ABBY
It’s funny how, in hindsight, you regret so much.
As I sit and write today, I shudder at the thought of what I’ve done. What I allowed. What I endured in the name of power, beauty, status, and survival.
The “school”, as they called it, was no ordinary school. That much became clear very quickly.
A week after our arrival, we were summoned at midnight and instructed to come down to the grand hall wearing nothing but lingerie. No explanations. Just obey.
We were blindfolded and led, one by one, into a room.
That night began what they called our education in Kamasutra.
If you know what that is—kudos. If not, go look it up. I won’t explain here.
All I can say is, it was the most invasive, humiliating, bizarre three weeks of my life.
By the time we were told we’d “graduated,” they said I’d earned a first-class. Based on what criteria, I couldn’t tell you. But by then, I could balance a glass of water on my head and walk a mile without spilling a drop. My posture was perfect. My hips swung like they had their own agenda. I swear I’d grown taller.
I had also become—how did they put it?—a goddess of pleasure. Interpret that however you like.
I flew back on a private jet and was greeted by a Rolls-Royce in Macau. There, I was told that the powerful man—the one who chose me—wanted me to spend a week relaxing, being pampered, wined and dined, while waiting for his arrival.
I’ll tell you how things progressed in time. But by the end of that year, my life had transformed beyond recognition.
I was socialising with princes and princesses from multiple countries. My accent had changed. My diction and tone were nearly flawless. My skin? Three shades lighter. A single ounce of the cream I used cost $700.
And my name?
It was no longer Abby.
It was simply AB.
Keep reading.
It only gets deeper from here.
CHRIS
They say waiting is agonising.
I never truly understood that until Thomas and I were forced to wait. Not for freedom. Not for hope. But for deportation.
Turns out, Thomas had gotten away when we first arrived. Slipped out unnoticed. He found work on a farm picking apples for export. He was given a barn to sleep in and food to eat. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something.
He planned to save up, keep his head down, and eventually apply for residency. Maybe marry. Maybe build something real.
After a while, another worker on the farm told him about a shared house nearby, where a few African guys were staying. So he moved in. Got a job as a road cleaner, working for a Turkish man who paid cash. It wasn’t much, but he had a bed, a plate of food, and a plan.
No socialising. Just working, saving, surviving.
That life went on for nearly two years.
Until one morning, everything unravelled.
His Turkish landlord got into a fight and injured someone badly. The police came looking for him. Instead, they found Thomas. No papers. No answers.
That’s how he ended up back in court—with a deportation order stamped across his file like a death sentence.
Now I don’t know what’s worse.
Coming all this way and being sent back without ever tasting the life you dreamed of…
Or actually living it for two years—having a bed, an income, a goal—and then losing it all in a blink.
They say, you can’t miss what you never had.
But haven’t I?
Haven’t we?
…hmmmm
