Fella’s fetish nearly killed me!
He’d stare at women wearing crop tops when we were out Fleur Court, 21, from Kirkland, never dreamt her ex's kinky fetish could be so dangerous...
As I stretched out on the sofa, I felt my pyjama top ruck up and reveal my midriff.
I was just about to tug it back down again, when my boyfriend Matthew Greenwood, 27, reached across.
‘Mmm, lovely,’ he purred, rubbing his hands across my belly button.
I let out a giggle. ‘You’re daft!’ I laughed.
It was summer 2017 and we’d been dating since May, after our mutual friends introduced us.
Matthew was a great guy, really kind – albeit a bit shy.
But he had this funny obsession with stomachs. A kind of...fetish. Never confident about my own tummy, I hated it when he ogled or suggested that I wore low-slung jeans.
He’d stare at women wearing crop tops when we were out, and his fixation often made me feel uncomfortable.
But there were worse things he could be into, I reckoned.
I tried to forget about it and think about all of the positives in our relationship. Still living at home, I was eager for Matthew to meet my parents. ‘I’m not keen on him,’ my mum said when I brought him round for dinner.
She said he was shifty and wouldn’t make eye contact with her.
I just put it down to his shyness – something that I found endearing.
Over the next few months, Matthew and I would go out for dinner or take my dog Spud for long walks.
But, by November, our relationship was under strain.
Matthew lived an hour away in Bolton and worked nights in a supermarket, whereas I worked long hours during the day at a butcher’s.
‘I don’t think it’s working,’ I said when we next met up.
Thankfully, Matthew said that he felt the same.
Agreeing to remain friends, I was so pleased that things didn’t end on a nasty note.
Over the next few weeks, Matthew and I exchanged some friendly text messages, asking after each other, what we were up to.
As the weeks went on, the butcher’s was becoming busier as the Christmas rush began.
Working flat-out all morning, one day in December, I was relieved to have time for a sitdown on my lunch break.
But, taking my phone out of my bag, I was stunned to see that I had hundreds of Snapchat notifications.
Since when have I become so popular?!
But after I’d read a couple of messages, I started to feel sick with dread.
Hi, you said you were kinky and submissive, want to chat? strangers wrote. What on earth?!
There were other, far more graphic and sexual messages, asking me for sex. Hundreds of them. Deleting the messages and friend requests, I went back to work, trying not to think about it.
Someone’s just playing a prank on me, I reasoned. But, over the next few days, I was bombarded with disgusting messages.
I didn’t know who’d have posted it there, but the men said they’d received my social-media details from a sex chat room. Repeatedly deleting the stream of messages, suddenly one made me pause. You’re into stomachs, right? it said.
I froze. There was only one person that I knew who was into stomachs.
Matthew.
I told my mum about what was happening that night, was too scared to ask Matthew myself.
‘I’ll do it,’ Mum said to me, taking my mobile. When she came off the phone, she shook her head. ‘He denied everything,’ she said. I knew, deep down, that it was him. But why would he do this to me?
My anxiety building, I started having trouble sleeping at night. What if Matthew gives these strangers my address, my family and friends’ names and addresses?
I was terrified to think just how far this apparent joke
In truth, I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it. Mum was right about him...
might escalate…
At work or with friends, I’d be embarrassed every time my phone bleeped.
I knew that it would be another pervy text.
I worried that confronting Matthew would just make things worse, so I decided to report it to the police in January this year.
‘We’ll make sure Matthew gets a warning about this,’ an officer said, after I’d explained everything to them.
Thinking of how shy and reserved Matthew had been, I knew he’d be mortified if the police showed up at the house he shared with his parents.
Maybe it was the scare that he needed.
Later that night, I had a Facebook message request from someone called Matthew Green.
As if I wouldn’t know who it was!
The police confiscated my phone, but they don’t know about this one, he taunted.
Why was he doing this?
On 7 January, I’d spent the day with my new partner and was looking forward to introducing him to my parents that evening.
I knew they’d feel differently about him, compared to how they’d felt about Matthew.
Sitting down for dinner together in the conservatory, the four of us chatted away happily.
But a security light was flashing in the path behind our house.
‘That’s strange,’ I said. But, as we relaxed in front of the TV after dinner, we forgot about it.
An hour or so later, I walked my new partner to his car, feeling chuffed that he’d made a good impression.
Kissing him goodbye, I started walking back along the deserted road.
Free for a cuppa? I texted my friend, heading in the direction of her house.
But then I spotted a man on the other side of the street.
He had his hands in his pockets and was wearing a dark hoodie. But I recognised
that walk at once
– it was Matthew.
As we passed, I prayed he hadn’t realised it was me.
Quickly peeking behind me, I couldn’t see him.
He’s gone, I thought. Then I heard footsteps pounding along the pavement.
Turning quickly, I came face to face with Matthew.
Grabbing me, he shoved his hand over my mouth.
Panicking, I tried to push him away – but he was too strong,his grip was too tight.
‘Shut up,’ he said calmly, as I tried to scream.
Before I could move, he threw open my coat, pulled up my jumper and started punching me in the stomach.
Screaming, I fell to the ground.
And that’s when I saw the knife in Matthew’s hand.
Looking down at my stomach, splashes of blood on my white T-shirt, I realised that I hadn’t been punched… I’d been stabbed. Matthew grabbed me from the ground, pulled back my hair and held the blade to my neck.
Terrified that he was going to kill me, I thought fast.
Clutching my neck, I pretended that he’d sliced me there, let out a groan.
With that, Matthew climbed to his feet and started to run.
Slumped on the pavement, I phoned my friend who lived just doors away.
Then, moments later, paramedics and the police arrived on the scene.
I’d been stabbed seven times in the stomach, back and hand.
I managed to give the police Matthew’s car-registration details, before being whisked off to Royal Preston Hospital.
There, my wounds were stitched and I was scanned to check that I didn’t have any internal injuries.
The doctors told me that, if the blade had pierced a couple of millimetres deeper, my abdominal wall would’ve been punctured.
Lying there, I thought how close I’d come to death.
I was sure Matthew had aimed for my tummy because of his sick fetish.
I reckoned he’d wanted to disfigure me, so no other man would look at my stomach again.
At Burnley Crown Court this March, Matthew Greenwood got eight years and eight months in prison, after admitting causing grievous bodily harm with intent.
I was pleased with the sentence that he was given.
But I still live with the physical and emotional scars that he’s inflicted.
I suffer from nightmares and flashbacks and, in truth, I don’t know whether I’ll ever get over this.
I thought he was a good guy, but Mum was right – he was a pervy creep, not to be trusted.
You can be sure I’ll never make that mistake again….