And there she is: hurrying back towards the Fine Arts building for a forgotten something. Foreign - white skin - not tall, but devastatingly pretty and well put-together, with big eyes, an upturned nose, and darkish-blonde hair long enough to wrap twice around his fist. Exactly what he's looking for, what he needs. And she's leaving the safety of the herd. It couldn't be more perfect.

Quickly, he pulls the van around to the building's service entrance and readies zip ties, a hood, and his stun gun. Picking up her trail in the now-quiet building is easy thanks to the clicking of her low heels; she walks briskly into one of the studios to search for her lost whatever. He follows, opening the door quietly, stepping in, and closing it again with a gentle click. The air is thick with the smell of paint and half-finished projects dot the room's periphery. Busy scanning the floor near an easel, she has time for only a glance his way, big eyes wide in surprise, before he jams the stun gun into her ribs and she drops, almost unconscious. It's the work of a moment to zip-tie her wrists and ankles, then wrists to ankles, and then yank the bag over her head and tie it around her neck. He commandeers a cart from an adjoining supply room, lifts her on, and covers her with a large drop cloth -- risky if he meets someone, especially if she comes around enough to move, but he has only two hallways to get through. Opening the door and checking each way, he wheels the cart quickly to the van and hoists her in.

She groans once as she's dumped in the back, on top of the cloth now instead of under it, but a few hard blows to her chest and stomach keep her quiescent. He slams the door, jumps in front, and heads toward the prison, but gets only two miles before curiosity overwhelms him and he pulls over. With the van hidden behind some abandoned sheds, he unwraps his prize, the steel of his knife easily slicing through her jacket, cotton t-shirt, jeans, shoe straps, and socks. He pulls the scraps of her clothes out from under her and tosses them into the corner.

She's even better than he'd hoped, fit and supple, no blemishes or scars, just a few beauty freckles here and there. He examines her as she lies hogtied on her side, dragging his knife point down her neck to her small but perfect breasts, cutting each bra strap and flicking the cups away, then tracing more lines with his knife across her dark nipples and down her stomach. She's still too dazed to struggle much, but he hears her confused whimpering under the hood. Two more quick cuts and he slowly, playfully pulls the remnants of her thin cotton panties from between her legs. Muffled swearing starts, and a few struggles in earnest, but he runs the knifepoint hard over her mons, around her cuntlips and down her inner thighs before heading back up, watching her tense and start to panic, and then fall still. She's well groomed -- her pussy's not bald, but nearly: just a small light-brown landing strip at the top, a bit darker than her hair. The sight is just too tempting to resist: lowering the setting on the stun gun, he applies it a few times to her stomach, tits, and pussy. Her yelps are music and her spasms a delight. But her wrists and ankles start bleeding a bit from fighting the ties, so no more for now. Instead, he double-checks that she's still cinched tight into a painful ball and continues the trip.

The commander doesn't want to know about these unsanctioned activities, so he has to smuggle her into the jail. But given his rank and reputation, it's not hard. The few people who see him haul her out of the van and through the chilly hallways don't bat an eye. She hears metal doors crash shut behind her, then she's on her side on cold mesh, the zip ties on her wrists are cut, and her arms are jerked painfully up above her head, rolling her onto her back. She's on a bedframe: her muscles are too cramped from the trip for her to lash out, and her hands are cuffed to the junctions of the frame and headboard on either side of her head before she can react. Her legs are pulled out over each side of the bedframe, then down towards the floor and painfully back towards the headboard so that the side rails hold her thighs wide apart. With short chains, her ankles are fastened to the headboard below her wrists. She can't get leverage; she can't move anything below her ribs. A few more ties across her torso to stop any wriggling, and she's truly pinned.

Rather than let her stew to soften up, he doesn't wait: a quick soaking with cold water to clean the nervous sweat off her, make her nipples hard for what's coming, and soak the black hood to restrict the airflow so she starts to suffocate. Her tits start to dance as she shivers and struggles to suck oxygen, and he smiles. On the nearby tray of torture implements are two small vices, which he grabs and positions on her small, erect nipples. But he compresses them to just a firm grip now, a hint of what's in store. He moves into position above her, undoes his fly -- she gets very still at the sound -- and shoves the first inch of his hard cock into her tight, gaping pussy. He growls into her ear: "Traitor bitch... My dick's going to be the last one ever in your cunt. I'm going to fuck you, and when that stops being fun, I'm going to hurt you, and when that stops being fun, I'm going to kill you." Then his cock drives in hard and deep, her inner muscles fighting and taught from terror, her denials and pained grunts leaking out from under the smothering hood. At the same time, he cranks the vices shut, the jaws getting tighter and tighter until her nipples are flattened, crushed as his cock thrusts in and she's spasming in agony, her cunt clenching around her torturer's cock, her torso twisting back and forth trying desperately and futilely to escape, the metal vices fluttering against his chest as he pounds into her, and she's alternately begging and screaming through the soaking hood, thrashing and choking as he pours more water across her face, the suffering going on and on and on until he comes... for the first time.

Rolling off her, he watches her chest judder for a few more moments, then worried that she's too close to passing out, he loosens the hood, rolling it up to just below her chin. He removes the vices, pinching and rolling her bruised nubs viciously to get the blood flowing in them again. Her back arches once more at this new misery; when he stops, the stinging and burning continue for long minutes. She barely registers that he moves to the tray and returns with something new until, a moment later, jagged alligator clips trailing fat wires bite into her nipples, evoking first a scream and then sobbing as her aching points take this new torment. Her flat stomach quivers as his hard, calloused hand slides down it; his proprietorial air makes her queasy. Then another heavy electrical cord crosses her thigh. The tip of something metallic touches her vaginal opening and a thick, cool cylinder pushes in. She groans as her cunt lips and passage stretch around it; it slides in another inch, then several more, too deep inside her now and she cries out again. She hears him humming cheerfully -- knows the song, it's "Centerfold" -- as he straps it into place so she can't expel it with her talented inner muscles, the ones she's worked so hard to tone for the delight of the few lovers she's had. But they can't stop this invasion of her body. The man's hand starts to pull the edge of the hood back down; she just has time to whine, "Why are you doing this? I haven't done anything! Please!" before it's tied around her neck again and all she can think of is the struggle for her next breath.

She jerks when the water blast hits her a second time, sluicing across the hood and her stretched-out body again, raising goosebumps on pale skin that's just starting to show a few darkening purple blotches here and there. Her gasps for breath become even more desperate. He enjoys the shuddering of her tits for another moment, then touches his handheld probe to the upturned sole of the foot nearest him. Instantly, her toes and fingers curl into claws, her whole body convulses, her shoulders bow up and her breasts lift high, and a thin, keening wail escapes from under the hood, followed immediately by a wet rattling noise as she sucks the thick black cloth tightly against her face. It's good: seeing her move like that is already starting to make his cock harden again. But not good enough. He removes the probe and turns the dial on the base unit until the shock strength is doubled. She's trying to say something behind the cloth, she's crying again too, but he doesn't listen or care. Her words won't change anything.

He's more interested in seeing that beautiful back arch again. This time, the probe touches first at the hollow of her throat, then slides unhurriedly down the center of her body, between her breasts and, with a little S movement, up onto each firm mound with its bouncing, burning clip. Her torso again jumps up off the bed, all her muscles excruciatingly taut. Her shriek is louder -- the hood puffs out until she runs out of breath, then slaps back down to outline her features again as she pulls for air that just isn't there. She's shaking for breath, but he eases the probe down to her navel and around it once, twice, then further south, languidly down her abdomen to her tiny thatch, where he lifts it. But even as her shoulders fall back to the bedframe, his large fingers are spreading her moist labia. He gives her a moment to think about it, relishing the frantic, frightened noises she's making, interspersed with coughs and gagging. Then he nestles the probe against her clit, just above the fat cylinder in her pussy. Her legs snap even more widely apart as the voltage burns into her most sensitive spots, her pelvis jerks in her desperation to escape, and her shriek returns with an even more agonized, pleading tone before she runs out of breath and it devolves to strangled gulps.

Watching her suffer, he's even more sure he'll win. She's so gorgeous, so tight, and she howls so well. Those are the big three criteria: great looking, great fuck, great fun as they each apply their signature tortures. It's been more than a year since they had anything as exotic as this stunning white girl, and he hasn't put many marks on her, so he should be ahead on the first criteria. His cock is still feeling the wringing her velvety hot cunt gave it as he fucked her -- he smiles at the memory, almost time to repeat that -- so he's confident on the second too. And his tests show she's got lots of range and stamina: she reacts to pain early but can take a lot before she passes out, reducing the irritating delays to revive her. Better, her body moves beautifully in agony, her well-defined muscles straining under her skin, her twisting and writhing a hypnotic parody of her gyrations with a lover. She's even a screamer, not one of those girls whose mouths open wide but no sound comes out until after the pain is gone, when they start to cry. He smiles again and lifts the probe: his victory, like his victim, is in the bag.

There is one more angle to consider: how she'll stand up to the tortures-of-choice from Packer and Breaker, his betting partners. For safety, they know each other only by nicknames; they call him Crusher because of his love of pliers, pincers, vices, and occasionally hammers. Packer's greatest joy has always been seeing a tight, tender cunt stretched wide around one of his grotesque implements or filled with something unpleasant and ideally burning, scraping, or squirming and biting. He knows Packer will enjoy this captive: she has the type of body he likes. Packer often says -- for no reason Crusher can see -- that the petite ones' cunts are the most sensitive, so dilating the blonde's hole to bursting will definitely be his first choice. It's impossible to say exactly what he'll put into the girl; he'll reveal it with the gusto of a stage magician when he arrives. But she won't like it, and Crusher and Breaker will have to watch carefully to ensure Packer's selection doesn't ruin her for their collective enjoyment later. With luck, Packer will go for a simple electrified speculum, not too different from the metal shaft that's in her now, but cranked open to the point that she's banging her head against the mesh of the bed, trying to knock herself unconscious, while smoke pours out of her pussy from the intensity of the shocks. Without luck, he could propose anything from cockroaches to drain clog cleaner to hot coals, though Crusher isn't prepared to allow anything destructive yet -- not until she's on her way out, too badly damaged to react to anything else. Packer's second torture choice is not as certain, but he's got a taste for hanging university girls on the Parrot's Perch and burning them here and there with cigarettes, since they have such a convenient, tight storage pouch between their legs for the used-up butts. After a moment's reflection, Crusher nods; that's likely it.

Breaker will be harder to please. He's a big fan of heated skewers, which means he'll complain she doesn't have enough breast meat for him to get creative. But it's not like she's flat -- just not huge. And regardless of her size, skewers will be Breaker's first choice; they always are. For his second... very much harder to say. He enjoys seeing Resistance whores strapped face-down over the kneeling frame and raped from behind by the guard dogs, tears and snot rolling down their faces as they try not to vomit and choke behind their gags -- but Breaker refuses to fuck the girls after that, and with this one, he'll want to keep that option open as long as possible. Strangely, he has no problem fucking them after Packer shoves a rat or eel into their cunts, if they're washed out properly afterwards. But not if it's a big German Shepherd. For a moment, Crusher wonders if it's a dick size comparison thing; he sniggers, then puts the thought away: he's got to focus. It's the same issue for another of Breaker's usual standbys: sticking his thick, charred copper pipe up her snatch or ass and slowly heating it with his blowtorch, listening to her sizzle and screech -- but again, too damaging to the bits they'll all want to keep intact for a few more days. So then, what? Breaker got his nickname from the heavy-handed beatings he gives out -- the other reason he carries that pipe -- and because most of his tortures involve blood and damage. Too soon to break bones, even limiting the blows to her feet. If Packer doesn't singe her on the perch, Breaker might, with his blowtorch, but so early with a girl like her, it would be a real shame. Or... it comes to him. He saw Breaker do it in an early session with another particularly pretty girl: long stickpins under her fingernails and toenails, more through her nipples, clit, nose, and other sensitive parts, long ribbons of paper attached to the pins, and an oscillating fan blowing the ribbons around, keeping the pins in constant motion. Simple but unendurable; the last girl was in hysterics in 15 minutes; this one, perhaps twice that.