stepfather fucked me: Must-Have Guide to Healing After Trauma

So, stepfather fucked me—I still get this weird flutter in my chest just thinking about that night, and I’ve never told anyone the full thing. It started when he came home early, all quiet and smelling like rain, and I was just lying there in my old room, restless. He sat on the edge of the bed, not saying much, then his hand brushed my thigh, and I didn’t pull away—I wanted it, which messed with my head. He was rough but not careless, pinning my wrists, breathing hard against my neck, and I remember the scratch of his stubble and how the sheets twisted under us. I kept thinking this is so wrong, but my body didn’t care; every thrust felt like it split me open in a way that was terrifying and hot. After, he just got up and left, and I lay there trembling, half disgusted, half craving more. It took years to untangle that night from the shame, but talking about it now, like this, makes it feel less like a secret eating me alive.