A Broken Toy: Raped by Her Therapist

Story Excerpt

I sit in my office, adjusting my tie as I glance at the clock. It’s 2 PM, and my next appointment is with Sandra, a first-time patient, referred by a general practitioner for trauma counseling. Her file is thin: 28 years old, recent assault, no prior therapy. Rape by acquaintances, it says. I lean back in my leather chair, the room quiet except for the hum of the AC.

My desk is neat, notebook open, pen ready, tissues on the side table. I’ve done this hundreds of times: build rapport, listen without judgment, guide them through the pain. But something about her intake notes sticks with me. Male friends. Betrayal on top of violation. I feel that familiar professional empathy kicking in, mixed with the routine detachment that keeps me sane in this job.

The door opens after a soft knock, and my receptionist ushers her in. Sandra steps inside, looking smaller than her photo suggested. She’s got dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, wearing jeans and a loose sweater, like she’s trying to hide. Her eyes are red-rimmed already, and she clutches her purse tight against her chest. I stand up, smiling warmly to put her at ease.

“Sandra, hi. I’m Dr. Anthony Reynolds. Please, come in and have a seat.”
I gesture to the couch across from my chair, keeping my voice steady and reassuring. She nods, avoiding eye contact, and sits on the edge of the cushion, knees together, hands folded in her lap.

“Thank you for coming today. I know this must be hard, reaching out for the first time. How are you feeling right now?”

She swallows, her fingers twisting the strap of her purse. “Nervous. I… I don’t know where to start. I’ve never done this before.”

I nod, leaning forward slightly, maintaining that open posture therapists use. “That’s completely normal. We can go at your pace. Maybe tell me a bit about what brought you here. Whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

Sandra takes a deep breath, her shoulders hunching. She stares at the floor for a long moment, then starts talking, her voice low and shaky. “It happened about three months ago. I was out with some friends. They’re guys I’ve known since college. We were at this bar, celebrating a birthday. It was Mark’s, one of them. We’d all been drinking, nothing crazy at first. Tequila shots, laughing, the usual. I trusted them. We were like a group, you know? Hung out all the time.”

I jot a quick note, build trust with group dynamics, but my mind is already picturing it. I keep my face neutral, nodding encouragingly. “Go on when you’re ready.”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling. “After the bar closed, they suggested going back to Mark’s place for a few more drinks. I said yes; it seemed fine. His apartment was small, just a living room with a couch and some chairs. We put on music, kept drinking. I had maybe one more beer, but I started feeling off. I was dizzy, like the room was spinning. I think… I think they put something in my drink. At the bar or after, I don’t know.”

Her voice cracks, and she pauses, pulling a tissue from the box I slide over. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, dabbing at her face.

“No need to apologize. Take your time.” Internally, I’m processing: possible drugging, which complicates consent even more. But as she cries, those tears streaking down her cheeks, her lips trembling, I feel pressure in my pants. It’s unprofessional, wrong, but her vulnerability hits something primal. I adjust myself in my seat, crossing my legs to hide the growing hardness.

She continues, voice gaining a bit of strength as the story spills out. “I tried to say I wanted to go home, but they laughed it off. They said I was just drunk. Then it got weird. Mark sat next to me on the couch, put his arm around me, and the others, Jake and Tyler, were watching with a smirk. I pushed him away, but my arms felt heavy, like I couldn’t move right. Mark grabbed my wrist, pulled me closer. ‘Come on, Sandra, relax,’ he said. I said no, I told him to stop, but he kissed me anyway. Hard, like he didn’t care.”

I nod, my pen scratching notes: resistance verbalized, physical. But my cock twitches as she describes the kiss, imagining her struggling mouth. “That sounds terrifying. How did the others react?”

“They didn’t stop him. Jake came over, held my other arm down. I was yelling by then, kicking, but the drug made me weak. Tyler… he started pulling at my shirt, unbuttoning it. I remember the cool air on my skin. I begged them, I said we’d been friends, please don’t. But Mark just laughed and yanked my jeans down. They were all on me then… hands everywhere. Grabbing my tits, slapping hard enough to bruise. Spreading my legs.”

She’s crying harder now, sobs shaking her body. Her face crumples, eyes squeezed shut, tears flowing freely. God, that crying face, raw and broken, is making me harder. My dick strains against my slacks, throbbing with each sob.

“They raped me,” she whispers, voice breaking. “One after the other. Mark first—he pushed me back on the couch, held my legs apart. I felt him… his cock pressing against me. I was dry; it hurt so much when he forced it in. He didn’t care. He just thrust hard, grunting like an animal. I screamed, scratched at his face, but Jake pinned my hands above my head. Mark fucked me rough, slamming in deep, over and over. It felt like he was tearing me apart inside. I kept saying no, stop, but they just told me to shut up.”

My heart races, not just from the story’s horror, but from the vividness. I can almost hear her screams, feel the resistance. My erection is full now, uncomfortable, but I don’t adjust. Instead, I ask softly, “What happened next? With the others?”

She nods, wiping her nose, tears still streaming. “When Mark finished, he came inside me, I felt it. Then he pulled out, and Jake took his place. He flipped me over, onto my stomach, ass up. My face was pressed into the cushion, and I could barely breathe. He spat on his hand, rubbed it on me, then shoved in. Anal. I never… I’d never done that. It burned, like fire. I begged him not to, said it hurt too much, but he just pushed harder, fucking my ass while Tyler held my head down. Each thrust made me cry out, my body shaking. He went fast, slapping my butt, calling me names. Slut, whore. Like it was a game.”

Her description paints it so clearly: her body bent, violated in every way. I’m rock hard, throbbing. Her crying intensifies, shoulders heaving, and that face, distorted with anguish, fuels the heat in my groin. I lean in. “And Tyler?”

“Yeah,” she chokes out. “After Jake came, he pulled out, and I felt it drip down my legs. They made me sit up. Tyler made me… suck him. He grabbed my hair, forced his dick into my mouth. It was salty, smelled like sweat. I gagged, tried to pull away, but he held me there, thrusting deep until I choked. Then he pushed me back and fucked my pussy, mixing with Mark’s cum. It was sloppy and loud. I felt disgusting. He pinched my nipples hard and bit my neck. I was numb by then, just lying there while he pounded away. When he came, he pulled out and shot on my stomach. They all laughed after, like it was nothing. They told me not to tell anyone, that I’d wanted it.”

She’s sobbing openly now, curled forward, face buried in her hands. The trauma is etched in every line of her body. She’s trembling. But her tears, the way her chest heaves, make my cock ache. I want to comfort her, but darker thoughts creep in.

I clear my throat, keeping my tone clinical, concerned. “Sandra, that’s an incredibly painful experience. The betrayal by friends makes it even harder. As you’re telling me this, I notice you’re crying a lot. In moments like these, sometimes the body reacts in complicated ways. Can I ask… did you enjoy any of it?”