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February 17, 2019

Samantha's Chronicles: Stranger than fiction

Sex slave
Sex slave

I lied about how Mr N raped, impregnated and threatened to kill me if I kept the baby. My boss believed me. Do I somehow deserve everything that’s happening right now? I obviously played with matches that caused a fire so big, it is now a bushfire. This reality is far worse than death. Mr N has locked me up as a sex slave! The truth is always stranger than fiction.

Funny thing, though, is that I admire him for taking charge and not letting me walk all over him. I actually… Want him.

Yes. I want him. If he were here right now, I’d jump him. I’m surprised by this. Why would I feel this way? I feel slightly ashamed, disgusted by my body’s own betrayal. Or am I just attracted to men who trigger feelings in me of being inadequate? When your heart is racing from fear or anger, when you feel insulted or diminished — these are the same feelings you get when your heart races from excitement or being in love. It’s easy to confuse the two.

Where is the elusive Mr N? Will he come clean or pretend to be a prisoner like myself? It would make sense to maintain the façade. Say you’re the owner of a dog who has bitten someone. You should use the Four Dogs Defence. One, I don’t have a dog. Two, my dog doesn’t bite. Three, my dog wasn’t home that day. Four, if my dog bit you then you must have provoked it.

I don’t have a dog is always the best defence. He won’t come clean. I hear a clanging on the door. Someone is coming in. It’s Bill.

“Well, look who’s back,” he says.

I look up at him defiantly.

“Causality is a genetic connection of phenomena through which one thing under certain conditions gives rise to something else,” he says. “Remember that?”

I nod. “Where is Mr N?” I ask. I need some form of confirmation he is part of this.

“He’s gone,” he responds.

“He is part of this?” I ask. “Is he your boss?”

“What does it matter who my boss is?” he asks.

I’m getting frustrated. Is Mr N an ally or not?

“I’m stuck here, there’s no way of leaving, please just tell me,” I plead with him.

“The man who had paid to be with you tonight is returning. If I were you I’d concern myself more with how to pleasure him and less about who pays me,” Bill says.

He hands me the same box he had given me earlier. Inside is a black lace bodysuit. It has a plunging neckline detailed with a white crochet trim. He had also offered drugs earlier. This time he does not.

“You had said he — he’ll hurt me?” I ask, my voice shaky.

“Yes,” he affirms with no emotion.

The reality of what is about to happen to me starts to sink in, erasing all feelings of arousal I had for Mr N.

Pain. How abstract a word. One that never becomes a reality until you’re in an accident. Some misfortunate mishap that can be avoided. But pain is about to become my world. Not by accident but deliberately inflicted by some sick pervert.

“You also said you’d give me something to help with the pain,” I say, hoping for some weed.

“No. That was before you decided to try and escape. Causality, remember?”

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