Hogtied Teens

Hogtied Teens
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Nikitah Beadman was beaten and kidnapped by twisted Robert Galleghan after she broke up with him
DISTURBING footage shows a 17-year-old girl tied up and gagged with her own underwear being rescued from a shipping container.
Nikitah Beadman was savagely beaten, kidnapped and sexually assaulted by her ex-boyfriend Robert Galleghan in south-east Queensland, Australia in 2012.
In an exclusive interview, the young victim has recounted her terrifying torture which included her twisted-ex raping her with wire in an attempt to make her infertile.
Speaking with A Current Affair , she said: “I knew what was going to happen.
“He always said he'd bury me out there. I actually thought I was dead.”
Galleghan, who was jailed for eight years for the heinous attack, assaulted Beadman when she broke up with him at a party before chasing their mutual friends away with a knife.
After bashing her skull on a coffee table, he dragged her to a shipping container at the back of the property where he tied her to a shopping trolley, gagged her and wired her mouth shut, before wrapping her head with a yoga mat so she could barely breath.
Beadman described the rape, saying: “Not in a sexual way. In a torture way, so I couldn't have kids.”
Galleghan also stomped on his former lover's stomach.
When officers Peter Venz and Danny Rahe attended the property, Galleghan told them he had been assaulted.
However as the cops searched the home they heard faint cries from the shipping container and busted it open to find Beadman inside.
Sgt Rahe spoke about the moment he found the distressed teenager.
He said: “When the doors opened we’ve seen the trolley, like a fridge loading trolley, and we could see a body strapped to it.
“That’s when we went inside and probably saw the most horrific thing we’ve seen. My heart actually sank
“It was evil and depraved what I saw.”
The officers filmed the rescue for evidence and feared Beadman would not survive.
Sgt Venz said: “She had a blue yoga mat strapped around her head with wire and she was wired all the way down the shopping trolley.
“The wire was so tight it was just cutting into her skin.”
The teenager had been dating Galleghan, who was 12 years older than her, for three months before the incident.
But as the warped thug became increasingly abusive, the teen repeatedly tried to break up with him leading to Galleghan threatening her and her family.
The brutal assault happened when the scared girl said she was going to live with her mother to be closer to work.
Galleghan was sentenced to eight years behind bars and will be released in 2021.
The maniacal lover, who had a previous conviction for attacking a man with a samurai sword, was on parole for assaulting a police officer at the time of the incident.
Brave Beadman told the news outlet that she is suffering from lifelong injuries.
She said: “I have got a twisted backbone and two rotated ribs, that in any sort of movement or any sort of exercise could pierce one of my lungs.
“I have got multiple sprains all through my back; I have got sciatic nerve damage; I have also got nerve damage in my right arm, that I still couldn’t use for a year-and-a-half after — which was from the wire.”
We pay for your stories! Do you have a story for The Sun Online news team? Email us at tips @the-sun.co.uk or call 0207 782 4368
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©News Group Newspapers Limited in England No. 679215 Registered office: 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF. "The Sun", "Sun", "Sun Online" are registered trademarks or trade names of News Group Newspapers Limited. This service is provided on News Group Newspapers' Limited's Standard Terms and Conditions in accordance with our Privacy & Cookie Policy . To inquire about a licence to reproduce material, visit our Syndication site. View our online Press Pack. For other inquiries, Contact Us . To see all content on The Sun, please use the Site Map. The Sun website is regulated by the Independent Press Standards Organisation (IPSO)
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Authorities are trying to determine the authenticity of a video that supposedly shows a man keeping a girl hostage in his basement. She bears a strong resemblance to Kayla Berg, a young woman who disappeared back in 2009.

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The exquisite torture of paying for your own customized kidnap experience
Be careful what you wish for – the future may have teeth. I was sitting in my living room with Brock Enright, a twenty-six-year-old New York artist who plans, executes and videotapes kidnappings for hire. We were strategizing my abduction. “I’m sort of a control freak,”I found myself confessing to the handsome but boyishly creepy Enright. “So I’m looking to confront my fear of chaos. I’m thinking maybe the kidnappers’ indecision and lack of organization are what imperil me.”
“I like that,”Enright said. He gave me a questionnaire that asked me to list my greatest fears: I listed “suffocation,” “drowning,” “slipping in vomit.”He asked if there were any other specific elements I wanted to include. I said it might be “very dramatic” if I were initially approached on the street at an unspecified time and, while held at gunpoint, forced to mask my terror while led through crowded streets. Enright asked if I wanted the pressure of the gun on my back to be theatrical or realistic. I said, “realistic.” And how did I want my ordeal to end, Enright asked. “Well, I don’t need my ear to be mailed to a major metropolitan daily,” I thought aloud. “But it might be cool to have Aaron, this guy I’ve been dating for two months, find me in a duffel bag and rescue me.”
Our scenario now had a beginning and an end; but what about the middle? Many of Enright’s kidnappings have a sexual component; Enright claims that none of the twenty-nine people he’s abducted in the past ten years has ever asked for sex with a stranger, preferring it to be with someone they already know. He asked me, “Do you want to specify anything sexually, or do you want to leave it vague?” I admitted, “I don’t want to work too – as they say in show business – blue. But, that said, I’m generally made very uncomfortable by the presence of an enormous black dildo.”
“I think it could lend a note of interest.”
Among the ways to tell the world “I’m really, really special,” planning your own kidnapping is one of the more elaborate; it makes slashing your wrists and bleeding all over your parents’ bathroom sink look improvisatory and blithe. Six hours after our first meeting. Enright called me to schedule a second meeting and to ask the question that plagues pornographers everywhere (“The black dildo: Is it still a green light?”). Enright and two of his crew members – some of the people who work for Enright are buddies he grew up with in Virginia Beach, Virginia; as early as age fifteen, they used to playfully “kidnap” other schoolmates – came to my apartment with a video camera the night before the abduction. They had me sign a liability waiver and then read it aloud on camera. They also had me designate a code word (“Hibernia”) and a physical gesture (foot shaking), which, during the kidnapping, I could invoke in order to stop all action.
The day of the kidnapping, I tried to go about my daily activities without anxiety. But I was walking amid 8 million potential captors. When I saw a piece of torn newspaper in a recycling bin, I thought, “Ransom note.” I saw a chicken bone on the sidewalk and thought, “Lindbergh baby.”
My first detection of Enright’s presence occurred at 2 p.m., when I saw, a pool of “vomit” at the bottom of the steps; I neatly dodged this lurid calling card, my inner theater critic making a mental note that the vomit’s day-glo fuchsia hue seemed rather vaudevillian. Two hours later, as I left the New York University gym, a man put his left arm around my neck tightly; his right hand, obscured by a jacket, pressed a gun into my back. “Put your arm around me like we’re lovers!” he hissed. Suddenly I was scared. My throat constricted. I was unable to look the gunman in the face. It dawned on me: Not only have I given a group of strangers permission to kidnap me, but I have encouraged them to do it ineptly, and to use a gun while doing it. What wouldn’t Enright do? As a teen, the aspiring cinéaste snuck up on his aunt one day and filmed her while she was sitting on the toilet. Suddenly I was Enright’s aunt, and New York was my toilet.
The gunman guided me into the back of a van, where five masked individuals threw icy-cold water at me, pushed me onto the van’s floor and wrapped my mouth and eyes in duct tape. While binding my feet, one of the kidnappers positioned his posterior directly onto my face; a little voice inside my head said, “I can’t believe I’m paying $1,500 for this.” They stuffed me into a duffel bag. We drove for about thirty minutes, whence I was decanted from the duffel bag and deposited onto a mattress on the floor of a dark, dusty, fifteen-by-twenty-foot basement chamber whose location, per my request, was unknown to me.
The next six hours were very possibly the most frightening six hours of my life. That I could shut down this production at any moment merely by employing my code word didn’t matter. I had suspended my disbelief, I was in the game. After being repeatedly blindfolded and re-bound and gagged by the masked men, I was stripped to my underwear and sub-jected to surprise showers of a variety of liquids – water, beer and maple syrup. A man whom I would come to think of as the Depilator pulled hairs out of my chest. Footage of CNN fashion com-mentator Elsa Klensch vaporting on about Princess Di was played on a loop. ‘A malodorous skinhead licked me. I had to pee into Dixie cups. I was slapped once and manhandled frequently. Some of my bruises would last for a week.
I, like my captors, was oddly silent throughout much of the proceedings, mostly expressing myself through grunting and screaming; however, I did see fit to write two notes (the seminal “Blood circulation. Untie hands,” and the more lyrical “Headache. Head circulation”) and to scream. “Do not put any more fucking duct tape in my hair!” By the end of the evening. I had cried three times. My one ally was a captor – I was quite certain that it was Enright beneath the mask – who spoke in a high-pitched Teletubby-type voice; in a strange reversal of Stock-holm syndrome, this fellow had eyes for me . At one point he lay his body on top of mine, hump-style. At another, he told me, “I’ll do anything you ask me to.”He told me he had fallen in love with me. (“If you really loved me,” I finally told him, “you’d get a washcloth and wipe the maple syrup off my body.”) That Enright, who’d seemed nervous and slightly formal in my apartment, could transform himself into this character did not wholly surprise me; as with most actors you meet, you sense that there are two parts to Enright’s being: a large, warm pool of sentient, moral humanity; and a billboard on a highway reading, simply, WILLING. At one point, an aggressive captor, for reasons unclear to me, screamed at me, “A secret got out tonight!” and then pushed on the swivel chair I’d just been taped to; the chair and I tipped over backward, and my head hit the floor with a thud. Shortly thereafter, I wrote a note to Teletubby/Enright, saying. “This is too intense for me,” and he wrote back, “What part?” I answered, “The violence.”
The next morning, two masked kidnappers and a maskless Enright appeared in my chamber. Enright claimed that he usually “isn’t around” for the kidnappings – clearly a lie – but that something had “gone wrong” (the chair tipping over) the night before. Enright said, “You’re kind of a different client for us because you’re such a bitch: “‘No more tape in the hair!'” I countered that I thought I was going to be kidnapped, not tortured. “You guys are like kidnappers with way too much time on their hands,” “I wheezed. “It’s like being kidnapped by Martha Stewart.” Strangely, even thought I had just passed the most harrowing night of my life, I didn’t like criticizing Enright in front of his crew; he’s formed a kind of family with these sociopaths – a situation seemingly underlined by the fact that Enright wears the Movado watch that his largely absent father was wearing when he jumped to his death last year – and I didn’t want to under
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