Trafficked The Diary of a Sex Slave (5 page)

But there is nothing I can do now.

Last year Liliana wanted me to buy her a watch. She saw mine and became obsessed with it, as only children can. “Why do you wear it?”; “What is it for?”; “Is everyone’s time in the whole world the same?”; “Who decides what the time is?” On and on she asked questions until I let her wear it.

A watch is useless in here. I do not need a watch to sit and wait, and pass seconds that feel like a whole lifetime has gone by. I do not need a watch to know that now it will take me an infinite time to gain the trust of my new owners. And without their trust I cannot dare to dream of getting back to Liliana. They will be watching every move I make.

So I will behave myself and fool them into thinking I am the best sex slave they have ever had. And one day there will be another chance. I have to believe that or else I will go insane.

Day 40

I am trying to remember the last thing I ever bought. Groceries? Wool for my mother to knit us winter jumpers? A plastic hair clip for Liliana? Milk? I cannot remember.

The last thing Paul Robb bought is me.

He is my new owner, and Angelina said he will be coming to get me today. I will be going to one of his saunas or brothels in England.

It is strange for me to admit this, but I am going to miss it here. At least here the men must wear condoms and I have my own bathroom. The house is nice and clean, and I can see the sunlight through the windows, even though I can never feel it on my face.

I think of the stories Sasha and the other girls have told me, and I fear what my new prison will be like.

I have a feeling it will be worse. Much worse.

Day 45

When Stefan used to tell me I was beautiful, it always lit me up inside. He did it a lot. I would catch him watching me with a proud smile on his face at odd moments in the day. Every night in each other’s arms, before we drifted off to sleep, he would tell me I was the most gorgeous girl in the world.

When Paul looked at me and said I was beautiful it made me cringe. He is not saying it to a lover or a wife. He is looking at me like an object. Something that will make him money.

I tried to engage my new owner in conversation on our drive from Italy to England, pretending to be friendly and chatty, but he would tell me to shut up. In the deafening silence I could hear my life ticking away.

I only know three things about my new circumstances: 1) I now have a false British passport – I saw it as he handed it to the guards at each border; 2) He will kill Liliana if I do not do as he says; 3) He is no better than the Rapist.

It has taken three days to arrive in England. As we sped through villages and towns, I wondered how many other women like me were out there. The more miles we drove, the more a heavy pressure settled in my chest, as if squeezing the life out of me.

He has already asserted his authority over me with rough sex and threats during the two nights we stayed in small motels on the journey. But I want him to trust me, so I pretend I am enthusiastic, even though I want to batter him until his brains explode. I have become a learned student in acting, and I will use this skill well.

My new cell is in an apartment that is a massage parlour somewhere in London. This is not the picture I had in my head of the city when my father told me it was a great place to start a new life. It is in a shabby and busy street, and I think the men will be worse here than before. A big, rusting sign hangs outside, advertising
P’s Massage Parlour
for all the world to see. Every single person who walks or drives past this place can see it, yet no one does anything. They are trafficking girls under everyone’s noses, but we are invisible.

My room has shaggy pink carpet and pink wallpaper with frayed edges. It stinks from years of neglect and proper cleaning. The double bed is sagging and worn and it squeaks with the slightest movement. There are no bars on the window, but I am four storeys up and would probably kill myself if I jumped. Maybe that would be a good thing.

I have no bathroom in my cell. There is a shared bathroom that the girls must use, with mould around the edges and leaking taps that have left greenish-brown stains on the white surface. There is a cracked mirror on the wall and my reflection sums me up perfectly.

Broken.

Day 49

I studied myself in the mirror and realized I have lost more weight. My hips bones and ribs stick out more, my eyes are sunken in my skull, and my stomach is concave. They give us food in small amounts, and if we want more we have to ask for it. I never ask. I do not want to eat, and I do not want to give them the satisfaction.

None of the girls here talk about themselves like Sasha did. We are all nervous in case anything we say gets back to our captors. There could be one who is willing to pass on anything we say for the promise of better treatment.

The days and nights are all the same again. The men come – drunk, dirty, smelly. Sometimes they are violent and they are thrown out, but nothing bad happens to them. They are filthy pigs, but I am the perfect whore.

Paul is pleased with me. He said if I am good, I can visit the rich men he provides girls for. Anything is better than the men here.

Liliana fills every waking thought, and she is with me permanently in my dreams. She is the only thing that gets me through this.

Just before I was trafficked I made her a pretend telephone. We could not afford a real one, so I tied two plastic cups to the ends of a long piece of string. She would go in one room and put the cup to her ear to see if she could hear me talking, then make me do the same.

I talk to her all the time in my head now, hoping somehow that she can telepathically hear me. Liliana is at the mercy of Natalia, Andrei, the Rapist, Paul, and many others I have never even met. Her life used to be in my hands. Now it is in theirs alone.

Day 53

Yesterday I was allowed outside. Not to shop or sightsee or visit a friend, like most people take for granted, but to visit a rich customer.

Paul has an expensive apartment in London that he keeps for his big-payers, and he drove me there in his shiny, luxurious car. He calls this “The Millionaires’ Club.”

He told me the man had booked me for the whole night. Tomorrow I must call Paul and he will pick me up.

The apartment was like something in a magazine – modern with big windows and minimal furniture. It was spotlessly clean with sparkling chrome and glass, and the area of London looks expensive and well-cared for. The complete opposite of the massage parlour. It is on the fifteenth floor of the building, and I could look down to the huge river below. For a moment I wondered what it would feel like to run through the glass and dive into the water. Into oblivion.

I had my bag with me and my “sexy” clothes inside. Paul told me I must look beautiful for this man, so I brushed my hair until it shone like ebony and you cannot tell that it is coming out by the handful. I applied my make-up to hide the dark circles under my eyes and my pale skin. My skin smelled of vanilla from the perfume Paul gave me to wear so this man will not smell the mould from the bathroom I shower in. From the way Paul talked, I knew this man was an important customer and I had to make a special effort.

This was the first time I had been outside on my own since I was trafficked, and Paul let me know in no uncertain terms what will happen to Liliana if I did something stupid.

When Paul left, I went into one of the bedrooms to get ready for this man. I was told he likes being tied up and whipped. Then he likes to act out a rape fantasy.

He arrived in an expensive-looking suit. He has light brown hair and pale blue eyes. He is probably about forty-eight years old. He did not waste time ordering me to do this and that: Undress him while I am naked, except for knee-length leather boots. Tie him to the bed by his legs and arms. Whip him lightly and shout filthy things to him. Then, when he was ready, he ordered me to untie him.

Next, it was my turn to be whipped. Only he enjoyed doing it harder. Not enough to rip my skin, but I have sore, red welts there now. He liked to handcuff my wrists and ankles to the bed and strangle me as he raped me. This went on throughout the night. Time and again.

Today I cannot talk. There are bruises around my throat and marks on my body. At 8 a.m. the man got dressed, and as he did up his cufflinks he stared at me. He did not really see me; I am just a thing to him.

‘I like you,’ he said, nodding his approval. ‘Paul made a good choice. I’ll see you the same time next week.’ He handed me a one hundred pound tip.

I cannot keep it, of course. I have to give it to Paul so he knows he can trust me. Paul was very pleased with me. He showed his pleasure by ripping my clothes off as soon as I got into my bedroom at the massage parlour. He had a huge, ugly grin on his face as he saw the bruises and marks across my white skin.

‘Oh, yeah, baby. He likes you. You’re going to make me a fortune,’ Paul said before throwing me on the bed and raping me.

I squeezed my eyes closed and prayed for this nightmare to end.

Day 54

Yesterday was my initiation into “The Millionaires’ Club.” Paul told me the Strangler was so pleased with me, he was going to use me regularly at the apartment for the other rich men. Tonight Paul will take me to that place again, and I will spend hours making myself look pretty for them.

Day 56

Every night I have the same nightmare. I am trapped in a coffin, buried alive underground. I can actually smell the peat in the ground and feel the cold earth permeate my bones so I am shivering. There are insects crawling over my skin. Cockroaches and spiders. Then the rats come later and gnaw on my skin.

When I bang on the wooden lid, trying to tell someone I am trapped, I hear my mother calling me.

‘Elena, where are you?’ she cries.

And even though I am just below her, a few feet underground, she cannot hear me.

My nails scrape against the sides of the coffin, and I kick it with my feet, but I cannot get out.

After I wake up in a cold sweat, my skin itches uncontrollably and I cannot get back to sleep.

Day 57

I have a new customer who did not want to have sex with me. I do not know if this is some kind of loyalty test that Paul has conjured up so he knows he can trust me, or if it is something else.

The man is called Jamie. He was my first customer tonight at the massage parlour, and I could tell he was nervous. He would hardly look me in the eye. He reminds me of Stefan in some small way. Not the way he looks, but how he holds himself. It seems like there is something gentle about him.

I asked him what he wanted and he did not seem to understand me.

‘What would you like me to do for you?’ I said to him.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if I was trying to trick him. ‘Look…er…I’ve never done this kind of thing before. I just want to talk,’ he said.

‘Talk?’ I repeated. I thought I had misheard him because this has never happened before.

‘Yes. And I want to hold you,’ he said.

So we laid on the bed together and he held me in his arms, chest to chest, his chin resting on the top of my head. He told me how his wife died a year ago from a sudden brain haemorrhage. It has been hard for him, coping without her. He misses her in his arms at night, and I know how he feels, because he makes me think about Stefan again. He said he has been lonely, and he needs to get comfort from someone.

So I stroked his back gently and let him talk about her, trying to give him all the comfort I could. It is much better than being raped.

Day 59

I spend a lot of time at Paul’s Millionaires’ Club apartment now.

One of the men likes two girls at a time. One of them wants me to dress like a school girl. One of them likes me to wear a certain perfume. One of them likes me to whip him.

Most of the rich men treat me better than the men in the massage parlour, and I am grateful for that. The only exception is the Strangler.

Day 65

Jamie came to see me again. This time he paid for three hours of my time, but he still did not want sex. It was the same as before, lying on the bed in each other’s arms as he talked about his wife.

It made me think of Stefan when he told me they were childhood sweethearts. After going their separate ways to university, they lost touch with each other, but met up by chance a few years later and got married when they were twenty-five. Although they had no children, they had been trying for a baby for the last four years. One day she was there, the next she was gone. Her life disappeared in a puff of smoke. I can relate to that.

I discovered he is thirty-five years old and has a cat called Whiskers.