Competition Breeds Excellence in Captivity

Zarina sunk back into her habitual pose: kneeling with her thighs spread, hands behind her back, and tongue out as if she hankering for what I was about to put in her mouth. Yet this time I shook my head into the pillow.

“Go drink some water, eat, and use the restroom. Then get the chains and a hair scrunchie.”

Zarina squinted at me and I noticed the rise and fall of her bandaged chest quickened. Not two moment later she leapt to her feet and hurried off to comply. Zarina made sure to turn and face me on her knees, so I could see that she was being obedient, wiggling her ass in the air, and leaving the dog bowls of food and water on the ground to slurp. She had a drawer full of her favorite hair ties and scrunchies, mostly from Lululemon or Alo, and slipped one on a wrist. The chains hung inside the cabinet next to measurement markers, so that we could tell when any showed signs of overextension and needed to be retired. Zarina returned with a 5-foot length of chain, fell to her knees at the edge of the bed, and held it out with her head bowed. The lean muscles in her arms twitched. The chain of 5/8” 316 stainless steel weighed over 19 pounds or 8.6 kgs.

For my dungeon, I selected 316 stainless steel for its superior resistance to the kind of chemical reactions my slave girls would come in contact with, such as: salt water, acids, and bleach. I specifically bought all grade 63 chains instead of grade 50, because of the 62.5% higher heat resistance that could stand up to red-hot flames of up to 650°F/343.3°C. Of course, the most important ‘torture safety’ standard was the weight capacity: 13,900 lbs/6305 kgs, and could take four times that weight before breaking.

Full disclosure: I ignored the disclaimer on the McMaster-Carr website, “Never use chain to lift people or items over people.” Tell me, where else would any self-respecting engineer or even hobbyist order from? No other industrial supply company has optimized their website catalog to load so quickly. The reliably fast shipping is always worth the premium when I have every male urge to get back home to my island. I calculated that I could flout McMaster-Carr’s disavowal because I know how circumspect general legal counsel always is. I estimated that it would take years of a woman thrashing and straining to exceed that 55,600 lbs/25,220 kgs breaking point.

As my thoughts were drawn back to the precious display in front of me, Zarina was barely holding together the composure I expected of my slave. I had been impressed by her fortitude holding heavier weights for longer. But in less than a day Zarina and I had overtaxed what energy reserves she had restored over her first kind of weekend. That made me smile. I watched her try to keep her arms steady a while longer. Zarina would not look up at me, but she petitioned for clemency:

“Please, Master…how do you want to restrain me?”

I let her wait what was probably only another ten seconds to see if she would drop the chain. I would not give her any relief just yet. I readjusted my head on the pillow for no particular reason.

“You chose this position for yourself.”

Zarina hissed, “Because this is how you trained me to act!”

I nodded at her as I lay dawdling on the bed. Zarina’s eyes shot up at me.

“Why? WHY?! Why must you make even the mundane, the commonplace, into torture sessions?! I can tell it hurts you to get hard right now!”

I shrugged into the mattress. Zarina fists clenched down on the chain to keep it from slipping out.

“You could always make a deal.”

Zarina’s frustration boiled over into her spleen, “I already made a deal!!! Just get it over with!!!”

For the first time in a while I felt the instinct that Zarina was about to attack me. I realized she could swing the chain and knock me unconscious or worse. The fear I had spent months instilling in her could be snuffed out by a flash of anger. If I may give myself credit, my best safety measures were not physical restraints. Instead, I took notice that weakening Zarina throughout the day and bombarding her under constant sensory overload kept her off-balance.

“As you wish, Throatfuck.”

The tension in Zarina’s shoulders dissipated and she seemed to find some energy reserves to stabilize her forearms. My guard stayed up a moment longer to see if it was merely a ruse. I quickly continued:

“Go lower the pulley from the I-beam above the drain, then chain your ankles to the locking carabiner.”

“Thank you for your magnanimity, Master.”

Zarina’s tone was cutting, but there was a little bit of levity in the way she was mocking me. The anger in Zarina’s face melted back into her studied flirtatious mask. She draped the chain across her knees and looked as if she was about to perform a magic trick, allowing an audience to inspect it. Zarina stood up and spun around, but glanced over her shoulder to catch me staring at her ass. She beamed and pranced over to one of the pulleys, lowered it to the ground, then faced me to do a straddle split.

Zarina was proud of her years of flexibility and she habitually leaned forward to let her breasts dangle, forgetting they were still wrapped up. She could tell I was somehow still mesmerized by the routine, no matter how many times I saw it each day. Zarina flowed through the Upavistha Konasan yoga sequence at an adagio pace, pretending not to be aware that I was watching. Or maybe it was easier to lose herself in a routine flow. Since the dawn of man, men—and ostensibly straight women—have stopped whatever we are doing to admire a beautiful woman. With her legs spread wide, Zarina leaned sideways towards one foot to carabiner that ankle to the chain. Then she sat down and rolled on to her back with her legs in the widest Y. On an easier day, that pose would have been my cue to climb on top of her.

Zarina flipped over to face away in the downward dog pose. In a Yoga Teacher Training, she would have been corrected for planting her feet much too far astride. But in my slave training, she hit her mark with the panorama of her crotch. She walked her hands backwards and winked at me looking through her legs. I winked back and Zarina cheesed. In this flow Zarina was supposed to take her time standing up. ‘Roll up one vertebrae at a time,’ as yogis say.

Yet Zarina did not stand up all the way, remaining folded in half and keeping her palms on the floor. She slid her unchained ankle to close and then cross her legs, before chaining her ankles together. Zarina looked expectantly over a shoulder with her mischievous twinkle, knowing she could catch my eye. It was quotidian when she ‘accidentally’ bent over for me to ram my cock inside whichever hole tickled my fancy. But tonight Zarina was keeping up the charade of looking forward to being hung upside down and soliciting for me to start a conflagration in her mouth.

“Lie down. Watch your head and protect ya neck,” I commanded.

Zarina kicked her locked legs straight back and vaulted into a push up pose on the floor.

I called forth, “Siri, up.”

My automated home system detected which pulley was under tension and simultaneously the chain began to rattle, hauling Zarina by her ankle cuffs into the air. I respected that she took the fleeting chance to practice a planche (French for ‘plank’): balancing forward only on her hands, with her legs parallel or even angled away from the ground. It is one of the hardest gymnastic or calisthenic moves, especially for females, and was popularized by Emily Blunt in the Edge of Tomorrow.

Zarina had yet to develop the shoulder, bicep and core strength to hold a full planche with her legs together for the two-seconds required by the C difficulty rating in artistic gymnastics. Previously, after I allowed Zarina to suggest modifications to her workout routines, one of her favorite exercises was this challenge of grasping heavy dumbbells or parallel bars and pushing the rest of her body up off the ground.

Over the past month since Zarina was granted such input on her exercises, she had healed and regained enough strength to once again hold a straddle planche with her legs spread wide in the air, generally the second hardest in the progression. I was so engrossed by the view of her shaking body from behind that I considered forbidding her from advancing to more difficult planches. Yet for both gentlemen and gamesmen: a deal is a deal. So recently Zarina had been starting from the easier ‘advanced tuck planche,’ where both knees remained tucked but hovering away from her wrists, with her shins parallel to the ground. From that pose Zarina was working on extending one leg back and up into the air, without losing her balance.

The chain rattled upwards to a height that assisted Zarina in practicing her handstand instead. The pulley stopped once it hit a pre-set measurement, dangling her mouth level with top of the mattress on the bed frame. Well out of reach of the ground, Zarina seized the base of her by-now very long hair and looped it through the scrunchie into a quick high messy bun. On my command, the pulley rotated and swung her over the middle of my mattress. Stray atrands of her hair tickled the overreactive nerve endings on my balls.

“You won’t have the privilege of servicing me orally for a while—“

Zarina raised her eyebrows and looked off to the side, “Awwww…shucks….” She sounded like she was satirizing her own sarcasm.

“You know ‘shucks’ comes the old English for ‘evil spirit’ or ‘demon’?”

“Nope!” Zarina shrugged. I couldn’t tell if she was prevaricating. Zarina’s parents had spent enough to ensure she learn a cosmopolitan vocabulary to match their worldly social strata in Baku.

“Your accent has become less and less noticeable. Your English in general has become very fluid.”

Did Zarina blush?

“Well, thank you, master.” Then she just couldn’t stop herself from adding, “immersion training is the best way to learn a language. And you certainly know how to immerse a girl.”

I had to chuckle as I shook my head at her.

“…I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but...you saying that gave me the satisfaction of proving my first English teacher—Ms. Thomasina Coverly—wrong. She was so mean to me about my accent, even though I knew all of us in my class at the International School of Azerbaijan spoke the same way. Even when I got a perfect score on my final exam, that Harrogate witch wouldn’t even look up at me as she handed back the paper and I walked off into the summer after first grade,” Zarina snickered with her eyes shut, “If only she could hear me now…. Look at how far I’ve come….”

I sensed the need to re-awaken Zarina’s fears to distract her from reminiscing about the life she worked hard for. “Sounds like you have always needed strict taskmasters to bring out the best in you….”

Zarina’s face swirled sour. “Hey, are you ready to have your dick sucked again or do you just want me to lick your balls?”

I knew she shouldn’t have to ask. I grabbed Zarina by her hair bun, slid her across the ceiling by the pulley, locked it by voice command, and hung her head between my thighs. Zarina sighed—maybe trying to act contented, maybe legitimately resigned—and began pecking up and down my adductors. I had missed sleeping with a sex slave these past nights. Such a tragedy that scorching her mouth with capsaicin would prevent me from enjoying that hole and tongue for maybe up to 48 hours. Zarina knew that hellfire was inevitable, so I had to incentivize her effort leading up to the finale.

“As I was saying…the spectacle of how much you like one of the new formulations of capsaicin drops will have to wait until tomorrow.”

Zarina eyes and eyebrows shot up at me, stupefied. “What?!” Then she corrected herself and her voice, “Why, Master, where is this coming from? What could this meager slave have done to earn…— wait! This is another one of your traps, isn’t it?

I shook my head, “No, actually I think you’ll like this surprise.”

I could tell Zarina did not believe me.

“Listen to my point of view: I want you to suck out my desire for any kind of oral sex for the next couple of days. The capsaicin could indeed burn that long. So I don’t want to even think of bringing your lips near me. To fulfill my desire, how long, how many times, and how you pleasure me is up to you. It should go without saying that I don’t want to wake up too sore tomorrow to enjoy your fireworks show. We both need real rest.”

Zarina tilted her swinging head in a kind of acknowledgment. “No surprise there.”

“Yes, yes. Here’s the offer: do this for me and I’ll…eventually...blend up a cold smoothie of whole milk, high-protein yogurt, peanut butter and old-fashion style buttermilk ice cream. You were the kind of student who likes to follow how casein proteins bind to capsaicin and fat to dissolve and wash away the oil-based drops, before your ass is taken out of commission too. I’m also betting that by hanging you upside down, gravity will slow the passage of the capsaicinoids to your asshole.”

Zarina’s face brightened. “Can you believe that I’m more enthralled you’ve done some research on the smoothie chemistry than the prospect of the relief from drinking it? Saying that now because the scholar in me will be quiet tomorrow.”

“Deal?”

“Done!” Zarina extended her hand to offer an upside down handshake.

We shook on it. We had never shaken hands before. I don’t think it was either of our intention to invoke the Satanic symbolism or a distress signal through inversion, but maybe it was meant to be. The corner of Zarina’s mouth curled wickedly.

“Master, I am going to suck every thought and wish for a blowjob out of your brain, through your balls, and straight down my throat….”

I ordered the lights off and let the day end. In the darkness I had my first nightmares about being raped.