My Girdle Is Killing Me - XGC Chapter

The day I was raped (work in progress - explicit - comments welcome)

It was the 14th of May, 1981, and it started as a normal day. Well, as normal as my messed up life could ever be. It was close the the end of the school year, making it three school years during which I'd worn my panty girdle daily. I was quite accustomed to it by now, but the gang still kept checking on me. Pete and Graham were getting a bit lax, as they seemed satisfied that I'd been broken and that, if I hadn't defied them by now, it was unlikely I ever would.

Ian, on the other hand, needed his fix. He needed to see me in it—his fetish for forced cross-dressing hadn't abated in the slightest over these three years. His disappointment at my acclimatisation was clear—oh how he enjoyed those early months—but the sight of my male body encased in a tight panty girdle still turned him on, especially as, post-puberty, my legs were more muscular, thus emphasising the incongruity of these hairy masculine thighs being hugged tightly by the girdle legs.

But today he seemed edgy, ill-at-ease, and I couldn't quite figure what was going on. We headed off behind all the rubbish skips, as we were generally left undisturbed during girdle inspection. I'd long since learned to just get it over with, so I unfastened my trousers and dropped them, then lifted my pullover and shirt to give him a good view. And, as usual, he ran his hands over the girdle, presumably enjoying the feel of the fabric. Then he stepped back, checked to make sure we were completely alone, then told me to get on my knees. I had no idea what he was on about, so I gave him a "what the fuck? look. That's when he pulled out the knife.

"Get on your knees right now—you're going to suck my cock!"

I couldn't take my eyes off the knife. He'd never given any indication of a violent streak before, but he'd given plenty indications over the years of being a bit nuts.

"Fucking kneel down!" he hissed, putting the knife up to my face and pricking my chin with the tip just enough to draw a drop of blood. "Do it."

My brain just froze over. I had no idea what to do, so to appease him as he pressed on my right shoulder with his free hand, I slowly dropped to my knees. I still didn't really believe that he was expecting me to give him a blow job. Not until he started fumbling desperately with his trousers.

It's hard to describe how I felt, kneeling there watching him hurrying to free his dick. There was an air of unreality about it. My mind just couldn't seem to accept that this could be happening. I suddenly felt sick to the pit of my stomach and my head swam, nearly causing me to faint, as it dawned on me that this could be for real. As I pictured what I might be forced to do, the tears started to run down my cheeks. My lips were trembling and I could hear my pathetic whimpering as I watched him finally get his trousers unbuttoned, yank down the zipper and pull the trousers and underwear down to mid thigh.

And finally I was looking at his erection. I'd never seen another boy's penis, and I was wide-eyed in horror at the sight. I am a "hoodie", and the sight of a circumcised erection was repulsive beyond words. The bulbous head was a vivid pink/purple, slick with his fluids—he'd clearly been excited about this prospect all morning. Before he'd tugged his underwear down, I could see the material was wet through. I stared, appalled, as a viscous trail of pre-cum slowly dripped from it to the ground. Blue veins of various sizes meandered up and across the shaft—his dick looked like nothing as much as a horrendous mutant mushroom.

"C'mon," he muttered irritably, "hurry up and suck me off."

I flinched as he pressed the glistening, dripping glans against my lips, gagging as I felt them being smeared with his secretions. I tried to pull away, but he grabbed my hair with one hand and held me in place. The other hand appeared in front of me, pressing the knife against my face.

"I'm not fucking joking here. Open your mouth or I'll fucking well slice your face open."

Ian had always been strange, and I'd always been slightly scared of him. And at that moment, I knew I couldn't be sure he wouldn't follow through on the threat. I was now sobbing uncontrollably...and I slackened my lips, and parted them slightly.

And slightly was enough. He dropped the knife, locked both of his hands behind my head and started pulling me on to him as he pushed his hips forward. The glans prised my lips further apart, and I opened my mouth fully to let him in. When I felt it glide over my tongue I twitched and writhed, revolted at the touch of this hot, wet abomination. But by now it was way too late. My eyes were out on stalks as I looked down my nose at the sight of this veiny shaft slowly disappearing between my lips. It pushed further across my tongue and I started to gag and retch as it approached the back of my mouth. Realising I wouldn't be able to take any more, he stopped.

My lips were loose around his shaft, and I was trying my best to press my tongue low in my mouth to minimise contact.

"For fuck's sake, suck me you useless prick! Suck me or I'll cut you up!"

I pursed my lips tightly around his shaft and pressed my tongue hard against his erection, feeling the contours of his shaft and the glans and moaning with revulsion as I did so.

"That's the way," he sighed, "that's the way. That's good. That's a good tight grip." And with that he slowly started pumping his hips, still muttering "Oh yeah, that's so fucking good".

I couldn't help continuing to moan as his erection started sliding back and forth over my tongue. "Shut the fuck up!" he hissed, giving me a slap on the back of the head while looking around to make sure I hadn't attracted anyone's attention. He lost his balance slightly and staggered, and we almost fell. "Shit!" he cursed, shuffling his feet to assume a wider, steadier stance. I had to readjust my position so that I could keep my head in line with his groin and stop his penis slipping out of my mouth. He adjusted his grip on the back of my head to hold me tighter and, no doubt feeling more relaxed now that the rape was underway, started thrusting more briskly into my face. He was now silent as he really got into the groove, thank Christ. That was one monologue I was glad he kept internal.

It's crazy how much your senses sharpen, when all you want is for them to shut down. I was staring at his lower belly and pubic hair. The stench of piss was intense—when did this dirty bastard last have a wash? I could hear his heavy breathing as he started to pick up the pace.

But worst of all, I could hear the sounds of normality in the distant playground. Children laughing, running, playing games. The sounds of people talking—too far to hear the words, but close enough that I could hear them at all. Close enough that if they walked in the right direction the would see us—see me on my knees, trousers round my ankles, panty girdle on show, moaning and writhing, fists clenching and unclenching, the muscles in Ian's bare backside flexing as he pumped his hips, his penis sliding back and forth in my mouth...

I wondered if that's what I wanted—or, like the years of forced cross-dressing I'd endured, would it just be easier to get my humiliation over with in private. I had my back to the wall, and I found myself flicking my eyes from side to side again and again, trying to look past his thrusting pelvis to see if I had an audience. If someone turned up, not only would the story of my rape go through the town, but the fact I'd been wearing a panty girdle under duress for three years would as well. To my undying shame, I have to admit to being relieved no-one came to rescue me. Let this thing happen in private, let him just finish raping me—another revolting secret to be added to the collection.

As he speeded up, I now found myself losing my balance under the onslaught and impulsively I clutched his backside to steady myself. Now we were really locked together. Occasionally he'd thrust too deep, triggering my gag reflex, cursing as he eased off to let me regain control. Somehow I had the presence of mind to decide to get him to a quick finish, get it over with quickly. Fighting all natural instincts, I tightened my lips around him, started moving my tongue against his penis and tried bobbing my head, desperately trying (and failing) to match his rhythm.

This grotesque farce went on for several minutes. His hands on my head, my hands on his arse...his hips pumping, my head bobbing (with me never quite getting in synch with him)...him gasping for air through his mouth, me sucking air furiously through my nose...me gagging every few thrusts, him cursing and telling me to shut up...him sighing, me crying...sweat beading both our brows—sucking and fucking, fucking and sucking, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting...in and out, in and out, in and out...I swear it seemed to take forever.

Then his breath started to become more irregular, his thrusting more frantic, and I braced myself for the inevitable. But, despite my resolve, nothing could have prepared me for his ejaculation.

"Jesus! Jesus fuck!" he cried, apparently no longer interested in keeping the noise down. As I felt the first spurt of semen hit the back of my throat, I lost it completely. But my own cries of disgust were muffled by his pulsing erection, as a second jet and then a third spattered into my mouth. I dropped my hands from his backside and started frantically trying to push him away. But he tightened his grip on me and pulled me close, staggering to keep his balance while pressing my face hard against his groin. I was gagging like crazy. The sensation of his semen pooling in my mouth and coating my tongue was probably as much to blame as his penis going too deep and triggering my gag reflex. And still he kept spraying his slime into me—Christ knows when he'd last masturbated. I sensed a fourth, a fifth, a sixth blast before the flow started to ease.

I'd let my mouth go slack as I was now gagging and retching uncontrollably, and droplets of semen were starting to form on my lips. Suddenly he pulled out. I was all set to start spitting when he clamped his hands over my mouth.

"No you don't," he said, reaching for the knife and waving it in my face again while fighting to get his breath back, "you fucking swallow it."

I paused for a second to prepare myself, then swallowed. The glutinous sensation of his load slipping down my throat caused me to heave, and I brought up a noxious mix of sick and sperm into the back of my mouth, which I hurriedly swallowed again. Thankfully this time I was able to keep it down. I dropped to my knees, hawking and spitting, trails of semen hanging from my lips. It seems absurd, but the sun had just come out from behind a cloud and I remember the semen trails glistening in the sunlight. By the time I looked up, he had disappeared.

I staggered to my feet, yanked my trousers up over my girdle, tucked in my shirt and fastened things shut. I found a crumpled tissue in my trouser pocket, so I wiped the remains of his semen from my lips. Then I hurried across and into the school buildings, where headed to the vending machine and bought two cans of Irn-Bru (a popular Scottish fizzy drink then and now). I needed to be alone, so I headed outside, far away from anyone. I wasted the first can rinsing my mouth out and spitting, then I chugged the second can in one go.

Before I could think of what to do next, the bell rang for the start of the afternoon classes. It was a relief to have no time to dwell on what had happened. I trudged back to the school, my mind had torturing me with thoughts of millions of Ian's sperm wriggling around inside me. There were times where being a science nerd did have its downside—ignorance would have been bliss.