[SAME-232] Unforgettable Traumatic Encounter with a Violent Man’s Dominant Moves

The memory is a physical ache, a phantom pressure that won’t let go. It’s his fucking hips, the relentless, brutal rhythm that invaded every part of me, that bastard’s claim stamped deep inside. I can still feel the ghost of that abuse, the way he used my body for his own twisted drama, turning the office into a private stage for his cruelty. Every time I close my eyes, it’s there—the force, the violation, the complete loss of control as he took what he wanted, leaving me shattered and used.

Now, alone in my apartment, the echo of that trauma becomes a sick, desperate fuel. My fingers trace the same paths he did, mimicking that unforgiving pace, trying to reclaim the sensation but twisting it into my own solowork. It’s fucked up, I know, but the heat builds anyway, a creeping shame that ignites into need. I imagine his hands, his weight, the creampie he forced on me, and instead of revulsion, my body betrays me with a shuddering thrill. The abuse replays in my head, but this time, I’m directing it, chasing that same brutal edge toward my own release.

And when it hits, it’s not sweet or gentle—it’s a raw, screaming acme that tears through me, an orgasm ripped from the depths of that memory. My back arches, muscles seizing as the climax washes over in waves of filthy pleasure, mingling pain and ecstasy until I’m left gasping, a good girl broken and remade by the very hips I can’t forget. The drama of it all collapses into a spent, trembling heap, the line between victim and willing participant blurred into nothing.