Teen Forced Sex Stories
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Teen Forced Sex Stories
Ronnie Butler , 22 сент. 2020 г. - Всего страниц: 1245
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SHE was just a girl when she was deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp.
But 16-year-old Cilka Klein’s beauty so entranced the camp commandant that he made her his sex slave.
Cilka, a virgin, was repeatedly raped by him and kept separately from the other prisoners.
While in Auschwitz she had a degree of privilege, including extra food rations and warmer clothes, but that came at a huge cost.
When the camps were liberated in January 1945, Cilka was charged as a collaborator by the Russians and sent to Vorkuta, a brutal prison camp in Siberia.
For ten years, Cilka endured horrific conditions, including more sexual assaults.
After her release in 1958, Cilka, who became known as Cecilia, returned to Czechoslovakia, where she found love with Ivan Kovac, who had also spent time in a Russian gulag.
For the rest of her life, until her death in 2004, Cilka lived quietly in Kosice and rarely spoke about the hardships she had endured.
Her incredible life is the basis for the novel Cilka’s Journey by Heather Morris, which is out now.
It is a sequel of sorts to Heather’s first book, The Tattooist Of Auschwitz.
It was in 2003, while working as social worker in a Melbourne hospital, that Heather met Lale Sokolov.
As their friendship grew, Lale trusted her enough to reveal his story to her.
Heather learnt that her new friend was a Slovakian Jew, who fell in love with a woman called Gita at the most notorious concentration camp of them all.
Lale’s memories were immortalised in The Tattooist Of Auschwitz, a fictionalised account of his story — and one of last year’s most popular books.
It has sold more than three million copies — two million in the UK alone. The book is being adapted into a six-part TV miniseries.
Heather says: “During one of our conversations Lale mentioned Cilka and said to me, ‘Did I tell you about Cilka? She was the bravest person I knew’. Her story was so extraordinary that I knew it had to be told, too, so I seeded her into the first book.”
Heather, 66, did an extraordinary amount of research for her second book.
She explains: “I saw Cilka’s school reports, I stood outside her home, I went to the synagogue where she worshipped and met many people who knew her.”
However, the new book has been a target for criticism. The Auschwitz Memorial Research Centre claims “the book contains numerous errors and information inconsistent with the facts”.
But the mum of three says: “I promised Lale before his death in 2006 that I would never give up telling his story.
“I make it clear that the books are a work of fiction, based on what I learnt from the first-hand testimony of Lale.
“Although Cilka’s Journey weaves together facts and reportage with the experiences of women survivors of the Holocaust, and the experiences of women sent to the Soviet Gulag system at the end of the Second World War, it is a novel and doesn’t represent the entire facts of Cilka’s life.
“Ultimately both of the books are about hope.
“Humans can cope with so many things and still have a capacity to love and hope for a better tomorrow.”
Reflecting on whether the book was hard to write, Heather says: “It made me angry to write about the abuse that Cilka suffered.
“So little has been written about the rape that went on at that time and I want to call it out.”
Musing on whether Cilka would be happy with the account of her life, Heather says: “I like to think Cilka would be quietly delighted that her story has finally been told.
“Before I met Lale, the Holocaust was just a word to me - much to my shame. I feel honoured to tell these stories.”
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A 20-year-old girl, Chioma (surname withheld) on Tuesday narrated her ordeal in the hands of some youths of Onunwafor, Ezzagu community, in the Ishielu Local Government Area of Ebonyi State, who allegedly abducted and held her hostage for five days before the police came to her rescue.
Chioma, a native of Nsukka, Igboetiti LGA of Enugu, and two other victims had gone to Ezzagu to advertise a business which involved sales of noodles, diapers and oil.
They reportedly urged residents to invest in the business and promised them high returns.
However, the investors were said to have lost their money after the business owner fled the community.
In anger, the youths abducted Chioma and her colleagues and held them hostage.
Narrating her ordeal to journalists, the victim alleged that she was repeatedly raped by five men from the community, while others inserted different objects into her private parts.
She said, “A company employed me to advertise noodles, diapers, oil and other products. If you invest N1,000 in the business, you will get N1,500. We were just doing that and we were paying our customers.
“One day, our boss travelled. I went to the office and couldn’t see three of our colleagues. I only saw my elder brother and one other guy that was working with us. As three of us were in the office, the community youths came and started beating us, demanding where our boss was. They tore my clothes, pants and bra and took us into a thick forest.
“They started molesting me; some had sex with me, while others inserted hands into my private parts. Some pressed my breasts.
“After they finished molesting me, they said my elder brother must have sex with me. They carried my brother, beat him up thoroughly and ordered him to start having sex with me. My brother told them that it was against our culture. They insisted that he must do it and pointed a gun at his head. My brother had no option than to have sex with me.
“After blood gushed out of my private parts, they ordered my brother to clean the blood. When he refused, they beat him up again. They came to me again and had sex with me in the pool of my blood.
“After having sex with me again, some of them came to me and inserted sticks in my private parts. Later, they took us to another forest where we stayed for four days. If they hear anything like a gunshot, they will take us to another forest.”
She explained that the assailants turned her to a sex slave and threatened to kill her and her brother.
Chioma noted that they were also starved.
The state Police Public Relations Officer, DSP Loveth Odah, said the youth took the law into their own hands by abducting Chioma and her business partners.
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In October 1985, I attended a pop concert against my parents' wishes. By the end of the night I had been gang raped in circumstances similar to those alleged by the 17-year-old girl accusing several men, including Premiership footballers, of raping her at the Grosvenor House hotel. The men who raped me weren't celebrities and they weren't even rich. In reality they were nobodies. But to me, a 14-year-old girl, only 4ft 11in tall, with very limited experience of the world, they were glamour personified.
The men, who were about six years older than me, were in a pop band, playing village halls and occasional support slots to bigger bands. They talked about a world I knew nothing of, a glamorous world of recording studios and record contracts. Their faces pouted out of photo- graphs in the local paper. They were local celebrities. They were a gang with catchphrases I didn't understand, mostly referring to sex acts, and little hand signals that my best friend and I emulated and giggled over in the playground at lunchtime.
That night, I watched them on the stage high above me and when they smiled at me, pointed me out and waved, I felt grown-up and glamorous, and important. I had been seeing one of them, Liam, for three weeks and had met Phil and Simon once or twice. Liam asked me to arrange to stay out the night of the concert. He suggested I lie to my parents and say I was at a girlfriend's house, so we could "spend the whole night together". I would have done anything he asked because I had fallen in love with this man who spoke of grown-up things, who said, "I can't believe you're only 14, you look so much older" - though the photos I gaze at now tell me that I didn't. He also told me that he couldn't believe I was a virgin when I first met him. Couldn't believe his luck, more like.
So I arranged my alibi and went to the concert. I wasn't plied with champagne but with cheap vodka. I didn't drink much of it and certainly wasn't drunk. I was never a teenage drinker. After the concert, the men were on a high, enjoying the attention of their groupies. I waited while they circulated for half an hour and then they came over to me. Liam asked if I had made the arrangement to stay out. I said yes and he shuffled me out of the door quickly, followed by the others.
Liam asked if I would like to stay at Simon's house where we would "all be together" or go back to the fourth member of the band's bedsit. (He was also a model and actor and was having a party.) I didn't understand the hidden meaning. I thought he wanted us to spend the night alone together at Simon's, so this was what I chose. This is what, he later told me, he took as my consent. Asking me where I wanted to stay was taken as consent to group sex.
The year before, our county had been terrorised by a rapist known as the Fox. Malcolm Fairley broke into houses during the night and raped women at gunpoint in front of their husbands. My father, desperate to protect his family, would stay up all night after barricading the windows. He was determined no rapist would get near us.
I felt safe, with my father watching over me. That was what I thought rape was, a man climbing through your window in the night. I never thought it would happen at a local music festival, the first I had ever attended, after days of begging and pleading with my parents. I didn't think Liam would spend three weeks getting to know me, before passing me on to his friends.
I was taken to a small modern house. There was a black leather sofa, black ash veneer furniture and Athena pictures of semi-naked women. It was a 1980s bachelor pad, I suppose, though I had never been in one before. I still had a Pierrot duvet cover. The men said they were tired and that we should go to bed. I followed them up the stairs, led by Liam. When we reached the room I looked around, confused. I asked Liam where we would sleep. He said, "We'll all squeeze in together."
As the other men got into bed I asked Liam if we could sleep downstairs, but Phil was growing impatient and told us to hurry up because he wanted to sleep, and Liam jumped at his command, hurrying me along. I left my shirt and underwear on and got into bed next to the man I had trusted, feeling embarrassed, knowing that I wouldn't sleep a wink.
The light went out and Liam started touching me. I whispered, no, said it wasn't right with his friends there, and asked again to go downstairs. But he wasn't even listening. He had sex with me. I won't say this was rape, though it was statutory rape because of my age, but I was uncomfortable and uncooperative, hating every second of it. I thought that if I just let him do it, it would be over and I would be able to wait out the long hours until it was safe to go home without arousing my parents' suspicions. But then the light was on and Phil said, "Can we join in?" And Liam said, "Be my guest." None of them asked me.
I won't torture the reader or myself with the details of what they did to me. Suffice to say, I was the victim of a "ramming" - one of their catchphrases. I was raped by Simon and Phil in turn, each with the "assistance" of the other. To this day I can still feel the chill metal of Phil's nipple-rings pressing against my flesh as I was torn apart in every sense. I often wake from nightmares where I am having the breath squashed out of me, a huge weight pushing down on me and the smell of his aftershave in my nose.
In Nicholas Meikle's words, like the 17-year-old girl, I "stayed for breakfast", though I didn't eat a thing. I watched them stuff their mouths with fried egg sandwiches and waited for them to drive me home. I couldn't call my parents or go home early, or they would know I had lied and, like many teenagers, I was scared. So I waited and they drove me home. I ran a hot bath and began a ritual that would last for years, scrubbing my flesh in an attempt to get clean. Friends frequently joke about how obsessive-compulsive I am when it comes to cleaning but the truth of this obsession lies in that night.
I have lived with the shame and consequences of their actions for the past 18 years. The emotional repercussions have been enormous. Soon after the attack I attempted suicide but I never told a soul my secret. The men, however, bragged about the "three's up" as they put it. It wasn't seen as rape, though. It was seen as me being a slag, a willing participant in group sex even though I was a child with no experience of men like them, and almost no experience of sex. I have suffered from clinical depression, panic attacks, nightmares and many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder ever since.
The physical consequences of that night scarred me, too, and the physical damage I sustained during the attack has had serious health implications for me ever since.
I have dealt with my disgusting secret without therapy or help of any kind, other than the endless support of my husband and family. But now, everywhere I turn, I am faced with the story of a teenage girl who says she was gang raped by a group of men who had wooed her with their celebrity. It is in every paper, on the radio and the television. It isn't hearing about it through the media that causes my anger, but rather the comments and opinions of others who question what she was doing drinking in those sorts of bar, pursuing those sorts of men, going back to hotel rooms with strangers, and in their judgment of her behaviour, I feel judged - though they know nothing of what happened to me.
Teenage girls will always be impressed by older men, particularly those who promise a world of glamour and glitz that is far away from their experience. For some girls it might be a premiership footballer but for others it will just be the lad in her class who everyone fancies, or the singer in a local rock band.
I applaud the 17-year-old's ability to tell her parents and go to the police. Much of my anger is at myself for my inability to do these things. At the age of 14, I could only see that it was my fault. I lied to my parents, I agreed to go to the house, I didn't know how to stop the men raping me and so how could I face my family with that amount of shame? I didn't report the rape until many years later, and even then I decided in the end that I couldn't go through with it. I had moved away and wanted to forget it had ever happened.
At a book signing, in my hometown, 16 years on, Liam turned up. I had him ejected. Some months later, Phil turned up at a friend's party just a few minutes from my home. He said hello as if we were old friends. Furious, I confronted him with the truth.
"The thing is Emilia," he said, "we really liked you. We thought of you as one of the gang."
But I was never part of their gang. Their gang was about subjecting schoolgirls to humiliating, degrading sexual acts. What these footballers are accused of is nothing new. The frightening part is that this has always happened. It happens in small towns and cities up and down the country, on council estates and in middle-class suburbs. It happens to nice girls and girls who get drunk, in bars and clubs, and it will go on happening until this issue is tackled head on.
I don't think Phil or Simon believed at the time that they were committing rape. They viewed this type of sex as "normal". Liam later told me he thought I was participating. "You never said anything," he said. When confronted with the victim's perspective they are forced to consider their actions in an entirely different light. I asked Phil to imagine his 14-year-old daughter subjected to an identical situation to mine. Would this be rape? I wanted him to consider me as a person, a child rather than a piece of meat. "Looking at that scenario [the rape]," he said, "I can paint it blacker in my head than probably you can...." I don't think so, but I do believe that he is now aware that rape isn't just grabbing a woman in a dark alleyway at knifepoint.
Young men need to be taught that it isn't rape only when a girl screams and shouts and kicks. There are different types of power and sometimes a woman doesn't even need to be held down. I didn't shout or scream or kick. I lay with my eyes shut tight, crying silently while Phil held Simon by the hips and pushed him into me, brutally, shouting "Ram, ram, ram" and laughing. Afterwards, he asked me if I had come.
· All names except the author's have been changed. Emilia di Girolamo is a writer and award-winning playwright. Her novel Freaky is published by Pulp Books, priced £7.99. Her play Boom Bye Bye, based on these events, is in develop
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