[Calvados] Competition Breeds Excellence in Captivity (M/f+, torture, sex slaves, rape, non-consensual, sadism)

[ay42]

I have been working on this story for many years, and the first 1/3 is ready for public release. I want to give back to the community that has provided so much inspiration and indelible narratives over the years. I will post the first dozen chapters in this thread for ease of reading, but the rest that have been completed are available at The Fet Library: Competition Breeds Excellence in Captivity

I particularly like setting up predicaments and challenges for girls, and I trust some of you will find these ideas stimulating as well. At the same time, my guiding principle was to prevent scenes from becoming repetitive flowcharts. I prefer my characters with some depth, not caricatures, and victims who do more than merely alternate between screaming in pain and acting like whores. I don’t claim to be able to write both sexes equally well, yet I hope the words and reactions ring true.

Of course, if you are on this site, many of us love ways of torturing girls and sexual gratification. So be warned that it takes a while to get to what you might be looking for. Start with Chapter 7, if you want to skip to the action. This is a very long story. For now the story only includes one submissive. But the current draft totals 124k+ words/217 pages and introduces four more female captives. This story will remain a work in progress, likely for years to come as I imagine new scenes.

Standard disclaimer that this a fantasy, but know that it is based on some research of locales, science, and the limits of the human body.
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Prologue


Zarina was my first of my sex slaves and so I learned a lot from her. I learned which instruments of torture hurt more than others. I learned where the line was between causing a lot of pain to a woman’s body, and causing permanent damage. I also learned about the more boring logistics and risks associated with capturing and keeping a sex slave alive for the foreseeable future. I had been in several perfectly healthy and normal long-term relationships, so I thought I had a decent sense of the issues and periodic changes that come with being a female. But, yeah, I can say I did not appreciate how hard it is to be a girl, much less a sex slave in restraints, until I had to care for her basic needs.


So, yes, I got a lot wrong at first, and Zarina had to suffer for it. I know she will never be truly happy, but she is no longer suicidally depressed, like she was when first learning what it meant to be my slave. What matters to me is that Zarina and my other girls are still here after all this time, and her mind and body are in about as good shape as could be hoped for. I see signs that they are more at ease now, and have come to accept the life of a sex slave who has to compete to avoid future torture.


I knew from the start that my slaves’ mental health was going to take as much of a beating as Zarina’s body, so I had a hypothesis on how to help both recover. This working principle was that she had to always hold out a little hope, to feel like she had a fighting chance to get out of every situation. My plan was to initially debilitate her physically and mentally through harrowing rape and torture, and then gradually start giving her chances to end or avoid further pain, by setting up predicaments and sexual challenges. In order to keep that hope alive, she would have to come to trust that I would keep my word if she met my goals. Thus, I swore to always be honest with her.


The fantasy life I was creating would demand that all my slaves pretend to be lascivious masochists. But if I gave Zarina a choice between two different kinds of torture, I wanted to learn which one she dreaded more, and how her body was really doing. So there would be times when I also demanded that my slaves let the mask slip, and that both could and should be honest with me.


I am aroused by seeing girls in any kind of great pain, so letting the girls pick their lesser of two objectively wicked torments took nothing away from the greatest thrill in the black heart of man like me. More importantly, it would give my slave girls a reason to live on because they knew that it could always be worse—having experienced the worst while being broken down during their initial training. With Zarina as my first, I feared her heart would give up if I just constantly caused her horrible pain without rhyme or reason.


This hypothesis came out of something I learned in a classified military course about prisoners of war. The POWs who lost hope were the first to die. They either got themselves killed, or their bodies simply gave out. I cannot talk much about the training I received in that course, but suffice to say, it confirmed I am no switch. What was eye-opening was how I saw the psychological techniques break some very hard men much faster than any of the physical punishments. Even POWs who have suffered some of the worst torture in history have agreed on that. Moreover, what I went through was very mild compared to what I would put my girls through, and back then we knew the rough part of our training would only last a few days.


Beyond simply forcing my girls to choose between the lesser of two evils when it came to sex and torment everyday, I wanted to occasionally show them some care and understanding. I have yet to find myself in love with any of my slaves, but I do worry about their long-term well-being in body and spirit. I know this is strange for a torturer to write.


I guess, in actuality, some might say my motivation was selfish at its core: I wanted to keep them looking beautiful and willing to make an effort in my sexual games everyday, for as long as possible. Even I am haunted by the poor souls I saw in the third-world after years of captivity and harsh treatment. Times of basic hardship are imprinted on the human body forever, to say nothing of torture. Their faces. Their eyes. Their instincts. The way they cowered even when they were being rescued. It was not sexy. Sometimes I realized that the women who were saved used to be beautiful.


I knew my girls would always hate me and constantly be on the lookout for an escape or a way to take revenge, at a minimum. Nonetheless, part of my working hypothesis was that simply treating them as a normal human being every now and then would slow them from turning to suicide or harming me. Along the same lines, for as long as I can remember, I have always been interested in what makes people tick. This curiosity served me well in my military career and subsequent success in the business world. I found that I could build a reasonably accurate judgment of what someone was going to do, if I got to know them first. I need my mental and physical breaks from sex and torture too, even if I am the one who is on the enjoying end. So I used these times to talk to my sex slaves as people, and not only treat them like pieces of meat.


I cannot point to the exact start of my interest in sexual sadism, but I think it is important to note that in my prior life I hid all signs that I was a sadist. If anything, I am something of the opposite. Sure, as a soldier who went into combat, I killed other human beings in gruesome fashions. But I took no joy or sexual gratification from those acts and memories, only relief that I had eliminated an immediate threat to me and my brothers-in-arms.


From a broader perspective: I joined the military and volunteered for a well-known elite unit because I earnestly wanted to protect innocent people all over the world. I was glad to capture or kill men who I thought were truly evil. That is not to say I had any delusions about the overall impact of the Western foreign policy. I was sick of politics before I even joined, and no one wants to hear more about that stuff here. The point is, I recognize the hypocrisy in capturing and continuing to torture young girls. Nothing can absolve me. But, from the start, I tried to select targets who would keep me from looking in the mirror and seeing one of the monsters who I used to hunt down.


Of course, no one deserves what I have done to these girls. I granted quick deaths to a few of the cruelest and most prolific killers and terrorists in the world. If those men did not deserve to suffer, then no one does. All I can say is that choosing girls who at least benefitted from bad activities is narrowly enough to assuage my conscience. It is not much, but I did my research and avoided targeting anyone truly innocent. Not surprisingly, out in the real world, there are relatively few complicit women who are also fairly young and very pretty. Nevertheless, in time, one by one, I found some who came close enough for me.


Chapter 2: Zarina


Zarina, 25, was from Azerbaijan, and ethnically Persian like many in the ruling class and general population. Anyone who has spent time in London or Los Angeles can attest to the good looks of Persian girls, and Zarina was a natural beauty. I was first struck by the sharp angular cheekbones and features of her face, and her bright hazel eyes. She looked taller than average for a woman, with a toned athletic body. When I first saw her in person, I estimated she was at least 170 cm or 5’7”, with long brown hair of gentle curls.


But there are lots of girls everywhere who would have been beautiful enough for me. Why I targeted Zarina was because her father served the state intelligence service, and she herself held some sinecure ‘advisory’ positions in Azerbaijan’s Ministry of National Security. To be accurate, I never found any evidence that she was directly responsible for repressive measures or human rights violations. Still, she was guilty enough by association, as far as I was concerned.


Neither Zarina nor her father were at the top of their respective institutions, but they were high enough up to no longer claim that they were just “following orders” or that “it was just a job.” On the other hand, I knew I was merely one man and I was not about bring an entire country’s security apparatus down on me. So kidnapping a girl in the family of someone like the President or anyone actually in charge of the intelligence or military services was out of the question. I still had some friends in messy countries all around the globe who I could reach out to for support, or if I really found myself in a jam. But I did not want to risk letting anyone know that I was the one responsible for Zarina’s kidnapping. Thus, I understood from the start that I would have to plan and carry out the operation alone.


I planned a classic roadside ambush to capture Zarina. It may come as a surprise to many, but, even in dictatorial regimes, officials’ schedules are sometimes posted or announced online. In this case, Zarina would be coming back from a dog-and-pony show of support and strength on the border of the region called Nagorno-Karabakh. Every country loves its propaganda, and some local official was probably proud that a dignitary like Zarina, the ‘deputy adviser,’ was coming to see the ‘good work’ he had done. The region was the site of both an independence movement and a bloody monthlong war with neighboring Armenia in the fall of 2020. Independent investigations uncovered war crimes perpetrated by both sides, with many directly carried out by Zarina’s Ministry of National Security. Sporadic fighting continues to this day, but the general sentiment in Azerbaijan was that they won the war. Because Russian peacekeepers had been deployed, I predicted correctly that the situation was safe enough to send Zarina without a heavily armed escort.


I entered and exited Azerbaijan from Georgia, as it was a relatively free country, compared to its neighbors, and had some decent relations with the West. Then again, my other options were Iran, Russia, and the DMZ with Armenia. I scouted the routes I expected Zarina to drive along and found several suitable bends in the road where her drivers would not spot me until it was too late. Afterwards I made my way to the capital of Baku, where Zarina lived, to track her from a distance and study her pattern of life.


Zarina’s lifestyle turned out to be that of a fairly typical twenty-something from the ruling class, who had yet to work a hard day in her life. But she was no empty-headed rich girl either. Zarina was undoubtably being groomed, probably by her family or higher-ups, for taking over serious positions of responsibility one day. For now she was being taken around as a fly-on-the-wall, but she was in meetings and shadowing some relatively important people in her government. The packet of research I built on her included photographs and athletic rosters from the international schools she was sent to, where the primary instruction was all in English. Of note was a Swiss boarding school of fair renown and shocking expense. I could not tell whether Zarina actually worked hard in school, but she was listed as having won both academic and athletic medals and trophies (though in third-world countries I know to be suspicious that these are rigged for the ruling class). What was most clear to me after more than two weeks of tailing her was that she looked as good as she did in her photos.


Another thing that I was glad to see was that Zarina undeniably did not know a thing about personal security. Baku itself was swarming with state security measures and henchmen. I was constantly checking to see if I had a tail, but Zarina never took any of the measures that I did. Then again, she had no reason to worry. I was the one who was probably connected to illegal arms purchases in the capital, no matter what precautions I took to avoid meetings in person.


I had reasonably plausible cover being seen there on business, as third-world countries are always hungry for foreign investors from the West and meetings with them create a sense of legitimacy. 60% of Azerbaijani’s economic income comes from oil and gas, with Baku the capital situated on an oil field. I sat through enough bullshit presentations, smiled and shook hands to put myself at least in the proximity of the places of power where Zarina would be. But I never came close to meeting her face-to-face before her fateful day on the road from Nagorno-Karabakh.


Chapter 3: Actions on the objective – ambush


I saw Zarina leave the capital that morning with five plainclothes bodyguards in two unarmored luxury SUVs. Zarina sat in the back of the trailing SUV. I noted that the bodyguards seemed bored and did not make much attempt to hide the printing of their concealed handguns against their shirts. Still, my working assumption was that they had long guns in their vehicles. If I had been in charge of their security, I would have said their SUVs were driving too fast, especially on these snaking rural roads, and too close together. I followed well out of sight and relied on a couple of aerial drone feeds to track their position. When she got to what appeared to be a Potemkin village visit, I doubled back and set in my ambush.


Some western army doctrine says you should have a 3:1 advantage going into any gunfight, but acknowledges that that you can even those odds with belt-fed machine guns, explosives, and the element of surprise. Heck, I personally know 3 former colleagues who managed to kill 42 enemy soldiers from a respectable unit because they had those advantages. Heavy weaponry is easy to come by if you have the cash in former Soviet Republics and in war zones, and this region was both. I am wary of becoming overconfident, but from my research on Zarina's bodyguards it seemed that I had the edge in real-world combat experience. I have fired all the ubiquitous variants of the Kalashnikov family in anger, dodged one too many RPGs, and thought my life was over every time I had to disarm an IED.


Further in my favor were the facts that it was a long drive back, so Zarina and her bodyguards would be tired. The setting sun was in their eyes in the spot I picked for my ambush. Spike strips boxed off the area in case one vehicle tried to get away. Even if I could not immediately disable their SUVs, I was not too anxious about them shooting back. I knew from long ago that shooting from a moving vehicle, much less also hitting a moving target, is orders of magnitude harder than Hollywood makes it look. I watched the drone footage of Zarina getting into the same back seat of the same rear SUV, as locals with forced smiles waved goodbye. Goodbye, indeed.


From my camouflaged hiding spot, I initiated the ambush with a roadside bomb that flipped over the lead vehicle and I quickly finished it off with a rocket propelled grenade. Zarina’s SUV had slammed on the brakes but still crashed into the lead vehicle. I opened fire with a DShK heavy machine gun, aiming at the engine block, front seats, and tires of her SUV, and then shot up the wreck of the lead vehicle for good measure. Then I took a pregnant pause.


Traditional ambush tactics say you should wait 30 seconds after destroying vehicles to watch for any signs of life. This was not my first real-world ambush, but these 30 seconds were the longest of my life. People who have been in gunfights will tell you how the adrenaline makes time move in slow motion. In that interminable wait I had the time for the worry to crawl into my head that Zarina had been seriously hurt or killed.


A couple of badly wounded bodyguards tried to crawl out of their vehicles, but I dispatched them with headshots from a Dragunov SVDM sniper rifle. After 30 seconds of silence and no further signs of life on the drone footage, I jumped in my up-armored SUV camouflaged in the woodline and rammed Zarina’s vehicle, to dislodge anyone that might be hiding inside or behind. I donned a gas mask and tossed out canisters of Kolokol-1, a fentanyl derivative used to incapacitate hostage takers at a theater in Moscow back in 2002. Taking deliberate sidesteps—or ‘pieing’—around the corners of Zarina’s SUV, I saw that the driver and another henchman sitting shotgun were full of gaping holes and their bright red arterial bleeds had slowed from geysers to small spurts. Nevertheless I fired a hammer pair of 7.62x39mm bullets into each of them with a Chinese Type 56, an AK-47 knockoff, just to be sure.


I saw Zarina out of the corner of my eye. She was unconscious with traces of darker veinous bleeding staining her white pantsuit, but I thought I saw her chest breathing. I then circled the lead SUV firing rounds into each bodyguard and every spot where a human could fit, being careful to avoid sending bullets into the other SUV where Zarina lay. Then I opened her SUV’s door closest to where she lay.


I tasered Zarina and her body jerked, but she had been out cold. I looped flex cuffs around her wrists and ankles and carried her into the trunk of my SUV. My quick estimate was that she could not weigh more than 125 pounds. Thermobaric grenades ignited the SUVs’ gasoline into fireballs that engulfed what was left of her convoy.


I sped away down the road to gather up one of the spike strips, and then a little ways farther to switch vehicles camouflaged in the trees. While switching Zarina into another trunk I slapped high security handcuffs, that are resistant to shimmying or the universal key, on her wrists and ankles and checked the zip-ties from earlier. No sign that she had woken up and attempted to struggle. Her vitals were high as expected for someone had just been in car wreck, but they were within normal ranges. Satisfied, I loaded Zarina into a large aerated Pelican 0550 case.


Then I torched my previous SUV and drove one of the most common cars in the county on my escape route. There was no one on these roads. My destination was a private airstrip in Georgia frequented by the Eastern European jet set vacationing on the Black Sea. The border was porous and the patrols and security of both countries underfunded. From an overwatch position, I reviewed drone footage for the last 48 hours and scanned for any hint of trap at the airstrip through binoculars. Once I concluded the airstrip was reasonably safe, I boarded my plane with my prized cargo, and flew off to my private island in the middle of a far away ocean.


Chapter 4: This could be you


There is a popular conception that you have to be something like a billionaire to own a private island. The truth is that you can buy a private island for less than $100,000 US dollars, or about a quarter of the median price of a house in the United States in 2025. Admittedly, the logistics of getting a construction crew and materials out to sea to build an underground apartment costs considerably more. Private jets also are more expensive, but one can be had for less than a million US dollars if you are willing to go the used route. All to say this is not out of reach for anyone who has a good career in a first-world country, so long as one does not have extravagant tastes.


I am not trying to pretend that I am not rich. Especially compared to 99% of the people of the world, who would all certainly say I am. But I am not ‘fuck you rich.’ I do not own mansions on multiple continents, or order increasingly longer yachts, in what boils down to an inverse dick-measuring contest for the wealthiest assholes in the world. My plane has decent range so I can fly over the oceans, but it is not something like a new Gulfstream G800, where I would not have to stop for fuel going from Sydney to Dallas. I am licensed as an instrument-rated pilot, so I do not have to rely on anyone else. Hiring pilots goes against my fiscally conservative instincts, and I could not have anyone connecting me to the island destination, nor who I was bringing there.


Now, a little about me: sure I have some unique professional experiences and sexual tastes that are not considered mainstream. But from outwards appearances, I am not that out of the ordinary. I would like to think I look maybe a little better than average—flattery from ex-girlfriends and one-night stands aside—but most of that I can credit to enjoying intense workouts, a habit that predates my military days. There is a popular misconception that operators from special units all look like Olympic athletes, but the truth is that we come in all shapes and sizes. Personally, I am around average height and can blend into many crowds, which has proven to be a useful trait when hunting humans in the military and as a civilian now. Hell, no matter what girls have said, I know my dick isn’t that much bigger than average either.


My parents were both college educated, so no surprise that I ended up graduating from what are considered “good schools.” I made my money in a fairly traditional fashion: got good grades, then a good job, and that led to an even better job. Not going to lie: I never was in dire straights because I inherited a little bit when my parents passed away while I was in the military, and they certainly set me up for success in how they raised me. Nevertheless, I made more money by my 30s than they did in their lifetimes.


I like to think I did pretty well for myself when it came to picking up girls. Not because I was rich or because I claimed to be something like a US Navy SEAL, though those are admittedly factors. Because I did not grow up as wealthy as I am now, I can attest that a lot of women around the world are attracted to money—though not all. As much as my ego would like to think I could get in a hot girl’s pants with just good looks and charm, there is some truth that women have a biological response when they realize a man is in a famous special operations unit. In spite of that I hated the guys who played the ‘hero’ card, and our senior enlisted leaders would lay hands on any new guy who blew our cover.


Not that I ever had any delusions about our ability to remain anonymous in a third-world country, as a group of Westerners who looked like they had protein and calories to burn in a gym. When we met women it seemed that trying to be secretive about our job apparently only added the allure of our mystery. Every one of us would realize on our first overseas trip that local girls could pick us out better than any actual foreign intelligence agent, having seen several rotations of our teams come through the same cities and establishments. Hell, when I used to hit the bars with the boys, we sometimes joked that we had sired children all over the 3rd world that we did not know about.


When it comes to all my long-term relationships, my girlfriends fit the same pattern: pretty, with couple have been truly stunning, well-educated, at least middle-class, working hard in promising careers, and satisfying in bed—though nothing extraordinary. Each of us had been happy together, but it was not my ultimate happiness. For what it is worth, I am still on good terms with almost all of them, except the truly crazy ones. I never had the urge to explore BDSM with any of them, for I knew nothing safe, sane or consensual would come close to what I fantasized about. That was ok with me in my previous normal life. But I sealed my decision to turn away from a normal life with a vasectomy, which took a little searching to find a well-respected surgeon who was willing to perform the operation on a single man with no children. I dreamt of an alternative life that was nothing like a traditional relationship in Western culture with vows of monogamy, a big car full of kids, and a house with a white picket fence in suburbia.


Chapter 5: Designing paradise


In the introductory note to The Devil in the White City, author Erik Larson explains:

“Beneath the gore and smoke and loam, this book is about the evanescence of life, and why some men choose to fill their brief allotment of time engaging the impossible, others in the manufacture of sorrow.”

My story has the same three aims, though my definitions of each are likely only shared by the kind of reader who has found these pages. In alternating chapters, Larson’s book contrasts the planning of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago with the story of H. H. Holmes, a con man and serial killer who built a supposed ‘Murder Castle’ a few miles west, to lure in expo visitors to his hotel.

Holmes was nicknamed “the Torture Doctor” by the yellow journalism of his time, and sensational stories were published falsely claiming that Holmes’ architecture hid torture dungeons, gas chambers, trap doors, and a crematorium in the basement. Holmes was a lifelong fabulist and, while his death row confession was verifiably fictitious, he ‘confirmed’ and exaggerated his own legend of the Murder Castle. I am morally opposed to murdering innocents, but took inspiration from Holmes’s descriptions of his blueprints.


I went to great lengths to conceal any connection to the island. I am nowhere near as politically connected as Jeffrey Epstein, and look at what happened to him in spite of all that. One thing I did learn soon after joining the corporate world was how top lawyers are worth their high fees per hour. All my transactions for this island were done through multiple layers of law firms and none of the parties involved ever knew more than one other contact, and certainly no information about me. Payment was routed in whatever hard cash was preferred or cryptocurrency. Given that I was essentially playing telephone trying to communicate my design for the island, I chose to keep it simple.


I explained my island hideout as a large apartment dug into an underground bunker. I joked it should be something like what an unhinged apocalypse prepper might dream of. The island itself was mostly covered in sand, except for a portion with jungle trees. For my own obscurity, the idea was to make the island look uninhabited. I wrestled with whether I should pay to have the runway paved, as I was fairly confident I could land on the sand of an unimproved one.


Ultimately, I had to hide a modern aircraft under a roof, so the style of a World War II hangar was chosen for the bunker. Thus, a paved runway could be disguised as a relic leftover from the same era. Solar panels were harder to hide, but we managed to find a design that did not look out of place or too anachronistic.


If someone happened upon the island, well, I had a bunker I could wait them out in, or to defend fitted with some anti-aircraft and anti-ship weapon systems and drones. It’s a little frightening how easy it is to acquire such weaponry. Russian arms dealer Viktor Bout was freed in 2022 in a prisoner exchange for WNBA player Brittney Griner, and while he was gone dozens of black marketers filled his void. These days an Iranian one-way attack drone costs just $2,000. Since October 2023, Houthi rebels in Yemen have used such drones to paralyze the world’s most vital shipping lanes in the Red Sea and Gulf of Alden.


By design and function, I divided the bunker into an upstairs ground floor and the downstairs basement. Upstairs was the ground floor of the hangar, subdivided into my arms room, backup generator, water desalination and treatment, hardware workshop, wardrobe and office. The office was where I managed my investment portfolio and infrequently communicated with the outside world. I had biometric locks on all these upstairs rooms set so that only I could ever access them.


I am not affluent enough to completely retire and afford my fantasy until I am 100. Luckily, toiling throughout my 20s and early 30s paid off. I have sundry streams of passive income and occasionally am hired for consulting gigs by old colleagues, I would like to think due to their esteem for my accomplishments. Most of my work can be done remotely. Since the advent of COVID-19, it rarely occurs to my professional contacts to even ask where or how I spend my days.


The physical separation of ground floor office and basement apartment would prevent me from accidentally bringing anything down to the underground apartment that the girls could use to hurt me, themselves or call for help. One of my standard operational procedures was to disrobe before I lifted open the hatch that led down a ramp to the basement. The movies make it look easy, but I had learned in a military course how to escape captivity by using common pieces of metal like a pen or hairpin to shimmy out of locks or zip ties. As a nudge for myself to strip down, I had a full-length mirror affixed to the downside of the hatch, so that I would be faced with my reflection when I raised it.


Down from the heavy surface hatch was an automatic reinforced metal door that led into the basement apartment. If a slave was somehow able to get through the basement door, she still would locked downstairs by the metal hatch. The overall architecture of the apartment was contemporary minimalism. Any room could have served as an advertisement for fashionable condominiums in a new skyscraper, complete with one my slaves posing as an elegant lady exposing some skin. Not only was this a matter of my personal taste, but it gave the architects and builders no reason to suppose that they were recreating Ashoka’s Hell.


Chapter 6: Chandashoka’s blueprints


Ashoka was the third century Maurya emperor, whose dominion stretched from present-day Afghanistan to Bangladesh. He became famed for not only converting to Buddhism, but using the power of the empire to spread that local sect into a world religion. These days, Buddhism is popularly thought of as one of the most peaceful and non-violent major religions. Be that as it may, Ashoka’s epiphany was gradually induced by remorse for having started what is to-date still one of the bloodiest wars in Indian history, by conquering the lands of Kalinga. War by its nature has always been destructive, but before converting Ashoka was known as Chandashoka (Ashoka the Cruel), for his murderous impulses were promulgated not only by foreign policy. As he had not been the first prince in line for the throne, Ashoka was inaugurated by assassinating his eldest brother along with all hundred other brothers and half-brothers, save the youngest. The Buddhist Sanskrit text of the Ashokavadana recounts that Ashoka had 500 of his concubines burnt alive for not wanting to feel his body and thus cutting down one of his namesake trees that put him in an amorous mood.


My island was inspired not only by a sovereign court with so many concubines living under the threat of horrific punishment, but also one of Ashoka’s oldest legends. The legend describes how Ashoka built a superficially opulent palace, with a backdrop of delectable orchards and majestic gardens. Paradoxically from the outside, this palace was called Ashoka’s Hell. For deep inside were hidden the greatest of torture chambers, faithfully modeled on the Buddhist conception of hell, because Ashoka journeyed to Hell itself to record its perfection. Ashoka decreed that no one would ever leave his hell alive, not even his handpicked chief executioner, nor any innocents who wandered in, enticed by the splendor. I adopted the same resolution for my island, for I could not have anyone betraying what I did in the basement.


The basement construction was my idea of a dream home where I hoped to live out my days. The apartment itself was initially built with 5 bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and biometric locks on the doors, so that all could function as jail cells. But I had the construction team tunnel out and reinforce all the way from under the hangar to underneath the nearby grove of jungle trees. I had to plan ahead in case I needed more space to keep generations of sex slaves.


The central room connecting all the bedrooms was an open plan kitchen and dining room. On one side of this central room was the metal door to the upstairs hangar and the outside world. Another wide doorway led to an open air courtyard, engineered with a drainage system, all hidden from view from the sky by the jungle canopy forty feet above. A third large opening into the central kitchen and dining room needed no door, for I had no wish to block the sights or sounds of what happened in the ‘gym.’


The other side of the basement was described to my architects and contractors as a ‘CrossFit gym.’ In reality, the ‘gym’ was where my sex slaves would spent most of their days being raped, restrained and tortured. There were an awful lot of squat racks for one guy, so I made reference to the intention of raising a strong family and hosting many guests on the island, in keeping with all the bedrooms. Strategically, the half-dozen weightlifting racks were anchored into the floor to withstand forces exceeding 500 kilograms/1100 pounds, and bars with attachment points ran along the ceiling.


An adjoining ‘cardio’ room was more of the actual gym, housing a variety of workout machines and equipment, behind a locked door. The gym equipment was not just for plausible deniability: I wanted my girls to stay in shape and I exercise daily, both out of habit and to keep my slaves from being able to overpower or outrun me. Conveniently, my twisted mind is inspired by exercise equipment that dovetails as competition and punishment apparatuses.


A second adjacent area on this darker side was a whole-room shower designed like a spa, complete with several hot tubs that could also fill with ice-cold water kept at a constant 5 degrees Celsius/41 degrees Fahrenheit by liquid nitrogen tanks. In my old special operations unit we used similar 10 degree Celsius/50 degree Fahrenheit cryotherapy baths after workouts. Today I still swear by ice baths to speed muscle recover and reduce swelling today, but sheepishly must confess that I could never bear to submerge myself for more than 5 minutes. Hypothermia treatments aside, the area was also furnished with all the fittings of a high-class spa because I, like everyone, wishes to be pampered by the warmth of skilled hands.


Taking a page from the NKVD station blueprints of Stalin’s second secret police chief, I ordered that all the basement floors be slightly angled downhill and, like the walls, easy to wash. At least one hose was installed in every room. Full-length mirrors covered the walls, even outside in the courtyard, to let me catch every angle and force the girls to face the horror of what was happening to them. No one would necessarily suspect this true reason, for interior designers often line the walls in stores, restaurants, and gyms with reflective surfaces to make the rooms look bigger and brighter. Every room had freestanding drawers and cabinets to organize my instruments of torture, and could be wheeled around to supplement the basic set I stored in all of the bedrooms. All this was installed by the builders, and I brought my own, all-too-sinister, furniture later.


Despite downstairs being completely off the internet grid unlike the upstairs office, the basement apartment was a ’smart’ home. From anywhere I could control everything from the thermostat, to the timers, to boiling water, and unlocking and opening any door or drawer. The smart home system could be programmed either by the remote controls in every room that responded only to my facial recognition and fingerprints, or an apartment-wide voice command system.


Large digital timers masqueraded as seemingly normal digital clocks on the four walls of every room, for the competitive games I would force my sex slaves to play. The timers were linked with the smart home system, but never displayed the time after the builders left. This was another measure for controlling my slaves: I wanted them to lose track of time, the way that there are no clocks in casinos. Without an anchor to time, they would always be living in dread, not knowing how fast time had elapsed, and would not be able to predict when their ordeal would begin. For myself, I had the realization once I had built up my estate that time only mattered when I had to deal with the outside world. As long as I did not need to go to a place of business, I could simply eat when I was hungry and sleep when I was tired.


After the builders left, I personally installed a video and audio surveillance system on my own, so that I could monitor every room. I could watch the video feed or playback weeks of footage through a virtual reality 3D Vision Pro headset. I am not into voyeurism, though I hoped to be able to relive ‘highlights’ of my memories from other angles. Moreover, I am concerned with what my slave girls might be up to when they think I cannot see them. I made the attempt to hide the cameras and microphones, because, as the military saying goes, “intelligence drives operations.” In this case, what I was trying to preempt was the girls planning an operation against me, or a suicidal one.


Before stockpiling supplies on the island, I calculated an estimate for a generous caloric burn and the quantity needed of a mix of brands of pet food to preserve a sex slave’s curves. I did not want my girls getting too skinny. I knew my slaves would be revolted by being forced to eat pet food. Punishment opportunities aside, I am not particularly turned on by degradation, but others may enjoy this. I was being practical: pet food is shelf stable, nutritionally consistent, readily available in bulk via overnight worldwide shipping, and easy to chew. I research the brands with the highest fiber, so my slaves would be more efficient cleaning out their colons before all the ass rape.


Pet food is not designed for human consumption though, even though the better brands use ingredients that are no different than what free men and women eat. For example, dog food is much higher in the proportion of protein, cholesterol, and Vitamin A, all of which can cause problems if eaten in large doses. There is also a higher risk for illness, because cat and dog digestive systems are, frankly, better adapted to eating all kinds of things in the wild, so pet food is not subject to the same rigor of inspections. Down the line I would research better suited foodstuffs that were non-perishable and available in commercial volumes. I had every intention of buying fresh meat and vegetables for myself, but the lure of playing with sex slaves disincentivized me from flying off the island for grocery trips more often than I had to.


After the last builders were flown off, I dragged an extra king sized waterproof mattress to the main gym room. It was not the most luxurious, but it was easy to clean and the metal bed posts could take pounds and pounds of force from girls thrashing against them. Smaller and slightly larger heavy-duty metal aerated boxes for transporting wild animals could hold the girls in cramped conditions if they did not earn the privilege of my bed that night. All six sides were pockmarked with air holes to the point where I would have a pretty comprehensive view of the slave from the outside, but every aperture was too small to fit more than a thumb through. The walls and ceiling of the boxes were padded, to keep the girls from concussing themselves when they woke with a start, but not the floor because it was supposed to be uncomfortable. The start of every day in these boxes would be a rude awakening, because the floor was lined with copper to maximally conduct a dose of electricity as a wake up call. By hooking these portable prison cells up to an outlet, I could also rely on integration into my smart home system for unlocking via voice and remote control.


I ordered a medical grade autoclave for sterilizing my torture tools with pressure and steam. Woodworking is not really a hobby of mine, but something I had to learn for a job. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, there are a lot of designs floating around for things like restraint benches, wooden and aluminum ponies, and waterboarding tables.


This room, surrounded by these furnishings, was where Zarina woke up.


Chapter 7: This is what you’re here for


Zarina had been sedated with a booster shoot of long acting diazepam for the final leg of the flight. During the flight I took a blood sample from her and ran it through a portable rapid tester for sexually transmitted diseases. I carted her unconscious body in the Pelican case down to the basement gym, and then marked the box and both our clothes for disposal far away. Perhaps I was being too paranoid about any traces of her DNA one day being found on my plane or any possessions that would accidentally leave the island. But I was not about to lose the life I had, much less the one I had fantasized about, over a plastic box that can be had for less than $800. I stripped off Zarina’s clothes and would burn all of them, except her underwear, later.


I secured Zarina with custom-made and neoprene lined metal ankle and wrists cuffs and locked her to a saw horse. Only then did I cut the flex cuffs off and unlock her handcuffs. While she was comatose, I fitted her mouth with a silicon coated ring gag that was large enough for my member, but fit inside her mouth and hopefully would not cause TMJ or lockjaw issues anytime soon. I ran her panties under cold water and stuffed them partially through the ring gag, so she should have trouble spitting them out. Finally, I tightened a sleeping mask as a blindfold around her head and sealed it with medical tape that sticks to skin and hair, even when wet. My paranoia drove me to double check Zarina’s restraints one last time, and then I could not help myself any longer.


I had never felt like my erection was about to burst like this. I grabbed Zarina’s asscheeks with each hand and raped her vagina with the fury from a lifetime of pent-up sadism. Her muscles were constricted, as if her body was trying to prevent me from penetrating her. I did not last long, but at some point she woke up and I heard the first of innumerable screams, muffled as they were by her wet panties. I had too much libido for my erection to flag, so I pulled her panties out of the ring gag and leapt right into raping her throat. Zarina choked and retched immediately. I was bludgeoning the bend at back of her throat but I was only getting two-thirds down. It probably would have hurt me had I not been on the endorphin high of my life.


Zarina evidently had very little in her stomach, as she was throwing up mostly liquid in succession. She was flailing harder against her restraints than any woman would be expected to. I could not tell whether she even noticed when I shot down her throat, and she immediately hurled my cum onto my balls and the floor. I figured that might happen and had a cane by my side and started slashing down on her ass. I wanted to start the precedent of punishing her for not swallowing every drop, though I doubted whether her brain presently had any capacity to deduce the cause and effect.


Zarina was shrieking herself hoarse around my still hard cock, and that probably compounded the bruising I had done to her throat. I crisscrossed her ass with about twenty gashes—I lost count quickly—and noticed some started bleeding a little. Once I finally stopped to take a breath, I pulled out and circled behind her to ram my amazingly still-hard cock all the way into her asshole. Zarina’s voice hit an octave she had not been able to reach in the preceding minutes. I cannot say that I planned for her vomit, mucus and saliva to be the only lubricants, but it was enough for me. I dug my nails into the lacerations across her ass and squeezed her cheeks whenever her screams flagged. Occasionally I caned her back and enjoyed feeling her ass re-tightend around me.


After shooting what load I had left into her bowels, I switched right back to fucking her face. I was dumping decades of fantasies in to fuel my libido and I was surprised with myself that I could keep going despite being half flaccid. She threw up again, perhaps this time as much due to the taste and knowledge of where my cock had been. I took no pleasure from this and in the future would force her to clean her holes regularly, but for now I was in too much of a frenzy. It was only after my fourth climax in what must have been less than half a hour that my lust began to subside, or more specifically that I could no longer perform with the same violent ardor. Zarina’s wails had taken on the distinct sound of despair, but she had no idea that her life was about to become one of the worst in human history.


My sadism demanded that I tortured her brutally. I had too many evil ideas, and a multitude more variations and models of equipment to test out on her. Soft BDSM did nothing for me. If all I wanted was spankings and fuzzy handcuffs then I would not have needed to kidnap a sex slave and keep her in an island hideout. I was finally gratifying my love of seeing pretty girls bear horrific pain. But I also had a practical goal: I intended to obliterate both her mental and physical ability to resist.


Chapter 8: Starting with the worst of science and civilization


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.


Chapter 9: Ride the lightning


Zarina’s heart was going to stop forever if kept up my opening level of cruelty, and this was a realistic limitation I had taken into account. In the course of designing my torture chamber, I was particularly interested in discovering methods that caused maximum pain, with the minimum visible or long-term damage. Electricity seemed to be a promising ‘genre,’ so I dusted off old textbooks and consulted both technical guidelines and historical documentation from despotic regimes. I read literature showing that the long-term effects of electrical shocks can include depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, mood swings, and personality changes. But all of these mental health problems could just as easily be caused by my other forms of torment.


I just said that I had been fretting about Zarina going into cardiac arrest, so this same concern drove me to study how painful electrical shocks can be without being fatal. Voltage may be the more common measurement of electricity, but as the saying goes, “current is what kills.” For example, tasers are advertised with absurdly high voltage ratings, but the actual volume of the electricity as measured by the current is quite low. Voltage also does not measure what the target actually feels. The fact is the effective charge in microcoulombs, or amount of electricity delivered, is what actually hurts and matters.


All this sounds like it should always work in theory, but I never have fallen in love with academia. In practice, Zarina would be the first subject of my experiments. Portable stun guns designed for close-range were portable and convenient when I needed to quickly correct her behavior. I had ordered a plethora of models from all over the world to try and measure whether the advertised numbers converted into perceived pain. This proved elusive as relative pain cannot be accurately measured, especially while Zarina was still gagged. But I could approximate by observing Karina’s response, spending many happy hours trying one shock weapon after another. I recorded the charge, voltage and current and pushed the upper limits during each subsequent session.


Fundamentally, all handheld shock devices have their limitations. Stun gun batteries only last for 10-15 minutes of continuous fun, and tasers can only fire a couple of shots per cartridge. Devices powered through a connection to a wall outlet avoided this problem. I had started my collection of torture instruments with ordinary commercial-off-the-shelf versions. As I had become quite the collector before capturing Zarina, I sought out curios on the black market from the most discriminating connoisseurs in police states.


The modern versions of Latin American picanas seemed to cause Zarina some of the most exquisite pain of all. Normally picanas are cheap to produce, but I made contacts who independently verified that an upgraded version was favored by a despot’s infamous secret police for being able to extract confessions—true or false—faster than any other method. I was well-aware that each link in my anonymous daisy chain of procurement was adding exorbitant surcharges, but I had no bargaining power because I was enamored this model.


I discerned that the picanas I bought were not stolen. The hard truth that did disquiet what little conscience I can claim was that I had bought them officially from the police department, through front men. This regime was obscenely rich and ruled over a relatively well-developed society, so I negotiated a surcharge several times the cost of the base model to customize activation only via a fingerprint reader. If I lived for several more decades and acquired a harem of slaves as I aspired to, one of my captives was bound to get her hands on one of my torture implements and try to use it against me. I could only keep the traditional implements like whips, pliers and needles under lock and key, and I was ready to take my chances in a fight if a girl nabbed one of such non-electric tools. But, where technologically possible, I had such additional safeguards installed on my more advanced gadgets, because they could incapacitate in an instant.


A side effect not ordering ‘off the shelf,’ was my paranoid need to buy faraday bags on my own upon receiving the shipment of the picanas. As plutocratic as the government was, it was unlikely an official would want to absorb the extra cost of surveillance bugs or any kind of geolocation or radio transmission signals. But I assumed I would not have time to inspect or sweep the picanas upon delivery, and was in hurry to get away from the secret police who were sure to be watching the dead drop. Hence, I had a drone immediately enclose the package of picanas in faraday bags that blocked all electromagnetic signals coming from inside.


According to the octaves that Zarina's voice reached and the way her muscles convulsed, the picana jolts were indeed more grievous than the industrial strength cattle prods they had evolved from. Not surprising, considering these picanas delivered 2-3 times the voltage at a lower, and thus safer, current. The modern versions had rheostats built into the handle, so I did not have to walk back to the wall to adjust to adjust the current or require a second operator to be present, like the 1930s versions.


The muscular contractions caused by severe electric shocks can be enough for a victim to inadvertently fracture their own bones. But more commonly these involuntary constrictions caused Zarina’s jaw to lock down and tested the durability of her ring gags, lest she bite off her own tongue.


I had chosen specific bondage restraints with a little give in them, so that my slave girls did not dislocate their own joints when they spasmed. Even after I ceased zapping Zarina, her muscles remained clenched and sometimes I had to physically pull on them like I was helping her working out a cramp. The constant firing of her muscle groups taxed Zarina to exhaustion more than other forms of torture, and often left her too stiff to follow her own brain’s signals, even after vocal and electric prodding.


All the picanas I procured ran on directed current (DC). The ceaseless nature of DC meant that Zarina’s muscles were forced to keep firing, whereas AC shocks would give muscles micro-breaks between engaging them again. As much as I loved watching Zarina’s body tauten, the main reason why I chose DC electrical torture was that it was less likely to be fatal. AC powers most outlets around the world, but I had directed my architects and engineers to also include DC outlets in every wall. The electrical shock from DC can stop a human heart, which even I normally wanted to avoid, but the heart has the ability to start beating again on its own (that is why defibrillators, which I kept handy, provide a DC jolt). In contrast, AC electricity can cause the heart to beat irregularly or too quickly, which leads to blood clots or strokes.


People who work around electricity and have inevitably been shocked may tell you that AC hurts more than DC at the same voltage. This is because skin act as a capacitor and blocks some level of DC, but AC can bypass the skin. I couldn’t have Zarina being hurt any less than possible, so the obviously solution was to crank up the DC voltage. Luckily for villains like me, science provides even more answers. Before electrocution sessions, I soaked Zarina with salt water kept below zero by liquid nitrogen to lower the electrical resistance of her skin by at least two orders of magnitude and increase its conductivity. The other workaround was to avoid Zarin’s skin entirely and inject the electricity directly into open wounds or wire needles that punctured her nerve endings.


Muscle contraction is caused by electrical signals sent from the brain. So with artificial shocks I could instantly make Zarina’s muscles work as hard as humanly possible. That much ‘bodybuilding’ quickly evaporates even water so cold it would freeze were it not for the salt content. My research had also taught me the happy discovery that sweat is similarly an excellent conductor of electricity. When I having too much fun to douse Zarina again with salt water, I took comfort in the fact that the sweat on Zarina’s skin was working as a comparable substitute to keep her electrical resistance low and her pain at the maximum.


Sweating that hard during a long electrocution session causes dehydration, which in turn leads to more lovely muscle cramping. Overhydration is more dangerous than dehydration from exertion, but to be ‘safe’ I always hung a water bladder nearby. I replaced the mouthpiece with a custom dildo molded after my cock and balls, so that my slaves could practice their blowjob skills even when I couldn’t savor it. Zarina was sucking down 3-4 liters or almost a gallon of water per hour, which is more than double the average sweat rate for normal exercise and close to the 5 liter record. That’s well above the maximum hydration limit of 1 liter of pure water per hour that can be processed by the human kidneys. So to avoid causing hyponatremia or water intoxication, I reached back to my military training manuals and titrated Zarina’s drinking water with the prescribed levels of oral rehydration salts.


Chapter 10: Electrical engineering


When I felt like taking them time to be especially heinous, handheld shock weapons simply were not enough. After I had gotten the day’s early impatience out of my balls, I could take the time to first make sure Zarina was suitably restrained for both my safety and that of her joints and bones. Then I could set up one of the big events that day, such as carefully wiring copper jumper cables or custom-made copper 7-gauge needles to pierce the most sensitive parts of the female body. Copper is the second best conductor of electricity, and does not oxidize or tarnish on contact with air and thus lose its conductivity like the best conductor (silver). 7-gauge needles are the thickest commercially available and 5.6X thicker than your average needle used for drawing blood. Thicker needles carry more electrical current and resistance is also inversely proportional to the thickness. Studies of reported pain levels from needles in the typical mid-20s to 30 gauges for injections are mixed on whether the bigger ones hurt more. But the special operations medics I trained with all bragged and bitched about “18 gauge appreciation day.”


BDSM always targets the sexual organs of the clitoris, vagina, nipples, and anus. But neurology teaches that nerve endings are packed into the finger tips, forehead, arch of the foot, and funny bone. What’s more, there is little skin, fat and muscle to protect these targets. Practically speaking, I always tried to show some foresight and rotate through all kinds of attacks on Zarina’s entire body beyond the obvious three places, in order to give every part time to heal. By using electricity, I could spare her skin and get down to the roots of the human anatomy that experience pain.


I had commissioned multiple free-standing power machines on wheels to be able to control the voltage, current, wattage, duration and even schedule random or periodic DC jolts. Call me lazy, but sometimes I would be ‘otherwise’ preoccupied and could not manually administer bursts from a handheld device. That is why I contracted with some factory engineers to program these power supplies to connect to the apartment’s voice-command and remote control system. 21st century autonomous factories have very similar controls to modulate power. The addition of a commercial fingerprint reader was not out of the ordinary either. If I came to trust select slaves enough to train new girls, I could add users in the future, with a sliding scale of authority to inflict the upper boundaries. Pressure switches in predicament bondage were another option for doling out zaps. For example, during one of my longer breaks I amused myself with a variant of watching Zarina try to stay up on her broken tip-toes to avoid touching the pressure switches below her ankles.


The only drawback of electrical torture from my perspective was that I had to be careful about avoiding shocks myself. That meant that every part of my body had to be well clear of Zarina, to avoid the risk of her spasms connecting me to her electrical circuit. My primal urge for capturing a sex slave was indeed for sex, not torture, so this posed a quandary for me. But as everyone reading this knows by now, witnessing pretty girls’ suffering is my paramount kink. The long-term answer, of course, was that I had to acquire more sex slaves. But for now Zarina would have to quench both my lust and sadism.


Thus my early designs for electrical torture were impeded by my own self-preservation. For one of Zarina’s first electrical tests, a handful of frighteningly long 7-gauge copper needles were stabbed into her cervix and then conducted an increasing current. Zarina was strapped down to a table on her back, with her head hanging over the edge for ease of throatfucking. When she gagged and pulled away, or became desperate for air, I sat back on a chair which had a pressure switch under the cushion, until I thought she had enough or as my biological urge outweighed my sadism. Zarina would wince and clamor from the spears in her womb, but the correct instinct kicked in when she felt the head of my cock brush her tongue. Having had four orgasms already before lunch, I maintained my self-restraint and let Zarina take me as deep into her ring gag as she could, instead of reaming away. I envisioned today’s contraption as one of many important training aids to improve her deepthroating.


Chapter 11: Amateur electrosurgery


All the iterations of electrical torture had an eventual goal beyond the searing pain: I was improving my surgical skills, of a sort, to permanently degrade Zarina’s ability to bite down. I had long since yearned to spend majority of the rest of our waking lives together with my cock in her mouth, and without a ring gag getting in the way. So early in my preparations I searched for a permanent method of protect my cock from my slave girls’ teeth.


During my early planning I had considered pulling out all of Zarina’s teeth with pliers as one of her first punishments. But Zarina’s face looked too pretty in photos and her smile was a factor that beguiled me into picking her as my first. I had chosen the silicone lined ring gags because I was afraid she might chip her teeth on others, yet even so I came to be apprehensive that the padding was insufficient. But after the first day it seemed like Zarina’s jaw muscles were completely spent from trying to clench her teeth, whether induced by electrical sparks or her own will via neurotransmitters released by her pain receptors. I’ll give a little credit to incessant throatfucking probably sapping energy and muscular strength in her head as well.


Girls without teeth look like methamphetamine addicts or remind me too much of the poverty I had witnessed in third-world countries. In future generations of sex slaves I did pull a couple of slavegirls’ teeth out as a drastic punishment, but also because I could picture that the beauty of their facial structure would not be too badly debased. But for the vast majority of my slaves, a methodical electrocution regimen of the nerves in their jaws proved a sufficient precaution in what became my standardized welcome.


As it so happened, I had been scouring every relevant scientific field to discover the most painful ways to hurt a woman. I came across the American Association of Neurological Surgeons describing Trigeminal Neuralgia, “as the most excruciating pain known to humanity.” Trigeminal Neuralgia is an irritation of the nerve that branches into the lower jaw, cheek, and forehead. Fortunately for sadistic dominants, the muscles of mastication, i.e. chewing, are also innervated or commanded by the trigeminal nerve. The rest of the facial muscles are controlled by a separate nerve, so I confirmed with neurologists that patients who had damaged trigeminal nerves still could make facial expressions, speak and eat, albeit chewing slowly depending on the degree of damage. Leading professionals typically revel in nerding out in their own field, and some maxillofacial surgeons unwittingly walked me through how to perform the electrosurgery. My intention was not to sever the trigeminal nerve or kill it off completely, but instead to thread the proverbial needle with a real copper needle that would force Zarina to close her mouth ploddingly for months. This was another reason why I had planned for my slaves to subsist on pet food during their training.


To probe the area and assess the suitability of my instruments and electrical settings, I commenced by puncturing the nerves at the roots of her teeth to fry them with electricity. Based on Zarian’s introductory reaction, this might have been one of the most painful methods of maltreatment yet. And that was before I increased the charge. Just when I thought I was becoming inured to her weeks of anguish, the frenzy she went into after being shocked in the gums put me in a trance. The only thing that snapped me out of it was the impulse to sanguinarily rape her asshole then and there. After my cock was too placid and tender to stay squeezed in her anal canal, Zarina survived several more jolts below her gum line of increasing power settings. I halted our experiment for the day when her eyes and head began rolling around as if she was about to lose consciousness. No point in hurting a girl when she cannot feel it.


No one can become adept at electrosurgery in a week, but I was pleased with the results of puncturing Zarina’s trigeminal nerves with copper needles and running a current through them. Her whole body and head in particular had been strapped down more tightly than ever before, but her quaking still rattled the whole table even though it was bolted down to the floor. Never before had she let out a continuous scream into her tattered panties stuffed through her ring gag, interrupted only by gulps of air until she blacked out many minutes later. Trigeminal neuralgia lived up its billing as a way to achieve my twin aims of hindering her ability to bite down on my cock and causing her the most excruciating pain known to humanity.


I had been trying to estimate nerve damage by electrocuting other spots on Zarina’s body and testing afterwards whether she could still feel anything there or move the connected muscle. But I had no way to immediately test whether I had sufficiently damaged Zarina’s trigeminal nerves to stop her from being able to bite down swiftly or with any force. Instead, I watched her closely for signs of ‘improvement.’ I kept upping the charges until I saw her jaws go from grinding down on her ring gag to completely slackening between shocks. Even after the shocks ended I had to pry her jaw open to get the mastication muscles to relax. Zarina was still responsive at this point, so her usual innate reaction to any pain should have been to try and grit her teeth. Ergo, when I saw her drool and her mandible glacially try to close, I hazarded that the nerves had been rendered adequately dysfunctional.


It occurred to me that this was a rare chance to cause this level of pain, or at least this specific kind of pain. I had to pounce on top of Zarina and rape her in the most lifeless missionary position a woman could be held in. I climaxed quickly and took a break to recover, sterilize my instruments, drink some water, and go playback the 3D footage of her reaction. This became a clip that never fails to make my horny, hard, and bloodthirsty even after decades of repeated viewings.


Despite the relatively long break, when Zarina came to, courtesy of my smelling salts, she resumed screaming as if she had never stopped. Her face must have still felt like it had been sentenced to hell. This wrung another load out of me into her now sloppy pussy. Eventually her screeching grew hoarse and she started babbling in North Azerbaijani, but even I could understand that she was panicking because something felt wrong with her jaw. At one point I could make out that she switched to English:

“WHAT DID YOU DO???!!!”

I put in hearing protection, fished Zarina’s panties out of her mouth, and removed her ring gag. The ultimate test of success was to record how long it took after being shocked elsewhere for her to bite down on one of the dildos the size of my organ that had a pressure sensor inside. A test is nothing without a control sample, so I had already collected plenty of data on the normal range of reaction time and force of her bite. The results were literally jaw-dropping and enough to put me somewhat at ease. Despite that, I would repeat the electrocution of her trigeminal nerves in the coming weeks, just to be sure. During each operation I was pleasantly surprised to find her pain receptors were not so deadened that the shocks were noticeably less agonizing. Nerves typically never fully repair on their own, but they do re-grow back at about an inch per month. Consequently, the time it took, and force with which my slave girls bit down under horrible pain would become scheduled metrics to determine how much their trigeminal nerves had repaired themselves. Once a slave girl displayed an upward trend in her bite time or force, her next serious infraction would be addressed with another round of trigeminal nerve electrosurgery.



Chapter 12: Routine care, day and night


After those first 60 hours of non-stop torture, Zarina was delirious from both the pain and lack of sleep. She was throwing up constantly despite her stomach having long since been emptied, even when I had not shoved anything down her throat to trigger her gag reflex. In the moment I hardly cared about her mental state, but I needed to start mixing in predicament bondage and stress positions to give myself, and thus her, some time to comparatively recuperate. Thus, her clit and pussy lips rode the sharp edge of a wooden horse throughout the third night. Then it was my electrified copper pony version with the lubricated edge the next night. Both nights I tied her arms in strappado to pull up her shoulder sockets and force her to take some weight off her broken tiptoes. My usual cock molded dildo was shoved through her ring gag, not only provided the rehydration she needed to survive my next day’s games, but also kept her screams down to a pleasant background lullaby.


During the day I would shove Zarina’s face into dog bowls of pet food and water and, with painful encouragement, she learned that she was to wolf down the whole bowl as fast as she could. I silently timed her meals, and after the electrocution of her trigeminal nerves I had to multiply her allotted time despite whipping and shocking her to hurry up. I am not particularly into humiliation, but for those that are they might enjoy the image of me raping Zarina’s ass with her face buried in pet food and a cane ripping into her back. During this first training phase the game was that she had to lick her dog bowl clean before I came to avoid additional punishment.


I alternated between keeping ice baths and vats of near boiling water at the ready when she had to be cleaned off. Zarina’s stomach bulged to a disgusting extent as I pushed the volume of her digestive tract with enemas into the open air sewer outside in the courtyard, both to clean her out for anal rape and to trial different irritants to sting and/or burn her insides. Yet another early lesson about my standards for her body was demonstrated by pulling out all her hair from the neck down with a tweezer. But this was a big step down in terms of pain level for Zarina, and merely a mildly pleasant diversion for me to kill time during my umpteenth refractory period.


Zarina’s fifth night was spent in a wall sit with her ankles chained to the floor and jumper cables pulling tightly on her nipples, triggering a shock if she so much as moved or hit muscle failure. The 3D camera footage showed of course that she inevitably did, though I was impressed that she stayed upright for 40 minutes in the first round. The sixth night’s stress position found Zarina hogtied in the air with all her weight resting on her breasts, which were ground into piles of tiny obsidian flakes, salt, and stinging nettles. Broken glass is one of the sharpest substances on the planet, and it takes an electron micrograph to reveal how obsidian glass even sharper than a modern steel scalpel. My goal for the obsidian flakes was to avoid cutting her too deeply, but whether the incisions reached ‘a thousand cuts’ was dependent on her self-control to not move a muscle and shift her weight or induce a swing in the rope. Somehow this predicament was not callous enough for me, as I wrapped her breasts tightly with barbed wire cut off circulation to the point that her purple flesh looked like it was going to burst overnight.


Zarina was so catatonic that she constantly kept dozing off throughout all these nights of relative purgatory, only to be awoken a few moments later by the pangs. I had read somewhere that cumulative sleep duration is what ultimately counts, as awful as it is have your sleep interrupted. For example, volunteers who take 7 x 1-hour naps in a day do about as well as those get 7 straight hours of sleep. So yes there were times I passed out for over ten hours and Zarina was left alone, but her predicament torture kept her from drifting off for more than a few moments at a time. I know how tired I was at the end of these days, so I could not even imagine how many times worse it was for Zarina. The only reason I woke up when I did was the sudden fear that that there was an accident in the middle of the night and Zarina was permanently damaged. Ok, that and my immediate urge to rape and hurt her some more.


My arm strength and endurance had been well above average since before my military days, but like any novice I needed repeated practice to improve my technique and become more efficient in my movements. In this case I am speaking of my whipping and caning technique. Bondage ties always take a while to do correctly, especially when you are a beginner. But I quickly was figuring out shortcuts or more effective methods of restraining her in the positions I wanted. Chains with locking carabiners were the most convenient way to get her wrists and ankle cuffs into what ever position, and could be supplemented by other wires, cords, and ropes that I assessed and became comfortable with.

 

[ay42]

The rest of the 41 chapters that have been completed are available at The Fet Library: Competition Breeds Excellence in Captivity

 

[ay42]

Chapter 42 added over at The Fet Library

 

[lilbastard101]

Wow!! What a good read. I know this thread is 6 monts old, but is there any chance we will see the rest?

 

[ay42]

Wow!! What a good read. I know this thread is 6 monts old, but is there any chance we will see the rest?

Yes. I have another chapter that is nearly complete and drafts of many future chapters, including the ending.

 

[ay42]

Took 9 months, but I've finally released Chapter 43 of Competition Breeds Excellence in Captivity. Next chapter—which has portions drafted—should wrap up Part I: Zarina, and transition to introducing another slave girl, Anastasia. https://thefetlibrary.com/story/vsStLWcz/competition-breeds-excellence-in-captivity