This is one section from Chapter 8 in my autobiography, Never Give Up, about sex parties.
Trigger warning: mentions sexual abuse of young children
I am four years old. My twin sister, Elizabeth, and I are naked, covered only with dark blue velvet cloaks. Around our necks are jeweled collars, and we are being led in on a lease as if we are a pair of dogs by one of the fathers. Once inside the huge room which is filled with adults in various states of dress and undress, many with wine or cocktail glasses in the hand, we wait.
There is a large raised pedestal in the middle of the room. It is about four feet by four feet, made of granite, with small steps in the back. Liz and I watch as one by one, young children are led up to the pedestal. They must stand, naked, while adults in the room “bid” for the chance to have sexual activities with each child for the night. The trainers discuss the sexual training that each child has, and bids are made with small, hand-held fans encrusted with jewels, scarlet and blue patterns, and gold leaf. Winners of each bid come up to the platform to collect their prize for the night.
Liz and I are two of the lucky ones. We each have a special temporary tattoo that lets those bidding know that we cannot be killed, although we can be used for anything else. This tattoo is a reminder that if we are killed, the person who killed us will suffer severe consequences, due to our “belonging” to an extremely influential person who wants us kept alive. We are on “loan” for the night, supposedly by the German father over the Illuminati, and we are supposedly his bastard children who have other skills that make him want us alive.
At some point, Liz and I are taken and led by our leashes onto the pedestal. I feel ashamed and embarrassed to be on display, naked, before a roomful of people, but have learned to hide this. I smile and look excited and coquettish at this “privilege”. An individual can bid for one, or both of us. This night, two separate people bid for us. The one who bids and wins me is an older woman who is dressed only in a necklace, bracelets and earrings made of diamonds. The diamonds sparkle in the dim lights as I go to her. She does not tell me her name, but it is obvious that she is wealthy and powerful, not only from her jewels, but her body language and speech.
“What can you do, little girl?” she asks. While the trainer has already discussed my skills, she wants to hear it from me; maybe this is some type of test, or maybe she wants to humiliate me further.
“What do you like?” I reply, as I have been coached by my trainers.
She smiles and describes her favorite extremely sadistic activities. Her teeth are white and gleaming as she smiles. With dismay, I realize that those same teeth will be used soon to bite me in extremely sensitive, private areas. I tremble slightly, knowing that this is what she wants to see, but my reaction is not completely acting. I am sorry a woman bid because they can be some of the cruelest, most sadistic abusers. It is almost as if they have spent years devising ways to give “payback” for their own early sexual abuse but with interest. I have always wondered why they seem to be most vicious to little girls, wondered whether this is working out their own childhood abuse on a child that reminds them of themselves, but I never voice this out loud to a client. I do voice these thoughts with the fathers during debriefing afterwards.
I perform well. I let the sadistic woman have her way with me for hours. She seems very inventive, and I feel worn out emotionally and physically by the early morning. I am also sore everywhere. I have screamed appropriately, sensing that this is what this woman wants to hear as she abuses me. Finally, finally she herself is tired and falls asleep. Quietly, I get up and look for my twin. I worry about her in situations like this, as I know she worries about me. Tattoo or no tattoo, there is always the concern that a client might get carried away and go too far; many enjoy abusing children to death. But to my great relief, I see her sitting in a corner of the room, half asleep.
The father who brought us in, who is thought of in the German Illuminati as one of their trainers, but is actually a Jesuit father, sees that we are done with our clients. He brings my sister and me our cloaks. We are grateful to be covered, that the night is almost over, and leave with him. Outside, he takes us into a waiting van, unsnaps our leashes, and talks to my sister and me.
“You did very well,” Father Carlotti starts. “You both performed perfectly with the clients.”
I then realize that like me, he also had concerns, and was monitoring both of us and our clients closely during the night in hopes to intervene in time if something life-threatening seemed to be imminent.
Carlotti asks, “What did you learn while you were there?” He is asking us for intel, prompting us to report the conversations among adults in the room that we were listening to throughout the night, adults who did not suspect that four-year-old children were capable of being agents with photographic memories who would report any information discussed by them while in a drunken state. We give him the information he requests.
Once we are in a safe house not too far away, one owned by the Order, Lizzie and I are given baths, and wash off the body fluids that our clients left with us. We are also given medications to help prevent disease. Father Carlotti inspects us carefully to ensure that there is no significant harm. He provides healing technology for a rectal laceration that I have, and a gash in my twin’s arm inflicted by her client, a male, biting her.
“Human bites are the worst,” he mutters, as he cleans out the bite with a special formula, applying healing so that no scar is left. He then says to both of us, “I am so proud of you. I love you so much.”
Lizzie and I then go to sleep in soft, warm beds that are side-by-side. I go to sleep holding my sister’s hand.
“I love you, Lizzie” I tell her.
“I love you, Luce”, she answers, and then we sleep for hours. There will be no training routine tomorrow; we are given a day off to spend with each other and one of the fathers. They understand how difficult nights like the previous one can be on very young children and give us this small respite. Of course, the day after our rest, we go back to our normal routine.
Of course, Lizzie and I told ourselves that we were two of the “lucky ones” with the special tattoo. We had seen and heard far too many children who were called expendable by the adults around us die slow, terrible deaths at these parties. Secretly, deep inside, however, I wonder if the children who died, who no longer have to experience any more pain, were the lucky ones. I can’t say this to Lizzie, or she will be forced to let the fathers know, and this will be emotionally painful for her. So I keep silent.
All children in the Jesuit Order are trafficked, but we did not define it that way. Attending and being abused at these types of parties held by the extremely wealthy in Europe and other countries was framed as doing a “mission”, one that involved a specific set of skills, skills that could “help the Order.” What we did was not defined as being abused, but as participating in a potentially dangerous activity. But all missions were dangerous to some extent. We were allowed to be “real agents” according to the fathers, and they were using our deep desire to do great things for the Order, when we were put in these situations.
But the reality is that my twin sister and I, and all of the other children I grew up with, were being terribly sexually abused and trafficked. The fathers who forced us to do this had been subjected to non-stop sexual abuse as children themselves. They did not realize how monstrous what they were asking us to do was; after all, they had to do it when they were young as well.
But the terror, anguish, sadness, grief and sense of betrayal, along with deep rage at the father who led my sister and me into this potentially life-threatening situation, risking our lives for the sake of gaining useful information, came forward as I processed this memory.
Svali Speaks Again 