Total control of the "product" is necessary at all times. And if you hit a kid a bunch in the same place, people start to notice, so they got creative to keep their meal ticket intact-ish. For the worst offenses, being locked in a metal box or trunk until you passed out from the heat was a common prescription.
Continue Reading Below Continue Reading Below Advertisement Basically, they needed to keep me in prime selling shape until my mid-teens -- the ultimate goal for girls like me was an arranged marriage. They wanted to sell me before I got too old, and sort of cash out. You know all those lectures you had in school where they talk about how many tens of thousands of dollars it costs to raise a child to adulthood? My parents had the opposite goal -- they'd turned me into an investment.
I was 14 when the first negotiations for a marriage arrangement were on the table. Have you noticed yet that many of the people who want to buy children to molest also have lots of money?
Damn, this really does just keep getting worse, doesn't it? He withdrew at the last minute when he found an international girl who was cheaper. Yeah, there's a whole world of us out there -- when I was older I met some of the international slaves. One was from Thailand, a couple were from India, two more from Africa. Their cases are similar -- it almost always starts in the family and eventually moves on to family friends and then strangers. The girls I met from Africa were sold straight-up by their parents -- they'd hawk their kids via chat rooms, bragging about their skills and such.
Eventually someone bites, and then they work out an international adoption and bring the girl over on that premise. These people aren't giving a teen a home, they're buying a domestic servant or a fucktoy. The two girls from Thailand were brought over by the same guy.
He was a slave trader -- yes, those still exist. He'd get the girls who were ripe and of age. I know I did. Redneck logic can lead to good things, like the deep-fried Snickers bar, but it also leads to this kind of nightmare.
Continue Reading Below Advertisement But what it comes down to is that nobody trusts children. And that's not generally a terrible idea, because little kids are often liars.
But it also means that adults are likely to just assume your incredibly terrifying-to-make confession is a bag of lies, part of some desperate plea for attention. So, any time I'd reach out to someone, they'd just go right to my parents. Over and over again. When I got a little bit older, the first person I intentionally tried to reach out to was my great-aunt.
She was always nice to me, I thought. I tried to tell her, "Mom makes me go places with these men. And, just like the lady I let it slip to at school, she went right to my mother. She's trying to take attention because I caught her in the house with a boy. As soon as mom got me home, she burned me. You know how counselors in school made a big show of saying, "If you're ever abused, come to one of us and we promise we can help"?
Well, I confessed to my counselor. Want to guess what happened? He didn't go to my mother -- no, he brought in my stepdad and said, "Tell him what you just told me. That night was the closest he ever came to killing me. Continue Reading Below Continue Reading Below Advertisement It's kind of a fanciful story to believe -- a year-old tells you she's being sold, beaten, burned, and choked, and all these people are involved. I don't necessarily blame my counselor for being confused.
I barely believe it myself. The community we lived in was already pretty big on corporal punishment, so bruises and cuts were shrugged off as, "She must have been acting out. In my case, the local CPS officer was one of my cousins. She turned her back and just wrote it off as a family secret. The first cop that knew about my plight also happened to get his regular drug fix from my dad, and so he looked the other way.
As far as I knew at the time, the only way out was to orchestrate my own escape. The way I escaped was I allowed myself to be sold, figuring whoever "owned" me would give me a better situation than what I had going at home.
And then, I had to do it again. Instead, he controlled every aspect of my life and pimped me out to his friends I guess a respectful, loving guy probably doesn't go shopping for his partner in the "slave" section of the classifieds.
I got away and started sleeping in my car. I ended up in a homeless camp, just to avoid going home to him. So, having no other options, I literally sold myself -- I put myself on the market via Backpage.
At the time I was working under a stage name as a fetish model. I told them I was looking to be a full-time submissive. These are more code words: Adding the words "make me your slave" and "eternal slave-master" drove the point home. But he was a horrible human being I know, huge fucking surprise there. In exchange, I got credit cards, clothes bought for me -- whatever I wanted. He was a big six-figure earner, and he wanted a pretty, erudite girl he could take to social functions but who would also shut up and do what she was told.
I don't doubt that some of you probably think this sounds like a sweet deal. He sharply dictated every detail of my behavior -- everything from how I washed my hair, to the shade of eye shadow I wore, to exactly how much sleep I was allowed, to what exact words I could use. I stayed for the whole three years, at which point he made it pretty clear that I had no choice in the renewal. But he also insisted I go back to college again, status symbol , where I met someone very dear. He was nice and didn't want just sex.
We spent time together as friends, and I started to develop what I recognize now as genuine love. I hatched an insidious plan, and my owner caught me in bed with my new friend.
It shocked the hell out of him, and he ordered me out. For the first time in my life, I wasn't someone's property. It's not an easy adjustment to make -- the hardest part of recovery has been seeing myself as more than chattel. If I burn dinner, I have an immediate panic attack. If I don't pleasure my fiancee enough, I know he'd never ever hit me, but I still feel this sense of, "Oh crap, I'm gonna get it," like an involuntary reflex. That constant need to be useful, to be perfect, it doesn't go away.
I suffer from PTSD. I gained what psychologists call "defensive weight" and wore men's clothes for years trying to hide the fact that I was a woman and to seem unappealing. Continue Reading Below Advertisement It has only been within the last year, when I started building healthy relationships, that I have started trying to lose weight, to see myself as pretty, to do what I want within my own life. I've devoted myself to the online business I started in secret years ago and commit myself to doing charity work.
Every day my goal is to defeat "the girl in the mirror" who still bears the scars. Even then, I know that doing this article is putting me at risk -- I'm sure my previous owner still Googles me and tries to find out where I am and what I'm doing. Someone could find this and forward it to my parents. I really don't care at this point. I share this in the hope that I can give others the courage to speak.
People need to know that slavery in America never ended, we just got better at hiding it. Here is a list of resources if you or someone you know is in this situation. This article was constructed from an interview with the victim and verified by a healthcare professional who worked with her during her recovery.