At first, it was just a bit of harmless fun, just a game we played.
That’s what he told me, anyway. A joke. A bit of excitement. Something just between us.
And I believed him.
It started with small things—him tying my wrists together, seeing how long I could stay still, whispering in my ear how much he loved having control. I told myself it was normal. That it meant he wanted me. That it was just another part of love.
But then the rules of the game changed.
He started leaving for longer periods. He would go to the pub. He never said when he’d be back, never answered his phone, just disappeared, leaving me alone in that flat, waiting.
I was scared.
I dreaded his return and what he might do. I didn’t know what state he would be in. Drunk? Angry? Playful? It was always a gamble. I never knew until he walked through the door, his eyes clouded, his breath thick with alcohol.
Then came the nights he didn’t come home alone.
Sometimes he would bring other men with him. At first, it was just to show me off. To humiliate me. To remind me I belonged to him.
But then it became something else.
They started using me for fun. Or to pay off his debts.
I would lay there.
I couldn’t run away.
There was nowhere to go, no way to fight back. The first time, I screamed. The second time, I begged. The third time, I just closed my eyes and let it happen.
I stopped thinking. Stopped feeling.
I wanted it to stop.
I wanted to die.
But the worst part?
He still called it a game.