He dragged me over to the bin, pressing his body against mine, using his weight to keep me still. His right hand resting on the lid, the knife on display. A silent warning to comply. I could hear him panting and felt the length of his erection pushed against me. Adrenaline and panic coursed through my system and the thud in my chest hammered my ribcage like it wanted out. My eyes began to well.

‘Please. Don’t,’ I wailed, trying to work up the courage to scream, but he pushed against me harder, enjoying the power.

‘I know you want it.’

My legs crumpled like they no longer belonged to me. My eyes strayed to the ground; he wore plain black trainers and jogging bottoms, gathered at the ankle. I prayed someone would walk past or a dog would find us, sniff us out and raise the alarm.

My right arm was wrenched behind my back, almost pulling my shoulder out of its socket. Pushing his cock into my hand, he forced my fingers to wrap around it. My stomach plummeted to the floor and I fought the urge to urinate. His erection felt strange in my palm, not natural. Was he wearing a condom?

In a split second, I chose to be compliant. I was too frightened to scream or fight. I just wanted to live through whatever was happening to me. Tears ran down my cheeks as he groaned in satisfaction, moving my hand back and forth to pleasure himself until I’d got the rhythm. I could feel my throat closing up, the bile rising. Eyes focused on the brickwork, anywhere but my hand.

Suddenly he’d had enough foreplay and strong arms reached around my waist to the front of my jeans, where fingers fumbled to pull open my button and zip before he wrenched them down my thighs.

‘Be a good girl,’ he panted, the knife inches from my eye.

I swallowed hard and managed a strange squeak of submission. The cold realisation of what lay ahead dawning on me, powerless to stop it.

‘No. Please.’ I begged.