The Night I Remember Who I Was
by @Military_Spouse
Nobody knows this. I’m telling it now because, honestly, I just want it out. Yes, this happened.
In university, I was in love with a man who broke me down in ways I didn’t even realize until years later. He was charming on the outside — funny, magnetic — but behind closed doors, I wasn’t his girlfriend. I was his toy. His cum rag. His property. And I let it happen, because I believed that love meant letting someone own you.
We broke up in the fall of my final year. And that was when I met someone new — gentle, kind, the kind of man who held my face like it was made of glass. He’s now my husband. But this story isn’t about him.
He was on an internship in Russia for three months, and I was left behind with empty nights and lingering shadows. I went out with my girlfriends, trying to remember what it meant to be free, to be wanted without being hurt. But I was still tethered to something darker.
That’s when I saw him again — my ex — across the room at a bar. He barely acknowledged me, like I was some old hook-up he could barely place. And maybe that made me feel something... dirty, maybe defiant. I let him buy me a drink. One turned into several. My friends left. He offered to drive me home. I should have said no.
But I didn’t.
Instead of taking me home, he drove us to his place. Said I looked like I still wanted to party. I told myself I was in control this time.
His friends were there — two of them, watching me like they knew stories about me. And soon, he was telling those stories out loud. How I used to beg for anal. How I could deep-throat until I gagged and still kept going. How I rimmed him like it was dessert. And I didn’t stop him.
Because by then… I was wet. Humiliated. And incredibly turned on.
I laughed. I played along. I performed. I let it happen.
Clothes came off. My body obeyed. One dick in each hand. His cock in my mouth. My ankles in the grip of his friends while he whipped my pussy raw with his belt, barking, “Keep the whore’s legs open.”
And the worst part? I came. More than once. Loudly. Shamelessly.
They fucked me all night — rough, ruthless, relentless. One would cum on my face while another drove into me from behind. They took turns using my holes like I was nothing. And for those hours... I felt like everything.
When it was over, he didn’t even offer a shower or a bed. Just called me a cab and told me to get out. I dressed slowly, sore, wrecked, dripping.
I checked my phone.
Missed calls from my boyfriend — now husband.
I called him. Told him I was out with girlfriends. Lied without flinching. He said he had a surprise and was coming back into town early.
He arrived at my apartment two hours later. I hadn’t even washed the night off of me.
He knocked.
And when I opened the door, he dropped to one knee and proposed.
I said yes.
We called our families. We laughed. We cried. He held me like I was sacred.
And beneath it all, I was still sticky with someone else’s cum.
I tell this story not because I regret it, but because I don’t.
Yes, I was shaped by "Bad Treatment". But I learned that I crave roughness. I crave degradation. But on my terms. Now, I choose when I want to be a whore. I choose who gets to use me, and how. And no, my husband can’t give me that — not yet. But I love him. And he knows who I am.
People judge women like me.
But I don't care.
I own every inch of this story. I own the filth. I own the power. I am Cari. And I am free.
