TW: Mention and description of sexual abuse, gender-based violence, genitalia;
My name is Meera (name changed, to protect identity). I’m a queer, trans 34-year-old AFAB person who has been floundering in the job market.
I lost 3 jobs in 2 years, and find myself often surviving on cornflakes and water, with the occasional treat.
My first encounter with sex work came with an existing partner. They didn’t work, and they constantly chided me for not making enough money. They got on a website designed primarily for hookups and signed us up. I took pictures I was uncomfortable with, but I felt like I had to prove my love for them in any way possible.
I’d earn money everyday, being humiliated, slapped, and spit on. I’d endure the most painful sex, absolutely raw, till I would almost pass out. And they took each banknote.
The next round came via Reddit, where I advertised my services at a fairly high rate. I attracted a lot of young men in their 20s, happy to nurse on my breasts without even taking their clothes off. Others would just come to fuck.
“Rates kya hain?”
“Kitne shots degi?”
“Boobs touch kar loon?”
– are some of the questions I was posed on an everyday basis. I battled anxiety and answered them daily, betting on my body and sexual autonomy. I felt like a fuck-toy, losing all inhibitions in front of these sex-starved humans.
But what surprised me was meeting the 63-year-old SPS. SPS is a professor, working in Warwick, UK. The moment we spoke, he shone as a Dom, a rarity in Delhi circles. It didn’t help that he had a smooth British accent. Right away, he wanted me to submit to him – mind, body, and soul. He is the one who renamed me Meera. He would often send me voice messages that I was expected to listen to as someone rammed their unsheathed dick into me.
“I’m your queen and I’m your whore…”
“I will only orgasm on command.. “
“You are my Master and I am your slave.”
What he did successfully was keep me financially stable. He would send me pounds after pounds, just to interact with me long distance. In exchange, I pissed myself and filmed when I tasted it. I scrawled “Sir” all over my skin, to show him who owned my body. I sent videos begging to cum, begging to be fucked, begging to taste him. I got an anklet that was a sign that I was ‘bound’ to him, as a slave, as his property.
I stopped seeing him once I met my current husband. I realised that what I had experienced was not love and devotion, rather it was me being groomed, to be shaken enough to put all my faith in him.
Am I free now? Nope. He re-sent the anklet. A sign of his wrath. He keeps trying to sign into my Amazon, and I’m not sure why. The worst thing? He has taken it to the cops, wanting them to arrest me for extortion, when all I did was provide services, however humiliating it felt.
As secure as my relationship is, I’m in a constant state of panic. This man is a monster, one who has both the time and money to turn my life upside down.
I’m hoping the fear dies down with time. That I shed the “Meera” identity and become myself again. That I heal, and never return to sex-work again. After all, you never know!
