Their days were a regimen of systematic dehumanization. They were not fed food. A nutrient paste, tasting of ash and sadness, was pumped directly into their stomachs through tubes they were forced to swallow each morning. They were not allowed to speak. The first time Tanisha tried to whisper Saniya’s name, a jolt of electricity from her collar threw her to the floor, convulsing. They learned to communicate in silence, with their eyes.
The torture was a performance, and the audience was global. High-definition cameras, hidden in the dark, domed ceiling of the dungeon, streamed every moment to the highest-paying subscribers. Basheer and Abhay were given complimentary lifetime access. They would watch, sometimes together, sometimes alone, masturbating to the suffering of their own daughters, who they now saw only as the ultimate proof of their power and ideology.
Each session had a theme. One day, it was “Purity.” The girls were forced onto their knees. Their heads were shaved clean. Then, using a thin, heated metal wire, a professional torturer, a man known only as “The Artisan,” meticulously and slowly removed every single hair from their bodies, from their eyebrows to the fine down on their arms. The smell of burning hair filled the room as they screamed into the gags that had been forced into their mouths.
Another day was “Obedience.” They were strapped to two wooden crosses, facing each other. The Artisan would approach one, say Tanisha, with a cane. He would look at Saniya and say, “If you make a sound, I will gouge out her eye.” He would then strike Tanisha’s breasts with the cane, the wet smacks echoing in the chamber. Tanisha would writhe and scream into her gag, tears streaming down her face, while Saniya watched, forced into silence, her own body trembling with the effort of not making a sound, her muscles cramping from the restraint. Then he would turn to Saniya and look at Tanisha. “Now, your turn to be silent.” The process would repeat, for hours, until both girls were just quivering, sobbing masses of welts and bruises.
Their minds began to fracture. The constant pain, the sleep deprivation, the lack of any human kindness wore them down. They forgot the sun. They forgot what it felt like to be full. They forgot the names of their mothers. They only knew the cold stone, the bite of the steel, the searing pain, and the sight of the other girl suffering. They began to hate each other. They saw in the other’s face the reflection of their own agony, and it was an unbearable sight. When one was punished, the other would feel a flicker of relief that it wasn’t her, followed by a wave of self-loathing so profound it felt like a physical blow.
Their final transformation was “The Union.” They were taken from their crosses. Their collars were removed and replaced with a single, heavier steel yoke, forcing them to stand side-by-side, their necks and shoulders locked together. They were forced onto the metal sawhorse, their asses high in the air, their backs arched painfully by the yoke. The Artisan brought out two massive, motorized dildos, coated in a stinging, mentholated gel.