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Not Like This

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He had thought his first time would be sweet. Soft and gentle.

Not like this.

He would have been shy, he knew. Blushing as a lover he would never have undid his clothes, him covering his face with his hands like an embarrassed schoolgirl. She would have treated him kindly, talked him through it and let him take his time.

Nothing like this.

The rain and his tears blurred his vision. Just as well. He didn’t want to see his rapist, didn’t want to see the look of satisfaction he knew was on her face. The satisfaction of revenge on the Opera Ghost who had tormented her for so long.

He was weak, blood drained from his body. The bandages on his wrists still fresh from the hospital. She had cornered him in the alleyway behind the Opera House. Now that Christine had gone, he could no longer fight back.

The ground was hard against his back. She had ripped his mask off, and sometime during the panic attack that resulted, he had thrown up what little food was in his stomach over the front of his shirt.

This was the only way anyone could possibly want him. The closest he could get to love was through an act of violence.

Because of how touch-starved he was, he got an erection as soon as she grabbed him. And because of his inexperience, he came almost as soon as she forced him inside her. She slapped him and called him pathetic. But she touched him again, and of course he got hard again, so she kept going.

He knew that he was lucky to be raped. It was the best he was going to get. What sort of idiot was he to believe anyone would want to have sex with him with consent?

He felt her cum for the fifth time and his stomach lurched, but there was nothing left in it to throw up. How long was this going to go on for? He was numb, cold, hurting all over. His back was aching, an old injury from when he was beaten in the circus. He cursed Meg for not just leaving him to die. His body was broken enough already.

Ever since he first found out what sex was, he had dreamed of it the way a starving man dreams of food. He had wanted to get married. How foolish he had been. What sort of woman could ever want him?

This imaginary lover, who had featured in his fantasies since he was a child, would have accepted him. Understood him. She wouldn’t have treated him like this. She would have thought he was special. They would have slept in a soft bed together, holding hands under the covers, making love to the sound of the rain. Now that rain was witnessing his violation.

Being raped was the only way. After all, it was better to know he was a victim than to doubt the authenticity of the other person’s consent.

After coming for the seventh time, she left him. And once again, he was alone.

And he always would be.