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Tall women netball dating

As I recounted my story, I noticed a few other girls coming in and out, taking plates of food back to their rooms. When he pushed me back towards the bed, I didn’t say no.

Confused, I put it on, and padded upstairs to ask for my jeans back. ‘I can’t find my clothes,’ I whispered – embarrassed about making a fuss.

‘They’re in the washing machine,’ said the woman who I still assumed was his mum, turning from the counter where she was preparing food. And he’s out.’ And with that, she punched me in the face.

But in reality, I was still a child – hormonal and naïve – and after an incident with my boss left me in tears, I didn’t know what to do.

I walked home and stood outside my house, unable to bring myself to put my keys in the lock.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I turned around and headed to the train station. To be honest, I’d never really left Wales, so the first thing I noticed was how loud everything was.

It was Sunday night, but the next train was due at 7pm. I felt like I’d been wearing headphones my whole life and someone had suddenly lifted them off. When I’d left work, the air had been thick with summer humidity, so I was wearing shorts and a thin t-shirt.

‘We take you in, and we feed you, and this is how you repay us? If she says the washing machine is broken, then it’s broken.’ He kicked me and punched me and pulled at my hair as I screamed. When I woke up again, I was back in the basement bedroom. The woman came out of the kitchen and stared at me. She grabbed a clump of my long blonde hair and dragged me down the stairs on my back, kicking me into the bedroom. When he was finished, he slapped me on the bum and told me I’d been a good girl. Over the course of that evening, I realised that all of the men were all paying to live out a fantasy where resistance turned them on.

Shaken and scared, I saw my trainers were still by the door, so I pulled them on and crept up the stairs. I ran to the window, but it was locked with bars across the outside. The more I screamed, the more they seemed to enjoy raping me.

After that, whenever a man hurt me, she’d bring me the same medicine.

It was only years later that I discovered it was Methadone, and the woman was deliberately trying to get me hooked on drugs so that I couldn’t try to leave. Methadone was soon supplemented with crack cocaine, and the constant rape and endless beatings was accompanied by manipulation and death threats.

On one occasion, I accidentally got blood on the sheets, and she beat me up so hard I passed out. As I sobbed, the woman came down with a small cup of what looked like green medicine.