"He's fucking me again."
That was how the call started. That was how the calls always started. An unknown woman's voice, out of the blue. And that opening line. "He's fucking me again."
The first time this happened, I was at home, having a quiet Friday evening in, which is not unusual for me. My name's Clare. I'm 24, and I'm single. I work in the finance department of a legal firm, and my pay just stretches to cover my rent. I'm quite shy, and not good at the small talk that other people seem to find so easy. My friend and colleague Lucy keeps trying to set me up with guys; on the few occasions I've had the nerve to turn up, the dates have been a disaster. I do all my exercises at home with some dumbbells and a free-cycled exercise bike, because I hate getting cat-called when running, and gyms terrify me. So I have quiet nights in a lot.
I was on my second glass of red, idly leafing through some magazines in search of decorating ideas that were, well, practically free, when my phone buzzed. UNKNOWN CALLER, it said.
"Hello?" I said, answering it.
"He's fucking me again," the woman said.
I almost dropped the phone. I couldn't have heard that correctly, could I? "Excuse me?"
"He's fucking me again. I'm tied to the bed, naked, and he's fucking me slow and deep. Mmm, his dick feels sooo good."