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Over the knee and sodomized

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Anyone could see us, but the streets were empty. I remember the hum of insects. My pants were pulled down, his fly was open, and he was inside me.

When I screamed, he lost his erection. It never occurred to me to report. It was so easy to convince myself it was my fault: I was drunk, I was irresponsible, I was asking for it.

After that, I began to dissociate more and more during sex. My mind would float away. It happened indiscriminately, whether I was with a casual fling or in a serious relationship.

Occasionally they stopped, tried to get me to talk about it. Some of them became angry and left, hastily dressing and bolting out the door.

Others stayed. I cheated on many of them, ruining any chance of a healthy relationship. He was kind, funny and considerate.

I trusted him. When he arrived, he wore a cologne of beer, and he was slurring his words. I suggested we just go to bed, and he agreed. In the bedroom, though, he kissed me hard, pushing me to the mattress.

I said no. Oral sex often triggered my panic attacks—it was too intimate, too vulnerable. I hated it. Instead, I felt a plunging sadness.

This was my lot in life. I pushed at his head, my fingers a starfish in his hair. I said no over and over. But nothing stopped it.

I sobbed the whole time, tears pooling in my ears, flooding onto the pillow. There was no intercourse, because he passed out just as he began to climb up my body.

I lay awake for a long time after, staring into the darkness. The next morning, he smiled. When I asked if he remembered the night before, he told me no, not really.

Instead, I stayed silent. Then I made him pancakes for breakfast. Acquittals often pivot on extraneous details: the colour of a carpet, the make of a car, whether he held you down with his right hand or his left.

The legal system requires proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Facing the antagonism of an interrogation hardly seemed worth it.

When I asked a lawyer I know how often women are blamed or implied to be at fault, she went silent. And when I asked what she would do if she were raped—would she report it?

It reminded me of something my dad had told me once. The decision to report is often just as damaging as staying silent.

Police did not believe her and instead charged her with filing a false report, forcing her to take a plea deal of probation.

Two years later, her rapist pleaded guilty to 20 counts of rape and associated felonies. In , an Alberta judge named Robin Camp berated a year-old girl who was testifying about her sexual assault.

Each assault primed me for the next one, told me there were no safe places, or people, and that my value was measured by what my body could provide.

I invited dysfunction into my relationships like an old friend. He see-sawed between charmingly sweet and cruelly manipulative. He loved me.

I demanded too much. The years of trauma were bubbling up. My hamper barfed dirty clothes, pizza boxes made pyramids under my sink, and the fruit in my fridge reeked of rot.

I liked her immediately. During my consultation, she asked why I was there. I blurted out that I was raped. More than once. Then I told her about my first assault, the details spilling out of me like gum balls from a broken candy machine.

When I talked about my assaults, it was like shaking off layer after layer, each time getting a little closer to the real person underneath.

In many ways, that person was a stranger—she was worth good things, love, support, happiness. He agreed to talk over FaceTime, even though I was vague about my reasons for contacting him.

I wondered if he was lying. He cried. The experience ultimately buoyed me. It was too late to save my marriage. But maybe I could save myself. L ast June, I saw my own experiences reflected in the media, when an ex—Stanford swimmer and one-time Olympic hopeful named Brock Turner was convicted of raping a woman known as Emily Doe while she was unconscious.

Like my last rapist, Turner was quick to downplay his actions and blame his behaviour on alcohol. My high school rapist was nice and popular, too.

Many women are assaulted by men they know and trust. I was. I heard echoes of myself. Her frankness seemed radical: few women speak so plainly and publicly about their experiences, and fewer still see their remarks go viral.

A few months after I started seeing my therapist, she urged me to tell one other person what had happened to me.

It was like a Ping-Pong game, the two of us facing off from opposite leather chairs in her earth-toned office. I started by telling my mother.

Then I told one of my closest and oldest friends, then another friend, and another, and another. I was shocked at how kind they all were, how receptive, how they all believed me.

I also learned how many of my friends had stories similar to mine. My silence had kept me from realizing it was reflected in my own circles.

My therapist armed me with book after book to read, theories to research. I learned how my brain had betrayed me, tricking me into believing that negative, abusive behaviour was thumbs-up normal.

I learned that my brain could be rewired, retaught. And I learned that the stranglehold of shame and anxiety could loosen. She also assigned all sorts of tasks that scared the shit out of me: taking public transit alone , walking to the grocery store alone , saying no, letting people hug me.

That I led men on. That I was a slut. Some boys said their parents had told them to stay away from her, in case she seduced them and then accused them of rape.

Rose says she emailed Pornhub several times over a period of six months in to ask for the videos to be taken down. I pleaded with them. I wrote, 'Please, I'm a minor, this was assault, please take it down.

I disassociated," she recalls, "I felt nothing. I kept to myself. She would wonder, with every stranger who made eye contact with her, if they had seen the videos.

She couldn't bear to look at herself. That's why she covered the mirrors with blankets. She would brush her teeth and wash in the dark, thinking all the time about who could be watching the videos.

She set up a new email address posing as a lawyer, and sent Pornhub an email threatening legal action. Months later Rose began to receive counselling, finally revealing the identity of her attackers to the psychologist, who was duty bound to report them to the police.

But she didn't tell her family or the police about the videos. The police collected victim impact statements from Rose and her family.

The attackers' lawyers argued that Rose had consented to sex, and the men were charged not with rape but "contributions towards the delinquency of a minor" - a misdemeanour - and received a suspended sentence.

It's clear that Ron Kalemba thinks a lot about what happened to his daughter all those years ago. What could he have done differently, if he'd known more, he wonders.

His daughter changed after the assault. She went from being a straight-A student to missing classes, rarely handing in her homework. We're sitting in a park near his home that Ron visits often.

He and Rose sometimes read from passages of the Bible from a picnic bench together. They don't talk much about the past.

It changed her life completely, and people let her down every step of the way. Ron only heard about the Pornhub videos in , when a blog that Rose shared about her abuse went viral on social media.

He had no idea that his daughter's rape had been seen by so many people, nor that people in her school had mocked her for it. And none of us would say anything, we just watched it happen.

In reality it had only been a couple of people who actually hurt her but she thought we were all against her because we watched it and said nothing.

That's what the silence felt like to her. She had a digital crowd of bullies too. Some silent and some abusive.

Hers is a different world. She threw herself into writing, expressing herself on blogs and social media, sometimes using aliases, sometimes her real name.

One day in , as she was scrolling through her social media feed she saw a number of posts about Pornhub. According to Pornhub, there were 42 billion visits to its website in - an increase of 8.

And 1, searches per second. There's no way of knowing if there are rapes on there and the victims don't know it. In the viral blog post, Rose shared a detailed account of her rape, and called out Pornhub for turning a blind eye until she pretended to be a lawyer.

Dozens of women and some men responded to her post, saying that videos showing them being sexually abused had also appeared on the site.

In a statement to the BBC, Pornhub said: "These horrific allegations date back to , several years prior to Pornhub being acquired by its current owners, so we do not have information on how it was handled at that time.

Since the change in ownership, Pornhub has continuously put in place the industry's most stringent safeguards and policies when it comes to combating unauthorised and illegal content, as part of our commitment to combating child sex abuse material.

The company employs Vobile, a state-of-the-art third party fingerprinting software, which scans any new uploads for potential matches to unauthorised material and makes sure the original video doesn't go back up on the platform.

When asked why videos with titles similar to those uploaded featuring Rose's rape, such as "teen abused while sleeping", "drunk teen abuse sleeping" and "extreme teen abuse" are still active on Pornhub, the company said: "We allow all forms of sexual expression that follow our Terms of Use, and while some people may find these fantasies inappropriate, they do appeal to many people around the world and are protected by various freedom of speech laws.

Pornhub introduced a "non-consensual content removal system" in , but stories about videos of abuse on the website continue to surface. In October last year a year-old Florida man, Christopher Johnson, faced charges for sexually abusing a year-old.

Videos of the attack had been posted on Pornhub. She returned to the suitcase and took out a wooden hairbrush and laid it on the table.

Billy recalled with a jolt that his grandmother was a stern disciplinarian and that on one occasion he had acted up when as she was inserting the nozzle and she had quietly taken him from the bed to the straight chair, sat down and pulled him over her lap and, as she said, "tanned his fanny" with that hairbrush.

He winced at the thought and uncomfortably shifted in bed. Laura entered the bedroom. Billy was still feigning sleep. Billy opened his eyes and complained, "Mom, let me sleep!

She then reached to lower the covers and Billy grabbed them. His grandmother appeared at the door with the big jar of Vaseline and the thermometer.

I might need to cool the enema water a bit," said his grandmother gently. Reluctantly, Billy complied, remembering the hairbrush that had been placed on the table.

Billy turned over as his mother drew back the sheets. His grandmother placed the Vaseline on his bedside table and bent over the boy's upturned bottom and gently pulled down his pajamas to expose the boy's pale white but muscular buttocks.

Billy's ears burned with embarassment. Billy watched as his grandmother withdrew the thermometer from the jar of lubricant.

There was a big glob of petroleum jelly on the end that was to go into his rectum. Bending over the boy, she reached down and placed her thumb and forefinger between his buttocks and spread them apart.

She always spread so that "the pink" showed before she inserted the thermometer or enema nozzle. He felt the coldness of the petroleum jelly and then the tip of the thermometer met his anus and continued into the boy's rectum.

His mother stood on the other side of his bed with a tissue in her hand as she watched the process. After reseating the thermometer she held it securely.

He knew not to be argumentative with her as he recalled the wooden hairbrush in the guestroom. Billy had already known it would.

A couple of times when he was younger she had agreed to give him an enema with the bulb but she had not been happy with the results.

The boy involuntarily squeezed his butt cheeks. Billy began to be upset. You need it, and I want you to behave yourself or there's going to be a trip across my knee for a spanking.

The grandmother removed the thermometer from Billy's rectum and read it. You can pull your pajamas up now and just stay here while your mother and I finish getting your enema ready.

Laura and her mother returned to the bathroom to fill the bag. I think the last enema he had was a little over a quart. Billy has grown quite a bit and his system is probably mature enough for two quarts, but I'd better check him first.

Laura called Billy to come into the bathroom. Both women were taken aback by the extent of the boy's development. She sat down in the straight chair and picked up the hairbrush as she pulled Billy over her knee and carefully positioned him.

He realized his predicament. Bare bottom, head down near the floor and butt up in position for the spanking, legs kicking, the grandmother took the hairbrush and gave him a thorough spanking, concentrating on the low butt crease, the dreaded "sit spot".

She didn't spank as hard as she did long, so his bottom never got beyond pink. Finally she completed the boy's spanking and helped him up.

His face was red from crying and embarrassment. His bottom really didn't hurt much, as his grandmother had been intentionally easy on him.

She gave him a quick hug and sent him back to his room. Laura had filled the red enema bag and hung it, bulging, at the top section of the coat rack that had been placed by the bed.

The grandmother made sure that the air was out of the long tube and clamped the hose shut. She then returned to Billy's room to get the Vaseline.

Gently, she laid her hand on the teenager's sheet-covered bottom. Take your pajamas off and put on a T-shirt and come to the guestroom.

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