My Secret Fantasy That Makes Me Feel Like a Monster

I’m shaking so hard I can barely type. My chest feels tight, my eyes won’t stop leaking, and I keep wanting to delete every word before I hit post. But I can’t keep carrying this alone anymore. It’s destroying me.
I’m a normal college educated woman in my early 30s. I’m a feminist. I believe in consent with every part of me. I’ve marched, I’ve donated, I’ve held friends while they cried after being assaulted. And still… this fantasy lives in my head and it won’t leave.
It’s the caveman thing. The brutal, cartoonish image of a massive, primitive man clubbing a woman over the head, slinging her unconscious body over his shoulder, dragging her back to his cave by the hair, and just taking her. No words, no choice, no mercy. Pure, animal force.
And it turns me on more than anything else I’ve ever felt. My body responds instantly—heat, wetness, the whole humiliating rush—before my mind can scream at it to stop.
I hate myself for it. I feel filthy, broken, evil. I lie awake afterward crying, scrubbing my skin in the shower like I can wash the thoughts away. I feel like a traitor to every woman who’s ever been violated, like I’m secretly on the side of the monsters.
But there’s something even darker that keeps me up at night, something I’m terrified to admit even here:
I’m afraid that if I were ever actually raped—if someone really did to me what happens in this fantasy—I might get physically turned on. My body might betray me the same way it does when it’s just in my head. And the thought that I could have an o***** during something so violent and wrong… that I might feel pleasure while being destroyed… it makes me want to die. I don’t know how I could ever live with myself afterward. I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to call it r*** anymore, even though I know—logically, I know—that bodies can react without consent. But knowing that doesn’t quiet the terror that I’m secretly wired wrong, that some part of me would “like” it, and that would break me forever.
I feel like there’s something rotten at the core of me. Like I’m not safe to be around, like I don’t deserve to call myself a survivor advocate or a good person. The shame is eating me alive.
If you’ve ever had a fantasy this dark, this shameful… if you’ve ever worried your body would betray you in the worst possible moment… please, please tell me I’m not the only one. Tell me it doesn’t make me a monster. I don’t know how to keep living with this secret.
I’m sorry if this hurts anyone to read. I’m sorry for even thinking it. I just needed to say it somewhere before it swallows me whole. If you don’t want to post you can email me at sosarah247 (at) proton.me.