The backstreets of the city were quiet at this time of night. There would be more
people around closer to closing time, but now, though the office buildings had been locked
up for the night, the usual groups of drinkers were not yet travelling to and from the
nearby town centre. A few cars, a couple of vans, were parked at meters. The occasional
train could be heard in the distance. But the only person on view was a young woman
slowly walking up and down.
I recognised her immediately as a prostitute; over the past couple of weeks I had
learned to recognise the signs. It was evident not only in the skimpy outfit – not really
suited to the autumn chill – but in the stance, the air of waiting for someone, but not
for anyone in particular.
For years, I had been curious about what led women to sell sex. Ever since my
early teens, when I had come to some understanding of the profession’s existence and what
it actually entailed, I had felt a mixture of fascination and revulsion toward sex
workers. What must it be like, I wondered as I lay awake late at night, to be obliged to
give yourself to a different man, or men, every night? Did they enjoy it, or did they
long for an escape from the life?
As I grew older, I realised that many such women had not entered the trade through
choice. But still, I found it hard to believe that they had no chance of escape. There
was the police, or organisations dedicated to supporting the victims of violence and
exploitation. I realise now how naive I was. Yet at the time, I could not shake my
obsession with this twilight trade.
Intellectually, I knew that the continued exploitation of women by men was utterly
unacceptable in a civilised society. I proclaimed myself a feminist, one focussed on a
successful professional career – and that claim was true, as far as it went. Secretly
though, I imagined myself as a whore, or courtesan; an upmarket one, naturally, for whose
attention wealthy men and playboys would compete. Sometimes, as I masturbated to the
idea, I longed to play out that fantasy on real life. But of course, I never dared to do
so.
The prostitute took a long drag on her cigarette and eyed me warily as I
approached, stepping into the pool of light from a nearby street lamp. I was a woman, and
therefore not a customer. I was dressed in a smart zipped-up jacket, a short denim skirt,
black tights, and laced-up ankle boots. A bag was slung over my shoulder. Just as I made
assumptions about her profession based on her appearance, I suppose she would have spotted
me for a student from the local college. I am dark haired, quite tall, but slim. I am
quite pretty, I suppose, or at least various men and women have told me I am. I have
regular features, and large eyes.
“Are you Candy?” I asked.
The prostitute narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Depends. Who wants to know?”
It was not the warmest reception, but I seized on it eagerly. “My name’s
Kayleigh. I write for the student paper – I’m doing an article on what leads women to,
um, prostitution. I’ve been asking around, and some girls said you might be willing to
talk to me.”
Candy took another drag on her cigarette. “Yeah, I’ve heard about you. Been
asking lots of questions, apparently.”
I was fumbling in my bag for my notebook. I had my story ready, an acceptable
reason for my interest to cover my secret fascination. “I’m investigating rumours that
some women working locally have been trafficked into the country, and are being held
against their will. Are you aware of anything like that?”
“Me? No. I don’t ask questions like that. They might know, though.” She
indicated across the street.
I looked around, and to my consternation saw two large men getting out of a white
transit van parked across the street. They made for me across the road at a brisk pace,
and did not look welcoming. I briefly considered making a run for it – I can go pretty
fast when I have to – but decided to brazen it out.
I pulled myself to my full height as the two approached, determined to give the
impression of someone who knew her rights, and wasn’t going to be pushed around. This was
despite the fact that both men were larger and broader than me, putting me in mind of
nightclub bouncers with a particularly nasty streak. Somewhat to my irritation, however,
they ignored me and spoke to Candy. “Is this her?” one said.
Candy nodded. “She’s the one, all right.”
I decided it was time I spoke up. “Look, I was just asking a few questions...”
“Shut the fuck up,” one said, in a voice that was almost a snarl. He wasn’t even
looking at me. I gasped in fury, then immediately regretted it as he turned to stare down
at me. For the first time, I began to wonder if I was right to assume they would not dare
harm me. As he turned his head, I noticed a swastika tattooed on his neck.
“You’re becoming a bloody nuisance,” he said. “You’re coming with us to explain
yourself.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I insisted, my voice starting to tremble
despite my best efforts. I backed away, turning to flee, but felt strong fingers take
hold of my arm and twist it viciously up my back. I cried out in pain, lifted up on my
toes. I tried to pull my arm free, but his grip was like a vice.
“Let’s get her to Gregor, quickly,” said the other man, looking round. Swiftly,
they dragged me, struggling, across the road to the van. A third man jumped from the
driver’s seat and threw open the back as we approached. I realised with sudden terror
that I was being abducted, not just threatened or bullied into minding my own business,
and gave a piercing scream of, “Help! Help me!” In response, the man holding my arm
slammed my head, hard, against the side of the van. My cries were cut off as I was
momentarily dazed. It was long enough for the two to throw me bodily into the back of the
van, where I landed awkwardly on the floor. Swiftly, they leapt in behind me and closed
the door.
My head was still swimming as I heard the van engine start up and felt the vehicle
move forward. My blood ran cold as I realised just how serious my predicament had become.
I had been working on this story for weeks, against the advice of my friends and
housemates, who had not understood my dogged interest in the subject. They had been so
concerned about my safety that I had tired of their warnings – I was 19 for heaven’s sake,
not a child – and had decided not to tell them where I was going tonight. I would not be
missed until morning, at least.
My only hope was to make these men see just how much trouble they could be in.
“Look, you can just let me go here,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Nothing really serious has happened yet. I can get out now, and then I won’t need to
talk to the police about it. I’ll just forget I ever saw you. OK?”
I started to get up, but one of the men just smiled and gave me an admonishing wag
of his finger. The other, the really aggressive one who had hurt my arm, snapped “You’ll
lie on the fucking floor until I tell you otherwise, bitch. Unless you want me to smash
your face in.”
There was no doubt that he meant it. Wretchedly, my heart pounding, I stayed
where I was. My abductors were sitting on low benches above the back wheels of the van; I
was between the two of them, on the dirty floor next to a roll of old carpet. I noted the
eyes of the second man, the less aggressive one, moving up and down my body and realised
that my skirt had ridden up my legs. Blushing, I quickly pulled the hem down, as far as
it would go. I had earlier decided against wearing trousers, on the grounds that it would
mean allowing the possibility of men’s reactions to dictate how I dressed. That decision
had seemed the right one in my room; how I was regretting it now!
It’s not like they’re really going to do anything, I told myself. They’re just
the muscle. They’ve been told to bring me in to this Gregor, whoever he is. If he’s
running things, maybe I can talk sensibly to him. He’ll want to calm things down rather
than have the police on his back. Maybe he’ll even give me an interview, if I promise not
to use his real name.
As I tried to reassure myself, the van slowed to a halt and I heard the driver get
out. “Up you get,” beckoned the second man, in a friendly enough tone. As the van door
opened he reached out a hand to help me to my feet, but I instinctively recoiled in alarm.
He seemed amused by this, rather than offended.
They had parked at the side or back of what appeared to be a slightly run down
shop. As I emerged shakily from the van, I could see the driver already closing and
padlocking the tall gate we had come through. Beyond it was a dark back alley, with no
sign of shops or homes. There seemed little chance of escape that way.
The man held his hand out and beckoned; I realised he was indicating that I should
hand over my bag. Glancing around, I saw his friend – the really vicious one – glaring at
me, as though waiting for an excuse to hit me again. Numbly, I handed the bag over. The
man smiled. “That’s a smart girl,” he said. He led me over to a doorway; I followed
meekly. If I do what I’m told, maybe I can get out of this, I thought. This one doesn’t
seem so bad. I don’t think he’ll want to hurt me.
I followed the man into the building, his associates close behind. The room
within resembled a taxi hire; a few men waiting on chairs around the sides, peeling paint,
a couple of posters of glamour models blu-tacked to the walls. The only woman visible,
who despite her bottle-blonde hair must have been in her fifties, was sitting behind a
window at the reception desk.
Some of the men looked up as we entered, their eyes lingering on me. If they
registered that I might be present under duress, they showed no sign of it. Though a
narrow flight of stairs was visible in one corner of the room, I was guided away from it
to a door that opened to a small office.
Here, in addition to the receptionist, another man was sitting at a desk. He was
less threateningly built than the men who had brought me in, but his demeanour – and his
flashy, fashionable suit – exuded confidence, even arrogance. The desk was scattered with
paperwork, but at that moment he was engaged in a cheery conversation with someone on his
mobile. He barely glanced up as we entered.
They pushed me to stand before his desk. I heard the door close behind them, and
sensed that one man – the driver, I think – had remained on the other side of it. I would
have felt slightly happier had the tattooed man been with him, but he sat on a plastic
seat to the side of the room and started to flick through a tabloid newspaper. He was the
one I feared most. I had never before encountered such fury, such barely restrained,
unreasoning violence, and had no concept of how to handle it.
I waited nervously, my heart hammering furiously in my chest, as the man at the
desk – Gregor – finished laughing uproariously at whatever anecdote the voice on the other
end of the line was relating. Finally, he hung up and turned to face me.
“So this is the young lady who is so interested in my business,” he said. His
voice had an accent I couldn’t place; possibly Polish, I thought, or something East
European.
“I’m just writing a story on...” I started, but fell silent when he held his hand
up peremptorily.
“You think I give a shit?” he asked, rhetorically. He looked past me to his
henchmen. “Do we know who she is?”
The second man, the less thuggish of the two, spoke from behind my shoulder.
“Yeah, just some nosey student who thinks she’s a hotshot reporter. Got her ID and stuff
here.” I saw my bag land on the desk, and flinched at the sound. Gregor opened it and
glanced through my things. He pulled out my keys, purse and phone. My rape alarm, the
one all female students had been issued with during Freshers’ Week, clattered uselessly to
the desk; Gregor picked it up, glanced at it with mild amusement, and tossed it back in
the bag.
“OK. Head over to her place, make sure nobody else is in, then pack some of her
stuff up. Enough that it looks like she’s taking a trip. Swing by the station and send
her family a text from there saying she’ll ring them in a few days, then turn the phone
off and dump it. That should throw the cops off the scent for long enough.”
I found herself trembling almost uncontrollably as I heard him planning my
disappearance. I wanted to speak, to protest that this was unnecessary, I wouldn’t cause
these people any trouble, but my mouth had turned completely dry and my legs seemed to be
frozen in place. As the man left with my stuff to carry out Gregor’s instructions, I
managed to choke out, “Please let me go.”
Gregor looked at me appraisingly. I knew he could see the desperation in my face,
the pleading look in my eyes. More than anything, I wanted him to take pity on me, to
show mercy. I’ve never harmed anyone! I don’t deserve to be threatened like this!
“What exactly did you think you were doing, nosing around my business, asking my
girls a lot of questions?” he asked. “What did you think you would get out of it? A job
with a big paper? Something on TV?”
I struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t make me sound like the shallow career
girl he was suggesting. In truth, I was ambitious and had seen the story as having
potential to open doors in my chosen profession. “I heard... that women were being
exploited,” I whispered. “People had the right to know.”
“Bullshit,” Gregor chuckled, standing up and coming around the desk. He put his
hand on the back of my neck, squeezing it just hard enough to let me feel his strength.
“Self important princesses like you think men like me exploit women, don’t you? But you
wanted to use my girls to get ahead. So what makes you any different from me,
sweetheart?”
Perhaps if I agree with him he’ll let me go, I thought. But my mouth was working
ahead of my common sense, and I heard my voice say, “I’m not your sweetheart.”
Gregor leaned in closer, his breath against her cheek. “From now on, little lady,
you’re everybody’s sweetheart.”
He’s going to rape me, I realised, my stomach churning at the prospect. Oh God,
I’m actually going to be raped.
I felt myself thrust forward roughly, landing on my stomach on the desk. I tried
to push myself up with my hands, Gregor behind me, but he slammed my head back down.
“Stop that,” he snarled. Pinned down, I felt his other hand at my skirt, yanking it up
over my hips. “Girl’s got an arse, alright,” I heard another man’s voice say approvingly
from somewhere behind me. I tried to scream, but could only make little gasps of panic as
I began to hyperventilate, shocked despite myself at the ferocity of the attack. I felt
Gregor tearing my tights and panties down, and heard the garment rip. Leaning down, one
hand still on the back of my neck, he yanked them further down my thighs, kicking my feet
apart as far as they would go. I cried out as his rough fingers thrust between my legs,
digging between the lips of my sex. Immediately, I felt my body begin to lubricate
itself, protecting itself instinctively against the assault. Gregor laughed. “She knows
enough to get wet, at least!”
There was the jingle of a belt being loosened, and I felt Gregor position his hips
to penetrate me. I could not resist: shocked, petrified, I lay frozen on the desk as he
entered me.
I gave an involuntary grunt as I felt Gregor insert himself roughly into me. He
was not especially big, but he was hard and thick, and he had no qualms about hurting me.
Through the tears that were trickling from my wide eyes, I saw the woman at reception
glance across to us, then look back disinterestedly.
Gregor slammed into me repeatedly, hammering furiously at my body. I felt myself
being forced forward on the desk with each thrust, my body sagging back limply each time
he partially withdrew. He moved his hands to my hips, certain I was now sufficiently
cowed to lie still and take it. Gripping me tightly, he drove in and out with a furious
rhythm, overwhelming me. I could feel the hard edges of the desk digging uncomfortably
into the top of my thighs. I could hear someone nearby sobbing, and realised it was me.
I didn’t know how long he took with me: perhaps it was only moments. At the time, it
seemed an eternity until I felt him swell further, then abruptly spit his seed in me.
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