He did the same on the other side. When both breasts were completely bare he just stood there staring at them for a long time without moving or speaking.
He lifted one with his palm and showed it to his friend.
“Look at the size of these melons.”
He bounced it a couple of times and smiled at the way it jiggled.
Something strange happened then. Instead of panicking harder, I went quiet inside. I understood perfectly what was coming. They were going to rape me. Probably both of them. And instead of fighting, I just… waited. The only real fear left was that they might beat me or stab me afterward. The sex itself almost felt secondary. Ten minutes of humiliation and it would be over.
I even wondered, distantly, what my boyfriend would think if he could see me like this — half-naked in the woods, not screaming, not struggling, just standing there letting it happen.
The guy in front grabbed the back of my neck and forced my head down. He unzipped, wrestled his cock out, and started stroking it right in front of my face. It wasn’t monstrous, but it was thick and hard and bigger than what I was used to. He kept my head in place so I had no choice but to look at it.
When he finally let go of my neck I still didn’t look away. He unbuckled my belt, opened my jeans, and slowly pulled them down, staring at my legs the entire time. He removed one shoe, pulled the pant leg free, put the shoe back on, then did the same with the other side. His hands ran up my bare thighs. When he pressed lightly I opened them without being asked.
He stood up again, both hands back on my tits, the wet head of his cock rubbing against the front of my panties. He played with my breasts for a long time, deliberately making me wait, making sure I understood he would fuck me only when he decided to.
His hand finally dropped between my legs and cupped my pussy through the soaked fabric. I was wet. Embarrassingly wet. He felt it and smirked.
He asked if I had a boyfriend. When I didn’t answer fast enough he twisted my nipple hard enough to make me cry out. I nodded. The guy behind me laughed.
“We’re gonna return her a little used,” he said.
Fingers slid under the waistband of my panties and found my clit, then pushed lower and sank two fingers inside me with almost no resistance. I moaned before I could stop myself.
“You’re soaked, you dirty slut.”
He pulled his fingers out, smelled them, then smeared them across my lips and pushed them into my mouth so I could taste myself. His other hand never stopped mauling my tits. His cock kept bumping against my thighs and the wet crotch of my underwear.
He went back to my nipples with his mouth — sucking, biting, stretching them with his teeth until I was making helpless little sounds. Then he dropped to a crouch, yanked my panties down, and buried his face between my legs. His tongue dragged through my slit, circled my clit, pushed inside me. I was shaking. When he finally stood up again he held my soaked panties up for his friend to see and stuffed them in his jacket pocket.
I was completely naked now.
He fingered me again, slow and deep, while the two of them talked about me like I wasn’t there — how hungry my cunt looked, how my boyfriend clearly wasn’t fucking me right, how I was going to come the second a real cock went in me. Every filthy comment made me wetter. When he ordered me to spread my legs wider I did it without hesitation.
At some point the humiliation and the pleasure tangled so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart anymore. I was moaning openly. My hips were moving against his hand. I had stopped pretending I didn’t want it.
They made me get on all fours. The second guy finally stepped in, cock already out, and shoved it into my mouth. He fucked my face with both hands in my hair while the first one watched and kept talking shit. When he came he forced every drop down my throat. Some of it spilled out and ran down my chin onto my tits. I didn’t even try to wipe it off.
Then they bent me over the hood of the car.
The second one was rougher. He slapped me when I struggled, burned me once with his cigarette on the ass, and forced his thicker cock into me in one brutal thrust that made me scream. For a while it was pure pain. Then, somehow, the pain started twisting into something else. I started pushing back. I started coming — hard, messy, one orgasm rolling straight into the next while he pounded me without mercy. When he pulled out of my cunt and shoved into my ass I didn’t fight that either. I just took it, moaning like a whore while he used me.
After he finished, the first one came on my face and made me clean his cock with my tongue.
They stood there smoking, talking about how much fun I’d been, while I lay naked and used on the hood, come drying on my skin, too exhausted to move. Then, as a final joke, they both pissed on me — on my pussy, my stomach, my tits — laughing the whole time.
They threw my clothes at me and told me to get dressed. On the drive back they threatened me in detail about what would happen if I ever went to the police. At the edge of the city they shoved me out of the car in a dark side street. One last hard slap. A punch to the stomach that dropped me to the ground. Then they left me there.
It took me more than half an hour to walk home.
I stripped in the hallway, left the clothes where they fell, and went straight to the shower. In the bathroom mirror I looked destroyed — swollen eyes, puffy cheek from the slap, bite marks and hickeys all over my breasts, dried blood at the entrance of my sore cunt, my ass still burning.
Two days later my car showed up exactly where they said it would, keys in the ignition, almost no gas, but otherwise untouched.
I never told anyone.
Until now.
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