Жестокий человек

Eighteen years ago, when I was twenty, I already thought I knew everything about sex, men, and their physiological characteristics. But one day, I got talking with a young man around thirty, and not in a restaurant or some club, but at a savings bank. He invited me to his place, and I, though not seeking intimacy with him, not knowing why myself, obediently went to his home. What happened at his place was something utterly beyond the pale. He fucked me from noon until 8:00 PM with a few breaks, each no more than half an hour, when he would bring me coffee and pastries so I could come to my senses a bit. What he did to me—it's impossible

to convey; I felt like I had turned into a rag, a washcloth, and once I even completely blacked out.

He moved me from one position to another absolutely unceremoniously, flipped me over, tossed me around like some dummy, like an inflatable doll that you don't have to ask what it feels, and I obediently followed all his commands. I had already experienced every possible number of orgasms, but he kept pounding me with his jackhammer, and I thought it would never end. At one point, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the open wardrobe door and didn't recognize myself—I was all sweaty, my hair was disheveled and stuck to my face, and in my eyes—there was horror and despair. When he finished, he allowed me to come to my senses a bit, quickly take a shower, during which I managed to cry quietly, and politely showed me the door with a box of chocolates and his phone number written on it. For several days, I lived under the impression of that ordeal, and then I called him, pitifully asked to visit, and didn't even take offense at his laughter on the phone. Several times, we, or rather he, repeated the same program. Then our meetings stopped—it seems he found a life partner, whom I once saw him with on the street, or even got married. I remembered him, wished to experience it all again, and involuntarily despised men with ordinary, "average" sexuality.

I think it's in the genes, i.e., natural human traits passed down through generations; I understood this when I learned some details about my husband's father. There.