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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 1) MF caution
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Date: Mon, 23 Jul 2007 05:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=201.txt?=" begin>

This is a fictional story depicting images of consensual rape and
torture. Don't read if these are likely to offend, or if you are
not an adult.


The Governor
By Grim Williams

email:   grim_williams a yahoo . com

Copyright 2007. All rights reserved.

Chapter One : "Miss Cecily Freeman, Director of Psychology"



"Do you think you could torture a woman, Mr. Pendrill? A
beautiful, arrogant and conceited young lady?"

It was such an outlandish, puerile enquiry.

It was a great grand daddy, a monster of such overwhelming
girth and consequence that the gallant and highly decorated
Lieutenant Howard Pendrill felt compelled to consider it
studiously, stiffly, and somewhat open mouthed. He puckered
his brow and paused, visibly wrong footed.

"I'm sorry?" he mumbled, stumbling over his words. "What did
you say?"

The reason for his overreaction wasn't because he was naive,
simple minded or prudish. He wasn't. In fact, he was a
proverbial man of the world - athletic, manly - although, in
more recent times he'd limited his bedtime gymnastics to a
woman named Lucy Caldwell, of whom we shall learn more during
the course of this story.

He appeared hesitant and awkward because he'd never imagined a
sexy, attractive professional woman conjuring such a
sensational question without preamble or introduction.

It was bizarre.

The aforesaid woman sat smoldering in front of him on the far
side of a glass topped table, smiling and teasing him with her
pungent, perfumed femininity. She appeared calm and fresh,
flicking her corn brown hair from the edge of her brow and
waiting impatiently for an answer.

"A lady, Mr. Pendrill," she repeated wryly, pursing her lips
and tapping gently on the glass with the lead of a pencil.
"It's that simple. Could you torture her?"

Her name was Cecily Freeman, or at least, that's what it said
on the patinized plaque hanging from the door of her office:

Miss Cecily Freeman. Director of Psychology.

Those were the words, although when you bore in mind her
profession, you comprehended that her name was undoubtedly an
alias - a cover. She was undoubtedly called Penelope or Susan
on her birth certificate, or Jane or Samantha, or something
exotic like Amilie or Yasmin; but a name so totally unlike
Cecily that it might even be guessable.

But then, as Howard reflected, the job description was also
undoubtedly a cover. Why should her title of Director of
Psychology be any more credible than her name?

Everything about her, he decided, was smoke, lies, mirrors and
deception! In fact, in summary: fiction.

All Howard could be certain of was that she was bright, breezy
and cheerfully poised on the edge of her steel chair. She was
proffering her cleavage in the general direction of his eyes
and threatening to topple from her stool in an ungainly,
undignified heap. Yet, she didn't and that was her power. The
allure and proximity of a male made her lean towards him
dangerously, and yet she was detached. She was calm. She was
thrusting her swollen breasts and stretching her toes, flexing
them luxuriantly as if she were relaxing in an end-of-day
bath.

It was those tiny things that Howard noticed: like her toes.
Why was she stretching her toes? People don't normally do
that, not unless there's a reason. Her toes jerked in
repetitive rhythms and when coupled with the way she was
pushing her cleavage at him, Howard fancied that she was in
heat, lost in an erotic fantasy of her own making - in a dream
in which she was surrounded by flickering candles.

Howard's imagination became equal to its challenge. He
imagined a canvas and on it, he saw Miss Cecily Freeman with a
lover. Her lover was a man with a thick, rugged cock and he
was towering above her, while Miss Freeman was on her knees
with her hands and arms tucked behind her back. Her head was
bowed. She was staring at the floor and mumbling promises of
loyal obedience. She opened her mouth and - keeping her eyes
lowered - she licked his knob. She prepared to take him to the
back of her throat, and yet the submission didn't make her
weaker, but stronger. She'd grown from a cub to a lioness, and
she was yet growing in stature.

Howard mumbled faintly, still staring at her toes and
wondering what it meant that she was flexing them so
dangerously. Then, gracefully, he looked up at her face, and
he smiled. "In what way do you mean - torture a lady?"

"Don't play coy with me, Mr. Pendrill," she griped miserably,
and there was something hypnotically suggestive about the way
she twisted the pencil through her fingers, and about the way
she eased the glistening charcoal into her sharpener and
turned it with a smooth, deliberate roll of her wrists, round
and around; and about the way she blew the loose spiral
shavings into a white, ceramic ash tray.

It hinted of sex. It whispered of evil and declared that she
was a tease. It murmured seductively that she was willing,
dangerous and wet, and that she wanted to be laid.

I'm hot, it said.

Forget who I am and screw me, it said.

Hump me, it said.

The cry became a beat, a continuous mind-numbing rhythm.

Toss me onto the table, rip off my clothes and force me to
surrender. Then fuck me.

Rip off my clothes.

Forget who I am.

Tear off my panties and pump me.

Pump me.

She was taunting him, tempting him. It was the pencil. In and
out it slid: twisting and turning and playing the spider with
the fetish for flies.

Don't ask, but beat me. Make me.

It was a trap. A snare. And if Howard had have done those
things he'd have been a goner for it wasn't for real. It was a
fake and a fraud, a heavy introduction into a covert world in
which she was a mistress and he was a student, for she was no
more a hungry sex crazed lioness than she was Director of
Psychology or her name was Miss Cecily Freeman. She was a spy,
and in that ancient and dishonourable profession she was a
master.

Jesus.

Her long dizzy eyelashes trailed seductively across her face -
teasing and flirting and pretending to be something she
wasn't. She laughed and murmured and joked, and her lashes
turned into fluttering fans, like those of a geisha,
stuttering out thoughts and desires while hinting at more
sinful pleasures within. "A man like you, Mr Pendrill," she
cooed with a sharp roll of her shoulders, and she twisted her
pencil and bit lightly into its lead centre with her teeth.
"Surely you know about torturing young women?"

She was enjoying this game. She was a fox, and what else? What
was she inside, this mysterious, enigmatic Miss Cecily
Freeman?

Howard peered thoughtfully through the translucent table at
her skirt and saw the fashionable black hose and the swirl of
her toes, demurely visible through the dark smoky glass, never
stationary but always drifting and swirling; and he paused and
then smiled, imagining how it would be if he fucked her.

Howard had a strong overactive imagination, and in it, he
imagined whipping off her skirt and confiscating her panties.
He imagined the soft smoothness of her bulge, and he touched
it, and caressed it. Then he lifted her up against a wall,
holding her thighs and supporting her weight. Her breath was
soft and sweet on his cheeks, shallow and expectant; and like
that, he rammed her. He gave her the fix she so needed; for
Howard was convinced that beneath the many bluffs and counter
bluffs; she was a woman in need of a cock.

"Screw me!" she wailed: her hands beating frantically at his
chest, and her nipples were tender and swollen into rocks. She
shuddered at his manly physique, and he rammed her box and
filled it, and her cunt screamed and sucked at his cock: "Oh
Lord! Oh God! Oh yes! Screw me! Screw me good!"

It was a nice, agreeable fantasy, but it was a fiction, a lie,
just as she was. She couldn't stop him from indulging his
fantasies, but that's what they were: dreams, fancies and
trinkets, and it begged the question: who was the real Miss
Cecily Freeman? What was she like when she was away from this
room?

He studied her legs: well muscled, with slim firm ankles and
feet covered in luxurious black stocking. He noticed the
motif, a royal coat of arms, carefully stitched into the nylon
with fine gold thread two inches from the top, right on the
middle of the seam. He studied it carefully and he frowned.
Was it a clue? A red herring? Who was she? "If I can torture a
lady as beautiful as you are," he thought quietly. "Then where
will we be? What truths might we discover and what fireworks
might we ignite, and how much better I would know you."

Cecily reached for her skirt and she pulled it down across the
motif, hiding it, but her skirt wouldn't stay down. It was
polyester and it bounced up her legs and once again the gold
pattern was visible.

Howard's frown darkened.

She tugged at the hem again, feeling the power of Howard's
lascivious gaze and wanting to embrace it but unsure that she
should: not now, not here. "Mr. Pendrill," she exclaimed,
looping back in her thoughts, lurching from defense to attack
in one easy movement. "My question is an easy one, or it
should be if you listened. Could you torture a young adult
female? Could you staple her tits to a tree and dislocate her
joints? Could you lower her into a barrel of hot, sulphurous
bitumen, having undressed and shaved her first? Yes - Mr.
Pendrill: could you overturn that barrel and roll her in goose
feathers and cover her from head to toe, and watch the bitumen
harden? What do you say, Mr. Pendrill? Think of it. Imagine
it: the pain, the panic. I need to know. Could you do it?"

She lifted her chin and glowered at him aggressively, her mood
suddenly brightening and brimming with assurance. "You don't
expect such nasty talk from a woman, do you?" she gloated,
crossing her legs and tossing them high into the air so that
he could see unexpected flashes of white skin. "You expect us
to be meek, mild and tawdrily shocked. You expect us to be
naive and behave according to our feminine stereotypes and
snivel and weep. But not so. We're built of sterner stronger
stuff and we conquer our fears! I'm a woman strong and bold
enough to be tortured, Mr. Pendrill, as you shall discover -
but, I wonder, are you up to the job?"

She uncrossed her legs again, slowly, parting her feet,
followed by her knees and then by her thighs - slowly -
allowing him to see all the way to the gusset. Howard watched
her every inch of the way, his gaze climbing with her skirt to
the join at the top. He saw her stockings and that tiny motif.
It was a royal crown and two lions. He saw the white of her
thighs, and the colour of her panties, and that they were
green.

She held her legs open for him, showing him how easily she
could handle her shyness.

"I could do it!" Howard muttered dumbly, unsure of what he was
saying, but reflecting that her panties were green.

Here she was. Miss Cecily Freeman. And she was wearing green
panties, and she was trembling.

God.

Howard's throat became dry and his mind lost focus. What was
going on here? And what was this strange mercurial talk? Tar?
Feathers? What sweet depravity lay buried undiscovered in
Cecily's psyche, waiting to be tapped?

Staple? Shyness?

Who was this enigmatic Miss Cecily Freeman?

"You're polite and pleasantly spoken," she inhaled deeply,
holding tightly to the table, gripping it and her knuckles
becoming white. "But what are you really like?"  She held her
breath and closed her eyes, and her body shook, and she kept
her legs open so that Howard could see that there was a dark
patch deepening and spreading across the crotch of her
panties.

"Oh Jesus!" Howard mumbled, panicking as he stared at the
wetness. What was this? What was she doing? She was shaking.
"Oh dear fuck!"

It was too much! Concentration! He had to think about Lucy:
Lucy Caldwell, his girlfriend. Concentration was important. He
had to think about Lucy in bed - tall, lanky Lucy, olive
skinned - smiling and teasing and stripping for him. Tall,
lanky Lucy with feathers in her hair, holding him tightly and
whispering and telling him that she wanted to suck his dick,
but he'd have to wait until after they were married because
she had morals and she was a Christian. He tried to
concentrate, but it wasn't working: Lucy's face wasn't clear
and her tongue was tired and asleep. She was unfocussed and
distant, and she wouldn't suck him, or even strip for him, and
the door between them was closed, and locked. She was a
Christian.

Oh shit.

"What are you like beneath the surface, Mr. Pendrill?" Cecily
inquired, leaning forward and bubbling her white froth, her
eyes fluttering against Howard's will. She grabbed her knees
and forced them apart, for they were closing and they had a
mind of their own. Cecily shuddered, and she was shaking. "Are
you an average shit who enjoys embarrassing women, or are you
a man with resolve?"

She could feel him looking, staring at the stickiness staining
her panties, and her white flesh and the thread stitched to
her stockings. "Can you be strong when there's a need to be
strong?" she rasped, knowing that the stickiness was spreading
across her gusset, and her breath was becoming faster.

Howard stared at the stain, and he knew instinctively what
this woman craved. It wasn't an educated guess or even
intuition. It wasn't a lie or deception. He could see by the
evidence of his eyes.

She wanted to be screwed - she needed it - to be feathered,
tarred, to have her tits nailed to a tree and to know there
was nothing she could do to stop it.

God.

His cock unwound.

Oh dear Jesus. Where was Lucy? He needed Lucy! His sweetheart!

He needed her to save him; else he was lost. He had morals.

Lucy Caldwell. Aged 22. 34 inch bust. 34 inch hips. 23 inch
waist. Height 5 feet 10 inches. Weight 125 pounds. Black hair.
Swaying. Stripping.

First her blouse; next her skirt.

God.

Dear Lucy.

Where was Lucy?

Now her stockings, first this one and then that one, and she
was looking at him demurely; promising to take off her bra and
her panties.

Howard's cock lifted its head and stretched, searching for
Lucy, but all it found was the enigmatic Cecily Freeman,
Director of Psychology.

Think of it! A tarred and feathered woman with her tits nailed
to a tree!

The image threatened to combust.

God.

Lucy was forgotten and he imagined it: Cecily was bellowing at
him, arching her chest and screaming as a nail ripped through
her bust. "Staple - as with a staple gun," she bellowed. "And
fat juicy tits - the objects we women use to entrap the
gullible sex. Let's breathe it, Mr. Pendrill! Let's allow the
image to fester awhile. Let's savour how this poor lady is
feeling - how frightened and tearful and scared, how her
thoughts turn sour as the nail penetrates her flesh. She's
humiliated and unclothed. Nude, with men around her; looking
at her, teasing and they're full of their ridicule. That's bad
enough, but now she's being lowered into the barrel. The tar
bubbles and clings to her flesh and it's burning and
impossible to remove. It's in her hair and under her nails,
and it's seeping into the most intimate cracks. It's gooey and
hot. Oh God, it's so hot! It sticks to her face, and it covers
her hands. It's tickling her ears and staining her cheeks,
gluing her lips. It's thick on her breasts and her nipples and
it makes them blister, and it's heavy, weighing her down: and
dripping. It coats her ass and her legs, and it hangs from her
nose, and it's heavy. All the same, there's a warmth in her
groin...

The men are laughing, joking, and they tip her into a tank of
feathers and roll her into an undignified sprawl. They hold
her down, and the feathers cling to her hair and stick to her
face; to her arms and her breasts. The quills tickle her skin
and they prick between the legs. They're in her mouth and up
her nose, carpeting her back and clothing her waist and lining
her front. They're in between her toes, and the tar is
hardening and she can't wipe it off. Water won't budge it so
what will she do? Everything is sticking to the feathers, the
tar, her hair, even the blisters: and where should she go?
She's out of her mind and her hair hangs in plaits, ugly and
inflexible, much of it sticking to her head.

Then strange unknown men push her around, teasing and taking
pictures. They make her pose in unseemly positions. They
spread her legs and hold them so they can get a snap of the
feathers protruding from her cunt. They look at it and frown.
They don't like the first picture and so they take another.
This one's better, so now they bring out the nails. Long ones.
Six inches long. God. She sees them with dread and she wonders
how she'll endure them. She finds herself pushed towards the
tree and a cold hand pinning her back while the nail is driven
deep into her meat, and all at once an unspeakable agony
shatters her thinking.

She can't move. She's stuck: impaled. This is it.

Oh God. What now? Will she be left like this for an hour? A
day? How long? She's crying. She's irrational and emotional,
and blurting out garbage for the nails are puncturing her
flesh and it hurts. Oh Christ, how it hurts! The pain! This
alone saps her sanity, her endurance, her energy, but in
addition to the pain there's the humiliation, for the men are
slapping her buttocks and tickling her feet, and she worries
whether her tits will be scarred.

Will they heal? Will the marks ever go? From the nails? The
blisters? Will she ever be normal?

Will the tar ever go?

The men around her are enjoying her pain. They're making jokes
about the tar, the feathers, and the shape of their handprints
on her ass.

"Imagine it, Mr. Pendrill," Cecily hissed, and her fingers
clawed uselessly at the table, and her face turned red and her
voice became hoarse and nervous. Her eyes were focused like
slits, for she was imagining the tar and the feathers.

She was imagining a cock in her ass.

"This woman cries to distract herself from the pain, and she
wonders who the men are who look on and jeer her. What are
their names? Where are they from? What is it that drives them
to watch her? Are they married? With children? Do they have
girlfriends? Do these women know that they come here to watch
her writhing and suffering in her feathers? Would they
approve?

"She looks at their cocks: long, hard, and so horribly thick.

"Oh Jesus. The pain is nauseating. Its spreading from her bust
to the rest of her chest. Her universe is reduced to these two
unwieldy nails. She wraps her bituminous legs round the tree
and hugs it for comfort, rocking it and hoping to escape the
terrible sickening pain. Her arms are embracing the tree too.
What are their names? she sobs. Where are they from? She
repeats these questions until they become like a mantra. Oh
God. Who are they? Where are they from? What are they after?
Do they want sex? Humilation? Pain? Will they rape her? Surely
they must. They have to, but she prays that they won't, that
there won't be any disease or pregnancy. They'll rape her.
God. They must; and she's never been raped.

"She hugs the tree tighter and calculates the days since her
last period, and she wonders whether she's fertile or lucky.
Not that. The pain is too much! Oh God. Her arms and thighs
are covered in tar, and it's burning her skin, and the
feathers are tickling between her legs. They cover her mound,
her thighs and her breasts. They're in her face, her hair, her
eyes.

"Jesus.

"Maybe they won't rape her since she's covered in tar. Maybe
the tar will squick them, and she consoles herself by clinging
to that hope. Maybe.

"She frames her questions again, unable to think. Who are
they? What are their names? How many times will they rape her?
Do they have girlfriends?

"Would their girlfriends like to watch? Would they be jealous?
Would they be turned on?

"She hugs the tree tighter. Her little clit scrapes against
the bark, and it too is soon covered in tar. Tighter, rocking
back and forth, her tiny desolate whine becomes louder and
louder. Her clit becomes bigger.

"Will they rape her? Surely they must. They will. They have
to, but she prays that they won't.

"Perhaps if she offers them her ass that'll keep them at bay.
Perhaps if she does that then they won't take her pussy.
She'll take them in her mouth if they ask her and she'll
swallow every drop; she'll beg; she'll crawl on her belly
covered in tar and white feathers. If only...

"She doesn't want a child, or babies - or scarred tits.

"She pleads with the devil and makes trades, supplicating him
to leave her a future. Imagine it, Mr. Pendrill. She's trading
a humiliating rape as long as there's no child and her tits
remain unmarred. Imagine it. Think of it. Think of a bare tar-
covered clit rubbing along the bark getting hotter and darker,
and then a long sharp quill piercing the flesh. Can you see
how it sits?"

Howard nodded. "I think so," he said.

"You think so, Mr. Pendrill? Is that right? You think so? I
doubt that you do. But you will. You will. You've seen tits, I
suppose. And caressed them as well? I bet you have. Pretty
girls wait by the gates for the soldiers to pass by. They
hoist up their skirts and lift their tops, baring their
breasts. No decorum; no modesty; no future. Ordinary girls
competing for favours and for men. Ordinary girls deserving of
torture. Deserving to be hurt. Deserving to be raped. You've
seen them, I suppose, Mr. Pendrill? You've seen them?"

Howard wouldn't answer because he didn't want to be thinking
about pretty girls standing by the gates. He wanted to be
thinking of Lucy twisting and singing and dancing the seven
veils. He wanted to be loyal.

Deer lovely Lucy. 34 inch bust. 34 inch hips. 23 inch waist.
Deep olive skin. Swaying. Stripping.

First her blouse; next her skirt, looking at him demurely;
promising to take off her bra and her panties, but later,
after they were married.

She was a Christian.

Howard's mind shifted abruptly and he saw her practicing at
the keyboard, her parents in the kitchen eating sandwiches and
her brother Daniel playing on his computer.

He'd been lucky to find her, to have her...

Lucy struck the notes over and over, and she struggled to find
the keys. She was wearing a lemon top, blue jeans and fluffy
black slippers.

"I've been practicing," she said.

"Practicing?" he queried.

She nodded coyly, blushing, and she looked down shyly,
blushing and peering at her lap. Lucy was a trained singer and
she'd qualified with honours from her college, but controversy
had followed her and stuck to her and now she couldn't find
work.

Oh God, she was sexy!

She pushed the hair from her eyes, and bit her bottom lip,
wanting to speak but cowering from the act. "I've got the part
of Salome in the production of Richard Strauss," she said
eventually.

Howard congratulated her, but the reference meant nothing to
him.

Lucy stopped playing on the keyboard and she looked at him
hard. "It's the one in which Salome dances for King Herod,"
she said fiercely, hoping that he'd understand what she was
saying, but he didn't. The inference sailed blindly over his
head.

Howard wasn't comprehending. He congratulated her again, and
so Lucy added a second, more laboured explanation, She
coughed. "It's the dance of the seven veils," she said coyly.
"You've heard of that? You must have done. It's a striptease -
the one role in opera where the fat lady doesn't sing, because
a performer's looks are more important than her voice."

Howard paused, sensing that Lucy was awaiting his reaction,
that her hand was playing unconsciously with her top, that
there was a lace, and beneath it was a bra, and she was tense,
very tense. "The opera was banned for decades because of the
eroticism of the piece," she added hurriedly to cover his
silence, once again brushing back her hair and playing with
the lace. "It's a bible tale, about sixteen year old Salome
and how her mother uses her to gain revenge on the man John
the Baptist because he refuses to sleep with her. She knows
that her husband, King Herod, is infatuated with Salome, and
so she makes Salome perform a striptease for Herod, and when
Herod offers to favor her, she asks for the gift of John the
Baptizer's head. In the Opera, by the end of the dance Salome
is naked and she sings to the decapitated head of John the
Baptist, kissing his lips."

Howard looked at Lucy hesitantly: uncertain. "You mean she has
no clothes at all?" he pressed.

Lucy blushed, and nodded. "That's right. By the end of the
dance I have no clothes at all. I dance for the entertainment
of the King and his ministers."

Howard's expression clouded into a scowl. His face became
black, thunderous: "I don't like that," he said. "It sounds
gross... I wouldn't look. I'd be jealous..."

"It is gross." Lucy agreed with a fast, nervous nod. "It's
licentious, and some people find it erotic; but it's art and
art is often licentious and erotic."

She leaned towards him, and her hand slid across his groin.
"Tonight we're going to the theatre, Howard. There's to be a
rehearsal. I have some ideas and a costume but I require some
feedback... feedback from a man I trust. I need to know what
works and what doesn't, and your cock will be my critic."

Howard hesitated, choosing his words. "Lucy, I mean - Lucy -
let's get this straight. You have a conscience - that's what
you always tell me - and you won't even sleep with me. You're
a Christian, you say. How many times have you said it? You
dress conservatively and you condemn the women that don't:
those girls who stand by the camp and pull up their skirts. In
which case, I don't understand how you can take such a part.
How can you behave like a cheap stripper?"

"Howard." Lucy was naive, young, open and honest in the way
that she spoke, and yet she was caressing his cock and liking
its hardness. "It's not me undressing on stage. It's my
character: Salome. Actresses do it all the time. They take off
their clothes. Don't you see that? It's a part: opera. If it
bothers you then you don't have to watch me, but I'm
determined to do it. I must. I need the work!"

Howard looked at her, weighing her determination, and then he
sighed, and a few seconds later, again, a second time. "If
you're set in your mind, then I'll be your critic," he
relented.

"And are you sure, Howard? You won't be jealous of the strange
men looking at my tits and pussy, because they'll look. I'll
make them look. That's the purpose of my dance, to make them
crave my body and yearn to fuck me. I'll be like someone else,
someone you won't recognise as being your girlfriend."

Howard hesitated because he was already jealous and that
jealousy could only get worse. Was he sure about this? He
would have to live with whatever he decided. "I'll be your
critic," he repeated.

"You're certain? Howard? The producers will shoot artwork for
the publicity and they'll create dirty, mucky posters to
advertise the show. They'll show my tits, for certain, and
maybe a lot more, maybe my butt. I'll be visible all over
town. Are you happy with that?"

"I'll be your critic," Howard said once again, grinding his
teeth. "When I've made up my mind, I do as I say. Now let's
drive to your bloody theatre."

"Yes, Howard. Thank you, so much."


***

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