When Sex Is Used to Crush You

Is it considered rape if your predator is your husband?

The terror I felt at that moment, knowing I’d finally pushed him over the edge, was paralyzing.

Pressed up against the fridge with both hands pinned above my head, he controlled my resistance with his body weight. The lingering sting of that first blow to my face a reminder not to fight back.

He groped roughly at my breasts and buried his face in my neck. His breath was foul, and I felt that familiar roil in my stomach.

Without warning, he grabbed a wad of my hair in his fist and slammed me without restraint to the floor, his free hand undoing his leather belt.

It was apparent what he expected next.

As he fumbled with his zipper, the realization that I needed to protect myself came crashing through with startling clarity. Without thought, and still bent at the waist, I yanked away with enough momentum to knock him off balance.

The searing pain of the hair left behind in his fist only motivated me further.

Scrambling to regain my balance, I raced toward the bedroom. Unfortunately, not fast enough to get the door closed and locked between us. His eyes, cold and black, told a different story than the smirk on his face.

I shrunk back in a corner like a trapped animal, as he persisted towards me. Desperate to put a locked door between us, I raced towards the bathroom, but again I wasn’t quick enough.

Struggling under his grip, I fell facedown on the carpet, my elbows slamming painfully to the floor to break my fall.

With everything left in me, I thrashed and wrestled to get loose.

Crazed and furious, my fists smashed into every part of him I could reach.

It didn’t slow him down, but for a split second, one of my legs came free from under his weight. Kicking out with all of my strength, I managed to land a blow directly to his torso.

“Oh, bitch, you’re gonna pay for that!”

He managed to wrap his hand around my ankle, but my sneaker came off in the struggle, and I was loose again.

Without warning, it was launched at my head, grazing my right ear before hitting the bathroom door — the loud crash emphasized that he wasn’t holding back.

Again I tried to seek the safety of a locked door, but he was too fast.

For an instant, I didn’t see him. My eyes darted around the room to find him coming back towards me from the walk-in closet.

Clutching a pair of heels, one in each hand, he stared me down. Seconds ticked by before he proceeded to pummel me with everything he could grab from my side of the closet.

Some of it I dodged, but he managed to land a couple of good shots to my head before I could take cover behind the bed.

Eyes wild, he continued his rant and assured me I’d die before someone else could have me. He swore and called me all the horrible names I’d come to expect.

Eventually, the room went quiet.

With reluctance and eyes wide, I lifted my head from behind the bed to come face to face with my villain.

He was so close I could smell him.

His lips pulled back in a snarled smile, delighting in my horror.

His right hand shot out before I could move, clamping so tightly around my throat I couldn’t get any air. Gripped in fresh fear, I clawed at the fingers that threatened to take my life.

Hot tears slid down my cheeks as I continued to grab helplessly at his hands in pure panic.

I’d never been so afraid.

Pressing relentlessly up under my jawline, he continued to holler. I stood up then in hopes of relieving the pressure; amazingly, he allowed it.

But my relief ended quickly. He bent me backwards across the bed and applied more force. I gasped, choking and clutching at the air.

He lay on top of me as I dug my nails into his flesh, my head feeling like it would explode. With his face too close, he snarled his next words, spittle spraying into my gaping mouth.

“Are you ready to die, you f@#%ing whore?”

Unable to speak under his death grip, I fought back hard.

“Answer me, bitch, before I kill you!”

My eyes wide, I moved my head from side to side, trying to communicate my answer. I guess I wasn’t ready after all.

At that moment, his contorted red face convinced me he was capable. The decision was made; I was trading air for my dignity.

“Don’t move a f@#%ing muscle then you nasty bitch, or I swear I’ll choke you out.”

Pulling at my clothing, he groped and sucked on my breasts for what seemed like an eternity. Then plunged himself into me with such violence I swore he’d torn me in half.

Tears flowed unchecked, and the searing pain in my stomach was almost as unbearable as the humiliation burning in my heart.

Just as instructed, I didn’t move a muscle.

He’d broken me, and it was a moment I’d fight with for the rest of my life.

That night will be forever etched in my mind.

I did fight my way back, and although the abuse I suffered in that relationship changed me, it never truly broke my spirit.

I share my stories as a testament to my healing.

Some don’t believe that an act of violence, such as the one I survived that night, can be labelled as rape because I was married to my preditor.

I’m afraid I have to disagree.

What do you think?

Here’s more about that relationship…

I’m Liz, the self-empowered, red wine & coffee lovin’, personal growth fanatic behind this article. I’ve stopped shrinking into places I’ve outgrown and I’m a fan of straight talk and practical solutions. That’s why I’m here to Empower, Educate and Entertain.