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.
