How the Neighbor Boy Used Chocolate to Trick Me Into Fucking Him

My name is Riley Reid, and today I turned 32. This morning in our quiet semi-detached house in a Bristol suburb, my husband James and his old university friend Tom had me between them again. The curtains were still drawn against the grey March light. James pinned my wrists to the headboard while Tom gripped my hips from behind, thrusting hard and deep. It was rough bruising almost their rhythm relentless, bodies slick with sweat. I gasped, moaned, sometimes whimpered when it edged too close to pain. But it felt right. This has become part of us: consensual, intense, a private ritual that leaves me sore yet strangely content. James kissed my neck afterwards, murmuring how much he loved me. Tom just grinned, pulled on his jeans, and promised to text about the football match later. As they headed downstairs for coffee, I lay there, legs trembling, thinking how far I’d come from the frightened girl I once was.

It all started when I was . 8 We lived on a peaceful cul-de-sac in the same Bristol suburb the kind of street where neighbours wave over hedges and kids play football until the streetlights come on. Three doors down lived Lucas Bennett. He was 12, studying local school, tall with messy dark hair and a smile that made my stomach flip. Lucas always seemed so grown-up, so sure of himself. He’d spot me walking home from the bus stop and call out, “Riley! Fancy coming over to play on the PlayStation? Got a new racing game – you’d smash me.”

I went over a lot that summer. His parents worked long hours or went to family events, so the house was often empty. One warm day in June, he knocked on our door. “Mum and Dad are away at a wedding all weekend,” he said casually. “House to myself. Come over I’ve got this funny game we can try. You’ll like it.” He flashed that smile, and I followed him inside without a second thought.

The living room smelled of toast and washing powder. Lucas handed me a bar of Dairy Milk. “First, eat this,” he said. “The game’s called ‘Number Guess’. Close your eyes, count from one to a hundred in your head. When I say stop, guess the number I was thinking. Get it right, you win another chocolate.”

I sat on the sofa, eyes shut, counting silently. I heard him step closer. Then fingers lifted my skirt. Before I could react, my knickers were tugged down. Something blunt and warm pressed between my legs, then pushed inside. A sudden stretch, a strange pressure. I gasped, eyes snapping open.

“Lucas – what are you doing?” My voice came out small.

“Shh, relax,” he whispered, already moving slowly. “It’s part of the game. Feels nice, yeah? Just stay quiet and I’ll give you more chocolate after.”

I didn’t understand. confusing feeling. There was no sharp pain yet, just discomfort and a weird fullness. I liked chocolate. I liked that he wanted me there. So I closed my eyes again and let it happen.

After that, whenever his house was empty a weekend, an evening, a day his parents visited relatives he’d call me: “Game time?” I’d slip over, heart pounding. He’d give me chocolate or crisps, sometimes a fizzy drink, and we’d do it on the sofa, or once upstairs on his bed. At first he was careful, almost gentle. A tingle started to build, something curious and warm. I never told a soul. It felt like our secret special, in a way.

Then came the afternoon everything broke. It was a rainy Saturday in October. His parents were away again. Lucas seemed restless, sharper. No chocolate this time. He pulled me straight upstairs, pushed me face down across his duvet. No counting, no smiles. He entered me hard, no warning. Pain exploded tearing, burning. I cried out, tried to twist away.

“Lucas, stop it hurts!” Tears choked my words.

“Quiet,” he muttered, holding me down. “You always liked it before.”

He didn’t stop. Each thrust felt like fire. I sobbed into the pillow until he finished. When he pulled out, I felt wetness looked down and saw blood staining the sheet, bright red against white cotton. My legs shook. Shame flooded me. I felt small, stupid, dirty.

I stumbled home through the rain, knickers damp and sticky. That was the last time. I avoided his street, took the long route home. He never approached me again. Months later his family moved away. I buried it all convinced it was my fault for going over, for staying silent, for accepting the chocolate.

Time passed. I left home, went to university, met James. We fell in love slowly, properly. When our bedroom adventures grew bolder, I found power in choosing roughness. It wasn’t something done to me anymore it was mine to want, to control. Inviting Tom in felt like reclaiming that long-ago afternoon, turning pain into pleasure on my terms.

This morning, as sunlight finally slipped through the curtains, I smiled to myself. The girl who cried into a pillow is gone. In her place is a woman who knows her body, her desires, her strength. James called up that breakfast was ready. I pulled on my dressing gown, still tender, Life moves forward and so do I.