Day 3

I wake up from someone banging at my door. I look at the time: 4:30 am. What the fuck?

I open the door. Head of security looks at me – standing before him, wearing nothing but my trunks.

“Sir, we have an emergency.” He seems nervous, but not overly worried.

Turns out it’s the girls. They started a fight, security was forced to get inside and tase them.

I walk into the dungeon, girls laying on their mats, unconscious. The cleaning crew is washing urine off the floor and wiping the girls clean with a wash cloth. Thankfully, none of the girls really knew how to fight, so the damage is limited to a few scratches and pulled hairs. They didn’t even try to escape or fight the guards – their goal was to make themselves as unappealing as possible, to sabotage the show.

Whose idea was it? You guessed it right – Amara’s.

I guess the show will need to start later today – need to notify the management. I thank the head of security for letting me know about the incident and go back to my quarters to catch up on sleep. The situation is no longer my problem at this point.

I come to the dungeon eight hours later, giving myself and the girls enough time to recover. The girls shuffle in the middle of the room, their movements stiff and uncertain. Yet they look at me with a challenge in their eyes. Amara’s eyes are full of hatred, she is staring at me with a smirk on her face.

“Look who came to visit,” she almost hisses, voice full of venom. “Did you like our show?”

She puts an emphasis on the word “our”, trying to turn the few bruises and scratches she has got from the fight towards me like a badge of honor.

I put a mask of cruelty and confidence on my face, though I feel none. Smiling with a corner of my mouth, I stretch out my hand towards the girls, holding out six small sticks that will decide their fate today.

“That was fun to watch,” I reply to Amara. “Too bad it didn’t really accompish much, did it?”

For a moment, she just stares at me – jaws tense, eyes burning with the last embers of pride. Around her, the others are silent, watching.

Then suddenly her face turns into an angry grimace. Two strides forward, fast and reckless, and before anyone can react, her hand shoots out and tears one of the sticks from my grip. The air goes sharp with tension.

She holds the stick up high, triumphant, breathing hard, a savage grin breaking through the exhaustion on her face.

I look at the stick – it’s a long one. Amara notices it too. Her grin falters and the silence deepens. She turns away from me and throws the stick on the floor with frustration. Other girls now look less defiant and more uneasy – there’s one less long stick left now and it’s one of them, not Amara who is going to die today. We don’t have to wait long to see who that is going to be.

Valeria comes next, holding her breath as she draws her stick. After seeing that it’s a long one, she slowly exhales and steps back.

Zahra carefully approaches, looking into my eyes, her steps always silent. She slowly pulls a stick out of my grasp. As she turns it over in her hands, her fingers start to tremble.

The color drains from Zahra's face as she holds her stick aloft – tiny, smooth and unmistakably short. The room grows impossibly quiet as the other girls turn to stare at her. Amara exhales sharply, her hands turn into fists as she glances between me and the shaking girl.

"I knew it would be me," Zahra says softly, her voice almost disappearing in the empty room. "I knew it."

She doesn't move, doesn't break eye contact. There's a strange resignation in her posture, as if she's been waiting for this moment all along.

“There’s still choice for you, Zahra,” I point to the machine room behind the transparent wall. “Those who come after you won’t be as lucky.”

“Those who come after me…” She echoes, her thoughts going in the direction I can only guess about.

Zahra's eyes flicker as she considers each option, her breathing shallow and quick. The other girls watch her with expressions ranging from horror to fascination.

"I don't want to be... cut in half," she says, her voice almost inaudible. "The saw... I can't do the saw." She pauses, then continues with sudden clarity. "Impalement."

“You sure?” I ask, surprised she didn’t pick something less painful. “That won’t be quick.”

“I know,” she swallows hard before continuing. “But that’s one less terrible death for those who are left, yes?”

She accepts her fate with quiet dignity. For the first time, I feel something crack in my chest. The others were fighting – I could fight back, stay mechanical, detached. But Zahra isn't fighting. She's being kind. And I'm going to destroy her anyway.

I nod, acknowledging her courage.

"That's brave," I say, and mean it.

She meets my eyes.

"No. Brave would be finding a way to stop you. This is just... what I can do with the choice I have."

I realize she's just absolved me while condemning me, and I'm not sure which is worse.

"Any last words?"

Zahra's eyes glisten with unshed tears as she turns to face the other girls. Talia is the first to move, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Zahra in a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

Zahra's arms remain stiff at first, but then she pulls Talia closer, burying her face in her shoulder.

Astrid approaches next, hesitating before resting a hand on Zahra's arm.

"May you be at peace," she says quietly. Her words catch in her throat, and she quickly steps back, avoiding eye contact.

Valeria offers a small, sad smile as she approaches.

"You were... always kind to me," she says, her voice rough with emotion.

She wraps her arms around Zahra for a brief, tight hug before stepping back.

Emily doesn't speak, but she reaches up and squeezes Zahra's hand. Her face remains impassive, but tears well in her eyes.

Lastly, Amara steps forward. She looks directly into Zahra's face, unblinking and intense.

"You didn't deserve this," she says, her voice thick with barely restrained fury. "None of us did."

Zahra wipes a tear about to roll from her eye and turns back to me.

“I… I think I’m ready,” she mutters, her voice trembling.

Five pairs of eyes, their expressions ranging from fearful to furious, follow us as we move into the machine room. Zahra doesn’t turn around, looking at the floor beneath her feet. She offers no resistance as I lay her stomach on the cold metal bench of the Impaler and secure her wrists and ankles with restraints. Time to prepare her pussy for what’s coming.

Zahra stiffens as my fingers penetrate her, her breath coming in short gasps. The cold metal of the impaling bench presses against her bare breasts. Behind her, the mechanical skewer glints menacingly under the harsh dungeon lights. Her body trembles, but she doesn't resist as I work my fingers inside her.

"Please," she whispers, "please don't hurt me more than necessary."

Her dark eyes are wide and wet, her face twisted in what might be confusion or fear – perhaps both.
I withdraw my fingers and smear them across her inner thighs, watching her skin pebble in the cold air.

"You're dry," I observe clinically. "That makes this harder for you."

The side table near me has everything required to keep the show going – a whole jar of lube included. I could just lube her up, let the machine do its work. But that would be inconsistent with what I did to Cassie and Rita. Would mean facing what I've been doing.

I dip my whole hand into the jar, covering it with the slimy odorless substance.

“I’m sorry about this, Zahra” I say, as my fingers slide back into her pussy. “But you wouldn’t want to go through this unprepared.”

I tell myself it’s necessary. That I’m doing her a favor.

But I know I'm lying.

Her muscles insitnctively twitching around my fingers, trying to push them back out. I insert another finger, then another one, stretching her tight opening. Then I fold my palm into a cone shape and push it inside all at once.

Zahra's body convulses as my hand pushes deeper, her muscles clamping down in a desperate attempt to resist the invasion. A strangled cry escapes her lips, her hands rubbing against the restraints as her back arches off the metal surface.

"Stop! Please! It's too much!" Her voice cracks, tears streaming down her face as her body is overwhelmed by the intense pressure and pain.

The other girls witness this through the transparent wall, their horrified faces pressed against the glass. Emily turns away completely, unable to watch. Amara pounds her fists against the barrier, screaming obscenities at me, her voice echoing in the dungeon.

Zahra begins to shudder, her body convulsing with violent spasms. She pulls her wrists against the restraints, leaving deep marks on her skin. A thick, wet ripping sound fills the air as my wrist follows my hand into her torn body. The girl’s breathing becomes ragged, panicked gasps as her vision blurs from the agony.

“You monster! I hope you rot in hell for this!" Amara's voice shrieks from beyond the glass, words thick with rage.

Emily watches with a look of horrified fascination, her hand unconsciously pressing against her own abdomen. The other girls huddle together, some covering their ears, others unable to look away from the horrific display. I pump my fist slowly, feeling Zahra's cervix bounce against my fingers.

When my hand finally comes out of Zahra’s pussy with a wet squelch, I see blood on it. I was too rough with her.

I stare at my hand for a long moment. Zahra asked me not to hurt her more than necessary.

And I did anyway.

“I’m sorry.” I say again, but this doesn’t sound sincere even to myself.

I pull down my pants, releasing my cock and drive it into Zahra's ruined pussy without ceremony, her torn flesh offering minimal resistance. Zahra screams with anger and disgust as I thrust into her, mix of blood and lube slick my movements as I establish a brutal rhythm, my balls slapping against her ass. Her arms flop weakly at her sides as she loses the strength to fight. I can feel the warm walls of her vagina collapsing around my cock, her abdominal muscles spasming in an attempt to move away.

"I... I am not caring..." she gasps out, her words nearly inaudible through ragged breaths. "Let me... let me keep at least my dignity..."

Her eyes lock onto mine, not with hatred but with profound resignation.

My thrusts grow harder, my fingers tightening in her hair as I force myself deeper inside of her. Zahra's body shudders beneath me, her torn pussy struggling to accommodate my length. A strangled moan escapes her as I bottom out inside her, her muscles spasming around my cock.

Zahra's body tenses as my cum floods her torn pussy, the warm fluid mixing with blood and lube. Her breathing comes in short, ragged bursts, her dark eyes never leaving mine even as tears stream down her face. The humiliation of being violated and seeded burns in her gaze.

I pull out of Zahra's ravaged pussy, watching as my cum leaks from her. She shudders but doesn't cry out – she's beyond that now. She still shivers a bit, her bare skin pressing against the cold metal beneath. The supports cradle her body, leaving her ass raised at an angle, ready for the skewer.

Zahra's breathing is controlled, shallow.

"I'm ready," she says, her words steady despite the blood still seeping from her pussy.

The machine comes to life and emits a low hum as I press the button.

Zahra begins reciting the Shahada, her voice clear and loud:

"Ash-hadu an lā ilāha illā-llāh, wa ash-hadu anna muḥammadan rasūlu-llāh..."

Her body tenses the moment the cold metal touches her torn entrance. The skewer vibrates and begins its inexorable advance, her muscles clenching around the shaft in a futile attempt to resist the intrusion.

Her voice doesn't waver.

"Ash-hadu an lā ilāha illā-llāh..."

A sharp gasp interrupts the prayer, Zahra’s back arching as the skewer penetrates deeper, the vibrations causing her clit to pulse in unwanted, involuntary pleasure despite the agony. Her pussy stretches wider as the machine continues its work, her body shaking uncontrollably on the platform.

She continues, despite the pain:

"Wa ash-hadu anna muḥammadan rasūlu-llāh..."

Her voice breaks into a scream as the skewer breaches her cervix, her entire body convulsing as the machine presses forward with relentless precision. Her back arches violently, the muscles in her legs and arms quivering as she clings to the platform. Tears stream down her face, mingling with sweat that glistens on her olive skin.

"Ash-hadu... an lā... ilāha... illā-llāh..."

The words fragment between screams, but her lips keep moving, forming each syllable with desperate intention.

Her pussy convulses around the invading metal, her body betraying her with reflexive contractions that only pull the skewer deeper. Her breasts press against the cold metal beneath her as she strains against the support system.

Zahra's entire body suddenly goes rigid, her scream is unlike anything I’ve heard before – raw, primal, the sound of a woman beyond pain, beyond fear. Her entire body jerks as the skewer tears through her uterus, the vibrations causing her to convulse uncontrollably. Blood spills from her pussy now, staining the platform beneath her, a vivid crimson against the cold metal. The vibrations of the machine send tremors through her body, causing her breasts to sway beneath her as she struggles to remain conscious.

"You... you are not even human," she finally chokes out, speaking softly now.

Tears stream unchecked down her face as her body betrays her with involuntary spasms. The skewer moves deeper still, reaching her bowels, and Zahra's back arches violently as the cold metal invades her deeper than anyone before.

"I'm... I'm dying," she manages to gasp between ragged breaths, her dark eyes wide and unfocused. "Allah... help me."

"Wa ash... ash-hadu... anna..." The words dissolve into screaming, but her lips keep moving, still trying to form the prayer even as pain overwhelms her.

Her fingers scrape against the restraints as her strength fails her, leaving red trails on the surface. The skewer continues its ascent, pushing deeper into her abdominal cavity.

The machine continues its merciless advance, the skewer now piercing deep into Zahra's abdomen. Her body seizes as the cold metal breaches her diaphragm, blood gathering at her lips.

"Ash... hadu..." Zahra chokes out.

Just fragments now, whispered between blood bubbles – words barely audible over the whir of the machine.

Her arms give out, leaving her body fully supported by the platform as the skewer pushes higher. Blood vessels burst inside her, spraying crimson droplets onto the floor beneath her. Her legs spasm weakly as the mechanical force continues its inexorable ascent.

Zahra's body jerks violently as the tip of the skewer bursts through her throat, a gush of blood and air escaping her mouth in a sickening wet gurgle. Her eyes roll back for a moment, her body convulsing as the last of her strength leaves her. The tip of the skewer glistens with blood and mucus as it emerges fully from between her teeth.

Her lips still move silently, forming the words even as no sound can escape. The Shahada incomplete in voice, but complete in faith.

Her head lolls forward, her chest rising in one last, shuddering gasp before falling still. The skewer is now fully embedded, the upper half protruding from her mouth, the lower half buried deep within her body. Blood drips steadily from both ends, pooling on the platform beneath her.

The remaining girls stand frozen on the other side of the glass wall, their eyes locked onto Zahra's motionless body. Amara is the first to react, her face twisting into a snarl as she slams her fist against the glass.

"You monster!" she shouts, voice cracking with rage and revulsion. "You don't even blink, do you? You just watch her die like it's nothing!"

Astrid has buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Valeria stands rigid, arms wrapped around herself, her breathing shallow and quick. Talia just sits on the floor, staring blankly into empty space in front of her, her body shaking uncontrollably.

I don’t react – just stand there, staring.

She didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve any of this. She was kind. Selfless. Everything these other girls weren't, and I killed her the same way. Worse, maybe.

My own hands won't stop shaking too. I shove them in my pockets, but even then I can feel the tremor running up my arms, settling in my chest. Zahra's dead eyes follow me as I leave the machine room – or maybe that's just in my head. I take a grim glance at the girls and move towards the exit door.

Amara is already there, blocking my path.

"You enjoyed that," she hisses. "Zahra was good. She was kind. And you still-"

"I know," I snap, surprised by my own venom. "You think I don't know?"

"Then why-"

"Because that's the job!" My voice echoes off the dungeon walls. "That's what I'm here to do! You want me to apologize? That won’t change anything! She's still dead!"

Amara stares at me, and I see the disgust in her face. Or just confirmation that I'm exactly the monster she thought.

"You feel guilty," she says slowly. "But you'll keep doing it anyway. That's worse. That's so much worse."

She's right. But admitting that would break me completely. So instead I double down.

"Yes," I say coldly. "I enjoy it. Raping you. Killing you. All of it. That's why I'm here."

The lie tastes like ash, but it's easier than the truth.

Amara's face hardens.

"Then I hope you drown in your guilt, you sick fuck."

I frown.

"See you tomorrow," I state, my voice cold and detached.

The word hangs in the air like a death sentence itself. Amara's breathing catches, her anger momentarily giving way to something else – fear perhaps, or just the reality of the situation settling in.

"No, wait!" Talia calls out, stepping forward. Her long brown hair hangs in loose waves over her shoulder as takes a few more steps towards me. "You can't just leave us like this, with - "

She gestures toward Zahra's body, her voice breaking. The others remain silent, watching me with varying degrees of terror and desperation.

Of course… I got so overwhelmed that I forgot to instruct the cleaning crew. Time to fix that.

The hazmat-suited figures enter in their eerily silent, measured steps. One wheels a metal cart holding cleaning supplies and heavy-duty bags. The others approach Zahra's body, already reaching for their tools. Her head lolls sideways as the first attendant grips the upper portion of the skewer, testing its resistance.

"Disassemble and sanitize," I command.

The men work methodically, speaking in quiet tones as they disconnect the hydraulics and mechanisms holding the platform together. The first attendant braces himself and pulls the skewer free with a wet, tearing sound. Blood spills onto the floor in a fresh crimson flood as the corpse slumps lifelessly onto the cart.

Amara’s eyes are the only ones to follow me out of the dungeon, their expression pure hatred. I leave before she can see the tremor in my hands.

From my observation room, the five remaining girls appear small and fragile in the large, sterile dungeon. Amara paces like a caged animal, her steps sharp and restless. Talia sits with her back against the wall, fingers tracing meaningless patterns along the padded floor as she stares at the machine room opposite her.

Astrid has folded herself into a corner, knees drawn tightly to her chest. Valeria sits beside her, facing the wall.

“You okay?” Valeria asks softly.

“Fine,” Astrid replies without looking at her. Her voice is flat, stripped of emotion. “It was going to be one of us. Better her than me.”

The words land wrong. Valeria flinches, turning toward her in disbelief. Astrid doesn’t notice – or doesn’t care. She keeps staring at the machine room, eyes hard and glassy, like chipped ice. She doesn’t soften. She doesn’t apologize.

And then there's Emily.

She stands motionless, staring at the place where Zahra’s body had been moments ago. Her face is drained of color, eyes wide and empty. Since I met her, I’ve never seen her so completely absent.

Emily doesn’t blink. Her pupils remain blown wide, breathing shallow and rapid, as if her body has forgotten how to slow down. Her fingers twitch at her sides, small involuntary movements that don’t seem to belong to her anymore.

The others speak to her quietly at first. Then louder. Amara grabs her arm and shouts her name.

Emily doesn’t react.

She keeps staring at the empty space where Zahra had been impaled, as if the room hasn’t caught up with what she’s already seen.

The cleaning crew finishes disassembling the impaler, hauling the components away on a cart. The floor is scrubbed until it glistens, the blood mopped up and hosed down the drain. But Emily remains locked in her vision, as if Zahra is still there, suspended mid-murder. The remaining girls exchange worried glances.

Emily's lips finally move, but no sound comes out. Then, in a small, quavering voice:

"She was... she was still alive." She turns toward the others, her face crumpling. "I saw her chest moving. She was still breathing when they took her away. And then she wasn't."

I leave the observation room deep in thought. Somehow the fact that Zahra was still breathing when she was already impaled seems significant even when my brain tells me it’s not. Amara is right – I am a monster, but I still don’t want to hear those words from her. Don’t want her to be my conscience.

I think that it is probably easy to ride a moral high horse when you are left with no choice but to die. But I have seen it in their eyes, when they thought no one was watching. That flicker of relief when someone else drew a short stick instead of them. That faint, shameful gratitude that it wasn’t me this time. Every one of them had it. Every one of them, for a second, understood what it meant to kill just by not dying.

I wondered, if the roles were reversed, if Amara stood where I stood – would she refuse to kill and choose to die instead? Or would she too torture and kill others? Would other girls? Honestly, the only girl I could picture sacrificing herself in order not to kill was Zahra. But she’s already dead – I murdered her today.

Maybe the only difference between me and them is the choice. Or the illusion of choice – the belief that somehow you are still in control – that turned people into monsters. In the end, we were all the same: people caught in a game they never agreed to play, doing whatever it took not to be the next one to fall.