Dark, disturbing novel about a beautiful young woman held captive as a sex slave:

It all began in the beginning, of course. I didn't mean that to sound silly. I'm referring to the rather freakish course my sexual life has taken. In beginning this journal, or diary, I want to learn, somehow, why. I want to learn the why about many things - but most particularly my sexuality. At twenty-five, I feel it's time to take a good look at my life. I know that I'm different from others. I'm not so sure it's bad, at least in some respects. In fact, it might be better. But now with my sexuality. I don't think I'm enjoying my sexuality as a woman, not the way I could.

My sexuality developed rather early, I think. At least I was aware of sexual thoughts when I was quite young. I was aware of a curiosity about my genitals, and breasts. It was as if, somehow, I knew that I was all the things a woman was — only I was still a little girl. It was as if I remembered what it was like to be a woman.

I never thought much about reincarnation. I never studied it, or anything like that. But I have strange recollections, at times. Especially in my dreams.

Up until I was around five, I don't think I really centered my attention specifically on my genitals. I was aware of them, and enjoyed touching them, I recall. But I didn't start masturbating, until I was seven. I know now that it is precocious to be able to orgasm at such an early age. I guess I was precocious. Or I remembered how it was, from some earlier life as a woman.

I've lately been reading some of the things Freud said about adolescent sexuality. In his view, we are born with sexuality. It is part of our genetic coding.

I can remember it all so vividly. Lying in my bed, at seven, in my cotton nightie, with my dolls and stuffed animals about me — like a family of true friends. I would hug my dolls and stuffed toys closely to my bosom, caressing them, making love with them, really.

There were very strong bonds there. The inanimate creatures had such life for me.

I had two favorites, really. There was a little blonde doll, with blue eyes, and little breasts. I liked her very much. To my childish mind, she was so very real. I loved her, I suppose.

Her name was Annie. I loved holding her naked body close to mine. Her cold, plastic flesh became warm from pressing against me. I felt maternal about her, I suppose. But in a sexual way. Always in a sexual way…