Abused Teen Slut

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Abused Teen Slut
'I was passed around like sex toy at 13 by paedophiles who said I was too old for them'
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WARNING: DISTRESSING CONTENT Samantha Owen's childhood dreams were shattered when aged just 13, she was brought to houses full of predatory paedophiles by her 'best friend' Amanda Spencer
As a child, Samantha Owens would dream of being a vet to 'fix broken animals' while brushing her My Little Pony's rainbow mane.
But her childhood dreams were shattered when aged just 13, she was pushed into prostitution - and dumped in strange houses with predatory paedophiles - by her 'best friend' Amanda Spencer.
For three years, she was systematically raped, often multiple times a day, by much older men at 'parties' in Sheffield.
Amanda plied her with alcohol and drugs while keeping the money paedophiles paid to abuse Samantha.
At just 13, Samantha had not yet reached puberty when she was raped for the first time.
But despite her child's body, she remembers men telling her she was 'too old' for them.
One man viciously raped her after she told him that she was just 11-year-old.  
She was so small and undeveloped that she was ripped open by the repeated rapes, often left screaming in pain afterwards, yet the horrifying abuse contiued.  
In her new book Pimped , which lifts the lid on an infamous sex ring in Sheffield, Samantha remembers: "With my head down I was led into the bedroom by my wrist, only daring to glance up through my hair once the door was closed.
"I winced as he lay on top of me, his weight crushing my chest, but I didn’t dare tell him.
"How could I? I knew by now there was no use fighting it. My scrawny frame would be no match for the various older men who were skulking around the house.
"Instead I lay in silence as he tugged at my knickers. His stubbly beard was rough and itchy against my face and I noticed he had a hole in one of his bottom teeth. He was disgusting and I shivered as he writhed around on top of me, goosebumps crawling up my arms.
"The drunken haze I was in helped my mind to drift and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the nightmare to be over.
"Finally on my own, I curled myself into a ball. I could hear footsteps outside the bedroom door, laughter echoing around the house. I flinched, praying they wouldn’t come in.
"I was just a child and I had no idea where I was, having been directed to the godforsaken place hours earlier. "
Samantha said that she went on jobs for Amanda almost every day but would only be given £20-£80 each time while Amanda pocketed the rest.
She remembers how Amanda, who was two years older than her, once said: "‘You’re so young, Sammy, and the younger you are, the more money you get.’"
"I had thought about what it would be like to lose my virginity, imagining it on a beach somewhere, with candles and roses. It was childish but, at thirteen years old, I held onto that fantasy," she said.
But instead, she was brought in an alcoholic haze to a house full of strange, much older men, where she was abandoned by Amanda and her horror began.
Samantha said that many of the men she met were paedophiles, and she remembers how one man "grabbed at the flat skin on my chest and I think he liked the fact that I didn’t have breasts.
"‘How old are you?’ one guy asked me. He had pinned me down on the bedroom floor of a random house Amanda had sent me to.
"‘Sixteen,’ I muttered. His ugly face was inches away from mine and I squirmed, trying to look anywhere but directly at him.
"‘Liar,’ he sneered, smiling and grabbing at the cup of my bra. I still had no breasts to fill it but Amanda had given it to me to wear. ‘I know you’re not sixteen.’
"‘Right,’ I admitted without looking at him. ‘I’m thirteen.’ I didn’t know what difference it would make knowing my real age but the man still wasn’t satisfied with my answer and he grabbed me by the shoulders.
"‘No you’re not,’ he protested. ‘You’re younger.’ I turned to stare back at him.
"‘I’m eleven,’ I lied, and his evil grin made me feel sick. I knew he thrived off the idea of me being young. Paedophile, I thought to myself, as he raped me.
"I was so small that he tore me and I lay with my eyes squeezed shut as the excruciating pain coursed through me."
Samantha remembers another man hitting her in the face face and making her call him 'Daddy' while he raped her.
She said that many men were rough, with one repeatedly punching the floor by her head as he raped her.
She said: "As he raped me, he punched the floor next to my head. His fist was so close that I could feel his knuckles graze my ear as they smacked the floor with a thud.
"Scared, I lay frozen, terrified to move in case he hurt me. He thumped the floor over and over again, and each time I winced as his hand moved closer.
"My crotch tore and I knew I would be in agony for days. Afterwards I curled up alone on the laminate floor, dabbing the tears from the corners of my eyes.
"All of the days were starting to blur into one. I was sore all of the time, so I got as drunk as I could to mask the pain.
"I’d get so intoxicated that it wouldn’t be until the next morning that the pain would hit me like a ton of bricks and I’d writhe in agony, wondering what had happened to me the night before.
"A lot of the time I was too drunk to remember what was happening but there were some nights I wished I could forget.
"For three years my supposed best friend took me to places around Sheffield to be abused.
"I was passed from house to house like a toy and, with nowhere else to turn, I came to expect the treatment I received."
And although Samantha said that Amanda never physically forced her to have sex, she manipulated her emotionally, calling her 'sister' and making the vulnerable, lonely child feel like she was part of her 'tribe.'
This control was so absolute that Samantha remembers once, while she was at a house with Amanda: "out of nowhere, this guy grabbed me and forced me onto the floor. I lay still as he raped me on the floorboards, thinking over and over again how proud Amanda would be of me."
Samantha later realised that Amanda was her pimp, not her friend. And while jailed for stealing baby clothes, she met another of Amanda's victims - and vowed to get justice for them all.
Police built up a case and Amanda, now 26, was jailed for 12 years in 2014, having been found guilty of 14 counts of arranging or facilitating child prostitution, and two counts of causing or inciting child prostitution.
In April 2017, Spencer was served an additional sentence of three years for four counts of arranging or facilitating child prostitution between 2005 and 2012.
Four men, Taleb Bapir, and three brothers Christopher, 23, Matthew, 25, and Shane Whiteley, 30, all of Hackenthorpe, were also jailed for their roles in the sex ring.
But Samantha, now 25 and a mum-of-two, pulled through, and wants to use her experiences to help other people who have been groomed know that they are not alone.
She lives with her partner and their two little boys, who she is hugely protective of.
“I just hope I don’t have a daughter as I really don’t want a girl,” Samantha told Sun Online .
“I know men and boys get abused but I’d be absolutely terrified. I would never let her out of the house.”
Pimped by Samantha Owens is published by John Blake, click here to buy a copy .
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Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed. His acts were unthinkable, but now I'm ready to talk.
In Michelle Stevens' powerful, just-published memoir, Scared Selfless , she shares how she overcame horrendous child sexual abuse and mental illness to lead a satisfying and happy life as a successful psychologist, wife and mother. Here, an excerpt from the book:
Since birth, I had been Michelle Brechbill. Daughter of Judy. Granddaughter of Evelyn and Glenn. Now, with the flick of a pen, I was Mooch (a nickname) Lundquist, daughter of Gary, new student at his out-of-state school. In 1976 no one seemed to question any of this. No one seemed to care that my school records displayed a different name or that Gary was not my legal guardian. We weren't even related. He was just my mother's boyfriend. But social norms dictate that we do not insert ourselves into other people's personal lives. Being polite means keeping one's mouth shut.
And so I, the newly minted Mooch Lundquist, became a third grader at Delaware Township School. My classroom was on the first floor of the elementary building — just a staircase away from Gary. Every day at 3 p.m., as soon as the bell rang, I was expected to climb those stairs and report to Gary's desk. Inevitably, a few of his favored 10-year-old students would still be hanging around — joking with him or sitting on his lap.
Some days Gary would oversee an after-school activity. The gifted and talented club was invitation only — Gary's invitation, that is. Trouble was: Gary had no real training or authority to be administering IQ tests. Instead, he gave kids a short multiple-choice test, the Mickey Mouse kind sold in bookstores. Then, based on his findings, he labeled certain kids — the kids he liked and wanted to spend more time with — as "gifted."
I was gifted, according to Gary. This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest. On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response. Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize. After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed.
To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter. In a certain way, he was. Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented. Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies. Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too.
Behind closed doors it was a different story. Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every aspect of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
He also strove to monopolize my time — an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening. During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon. Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself.
Summer was the time when Gary could really play out his S/M (sadomasochism) fantasies and treat me like a full-time sex slave. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" — intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave. Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve. In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience.
Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Because he had to avoid my mother's prying eyes, though, he could not leave it permanently set up like other S/M enthusiasts. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device. While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight — folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale. He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children." Little did they realize it was no joke. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun.
I can't remember being threatened with the gun — although it may have happened. (Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember.) I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly. He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.
When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art. We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist. He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor.
Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely. Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me. He made me feel special, talented, smart.
Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off. Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure. I suspect it made him feel powerful — like more of a man.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed for what can only be described as a lovers' tryst. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., he would summon me to bed.
There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead. Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went. Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace. She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me.
One particular Saturday morning (we had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks), I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market, just as I did every weekend. But my mother wasn't happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. "What're you gettin' dressed to go there for? Huh? You oughta be staying home with me."
Just then, Gary came into the hall. My mother cornered him. "I want Shell to stay home with me," she demanded. "She's down at that flea market with you way too much!"
Gary, as always, remained calm during my mother's onslaught. Nonchalantly, he remarked, "Why don't you let Mooch decide what she wants to do today? She's perfectly capable of choosing."
With one quick remark, he had abdicated all responsibility for the situation. Instead, all blame was now placed squarely on me. At 8 years old, I was being asked to choose between my mother and Gary. It was not a real decision, of course. Gary knew this. If I chose Gary, he would immediately whisk me away from my mother's ranting — and probably offer some kind of reward. But if I chose my mother, there would be no one to protect me from Gary. Crossing him would mean paying for my sins.
So, I chose Gary, and my mother flew into a jealous rage. "The flea market!" she screamed. "You can't go to the flea market! I'm your mother! You're staying with me!"
But Gary was already whisking me out the door. "You asked her to choose, and she chose, Judy," he said. "Live with it."
It was with this kind of scene that Gary was able to drive a wedge between my mother and me. I am certain that if Gary could've gotten rid of my mother entirely, he would have. He lobbied hard to adopt me, but my mother resisted. Despite being naïve in many ways, she knew that if Gary became my legal parent, he would dump her and seek full custody.
Thankfully, she never fell for the trap. Still, I'm astonished that she chose to stay with a man whose deepest desire was to kick her to the curb and steal her young daughter.
Personally, I know for a fact that Gary considered me his true lover. I know because he told me so. Constantly. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each morning as we drove together in the car. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each day as we worked side by side at the flea market. "You are my real wife," he would say to me each afternoon as we lay naked in the king-size bed he would share with my mother later that night.
He told me, constantly, 'You are my real wife.'
When he said it, I didn't quite know what to think. I knew he meant it as a compliment because he said it so often and with such pointed intensity. But my 8-year-old brain simply could not grasp that this 33-year-old man saw me as his mate. I was just a little girl. He was with my mother. That made us a family. He was my father, and I was his child. Right?
That's how I saw it. That's how I wanted to see it. I just wanted to be normal like other kids. I just wanted to have a normal life.
So when Gary said, "I'm only with her for you. You're the one I really want," it confused me. I felt uneasy. Guilty, I guess. On some level, I knew it was very wrong. The guy was telling me to replace my own mother. This made me feel terrible. Despite her shortcomings, I loved my mother and felt a deep and innate loyalty to her. Gary, on the other hand, scared and repulsed me. The last thing I wanted to do was compete with anyone — let alone my own mother — for his affection.
This excerpt was adapted from Scared Selfless, My Journey from Abuse and Madness to Surviving and Thriving with permission from Putnam. Michelle Stevens, Ph.D., is a psychologist and founder and director of Post-Traumatic Success , a nonprofit dedicated to educating and inspiring those affected by psychological trauma.




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