A former sex slave wrote about her experienced for Cracked. It sheds a lot of light on how sexual slavery operates in Western countries.
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.” She listened. And, just like the lady I let it slip to at school, she went right to my mother. “What is all this [Jane] is saying?” And my mom, being cunning, said: “Oh, no, she’s just being over-dramatic. She’s trying to take attention because I caught her in the house with a boy.” Once again, that defused any suspicions. 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.” Which immediately froze me; I couldn’t speak. That night was the closest he ever came to killing me.
It’s kind of a fanciful story to believe — a 15-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.”
“But what about Child Protective Services?” Well, this was out in the boonies, where A) nobody is big on government interfering with family and B) everybody knows everybody else. 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.