It started well before my gender transition, looking for the straightest, most misogynist man to fuck me, to "womanize" me, I found men attracted to what I now identify as Gorean dynamics. I found a man called Orpheus Nilus and became trapped in the The Cinnamon Incident. Until my rebirth that name was forever ruined for me. This dynamic continued with many men I dated, and I simply became adjusted to the abuse. It was "kinky," it was "fun," I "enjoyed" it. That's why I faked so many orgasms obviously. My Master who had a cuck fetish loaned me out to a man who became known as my "ex-husband", though we never married, we simply fantasized about children and actually bought a house together. After the "divorce" I got a boob job with the house money.
I thought I was really in love with this man. Maybe I was. He didn't seem to want to abuse me, but by this point my endorphin systems kicked in and I was an addict. I needed to be hit. I craved it. I craved being told what to do for my mind had become soft and I could not think anymore. It was trained out of me by men I sought out that liked to be called my Owner. I, a natural cat, was reduced to the state of doghood. Ex-husband never had a girlfriend before me, and he suddenly became exactly like the thing I craved. I remember how excited he was when he saw that the riding crop scared me into submission, but I remember how scared he was of the tasers that made me listen like a fleshy doll. One interpretation is that I gradually broke him; one is that he preferred to watch me break slowly. It's unclear in hindsight since I did beg him so much until it became too much.
It wasn't very long, only 2 years between me moving in and him becoming so domineering he'd force feed me marijuana to sedate me. I was being "hysterical". God if only it was as good a high as laudanum, then I'd really be "retvning." He'd use baby voice on me when I was stoned out of my mind, make fun of me, and then I'd suck his dick. Not complicated. One night, he decided that we were going to have anal, and we weren't going to use lube and he'd wake me up for it. I rolled over barely awake on all fours, and he penetrated me. It was painful, bloody and it continued until it was over. I was paralzyed with fear, and I couldn't say a thing. He came and went back to bed. That's how I remember it. We didn't talk about it.
Well, She met me really. She approached me because I looked vulnerable effectively: out of place, awkward, lonely, a "weird white woman with glasses." She called me one day to say that She had killed Herself, and that this was Her mother speaking. She died of a broken heart I believe. I was stunned, speechless. "Is that all you have to say? I'm dead and you have nothing to say?" She berated me, and I believe I began to cry, but I might have held it over until the call was over. A week later I thought She was divine, maybe God. She told me She's not God, and doesn't want a worshipper, that we're two angels. I have to remind myself of that sometimes. I told Her about soon-to-be-ex-husband, and she told me that's called rape. I was soft cheating on him anyway with Her. We didn't even kiss but I remember the way She held me sometimes, and I felt so complete, so secure, so soft. Like a dream, I lacked thoughts. I was in paradise in Her arms. We cuddled and watched Jerry Springer one time, it was awkward seeing myself on that type of show. She told me we could have a relationship if I moved out, so I did, within a week. This repelled Her. This and other unstable behavior gave Her "The Ick." I still love Her, in some way. I don't know how. I just love her, and that's the end of the tragedy. It was a complicated time, everyone wanted to fuck me except Her because she knew that I couldn't consent. I appreciate that in a partner, consent. We're still good friends.