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VIOLATED

A few days later

Timmy’s voice is light and playful, as if he just shared a funny secret instead of something deeply disturbing.

“I had sex with you while you were asleep!” His grin stretches wide, his eyes bright and proud, like he expects me to find this hilarious or cute. The satisfaction in his tone is unmistakable.

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. “Excuse me, you did what now?” My stomach flips and my brow knits, hoping— praying— that I misheard him.

“Yeah,” he repeats as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve done it before, too! I have sex with you while you’re sleeping.” There’s a giddy excitement in his voice, as if he’s expecting me to join in on the joke.

I feel the blood drain from my face, my skin cold and clammy. My brain struggles to keep up with what he’s just said.

I feel numb. Well, my mind feels numb… and I definitely don’t share his enthusiasm.

My pussy doesn’t feel numb. It feels like it’s been battered by a twelve-foot dildo. But that’s nothing new. We have sex a lot, now that we’re in a place of our own. I wouldn’t expect it to feel any other way, even if he did what he just told me he did.

Surely he means when he wakes me up, right? That has to be what he means.

“You mean when you wake me up in the middle of the night and we have sex?” I damn sure hope that’s what he means. I’m grasping for clarity, desperate for a reasonable explanation.

“Nope,” he shakes his head, still grinning. “Like I bang you when you’re fully asleep.” His smile widens, and what he said next makes my stomach churn. “I love having sex with you that way… because you don’t talk.” Then, as if he’s just cracked the funniest joke, he laughs—a short, sharp laugh with a disturbing edge to it.

Oh my fucking god.

The air feels thick, suffocating, as the weight of his words sinks in. I sit here, numb—mentally paralyzed. My mind is reeling, trying to process what he just admitted to. My body feels cold, disconnected, as if this isn’t really happening. But the dull ache between my legs suddenly feels sharper, more intrusive. It’s a reminder of all the times I’ve woken up sore, thinking it was just the result of the marathon sex we have while I’m awake.

But now, knowing this… Jesus .

I understand snuggling against somebody and then they wake up… like I’ve been poked awake by plenty of dicks before. But like… against my leg or back. Not inside of me. I get waking up in the middle of the night for some spontaneous sex. And the people attached to said dicks have never just tried to ram it in there while I’m knocked out cold.

He doesn’t even seem to notice my silence. He’s too busy flicking through TV channels, completely nonchalant, like what he just admitted to was no more scandalous than stealing a sip of my drink when I’m not looking. Which he does a lot too.

I know somnophilia is something people are into, and I know it can be enjoyable—exciting, even, where both partners are on the same page and have consented to it in advance. Even free use situations where partners will agree their body is accessible at their partner’ s will. But that’s not what this is . There’s no consent in what he’s doing. No agreement. No opportunity for me to say yes or no.

And that’s what makes this so deeply wrong. He decided—on his own—that it was okay to have sex with me while I was unconscious. That it was okay to bypass my ability to consent, the implication being that, to him, my body is available to him at any time. His to use.

It’s unsettling in a way that makes my skin crawl. The act isn’t even what terrifies me the most, although that feels incredibly violating—it’s the way he said it. Like he’s entitled to my body. Like my silence isn’t just expected— it’s preferred . His words drip with entitlement, with the implicit belief that he can do whatever he wants to me, even when I’m unconscious.

And the worst part? He knows I’ve been drugged and assaulted in my sleep before. He knows how haunted I’ve been by that experience, how deeply it’s scarred me. And still, he thought this was okay.

I feel sick. My gut twists painfully as memories resurface—memories I’ve spent years trying to work through in therapy, to move past. And now, here I am, reliving it. Only this time, it’s the person I’m meant to be able to trust most. Someone who is supposed to love me.

Does he think I should be flattered? Is that what this is? Am I supposed to be grateful that he wants me so much that he can’t even wait for me to be conscious? Or that he graced me with the presence of his massive cock as some kind of sleep treat?

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to make sense of the confusion swirling inside me. I don’t want to overreact. I’ve been through trauma, and I know it can skew my perspective. Maybe… maybe I’m overthinking this? Maybe he thought I’d be okay with it. Maybe he thought it was just another way to show me he loves me, that he’s still attracted to me, even while I’m asleep.

I think about all the times he’s gently woken me up to initiate sex, with kisses or playful touches. I was aware then, able to say yes or no. Those moments were intimate, consensual, enjoyable. But this is not that.

My gut churns again, and I remember the time he made me feel guilty at the start of our relationship when I asked him to wear a condom. How he pushed back, subtly manipulating the situation until it felt like I was unable to maintain that boundary. And now this?

I glance at him, sitting there so casually, flicking through channels like it’s just another day. I feel a mixture of anger and sadness, confusion and betrayal. He isn’t angry or defensive. He’s… pleased. Like he’s proud of what he’s done.

I open my mouth to say something—to confront him, to tell him how what he’s just shared has made me feel—but no words come out. I feel strangled, trapped by the weight of my emotions.

My mind flashes back to stories of 1950s marriages where some husbands felt that they could take what they want from their wives sexually, whether they wanted them to or not, no questions asked. Is that what this is? Some twisted version of that?

I feel like I’m standing on a ledge, teetering, trying to decide if I’m overreacting or if this is the massive red flag that, deep down, I know it is. I want to believe that he loves me. That he wouldn’t knowingly hurt me. But the way he’s acting now—like my discomfort isn’t even on his radar—it scares me.

And the scariest part? A tiny voice in the back of my head whispers, what if this is just the start of it? What if there are other things he’s doing that I’m not aware of? What if this is just another crack in the foundation of something that’s meant to be solid?

I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself, trying to figure out what to do next.

He flips the channel again, oblivious, laughing obnoxiously at some silly show.

And I sit here, numb, with the weight of his words pressing down on me like a stone.