Competition Breeds Excellence in Captivity

Over the next few days I introduced Zarina to some of the worst forms of torture I had researched throughout history. A family friend of Uday Hussein once said that the latter’s introduction to the internet was “a black day for the Iraqis” as he forced servants to look up new methods of torture. I draw the faintest of lines between myself and the likes of the Husseins, not only because I fought against their forces in war, but principally because I try to avoid hurting the truly innocent. But I admit I empathize with Uday’s tastes.

I barely slept. Zarina could not sleep at all. I raped and tortured Zarina until I collapsed. Times like these I considered taking off her blindfolding so I could wallow in the reaction her eyes. Eventually I planned for the blindfolds to come off, and I would watch her eyes bulge in shock, as much from pain as the horror when she realized what was happening. Security and my safety come first. But I was sorry that I missed those first times.

I did not want to cause long-term disability or deformity, but I was experimenting with how close I could get to that edge. My first goal was to make her believe that there was no way out of this life of torture, so I did not communicate with her in any way. My premise was that this first step was necessary so that she would be inured to accept my challenges and predicaments down the line, when I would offer her the hope of cessation or lesser pain. 

My second goal was to commence embedding in Zarina the instinct that her anguish was always tied to her sexual ability. I doubt she could distinguish the connection during these early days, and probably believed the rape was another form of punishment and merely my perversion, which it was. From Zarina’s perspective, she had no idea I was holding anything back and certainly felt like she was constantly being slowly tortured to death. 

As a torturer, I was often spontaneous. As a beginner, I chose what I thought would hurt the most. There were too many things I had waited my whole life to try out. But when I calmed down and could be rational, by design after post-nut clarity, my guiding principle for deciding how to punish a slavegirl was to take inspiration from her failure. Torture could be training. If a part of her body did not perform as I expected, then I made sure to tie the pain to the same area so that she would not forget the lesson.

The Italian word contrapasso means ‘to suffer the opposite,’ and was popularized by Dante Alighieri in his seminal Inferno. In Dante’s dream of hell, souls were sentenced to punishments that resembled their sins. For example, liars and false prophets had their heads twisted backwards, and rebels who targeted heads of state had their own heads removed. The Cambridge History of Italian Literature emphasizes that Dante as a poet meted contrapassos “not merely as a form of divine revenge, but rather as the fulfillment of a destiny freely chosen by each soul during his or her life.” This point was illuminating for me as a novice in the age old profession of slaver. I had to make my slave girls realize that they had a choice and some agency in whether they could avoid or at least lessen their punishments. Their destiny was to please me or to suffer, and often both at the same time.

By design, I began with torments that would take the longest to heal. For example, I smashed Zarina’s toes with a hammer, and repeatedly battered the broken metatarsals when she did not make me cum before a timer ran out, or the sex simply did not feel as good as it had previously. But, for what little it’s worth, I was not hammering wildly. I at least tried to aim carefully to keep the bones aligned. Immediately afterwards I stuffed gauze pads between her toes and buddy taped them together and to splint boards. Nevertheless, all the manipulation of her broken bones that this ‘care’ entailed must have felt like more torture to Zarina. 

In the first week I took advantage of the swelling and fractures to force her to stand on her toes. I also drove an array of needles and bamboo splinters under Zarina’s fingernails and broken toe nails. Within the first few days, I had pulled all 20 nails out with pliers for a motley of infractions or disappointments. A certain disinfectant lived up to its reputation for stinging horribly, and I applied it every day as I sterilized and re-bandaged the mangled nail beds. 

Over the next 6 weeks I systematically tried to let them mend by forcing her into poses that kept weight off. I told myself that her regular ice water submersions were partially to reduce the swelling all over her body. There would always be a risk of mutilation due to the depth of my sadism, but I thought she looked perfect when I first captured her, and wanted her to always look that way, albeit with more temporary signs of torture.

Multiple times a day Zarina lost consciousness several times mid-scream, but smelling salts were always on hand to prevent her from missing out on any agony. While her knees and ankles were strapped down to a table, I bruised her shins with the edge of a hollow aluminum square tube, well past deep purple to the point of hematoma. After what were almost certainly bone fractures criss-crossing her tibia and metatarsals, next up was near-boiling water. 

Up in the kitchen, I hung Zarina next to the stove, upside down for a 69 throatfuck, with legs spread so wide I felt the concern to pause and listen for the tearing of muscle or connective tissue. But the real disfiguration occurred when a timer ran out and I stuck a copper kettle spout into her pussy and scalded the inside of her. I chose a spout design where the metal itself became piping hot and kept the water inside warming at precisely 130 degrees Fahrenheit, or about 54.5°C. The National Burn Victim Foundation states that temperature would give me 17 seconds to rinse Zarina out with lukewarm water—never cold—before first degree burns set in. On the next iteration, it was her rectum that was forced to be a vessel for the scalding water. Of course Zarina was still blindfolded, so she never had any idea she was racing against the clock. After I ejaculated, I watched the countdown clock change to a count up to 17 seconds, as she continued to try and shake and spill the hot water out by thrashing and sitting up, as much as her core muscles and overextended legs would allow. But the lukewarm water would be my only trifling show of mercy, as I raped the seared cavity next, and smiled at the trickles of blood running down my cock.

Zarina soon enough would start heaving with relief after I came, as she seemed to be learning that her only brief respite would be after I climaxed. But lessons about my rules for sex slaves were harder for her to pick up on, because she was being trained like a blind dog without any form of instruction. The second time Zarina let some cum dribble out of her ring gag, I pierced her tongue with a needle and dragged it across the floor to force her to lick it up. Then I shocked each nipple and breast with a prod known as a picana eléctrica to drive the point home with an illegal level of delivered charge. It took several sessions for Zarina to prove that she had gotten the message, but she still struggled due to her ring gag and being blinded. 

These initial days were also the start of my own learning as a torturer. I got a sense of how to use each instrument and method of torment, and which ones hurt more. I tested different kinds and thicknesses of whips and canes—trying out Delrin, rattan, carbon fiber, metal, fiberglass, and more—to see which provoked Zarina’s louder screams. I had purchased an obscene amount of BDSM equipment ranging from well-reviewed Etsy crafts to shady third-world tools endorsed by police and interrogators. So many assessments to run, but only one delicate ideal of the female form as my test subject.