Slave Girl by Sarah Forsyth Page B

closed, in a state of complete shock: relieved beyond belief that it was over but still incapable of understanding what had really just happened. And why did he say ‘thanks’ – as if I had done him some small favour that could be repaid by a simple word of empty gratitude? Thanks. For what? For letting you rape me? – for that was surely what it was. Thank you?
    And then I started to shake uncontrollably. My whole body shuddered in great heaving waves and I felt as if I was falling off the world and into some dark, endless void. I wasn’t Sarah Forsyth any more: that Sarah was dead and gone, smothered by the shame of the new Sarah I was becoming: Sarah the woman who fucked for money. Sarah the hooker.
    Sally came in and tried to hold me, to give me some kind of support, I suppose. A hug of recognition. But I couldn’t bear to be touched by anyone. My skin was hot and I felt dirty beyond belief. I wanted to scratch away all my contaminated, corrupted flesh, to claw myself clean again. But when I began tearing at it, Sally grabbed my hands and held them tight, then she forced me to turn and look at her.
    Listen to me. It’s over. Your first one is over. That’s always the worst, take it from me. It’s over, you’ve done it now. Next time will be easier.
     
     
    I wanted to believe her. Sally was all there was between me and the men outside, the men who wanted to abuse my body for their own selfish pleasure. Suddenly I needed to trust her and be held by her.
    I know now that this is a classic psychological response to extreme trauma – the so-called ‘Stockholm Syndrome’, where victims become emotionally attached to their captors or abusers. But at the time all I knew was that I needed to be held, and to believe that the worst was over.
    She lied, of course. The worst wasn’t over – not by a long chalk – and it wasn’t easier the next time. Or the time after that.
    By lunchtime that day I had serviced two more men. Each time was just as bad as the first. Both times I sobbed quietly as they used me; both times they just carried on as if it were normal. Both times they silently, relentlessly pounded away at me until they found whatever release they had been seeking. Both times they muttered a cursory ‘thanks’ as they left.
    Who were these men, I found myself wondering. Where did they come from? Were they married, in relationships – or on their own and desperate? And what sort of upbringing had they had which let them believe it was okay to have sex for money, to force themselves on an obviously unhappy and unwilling stranger?
    All the time Sally had been sitting in the little room next door – keeping an eye out for you, she said. And she kept taking the drugs: lines of coke, followed by big pungent joints. She seemed half out of it and I wondered how much use she would have been if I’d had any sort of trouble.
    To my surprise I found that I was hungry. I looked at my watch: 2pm. There hadn’t been any breakfast and I realised my body was craving something – anything – inside it just to keep going. I asked Sally about lunch and she gave me one of her looks, as if to say, where the hell do you think you are?
    ‘This isn’t an office job, Sarah. There’s no lunch hour. We can’t just pop out for a bite to eat, or a look round the shops. We work our shifts here without a break.’
    She dug into her bag and handed me a fistful of what looked like multi-coloured pills. Given her intake of other drugs I assumed the worst and recoiled from her outstretched hand.
    ‘Suit yourself. They’re M&Ms, not fucking pills. They’re the only “lunch” we’re going to get.’
    She pronounced the word ‘lunch’ with such heavy sarcasm that I burst out in hysterical laughter. Sally looked at me and starting laughing too. And then reality hit back and the laughter turned into sobbing and we ended up clinging onto each other, crying our eyes out. We ate the M&Ms, though.
    Sally agreed to do the next few