The first Time my Wife was Raped by her ex

When my wife was 14 she was raped by he’s first boyfriend in the ass and pussy and was filled up both times.

The basement smelled like stale air and old carpet, the kind of underground cold that never quite left the room no matter how long the space heater ran. Selena lay on her stomach on the floor, her elbows propped on a flattened pillow she'd dragged from the couch upstairs, the Xbox controller warm and unfamiliar in her small hands. The TV glowed blue in the dim light, the training range of Overwatch spread across the screen—bots moving in predictable patterns, markers flashing where she was supposed to aim.

The right stick felt wrong in her thumb. Too sensitive. She jerked the camera too far, overshot a bot, and the reticle spun past it. She corrected, overshot again. A frustrated sound escaped her throat, small and breathy, and she adjusted her grip, curling her fingers around the plastic like it might teach her something.

Footsteps on the basement stairs. Heavy. Unhurried.

Her shoulders tensed before she knew why. The controller twitched in her hands and her character walked into a wall.

"You still dying?"

Jaxson's voice came flat from behind her, no warmth in it. Just observation. She heard his weight land on the mattress at the edge of the room, felt the floorboards shift through the thin carpet.

"I'm learning," she said, and her voice came out smaller than she wanted. She kept her eyes on the screen, on the bots, on the crosshair she couldn't seem to keep steady. "The controls are just—"

"You think too much."

She heard him stand. The mattress springs groaned with relief. His footsteps crossed the room, slow and deliberate, and she felt the air change as he stopped behind her.

She didn't turn around. She kept her thumb on the joystick, kept her eyes on the screen, kept breathing like everything was normal. The training bot marched across her field of view and she shot at it, missed, shot again, hit it. The hit marker flashed. A small victory she held onto.

Something shifted behind her. The carpet creaked under his knee. Then the mattress at her side dipped as he lowered himself down beside her, his body close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her oversized t-shirt.

"Here." His hand reached past her, fingers wrapping around hers on the controller. "You're holding it wrong."

He adjusted her grip. His thumb pressed hers into the joystick. The warmth of his hand was heavy and certain, and she let him move her fingers because saying no felt harder than letting it happen.

"There," he said, and pulled his hand back. "Try now."

She tried. The bot moved across her screen and she tracked it better this time, the crosshair following closer, almost smooth. She fired and hit it twice. A third bot appeared and she swung toward it, missed, adjusted, hit.

"Better," he said, and she felt the word land in her chest like a small, precious thing.

She kept playing. The bots moved in their circuits. She shot them, missed some, hit others, and slowly the controls began to make sense—the right stick for the camera, the left for movement, the triggers for abilities she didn't understand yet. The training range was forgiving. Infinite ammo. No consequences.

Jaxson shifted beside her. She heard him settle onto his stomach too, parallel to her, close enough that his arm brushed hers. She didn't pull away. She kept her eyes on the screen, kept breathing, kept pretending this was just two people playing a game in a basement on a cold afternoon.

His hand landed on her lower back. Light at first, just the weight of his palm, the heat of his fingers through the cotton of her t-shirt. She stiffened but didn't speak, didn't look away from the screen. The bot in front of her exploded in blue light and a new one spawned.

His hand moved. Slow. Down the curve of her spine, over the hem of her shirt, until his fingers found the bare skin of her lower back just above the waistband of her shorts. His touch was warm and deliberate, and her breath caught in her throat.

"Jaxson—" She started, a question she didn't know how to finish.

"Keep playing," he said. His voice was low, unhurried. "You're getting better."

She swallowed. Her thumb stayed on the joystick. Her character walked forward into the training range. A bot appeared and she shot at it, missed, shot again, hit. The hit marker flashed green.

His fingers traced the waistband of her shorts. Then hooked into it.

She froze. The controller went still in her hands. Her character stood motionless in the middle of the training range, a bot shooting at her, the health bar dropping.

"Jaxson." His name came out of her throat tighter now, a warning she didn't have the courage to make sound like one.

He didn't answer. His fingers pulled, and the waistband of her shorts slid down her hips, the fabric dragging over her skin, down past her underwear, down to her knees. Cool air hit the bare curve of her ass and she gasped, a thin, sharp sound that disappeared into the hum of the television.

"What are you—"

His hand pressed between her shoulder blades. Flat. Firm. Pushing her down onto her stomach until her cheek pressed against the rough basement carpet, until her body was pinned beneath his weight, until the controller slipped from her fingers and clattered against the floor.

"Jaxson, please—"

He didn't say anything. She heard the sound of his belt unbuckling, the slide of a zipper, and her heart lurched into her throat. She tried to push herself up, tried to twist away, but his hand on her back held her flat, and his knee moved between her legs, forcing them apart.

"No—no, please, I don't—"

His free hand grabbed her hip. He pulled her back toward him, positioning her, and she felt the head of his cock press against her ass, hot and dry and wrong. She shook her head against the carpet, her fingers digging into the fibers, her voice breaking apart into sounds that weren't words anymore.

"Please stop—Jaxson, please—"

He pushed.

The pain was white and immediate. A tearing stretch that stole the air from her lungs and left her mouth open in a silent scream. Her body tried to clench against him, tried to reject what was forcing its way inside her, but he didn't stop. His hand on her hip held her steady, his grip bruising, his breath even and cold above her.

"Please—it hurts—please—"

Her voice came out thin, wet, broken into pieces that fell into the carpet. She felt every inch of him forcing deeper, felt the unbearable stretch of her body giving way to him, felt tears burning hot tracks down her cheeks and into the basement floor.

He stopped when he was fully inside her. She felt him there, thick and deep, felt the alien pressure of him filling a part of her that had never been touched. Her breath came in ragged, hitching gasps. Her fingers curled into fists against the carpet.

"You're so tight," he said, and his voice was almost curious. "Relax."

She couldn't. Her body was rigid with pain and terror, every muscle locked against what was happening. He pulled back slowly, the drag of him against her insides making her whimper, and then pushed forward again, deeper this time, and she heard herself make a sound she didn't recognize.

He set a rhythm. Slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust pushing a sob out of her throat. The carpet burned against her cheek. The TV still glowed blue, the training range still playing, a bot shooting at her idle character, the health bar long since empty.

"Please stop," she breathed into the carpet. "Please, Jaxson, please—"

His hand slid from her hip to her hair. He fisted a handful of it at the root, not pulling hard, just holding. Just reminding her he was in control. His pace increased, the slap of his hips against her ass filling the room, wet and obscene.

Something shifted inside her. The pain began to dull, began to blur into a pressure that was almost something else, and she felt her body betray her—felt a warmth spreading through her pelvis, felt her thighs growing slick with her own unwilling arousal. She tried to clench against it, tried to make it stop, but her body didn't listen. Her body was responding to him despite everything, despite the tears and the begging and the terror.

"I feel you," he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice now. "You're getting wet."

She shook her head against the carpet. No. No, she wasn't. She couldn't be. But the heat was there, growing, pooling low in her belly, and when he thrust forward again the friction was different—slicker, easier, and her body arched into it before her mind could stop it.

"That's it," he said, and his grip on her hair tightened. "Take it."

She came apart without warning. The orgasm ripped through her like a shockwave, sudden and devastating, her body clenching around him as a cry tore from her throat—half sob, half moan, a sound she didn't understand. Her hips bucked back against him, chasing the pleasure even as her mind screamed at her to stop, and she heard herself gasp his name, heard the desperate edge in her own voice.

"Jaxson—"

"Yeah," he said, and he sounded almost pleased. "That's it. More."

He kept thrusting through her orgasm, driving deeper, and the overstimulation hit her in waves—too much, too much, but her body kept responding, kept clenching, kept wanting. She heard herself beg, heard the words fall out of her mouth without permission.

"More—please—"

The words came from somewhere she didn't recognize. The same place that made her body press back into his, that made her crave the fullness of him inside her even as her tears soaked into the carpet. She didn't understand herself anymore. She was afraid and she was desperate and she was hungry, and he gave her everything she didn't know she wanted.

He came inside her with a low grunt, his hips pressing flush against her ass, his cock pulsing as he filled her with heat. She felt every spasm, felt the wetness of him deep inside her, and another sob tore from her throat—relief and shame and something darker tangled together.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, breathing hard. Then he pulled out slowly, and she felt the emptiness like a wound, felt his cum leaking out of her, dripping down her thigh.

She lay still on the carpet, her cheek pressed to the floor, her body trembling. The TV still glowed. A bot marched across the training range, unaware.

I changed the names of the real people for my wife’s protection and also made the story more clear and enjoyable for the audience so please tell me if you guys like it in the comments and tell me how you would fuck my wife😝😉