Parrot Perch/pau D'arara

[Silent_Water]

During the last week, I used Google search just for curiosity by inserting "pau de arara" and the dictatorship in Brazil seemed to have been more obsessed by this than I thought because there was this picture which was - according to the text in Brazilian Portuguese - shot at a real Brazilian military parade around 1970 !
Did you ever see a real military parade in which the military was proud of showing at least one of its torture methods in open public?
They seemed to have been much "sicker" and more obsessed by their "pau de arara" than I ever thought:



During the current government of this strange president Bolsonaro, the demonstrations against him and his look on the "glorious history" of the military dictatorship in Brazil have increased and they are looking sometimes like in these pictures from the famous "Copacabana beach" in December 2019:



But I think, everything was much more terrible as we in our democracies in the Northern hemisphere of the world of today can imagine, no matter if it is in movies or in my own fantasy collage pictures:

 

[phlebas]

That protest pic is pretty interesting

hope there are not too many repeats here

 

[Loxuru]

hope there are not too many repeats here

If she refuses to cooperate, we have to repeat the treatment!

The #6 to #8 : western tourist in Japan has insulted the emperor?

 

[Lucia]

I tried to do this again, in February BC (before corona). I really wanted it, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even succeed in the opening position. Sitting on the ground, my arms wrapped around my folded legs, there was too much pressure on my stomach and I wanted to vomit. I had to stop even before I got lifted up. I am an old girl. My mind is young, but not my body. It does not support strict bondage games anymore.

It is a true story - don't worry if you don't believe it: than it's a story.

It did happen more, performance art around torture in Chili, maybe because of the many refugees. Our story was more spectacular because I was a very fit and trained young "bondage bunny", my partner an experienced and trusted sadist.

Pau de Arara Part 1

To make a long history short, I arrive in London as a young student, for the first time in my life away from mummy and daddy. I am young, curious, single, greener than grass. I have two scholarships, one covering the fees of tuition and one covering the costs of life. What seemed to be a quite generous amount of money, is in London just enough not to starve. I want to enjoy all that London of the early 1970s can offer. I love theatre, music, clubs, dancing. But I can’t afford the entrance fees. I need money. In a very big book store (I think it was Foyles), I see a stairs down the cellar with a board “adults only”. I go down and I can’t believe my eyes. Half the cellar is devoted to BDSM and spanking porn. They never taught that at my nun school. Sexual education stopped at the sex life of rabbits (this is not a joke). It is one of the happiest moments of my life. I am not alone in the world with these strange desires: weird, mad, deranged. I see lots of ads asking for “spanking models” or “bondage models”. No experience needed, it is enough to be young, female and robust. The idea haunts me – wouldn’t this be better than a poorly paid job as waitress? My education is very straight laced – it takes days before I decide to give it a try. I can always ask for information, can’t I? I guess it is the Londen Evening Standard I see an ad – then abundant. The address is close to where I live. I phone, and fall in the clutches of Parvati, an older Pakistani lady, soon to be my whore madam and sex mother. My mom knew I was weird, I had strange feelings, but we never talked about sex. It was my sis who talked to me about menstruations, when she noted my breasts started budding. I soon told Parvati everything I hadn’t told anyone else. She exploited me, cared for me, protected me and made sure clients respected my hard limits. You didn’t want to have a discussion with her gorilla’s. I became that popular thing: a submissive bdsm escort. An expensive polyglot whore, catering for the special tastes of clients loaded with money. Most of us were foreign university students with a masochistic trait. We wanted the money, but if you did it for the money, you choose for dominancy. I had no dominant bone in my body. For me, it was not only a job. It was a profound desire I was born with.

Pinochet had thrown over Allende and had started his spree of killing and torturing left students. They fled to Europe, I was befriended with one of them in my home country. He was tortured, got free and didn’t risk a second experience: he fled to Europe. I was extremely curious, but it was not his favourite subject. He never explained the details. But I read all I could read about the torture methods applied by the Pinochet police, which got me wet, horny and deeply ashamed that it got me wet and horny. I never accepted and will never accept that part of me.

In London, I sympathise with left wing students. They were looking for a volunteer in “performance theatre”. The volunteer would be tortured “the Chilean way” for a paying public, to demonstrate the horrors of torture. The gains were for a Chilean refugee organisation. I was interested to volunteer, but “I knew the ropes”. I wanted to be tortured for real, but by an experienced BDSM torturer and rigger. He would try to “make me talk” by the traditional Chilean methods, anyway he could, but keeping me safe and healthy. I asked Parvati to bring me in contact with an experienced sadist.

That’s how I met Alfred. We talked a few times on the simple scenario. He would ask me the name of my Chilean friend. I would refuse to give them his name. If I gave up the name “Jorge Andreas”, the torture would stop: it was the safe word. I repeated it ten times to him, the day itself he had written it in his hand so that I could read. Alfred also wanted a replacement, as he was sure I would break soon. I answered him that this was a short walk in the park, compared to what women lived through in Pinochet’s dungeons. Alfred was allowed to use all Chilean police means, as long as after less than two weeks I would be right as rain again. To protect my anonymity, I would wear a blindfold covering half my face, black hair paint and waterproof “tan without sun” crème to look dark Chilean. I hiked up my swimming training, swimming five times a week four km, to train strength and endurance. I swam a lot, and was proud of my strong wrestlers shoulders.

Arriving on the scene, I don’t need acting. I am crazy with fear. Thinking about torture is fun, expecting to get tortured is not. I am blindfolded and only hear the public. They are three, Alfred and two helpers. They take up my arms, Alfred pulls my T-shirt over my head, unclasps my bra and let it follow. Then, he binds my wrists together with maybe twenty rounds of cotton rope. I can grasp my hands in a praying hold. They pull my jeans down with my underpants, leaving me stark naked except for my blindfold. They insult me, mutter obscenities. Alfred asks the name of my friend. He doesn’t want to hurt me, he only wants to hear the name of my friend. I answer something like “go and fuck your mother, fascist pig.” One gives me a kick in the back of both my knees. I go down, but at the same time they pull me back so that I fall on my buttocks. I note that they keep me from falling hard. I sit on the floor, they bend my legs and push me forward. They force a metal bar under my knees and over my arms. I note the bar is padded. Then I hear a crank turning and a ratchet clicking. Slowly, I get pulled higher and higher. To avoid tipping backwards and diminishing the strain in my wrists, I grasp my hands firmly and pull myself in a ball against the bar. I am hanging by my knees. I'd thought about this position in detail, but being in it is absolutely frightening. I am completely immobile, helpless. The only thing I can do is to pull my body more or less in a ball, letting my head hanging more or less. I am a trained “bondage bunny”, it hurts, but my trained body can easily take it. Alfred gives the pole a swing, I am swinging and turning around. The pole hangs to a single cable. My private parts are very public now, accessible for all.

Alfred addresses the audience. “Lucy hangs now in the “pau de arara”, the parrots perch. It is one of the many delights brought to America by the Europeans, and used to torture slaves. Off course, you have to have some patience. Soon she will get tired, her body will pull on the joints of her wrists, shoulders and knees. It will be difficult to have her head up, she will start hanging more and more down, blood flowing to her head.”

" It is useless, we will torture you till you give the name of your accomplice." Says my torturer. I grunt with the tension in my body. “You won’t last long. Nobody does. Do yourself a favour, and don’t suffer needlessly. You will tell””

They leave me hanging there for a while to think about and experience my position. The rod turned around, giving everybody the best view of my exposed genitals. I am bent over, chest against thighs, legs bent, all folded in a ball on myself. My knees, of course, are bad. My calves hurt, and my wrists, and my back. Keeping my head in the ball is tiring, having it hanging down is disorienting and painful from the blood rushing to it. So I cramp in a ball and then relax, my head hangs down and then I lift it again. But I am well prepared. I hope they have many swimming pools in Chile.

Then the interrogation begins for good. He asks me the name of my friend. Then he whacks my bottom hard with something. I don’t know what it is, but I scream as hard as I can scream. On the stretched skin of my backside, it hurt worse than a cane. The thing curls around my buttocks, then is drawn over my skin in a burning line of fire. He asks again the name of my friend. I don’t answer. He hits me again. And again. And again. I have to fight to keep my position, but at the same time that hose is hurting my bottom like something had rarely hurt before, Alfred informs me and the public what it is he is hitting me with. “This is a gift of the CIA to her South American brothers. It is a simple rubber hose, fixed to a handle. It does not cut the skin or break bones, a healthy girl as Lucy will soon have no marks to show to any commission of inquiry.” Such a rubber hose is shorter but heavier than a cane. It bites deep, curls around your behind tugging on your skin, causing your entire behind to sting like mad. It hurts like you can't imagine. I scream but I want to scream harder, to do justice at the intense pain I feel. I scream and I scream. I will be hoarse for days. My tears begin falling out of the corner of my eyes. I scream and beg. I say that I don’t know what they were asking. He hit me again. I howl that I don’t know him. They start hitting me from both sites. They hit me on my buttocks, my thighs, the soles of my feet. The hose is burning my skin like lines of hot cooking oil spread over my naked skin. They hit hard, as hard as they can to avoid deep bruising. I hear the public sighing, grunting and commenting, from “don’t be too hard on her, the kid is really suffering” to “come on, swing that hose. Make her tell.”. I just hang there, exposed and vulnerable. Helpless. Completely helpless, theirs to flog me as long and as hard as they want. The repeated whacks of the severe corporal punishment in that cramped position, hanging in a ball on my knees, starts to really get me. "Give us the name of your friend."

I have to make a decision. "Go fuck yourself," I am the tortured rebel, the revolutionary student. I will never, never betray my friend. I will endure. They will have to stop once. As a result of my bravado, I feel a new, searing, unbelievable pain in my crotch. He has hit my between my legs, lashing over my pussy and anus. I can take a lot, but not there. I can only suffer intolerable pain. As he hits me again there, the public starts to moan, and Alfred refrains. He is not a true torturer, only an experienced sadist who knows when to stop. But my buttocks and thighs are on fire, the pain in my feet burns even worse. I will be black and blue and walk to university on painful feet. But on Monday, I will walk, painfully but easily.

They let me swing again, now hard, like a kid on a swing. I can't do anything about it. It hurt, pushing the bar into my knees and arms. The discomfort and pain from hanging on the parrot perch gets worse and worse. I focus on my body, the ropes, the bar to which I am tied and use my exercises from zen meditation. Maybe it is my masochism, but I can put the pain aside, observe it, feel it, but not let me overwhelm by it. It is only pain.

 

[Lucia]

I tried to do this again, in February BC (before corona). I really wanted it, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even succeed in the opening position. Sitting on the ground, my arms wrapped around my folded legs, there was too much pressure on my stomach and I wanted to vomit. I had to stop even before I got lifted up. I am an old girl. My mind is young, but not my body. It does not support strict bondage games anymore.

It is a true story - don't worry if you don't believe it: than it's a story.

It did happen more, performance art around torture in Chili, maybe because of the many refugees. Our story was more spectacular because I was a very fit and trained young "bondage bunny", my partner an experienced and trusted sadist.

Pau de Arara Part 1

To make a long history short, I arrive in London as a young student, for the first time in my life away from mummy and daddy. I am young, curious, single, greener than grass. I have two scholarships, one covering the fees of tuition and one covering the costs of life. What seemed to be a quite generous amount of money, is in London just enough not to starve. I want to enjoy all that London of the early 1970s can offer. I love theatre, music, clubs, dancing. But I can’t afford the entrance fees. I need money. In a very big book store (I think it was Foyles), I see a stairs down the cellar with a board “adults only”. I go down and I can’t believe my eyes. Half the cellar is devoted to BDSM and spanking porn. They never taught that at my nun school. Sexual education stopped at the sex life of rabbits (this is not a joke). It is one of the happiest moments of my life. I am not alone in the world with these strange desires: weird, mad, deranged. I see lots of ads asking for “spanking models” or “bondage models”. No experience needed, it is enough to be young, female and robust. The idea haunts me – wouldn’t this be better than a poorly paid job as waitress? My education is very straight laced – it takes days before I decide to give it a try. I can always ask for information, can’t I? I guess it is the Londen Evening Standard I see an ad – then abundant. The address is close to where I live. I phone, and fall in the clutches of Parvati, an older Pakistani lady, soon to be my whore madam and sex mother. My mom knew I was weird, I had strange feelings, but we never talked about sex. It was my sis who talked to me about menstruations, when she noted my breasts started budding. I soon told Parvati everything I hadn’t told anyone else. She exploited me, cared for me, protected me and made sure clients respected my hard limits. You didn’t want to have a discussion with her gorilla’s. I became that popular thing: a submissive bdsm escort. An expensive polyglot whore, catering for the special tastes of clients loaded with money. Most of us were foreign university students with a masochistic trait. We wanted the money, but if you did it for the money, you choose for dominancy. I had no dominant bone in my body. For me, it was not only a job. It was a profound desire I was born with.

Pinochet had thrown over Allende and had started his spree of killing and torturing left students. They fled to Europe, I was befriended with one of them in my home country. He was tortured, got free and didn’t risk a second experience: he fled to Europe. I was extremely curious, but it was not his favourite subject. He never explained the details. But I read all I could read about the torture methods applied by the Pinochet police, which got me wet, horny and deeply ashamed that it got me wet and horny. I never accepted and will never accept that part of me.

In London, I sympathise with left wing students. They were looking for a volunteer in “performance theatre”. The volunteer would be tortured “the Chilean way” for a paying public, to demonstrate the horrors of torture. The gains were for a Chilean refugee organisation. I was interested to volunteer, but “I knew the ropes”. I wanted to be tortured for real, but by an experienced BDSM torturer and rigger. He would try to “make me talk” by the traditional Chilean methods, anyway he could, but keeping me safe and healthy. I asked Parvati to bring me in contact with an experienced sadist.

That’s how I met Alfred. We talked a few times on the simple scenario. He would ask me the name of my Chilean friend. I would refuse to give them his name. If I gave up the name “Jorge Andreas”, the torture would stop: it was the safe word. I repeated it ten times to him, the day itself he had written it in his hand so that I could read. Alfred also wanted a replacement, as he was sure I would break soon. I answered him that this was a short walk in the park, compared to what women lived through in Pinochet’s dungeons. Alfred was allowed to use all Chilean police means, as long as after less than two weeks I would be right as rain again. To protect my anonymity, I would wear a blindfold covering half my face, black hair paint and waterproof “tan without sun” crème to look dark Chilean. I hiked up my swimming training, swimming five times a week four km, to train strength and endurance. I swam a lot, and was proud of my strong wrestlers shoulders.

Arriving on the scene, I don’t need acting. I am crazy with fear. Thinking about torture is fun, expecting to get tortured is not. I am blindfolded and only hear the public. They are three, Alfred and two helpers. They take up my arms, Alfred pulls my T-shirt over my head, unclasps my bra and let it follow. Then, he binds my wrists together with maybe twenty rounds of cotton rope. I can grasp my hands in a praying hold. They pull my jeans down with my underpants, leaving me stark naked except for my blindfold. They insult me, mutter obscenities. Alfred asks the name of my friend. He doesn’t want to hurt me, he only wants to hear the name of my friend. I answer something like “go and fuck your mother, fascist pig.” One gives me a kick in the back of both my knees. I go down, but at the same time they pull me back so that I fall on my buttocks. I note that they keep me from falling hard. I sit on the floor, they bend my legs and push me forward. They force a metal bar under my knees and over my arms. I note the bar is padded. Then I hear a crank turning and a ratchet clicking. Slowly, I get pulled higher and higher. To avoid tipping backwards and diminishing the strain in my wrists, I grasp my hands firmly and pull myself in a ball against the bar. I am hanging by my knees. I'd thought about this position in detail, but being in it is absolutely frightening. I am completely immobile, helpless. The only thing I can do is to pull my body more or less in a ball, letting my head hanging more or less. I am a trained “bondage bunny”, it hurts, but my trained body can easily take it. Alfred gives the pole a swing, I am swinging and turning around. The pole hangs to a single cable. My private parts are very public now, accessible for all.

Alfred addresses the audience. “Lucy hangs now in the “pau de arara”, the parrots perch. It is one of the many delights brought to America by the Europeans, and used to torture slaves. Off course, you have to have some patience. Soon she will get tired, her body will pull on the joints of her wrists, shoulders and knees. It will be difficult to have her head up, she will start hanging more and more down, blood flowing to her head.”

" It is useless, we will torture you till you give the name of your accomplice." Says my torturer. I grunt with the tension in my body. “You won’t last long. Nobody does. Do yourself a favour, and don’t suffer needlessly. You will tell””

They leave me hanging there for a while to think about and experience my position. The rod turned around, giving everybody the best view of my exposed genitals. I am bent over, chest against thighs, legs bent, all folded in a ball on myself. My knees, of course, are bad. My calves hurt, and my wrists, and my back. Keeping my head in the ball is tiring, having it hanging down is disorienting and painful from the blood rushing to it. So I cramp in a ball and then relax, my head hangs down and then I lift it again. But I am well prepared. I hope they have many swimming pools in Chile.

Then the interrogation begins for good. He asks me the name of my friend. Then he whacks my bottom hard with something. I don’t know what it is, but I scream as hard as I can scream. On the stretched skin of my backside, it hurt worse than a cane. The thing curls around my buttocks, then is drawn over my skin in a burning line of fire. He asks again the name of my friend. I don’t answer. He hits me again. And again. And again. I have to fight to keep my position, but at the same time that hose is hurting my bottom like something had rarely hurt before, Alfred informs me and the public what it is he is hitting me with. “This is a gift of the CIA to her South American brothers. It is a simple rubber hose, fixed to a handle. It does not cut the skin or break bones, a healthy girl as Lucy will soon have no marks to show to any commission of inquiry.” Such a rubber hose is shorter but heavier than a cane. It bites deep, curls around your behind tugging on your skin, causing your entire behind to sting like mad. It hurts like you can't imagine. I scream but I want to scream harder, to do justice at the intense pain I feel. I scream and I scream. I will be hoarse for days. My tears begin falling out of the corner of my eyes. I scream and beg. I say that I don’t know what they were asking. He hit me again. I howl that I don’t know him. They start hitting me from both sites. They hit me on my buttocks, my thighs, the soles of my feet. The hose is burning my skin like lines of hot cooking oil spread over my naked skin. They hit hard, as hard as they can to avoid deep bruising. I hear the public sighing, grunting and commenting, from “don’t be too hard on her, the kid is really suffering” to “come on, swing that hose. Make her tell.”. I just hang there, exposed and vulnerable. Helpless. Completely helpless, theirs to flog me as long and as hard as they want. The repeated whacks of the severe corporal punishment in that cramped position, hanging in a ball on my knees, starts to really get me. "Give us the name of your friend."

I have to make a decision. "Go fuck yourself," I am the tortured rebel, the revolutionary student. I will never, never betray my friend. I will endure. They will have to stop once. As a result of my bravado, I feel a new, searing, unbelievable pain in my crotch. He has hit my between my legs, lashing over my pussy and anus. I can take a lot, but not there. I can only suffer intolerable pain. As he hits me again there, the public starts to moan, and Alfred refrains. He is not a true torturer, only an experienced sadist who knows when to stop. But my buttocks and thighs are on fire, the pain in my feet burns even worse. I will be black and blue and walk to university on painful feet. But on Monday, I will walk, painfully but easily.

They let me swing again, now hard, like a kid on a swing. I can't do anything about it. It hurt, pushing the bar into my knees and arms. The discomfort and pain from hanging on the parrot perch gets worse and worse. I focus on my body, the ropes, the bar to which I am tied and use my exercises from zen meditation. Maybe it is my masochism, but I can put the pain aside, observe it, feel it, but not let me overwhelm by it. It is only pain.

 

[Lucia]

He explains again to the public: this beautiful technique is again a gift from the CIA, while it harks back to medieval water tortures. It is called waterboarding, and causes an experience of drowning. In Chili, nearly all torture victims have been subjected to various types of this torture. Then he says friendly to me: I can promise you that this will be the most frightening experience of your live. I want that name. I nod “no” with my head. With his big claws, he grabs a hand and closes it. Then he let loose and sees if I can open my hand. He tests both my hands, left and right, to be sure that I can open them at will. We cheat a little bit. Under waterboarding torture, I can’t express verbally my safe word. I will open my hand or hands. He will stop, and I can then either use my safe word, or I will be subjected again to a new session of waterboarding. As long as needed.

He or a helper wraps a towel around my head, covering my face. Breathing is suddenly more difficult, I try to move my head, but it is easy for him to keep it stuck between his hands, under the towel. Then he throws a splash of water over the cloth. I am a long distance swimmer and diver, I can hold my breath for minutes, I am better prepared for this than any girl from Chili. But I have to breath, and by breathing through the cloth, water comes in. I can't take a breath without water coming with it. I analyse what’s happening. My lungs work overtime to take oxygen in and carbon dioxide out. With the rising carbon dixode and the falling oxygen, I can’t keep the panic out. Tied on the parrot perch and with my head in their grip, I am totally helpless. My whole body now twists and jerks to escape the water, I open my hands.

He removes the cloth, I breath and cough, yelping and crying because I can’t get all the water out my lungs. His hand goes to my neck to measure my heart rate. “What is the name of your friend?” I nod no. “It is useless to play the hero. You did your thing. What is the name of your friend.” I croak that I don’t know what he is talking about. He closes my hands, and pulls the cloth again over my face. They throw water over it again, I fight but can’t move my head. They keep splashing water on the towel. I start to gasp, to kick as far as you can kick in that position. I'm afraid for my precious brain, lacking oxygen. It is truly impossible to keep the panic out. I open my hands. The cloth is removed. I gasp, breath, cough a body wracking cough on the parrot perch. “Well, tell me the name of your friend.” I can’t keep the ball position, my legs are up, the bar is in my calves, my weight is on my tied wrists that hurt terribly, my shoulders are pulled from their sockets. I hear him laugh. "For us, it is easy." He feels my hear beat, closes my hands, puts the towel back over my face and starts pouring water again. It goes fast now, it does not take long before my whole body starts to spasm again, I feel like drowning. My hands open. Now, he starts increasing the pace. He uncovers my face, let me take a few gasping and coughing breaths, than closes my hands, replaces the cloth and starts again drowning me, my head in an iron grip. Several times, the one after the other, with just enough time to get some oxygen. Water. Drowning. Panic. Hands open. Gasp, gasp. His hands feeling my heart beat, closing hands. Water, drowning, panic. Hands open. Gasp, gasp. His hands feeling my heart beat, closing hands. I want to cry, but I have no time to cry: I must breath, cough and gasp, and then my hands are closed again and the cloth comes back. I never experienced something as frightening as this. Waterboarding is no torture: it is worse.

I passed away, a consequence more of too much carbon dioxide than too little oxygen. When I am back awake again, I am lying on my back on a table. Thank god. They untied my wrists, started tapping my hands and wrists and stretching and slapping my legs to let the blood flow again. He is tapping my face to get me awake again. It hurts but it is a good pain. The fire of the water hose in my bottom and thighs begin to fade. The pain in my joints and muscles is much less. My lungs breath easily. In his voice, I hear he is worried. Me passing out was not on his wish list. Waterboarding is a very dangerous BDSM game: don’t do it without first trying it with free hands, so you can remove the cloth yourself. But for the adrenalin junky, it is a high dose shot right in the vein. I stretch all muscles – pain is part of me, but pain I can handle. I am not drowning anymore – my mighty lungs are pumping air as always. I can, or better could, take in more than 7 liter of air in a single gasp. I decide to let him now that I am all right again. “I don’t know what you are talking about or why you are torturing me. I know no Chilean revolutionaries. I can give you names, but only invented ones.” He hears the challenge in my voice, I hear the relief in his. What I lived through was only the appetizer. They will keep torturing me till I tell them the name of my friend. He insists that I tell his name now. He doesn’t want to hurt me anymore. I am very courageous, but I will break. Just the name of my friend, and they stop. I will tell it anyway, better now than after more pain. He is friendly. But now, I am focused more than I ever was. This is no play anymore, it is real. I am a rebel girl. I am a revolutionary student. I am a soldier for the poor. I am a friend. I will not betray a friend. I survived waterboarding, I survive whatever they can throw at me. I will not betray my friend. I will not betray my friend. I will not betray my friend.

After a couple of minutes on my back, tapped and massaged to get the blood flowing, I am forced again into a ball, my wrists tied and lifted back up to hang. I'm attached again to the pole and hang upside down, my head beneath my knees. Back on the perch, my knees now feel like they soon will be pulled out of their sockets. Regardless of the many rope turns around my wrists to dissipate the tension, my hands feel as if they are going to fall off. Something is fastened to my toe. Then, unexpectedly, a bucket of water is thrown over me. It tastes salty.

"What is the name of your friend? Tell us, this will hurt more than you can imagine."

“I never—"

Pain runs along every nerve in my body as electricity sears through me, arching my back involuntarily, tightening the ropes even more. I hear someone howling like an animal. It is me. The pain is excruciating. A live wire of electricity touches my vulva. I lose all control of my body. I howl even harder as the hot urine covers the live wire and my whole cunt is burning as it never has burned.

" What is the name of your friend?"

"Please. God. I don't—" I scream again as another burst of electricity courses through me.

"Please," I beg. "Please. I don't know him."

Another wave of electricity, this time burning my anus. My whole body cramps in spasms. I hear the public sighing. For some, this is a bit too much reality. I thought this over before. Many women have hung to the parrot perch without betraying their friends. In contrast to me, they were tortured for long hours, one day after the other. They were raped daily, often more times a day. What I live is not real torture. My torturers are rough guys, true sadists, they want to hurt me, they want to break me, but they will avoid lasting harm. At all costs. And it won’t take hours anymore. This torture is a walk in the park, compared to the true thing.

But it hurts, god, it hurts. "Please. Stop. I don't—" They go over me with the live wire. They ask me his name, then, if I cry, shout and beg without telling it, they touch me with the wire. Vulva, anus, anus, vulva, right nipple (as professionals, they avoid the heart region), inner thighs, right nipple, anus, anus, breast, breast. When they touch the foot with the ground wire, it is as if they put him in boiling water. Blindolded, I can’t see it coming. With one hand, he opens my lips and slowly slides the wire over my inner vulva, circling my clit. I try to pass out, to stop the pain, to fall in oblivion. But they throw again a bucket of water over me. They talk to me. They are going to increase the current. I hang there, my torturer slips a finger in my vagina, wetter than wet. Why on earth do I get wet of only the idea of torture? I feel so ashamed that I get aroused by scenes of torture. One of the reasons I allow rough games, more painful than I can take, is because of that shame. I never accepted my true nature of sadomasochist. I must not be raped, that is my hard limit, other abuse is OK. He goes in and out with his finger, then starts to circle my clit. My body can’t but react. There is no doubt he is an expert. He asks me the name of my friend. He doesn’t want to hurt me anymore. I can enjoy the sensation of being excited while in the tight, very painful bondage of the parrot perch. I can’t but grunt and think about a few hundred spectators and a few thousand video buyers. Let them have their money’s worth, it is for a good cause. To be honest, I never have easy orgasms. I can’t come, with the pain, the stress position and the public. But my cunt seeking his finger is a great release for the public, who for a moment thought I was passing out again.

He touches my fingers, that are too cold and turns to the public.

“This was Lucy, a revolutionary student, demonstrating you what happens to her friends in Chile. She promised us not to break, whatever we did to her. In real life, this will go on for hours, and the next day again, and the next day again. Between the torture sessions she will stay naked in an ice cold cell, or in a small cell filled with a half meter of water. The only thing she wanted was not to be raped. In Pinochet dungeons, she would be raped every day, by several guards who wanted to hurt her there as much as possible. Lucy knows very well this was only a game, but she wanted to make you part of it.

If you go out, there are two buckets, one for the organization and one for Lucy. She didn’t want to be paid for this performance, but admit that she was very strong and very courageous. Very few could suffer what she suffered. We didn’t train, she didn’t know what was going to happen, everything you saw was real, nothing was faked. Even the passing out at the waterboarding was real – I nearly fainted, too, afraid that I had harmed such a beautiful and wonderful girl.”

I got 323 pound, Parvati got enough bookings for at least six months.

 

[Lucia]

He explains again to the public: this beautiful technique is again a gift from the CIA, while it harks back to medieval water tortures. It is called waterboarding, and causes an experience of drowning. In Chili, nearly all torture victims have been subjected to various types of this torture. Then he says friendly to me: I can promise you that this will be the most frightening experience of your live. I want that name. I nod “no” with my head. With his big claws, he grabs a hand and closes it. Then he let loose and sees if I can open my hand. He tests both my hands, left and right, to be sure that I can open them at will. We cheat a little bit. Under waterboarding torture, I can’t express verbally my safe word. I will open my hand or hands. He will stop, and I can then either use my safe word, or I will be subjected again to a new session of waterboarding. As long as needed.

He or a helper wraps a towel around my head, covering my face. Breathing is suddenly more difficult, I try to move my head, but it is easy for him to keep it stuck between his hands, under the towel. Then he throws a splash of water over the cloth. I am a long distance swimmer and diver, I can hold my breath for minutes, I am better prepared for this than any girl from Chili. But I have to breath, and by breathing through the cloth, water comes in. I can't take a breath without water coming with it. I analyse what’s happening. My lungs work overtime to take oxygen in and carbon dioxide out. With the rising carbon dixode and the falling oxygen, I can’t keep the panic out. Tied on the parrot perch and with my head in their grip, I am totally helpless. My whole body now twists and jerks to escape the water, I open my hands.

He removes the cloth, I breath and cough, yelping and crying because I can’t get all the water out my lungs. His hand goes to my neck to measure my heart rate. “What is the name of your friend?” I nod no. “It is useless to play the hero. You did your thing. What is the name of your friend.” I croak that I don’t know what he is talking about. He closes my hands, and pulls the cloth again over my face. They throw water over it again, I fight but can’t move my head. They keep splashing water on the towel. I start to gasp, to kick as far as you can kick in that position. I'm afraid for my precious brain, lacking oxygen. It is truly impossible to keep the panic out. I open my hands. The cloth is removed. I gasp, breath, cough a body wracking cough on the parrot perch. “Well, tell me the name of your friend.” I can’t keep the ball position, my legs are up, the bar is in my calves, my weight is on my tied wrists that hurt terribly, my shoulders are pulled from their sockets. I hear him laugh. "For us, it is easy." He feels my hear beat, closes my hands, puts the towel back over my face and starts pouring water again. It goes fast now, it does not take long before my whole body starts to spasm again, I feel like drowning. My hands open. Now, he starts increasing the pace. He uncovers my face, let me take a few gasping and coughing breaths, than closes my hands, replaces the cloth and starts again drowning me, my head in an iron grip. Several times, the one after the other, with just enough time to get some oxygen. Water. Drowning. Panic. Hands open. Gasp, gasp. His hands feeling my heart beat, closing hands. Water, drowning, panic. Hands open. Gasp, gasp. His hands feeling my heart beat, closing hands. I want to cry, but I have no time to cry: I must breath, cough and gasp, and then my hands are closed again and the cloth comes back. I never experienced something as frightening as this. Waterboarding is no torture: it is worse.

I passed away, a consequence more of too much carbon dioxide than too little oxygen. When I am back awake again, I am lying on my back on a table. Thank god. They untied my wrists, started tapping my hands and wrists and stretching and slapping my legs to let the blood flow again. He is tapping my face to get me awake again. It hurts but it is a good pain. The fire of the water hose in my bottom and thighs begin to fade. The pain in my joints and muscles is much less. My lungs breath easily. In his voice, I hear he is worried. Me passing out was not on his wish list. Waterboarding is a very dangerous BDSM game: don’t do it without first trying it with free hands, so you can remove the cloth yourself. But for the adrenalin junky, it is a high dose shot right in the vein. I stretch all muscles – pain is part of me, but pain I can handle. I am not drowning anymore – my mighty lungs are pumping air as always. I can, or better could, take in more than 7 liter of air in a single gasp. I decide to let him now that I am all right again. “I don’t know what you are talking about or why you are torturing me. I know no Chilean revolutionaries. I can give you names, but only invented ones.” He hears the challenge in my voice, I hear the relief in his. What I lived through was only the appetizer. They will keep torturing me till I tell them the name of my friend. He insists that I tell his name now. He doesn’t want to hurt me anymore. I am very courageous, but I will break. Just the name of my friend, and they stop. I will tell it anyway, better now than after more pain. He is friendly. But now, I am focused more than I ever was. This is no play anymore, it is real. I am a rebel girl. I am a revolutionary student. I am a soldier for the poor. I am a friend. I will not betray a friend. I survived waterboarding, I survive whatever they can throw at me. I will not betray my friend. I will not betray my friend. I will not betray my friend.

After a couple of minutes on my back, tapped and massaged to get the blood flowing, I am forced again into a ball, my wrists tied and lifted back up to hang. I'm attached again to the pole and hang upside down, my head beneath my knees. Back on the perch, my knees now feel like they soon will be pulled out of their sockets. Regardless of the many rope turns around my wrists to dissipate the tension, my hands feel as if they are going to fall off. Something is fastened to my toe. Then, unexpectedly, a bucket of water is thrown over me. It tastes salty.

"What is the name of your friend? Tell us, this will hurt more than you can imagine."

“I never—"

Pain runs along every nerve in my body as electricity sears through me, arching my back involuntarily, tightening the ropes even more. I hear someone howling like an animal. It is me. The pain is excruciating. A live wire of electricity touches my vulva. I lose all control of my body. I howl even harder as the hot urine covers the live wire and my whole cunt is burning as it never has burned.

" What is the name of your friend?"

"Please. God. I don't—" I scream again as another burst of electricity courses through me.

"Please," I beg. "Please. I don't know him."

Another wave of electricity, this time burning my anus. My whole body cramps in spasms. I hear the public sighing. For some, this is a bit too much reality. I thought this over before. Many women have hung to the parrot perch without betraying their friends. In contrast to me, they were tortured for long hours, one day after the other. They were raped daily, often more times a day. What I live is not real torture. My torturers are rough guys, true sadists, they want to hurt me, they want to break me, but they will avoid lasting harm. At all costs. And it won’t take hours anymore. This torture is a walk in the park, compared to the true thing.

But it hurts, god, it hurts. "Please. Stop. I don't—" They go over me with the live wire. They ask me his name, then, if I cry, shout and beg without telling it, they touch me with the wire. Vulva, anus, anus, vulva, right nipple (as professionals, they avoid the heart region), inner thighs, right nipple, anus, anus, breast, breast. When they touch the foot with the ground wire, it is as if they put him in boiling water. Blindolded, I can’t see it coming. With one hand, he opens my lips and slowly slides the wire over my inner vulva, circling my clit. I try to pass out, to stop the pain, to fall in oblivion. But they throw again a bucket of water over me. They talk to me. They are going to increase the current. I hang there, my torturer slips a finger in my vagina, wetter than wet. Why on earth do I get wet of only the idea of torture? I feel so ashamed that I get aroused by scenes of torture. One of the reasons I allow rough games, more painful than I can take, is because of that shame. I never accepted my true nature of sadomasochist. I must not be raped, that is my hard limit, other abuse is OK. He goes in and out with his finger, then starts to circle my clit. My body can’t but react. There is no doubt he is an expert. He asks me the name of my friend. He doesn’t want to hurt me anymore. I can enjoy the sensation of being excited while in the tight, very painful bondage of the parrot perch. I can’t but grunt and think about a few hundred spectators and a few thousand video buyers. Let them have their money’s worth, it is for a good cause. To be honest, I never have easy orgasms. I can’t come, with the pain, the stress position and the public. But my cunt seeking his finger is a great release for the public, who for a moment thought I was passing out again.

He touches my fingers, that are too cold and turns to the public.

“This was Lucy, a revolutionary student, demonstrating you what happens to her friends in Chile. She promised us not to break, whatever we did to her. In real life, this will go on for hours, and the next day again, and the next day again. Between the torture sessions she will stay naked in an ice cold cell, or in a small cell filled with a half meter of water. The only thing she wanted was not to be raped. In Pinochet dungeons, she would be raped every day, by several guards who wanted to hurt her there as much as possible. Lucy knows very well this was only a game, but she wanted to make you part of it.

If you go out, there are two buckets, one for the organization and one for Lucy. She didn’t want to be paid for this performance, but admit that she was very strong and very courageous. Very few could suffer what she suffered. We didn’t train, she didn’t know what was going to happen, everything you saw was real, nothing was faked. Even the passing out at the waterboarding was real – I nearly fainted, too, afraid that I had harmed such a beautiful and wonderful girl.”

I got 323 pound, Parvati got enough bookings for at least six months.

 

[Lucia]

I wrote a story somewhile ago. I posted it by the stories (it is too long to be in one part).
It is a true story, but you don't have to believe that: than, it is a story

 

[Loxuru]

Intriguing story, Lucia! Reality and fantasy of a reenactment, as part of a political statement!

 

[Jon Smithie]

Thanks for sharing! The story is well written and the fact that you actually went through this is very impressive!

 

[cynthia the inocent]

I must admit, I too became wet. Electricity on the vagina is such an exciting concept. I don't think I could survive it at my age but the mear thought makes me so horny . excellent story.

 

[Silent_Water]

I am almost afraid, in our times some very strange behaviours could become fashionable for unusual reasons, especially after minute 3:27 in this video, in which you can see something like this and even more:

Suspended ginger chick Alice gets her pussy toyed in the dark BDSM room - AnySex.com Video

BDSM sex video: Check out HD quality BDSM video featuring one petite chick Alice. She is tied up and suspended. One kinky man examines her cunt and makes it dripping and multiple orgasm.

anysex.com

 

[Eulalia]

zjfsm has posted this on the Chinese tortures thread



and after a few hours rest, they'll come for me to take me down for more ...

 

[Silent_Water]

I found a very similar picture to one of the two pictures before in my archives . I would like to know which one is rather the original and who was the artist?

 

[Eulalia]

I found a very similar picture to one of the two pictures before in my archives . I would like to know which one is rather the original and who was the artist?

View attachment 944177

It's more likely the red and black terminals have been added than taken away.

 

[John Delves Richardson]

I found a very similar picture to one of the two pictures before in my archives . I would like to know which one is rather the original and who was the artist?

View attachment 944177

The artist is Artur, you can find his work on his PIXIV account

 

[erbod]

Que diriez-vous d'un mélange de perroquet et de trempage dans l'eau?

View attachment 523970

un mélange d'eau et d'urine et d'excrements !

 

[erbod]

I tried to do this again, in February BC (before corona). I really wanted it, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even succeed in the opening position. Sitting on the ground, my arms wrapped around my folded legs, there was too much pressure on my stomach and I wanted to vomit. I had to stop even before I got lifted up. I am an old girl. My mind is young, but not my body. It does not support strict bondage games anymore.

It is a true story - don't worry if you don't believe it: than it's a story.

It did happen more, performance art around torture in Chili, maybe because of the many refugees. Our story was more spectacular because I was a very fit and trained young "bondage bunny", my partner an experienced and trusted sadist.

Pau de Arara Part 1

To make a long history short, I arrive in London as a young student, for the first time in my life away from mummy and daddy. I am young, curious, single, greener than grass. I have two scholarships, one covering the fees of tuition and one covering the costs of life. What seemed to be a quite generous amount of money, is in London just enough not to starve. I want to enjoy all that London of the early 1970s can offer. I love theatre, music, clubs, dancing. But I can’t afford the entrance fees. I need money. In a very big book store (I think it was Foyles), I see a stairs down the cellar with a board “adults only”. I go down and I can’t believe my eyes. Half the cellar is devoted to BDSM and spanking porn. They never taught that at my nun school. Sexual education stopped at the sex life of rabbits (this is not a joke). It is one of the happiest moments of my life. I am not alone in the world with these strange desires: weird, mad, deranged. I see lots of ads asking for “spanking models” or “bondage models”. No experience needed, it is enough to be young, female and robust. The idea haunts me – wouldn’t this be better than a poorly paid job as waitress? My education is very straight laced – it takes days before I decide to give it a try. I can always ask for information, can’t I? I guess it is the Londen Evening Standard I see an ad – then abundant. The address is close to where I live. I phone, and fall in the clutches of Parvati, an older Pakistani lady, soon to be my whore madam and sex mother. My mom knew I was weird, I had strange feelings, but we never talked about sex. It was my sis who talked to me about menstruations, when she noted my breasts started budding. I soon told Parvati everything I hadn’t told anyone else. She exploited me, cared for me, protected me and made sure clients respected my hard limits. You didn’t want to have a discussion with her gorilla’s. I became that popular thing: a submissive bdsm escort. An expensive polyglot whore, catering for the special tastes of clients loaded with money. Most of us were foreign university students with a masochistic trait. We wanted the money, but if you did it for the money, you choose for dominancy. I had no dominant bone in my body. For me, it was not only a job. It was a profound desire I was born with.

Pinochet had thrown over Allende and had started his spree of killing and torturing left students. They fled to Europe, I was befriended with one of them in my home country. He was tortured, got free and didn’t risk a second experience: he fled to Europe. I was extremely curious, but it was not his favourite subject. He never explained the details. But I read all I could read about the torture methods applied by the Pinochet police, which got me wet, horny and deeply ashamed that it got me wet and horny. I never accepted and will never accept that part of me.

In London, I sympathise with left wing students. They were looking for a volunteer in “performance theatre”. The volunteer would be tortured “the Chilean way” for a paying public, to demonstrate the horrors of torture. The gains were for a Chilean refugee organisation. I was interested to volunteer, but “I knew the ropes”. I wanted to be tortured for real, but by an experienced BDSM torturer and rigger. He would try to “make me talk” by the traditional Chilean methods, anyway he could, but keeping me safe and healthy. I asked Parvati to bring me in contact with an experienced sadist.

That’s how I met Alfred. We talked a few times on the simple scenario. He would ask me the name of my Chilean friend. I would refuse to give them his name. If I gave up the name “Jorge Andreas”, the torture would stop: it was the safe word. I repeated it ten times to him, the day itself he had written it in his hand so that I could read. Alfred also wanted a replacement, as he was sure I would break soon. I answered him that this was a short walk in the park, compared to what women lived through in Pinochet’s dungeons. Alfred was allowed to use all Chilean police means, as long as after less than two weeks I would be right as rain again. To protect my anonymity, I would wear a blindfold covering half my face, black hair paint and waterproof “tan without sun” crème to look dark Chilean. I hiked up my swimming training, swimming five times a week four km, to train strength and endurance. I swam a lot, and was proud of my strong wrestlers shoulders.

Arriving on the scene, I don’t need acting. I am crazy with fear. Thinking about torture is fun, expecting to get tortured is not. I am blindfolded and only hear the public. They are three, Alfred and two helpers. They take up my arms, Alfred pulls my T-shirt over my head, unclasps my bra and let it follow. Then, he binds my wrists together with maybe twenty rounds of cotton rope. I can grasp my hands in a praying hold. They pull my jeans down with my underpants, leaving me stark naked except for my blindfold. They insult me, mutter obscenities. Alfred asks the name of my friend. He doesn’t want to hurt me, he only wants to hear the name of my friend. I answer something like “go and fuck your mother, fascist pig.” One gives me a kick in the back of both my knees. I go down, but at the same time they pull me back so that I fall on my buttocks. I note that they keep me from falling hard. I sit on the floor, they bend my legs and push me forward. They force a metal bar under my knees and over my arms. I note the bar is padded. Then I hear a crank turning and a ratchet clicking. Slowly, I get pulled higher and higher. To avoid tipping backwards and diminishing the strain in my wrists, I grasp my hands firmly and pull myself in a ball against the bar. I am hanging by my knees. I'd thought about this position in detail, but being in it is absolutely frightening. I am completely immobile, helpless. The only thing I can do is to pull my body more or less in a ball, letting my head hanging more or less. I am a trained “bondage bunny”, it hurts, but my trained body can easily take it. Alfred gives the pole a swing, I am swinging and turning around. The pole hangs to a single cable. My private parts are very public now, accessible for all.

Alfred s'adresse au public. «Lucy accroche maintenant dans le« pau de arara », la perche des perroquets. C'est l'un des nombreux délices apportés en Amérique par les Européens et utilisé pour torturer les esclaves. Bien sûr, il faut faire preuve de patience. Bientôt, elle se fatiguera, son corps tirera sur les articulations de ses poignets, de ses épaules et de ses genoux. Ce sera difficile d'avoir la tête haute, elle va commencer à pendre de plus en plus, le sang coulant à sa tête.

"C'est inutile, nous vous torturerons jusqu'à ce que vous donniez le nom de votre complice." Dit mon tortionnaire. Je grogne avec la tension dans mon corps. «Vous ne durerez pas longtemps. Personne ne le fait. Faites-vous une faveur et ne souffrez pas inutilement. Vous allez dire ""

Ils me laissent pendre là pendant un moment pour réfléchir et expérimenter ma position. La tige s'est retournée, donnant à tout le monde la meilleure vue de mes organes génitaux exposés. Je suis penché, poitrine contre cuisses, jambes fléchies, le tout replié en boule sur moi-même. Mes genoux, bien sûr, sont mauvais. Mes mollets me font mal, mes poignets et mon dos. Garder la tête dans le ballon est fatigant, le faire pendre est désorientant et douloureux à cause du sang qui s'y précipite. Alors je crampe en boule puis je me détends, ma tête pend et je la soulève à nouveau. Mais je suis bien préparé. J'espère qu'ils ont de nombreuses piscines au Chili.

Puis l'interrogatoire commence pour de bon. Il me demande le nom de mon ami. Puis il me frappe fort avec quelque chose. Je ne sais pas ce que c'est, mais je crie aussi fort que je peux crier. Sur la peau tendue de mon dos, ça faisait plus mal qu'une canne. La chose s'enroule autour de mes fesses, puis est attirée sur ma peau dans une ligne de feu brûlante. Il demande à nouveau le nom de mon ami. Je ne réponds pas. Il me frappe à nouveau. Et encore. Et encore. Je dois me battre pour garder ma position, mais en même temps que ce tuyau me fait mal aux fesses comme si quelque chose m'avait rarement fait mal auparavant, Alfred m'informe, ainsi qu'au public, de quoi il me frappe. «C'est un cadeau de la CIA à ses frères sud-américains. Il s'agit d'un simple tuyau en caoutchouc, fixé à une poignée. Elle ne coupe ni la peau ni les os, une fille en bonne santé comme Lucy n'aura bientôt plus de marques à montrer à aucune commission d'enquête. «Un tel tuyau en caoutchouc est plus court mais plus lourd qu'une canne. Il mord profondément, s'enroule autour de votre derrière tirant sur votre peau, ce qui fait piquer tout votre derrière comme un fou. Ça fait mal comme tu ne peux pas l'imaginer. Je crie mais je veux crier plus fort, pour rendre justice à la douleur intense que je ressens. Je crie et je crie. Je serai enroué pendant des jours. Mes larmes commencent à couler du coin de mes yeux. Je crie et je supplie. Je dis que je ne sais pas ce qu'ils demandaient. Il m'a frappé à nouveau. Je hurle que je ne le connais pas. Ils commencent à me frapper des deux sites. Ils m'ont frappé sur mes fesses, mes cuisses, la plante de mes pieds. Le tuyau brûle ma peau comme des lignes d'huile de cuisson chaude étalées sur ma peau nue. Ils frappent fort, aussi fort que possible pour éviter des ecchymoses profondes. J'entends le public soupirer, grogner et commenter, de «ne sois pas trop dur avec elle, le gamin souffre vraiment »pour« allez, balancez ce tuyau. Faites-lui dire. ». Je reste accroché là, exposé et vulnérable. Sans espoir. Complètement impuissant, à eux de me fouetter aussi longtemps et aussi fort qu'ils le veulent. Les coups répétés du châtiment corporel sévère dans cette position à l'étroit, suspendus en boule sur mes genoux, commencent à me toucher vraiment. "Donnez-nous le nom de votre ami."

Je dois prendre une décision. «Va te faire foutre», je suis le rebelle torturé, l'étudiant révolutionnaire. Je ne trahirai jamais, jamais mon ami. J'endurerai. Ils devront s'arrêter une fois. À la suite de ma bravade, je ressens une douleur nouvelle, brûlante et incroyable dans mon entrejambe. Il m'a frappé entre mes jambes, fouettant ma chatte et mon anus. Je peux en prendre beaucoup, mais pas là. Je ne peux souffrir que d'une douleur intolérable. Alors qu'il me frappe à nouveau là-bas, le public se met à gémir et Alfred s'abstient. Ce n'est pas un vrai tortionnaire, seulement un sadique expérimenté qui sait s'arrêter. Mais mes fesses et mes cuisses sont en feu, la douleur dans mes pieds brûle encore plus. Je serai noir et bleu et j'irai à l'université avec des pieds douloureux. Mais lundi, je marcherai, douloureusement mais facilement.

Ils m'ont laissé me balancer à nouveau, maintenant dur, comme un gamin sur une balançoire. Je ne peux rien y faire. Ça faisait mal, poussant la barre dans mes genoux et mes bras. L'inconfort et la douleur de s'accrocher à la perche de perroquet s'aggravent de plus en plus. Je me concentre sur mon corps, les cordes, la barre à laquelle je suis attaché et utilise mes exercices de méditation zen. C'est peut-être mon masochisme, mais je peux mettre la douleur de côté, l'observer, la ressentir, mais ne pas me laisser submerger par elle. Ce n'est que de la douleur.

scêne de film : https://motherless.com/B93F98F

 

[erbod]

I tried to do this again, in February BC (before corona). I really wanted it, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even succeed in the opening position. Sitting on the ground, my arms wrapped around my folded legs, there was too much pressure on my stomach and I wanted to vomit. I had to stop even before I got lifted up. I am an old girl. My mind is young, but not my body. It does not support strict bondage games anymore.

It is a true story - don't worry if you don't believe it: than it's a story.

It did happen more, performance art around torture in Chili, maybe because of the many refugees. Our story was more spectacular because I was a very fit and trained young "bondage bunny", my partner an experienced and trusted sadist.

Pau de Arara Part 1

To make a long history short, I arrive in London as a young student, for the first time in my life away from mummy and daddy. I am young, curious, single, greener than grass. I have two scholarships, one covering the fees of tuition and one covering the costs of life. What seemed to be a quite generous amount of money, is in London just enough not to starve. I want to enjoy all that London of the early 1970s can offer. I love theatre, music, clubs, dancing. But I can’t afford the entrance fees. I need money. In a very big book store (I think it was Foyles), I see a stairs down the cellar with a board “adults only”. I go down and I can’t believe my eyes. Half the cellar is devoted to BDSM and spanking porn. They never taught that at my nun school. Sexual education stopped at the sex life of rabbits (this is not a joke). It is one of the happiest moments of my life. I am not alone in the world with these strange desires: weird, mad, deranged. I see lots of ads asking for “spanking models” or “bondage models”. No experience needed, it is enough to be young, female and robust. The idea haunts me – wouldn’t this be better than a poorly paid job as waitress? My education is very straight laced – it takes days before I decide to give it a try. I can always ask for information, can’t I? I guess it is the Londen Evening Standard I see an ad – then abundant. The address is close to where I live. I phone, and fall in the clutches of Parvati, an older Pakistani lady, soon to be my whore madam and sex mother. My mom knew I was weird, I had strange feelings, but we never talked about sex. It was my sis who talked to me about menstruations, when she noted my breasts started budding. I soon told Parvati everything I hadn’t told anyone else. She exploited me, cared for me, protected me and made sure clients respected my hard limits. You didn’t want to have a discussion with her gorilla’s. I became that popular thing: a submissive bdsm escort. An expensive polyglot whore, catering for the special tastes of clients loaded with money. Most of us were foreign university students with a masochistic trait. We wanted the money, but if you did it for the money, you choose for dominancy. I had no dominant bone in my body. For me, it was not only a job. It was a profound desire I was born with.

Pinochet had thrown over Allende and had started his spree of killing and torturing left students. They fled to Europe, I was befriended with one of them in my home country. He was tortured, got free and didn’t risk a second experience: he fled to Europe. I was extremely curious, but it was not his favourite subject. He never explained the details. But I read all I could read about the torture methods applied by the Pinochet police, which got me wet, horny and deeply ashamed that it got me wet and horny. I never accepted and will never accept that part of me.

In London, I sympathise with left wing students. They were looking for a volunteer in “performance theatre”. The volunteer would be tortured “the Chilean way” for a paying public, to demonstrate the horrors of torture. The gains were for a Chilean refugee organisation. I was interested to volunteer, but “I knew the ropes”. I wanted to be tortured for real, but by an experienced BDSM torturer and rigger. He would try to “make me talk” by the traditional Chilean methods, anyway he could, but keeping me safe and healthy. I asked Parvati to bring me in contact with an experienced sadist.

That’s how I met Alfred. We talked a few times on the simple scenario. He would ask me the name of my Chilean friend. I would refuse to give them his name. If I gave up the name “Jorge Andreas”, the torture would stop: it was the safe word. I repeated it ten times to him, the day itself he had written it in his hand so that I could read. Alfred also wanted a replacement, as he was sure I would break soon. I answered him that this was a short walk in the park, compared to what women lived through in Pinochet’s dungeons. Alfred was allowed to use all Chilean police means, as long as after less than two weeks I would be right as rain again. To protect my anonymity, I would wear a blindfold covering half my face, black hair paint and waterproof “tan without sun” crème to look dark Chilean. I hiked up my swimming training, swimming five times a week four km, to train strength and endurance. I swam a lot, and was proud of my strong wrestlers shoulders.

Arriving on the scene, I don’t need acting. I am crazy with fear. Thinking about torture is fun, expecting to get tortured is not. I am blindfolded and only hear the public. They are three, Alfred and two helpers. They take up my arms, Alfred pulls my T-shirt over my head, unclasps my bra and let it follow. Then, he binds my wrists together with maybe twenty rounds of cotton rope. I can grasp my hands in a praying hold. They pull my jeans down with my underpants, leaving me stark naked except for my blindfold. They insult me, mutter obscenities. Alfred asks the name of my friend. He doesn’t want to hurt me, he only wants to hear the name of my friend. I answer something like “go and fuck your mother, fascist pig.” One gives me a kick in the back of both my knees. I go down, but at the same time they pull me back so that I fall on my buttocks. I note that they keep me from falling hard. I sit on the floor, they bend my legs and push me forward. They force a metal bar under my knees and over my arms. I note the bar is padded. Then I hear a crank turning and a ratchet clicking. Slowly, I get pulled higher and higher. To avoid tipping backwards and diminishing the strain in my wrists, I grasp my hands firmly and pull myself in a ball against the bar. I am hanging by my knees. I'd thought about this position in detail, but being in it is absolutely frightening. I am completely immobile, helpless. The only thing I can do is to pull my body more or less in a ball, letting my head hanging more or less. I am a trained “bondage bunny”, it hurts, but my trained body can easily take it. Alfred gives the pole a swing, I am swinging and turning around. The pole hangs to a single cable. My private parts are very public now, accessible for all.

Alfred s'adresse au public. «Lucy accroche maintenant dans le« pau de arara », la perche des perroquets. C'est l'un des nombreux délices apportés en Amérique par les Européens et utilisé pour torturer les esclaves. Bien sûr, il faut faire preuve de patience. Bientôt, elle se fatiguera, son corps tirera sur les articulations de ses poignets, de ses épaules et de ses genoux. Ce sera difficile d'avoir la tête haute, elle va commencer à pendre de plus en plus, le sang coulant à sa tête.

"C'est inutile, nous vous torturerons jusqu'à ce que vous donniez le nom de votre complice." Dit mon tortionnaire. Je grogne avec la tension dans mon corps. «Vous ne durerez pas longtemps. Personne ne le fait. Faites-vous une faveur et ne souffrez pas inutilement. Vous allez dire ""

Ils me laissent pendre là pendant un moment pour réfléchir et expérimenter ma position. La tige s'est retournée, donnant à tout le monde la meilleure vue de mes organes génitaux exposés. Je suis penché, poitrine contre cuisses, jambes fléchies, le tout replié en boule sur moi-même. Mes genoux, bien sûr, sont mauvais. Mes mollets me font mal, mes poignets et mon dos. Garder la tête dans le ballon est fatigant, le faire pendre est désorientant et douloureux à cause du sang qui s'y précipite. Alors je crampe en boule puis je me détends, ma tête pend et je la soulève à nouveau. Mais je suis bien préparé. J'espère qu'ils ont de nombreuses piscines au Chili.

Puis l'interrogatoire commence pour de bon. Il me demande le nom de mon ami. Puis il me frappe fort avec quelque chose. Je ne sais pas ce que c'est, mais je crie aussi fort que je peux crier. Sur la peau tendue de mon dos, ça faisait plus mal qu'une canne. La chose s'enroule autour de mes fesses, puis est attirée sur ma peau dans une ligne de feu brûlante. Il demande à nouveau le nom de mon ami. Je ne réponds pas. Il me frappe à nouveau. Et encore. Et encore. Je dois me battre pour garder ma position, mais en même temps que ce tuyau me fait mal aux fesses comme si quelque chose m'avait rarement fait mal auparavant, Alfred m'informe, ainsi que le public, de ce avec quoi il me frappe. «C'est un cadeau de la CIA à ses frères sud-américains. Il s'agit d'un simple tuyau en caoutchouc, fixé à une poignée. Elle ne coupe ni la peau ni les os, une fille en bonne santé comme Lucy n'aura bientôt plus de marques à montrer à aucune commission d'enquête. «Un tel tuyau en caoutchouc est plus court mais plus lourd qu'une canne. Il mord profondément, s'enroule autour de votre derrière tirant sur votre peau, ce qui fait piquer tout votre derrière comme un fou. Ça fait mal comme tu ne peux pas l'imaginer. Je crie mais je veux crier plus fort, pour rendre justice à la douleur intense que je ressens. Je crie et je crie. Je serai enroué pendant des jours. Mes larmes commencent à couler du coin de mes yeux. Je crie et je supplie. Je dis que je ne sais pas ce qu'ils demandaient. Il m'a frappé à nouveau. Je hurle que je ne le connais pas. Ils commencent à me frapper des deux sites. Ils m'ont frappé sur mes fesses, mes cuisses, la plante de mes pieds. Le tuyau brûle ma peau comme des lignes d'huile de cuisson chaude étalées sur ma peau nue. Ils frappent fort, aussi fort que possible pour éviter des ecchymoses profondes. J'entends le public soupirer, grogner et commenter, de «ne sois pas trop dur avec elle, le gamin souffre vraiment »pour« allez, balancez ce tuyau. Faites-lui dire. ». Je reste accroché là, exposé et vulnérable. Sans espoir. Complètement impuissant, à eux de me fouetter aussi longtemps et aussi fort qu'ils le veulent. Les coups répétés du châtiment corporel sévère dans cette position à l'étroit, suspendus en boule sur mes genoux, commencent à me toucher vraiment. "Donnez-nous le nom de votre ami."

Je dois prendre une décision. «Va te faire foutre», je suis le rebelle torturé, l'étudiant révolutionnaire. Je ne trahirai jamais, jamais mon ami. J'endurerai. Ils devront s'arrêter une fois. À la suite de ma bravade, je ressens une douleur nouvelle, brûlante et incroyable dans mon entrejambe. Il m'a frappé entre mes jambes, fouettant ma chatte et mon anus. Je peux en prendre beaucoup, mais pas là. Je ne peux souffrir que d'une douleur intolérable. Alors qu'il me frappe à nouveau là-bas, le public se met à gémir et Alfred s'abstient. Ce n'est pas un vrai tortionnaire, seulement un sadique expérimenté qui sait s'arrêter. Mais mes fesses et mes cuisses sont en feu, la douleur dans mes pieds brûle encore plus. Je serai noir et bleu et j'irai à l'université avec des pieds douloureux. Mais lundi, je marcherai, douloureusement mais facilement.

Ils m'ont laissé me balancer à nouveau, maintenant dur, comme un gamin sur une balançoire. Je ne peux rien y faire. Ça faisait mal, poussant la barre dans mes genoux et mes bras. L'inconfort et la douleur de s'accrocher à la perche de perroquet s'aggravent de plus en plus. Je me concentre sur mon corps, les cordes, la barre à laquelle je suis attaché et utilise mes exercices de méditation zen. C'est peut-être mon masochisme, mais je peux mettre la douleur de côté, l'observer, la ressentir, mais ne pas me laisser submerger par elle. Ce n'est que de la douleur.

superbe témoignage !

 

[erbod]

J'ai trouvé une image très similaire à l'une des deux photos précédentes dans mes archives. J'aimerais savoir lequel est plutôt l'original et qui était l'artiste?

View attachment 944177

je crois que ça vient d'un site qui s'appelle QUOOM