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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 2) MF caution
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Date: Tue, 24 Jul 2007 09:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=202.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 Two : "Average Sized Tits"



"Mr. Pendrill," Cecily frowned, glancing at him seriously.
"Are you listening to me?"

Howard glanced up. "Of course," he stammered.

Cecily double blinked. She raised a cool, lazy eyebrow, and
her face hardened. "Are you sure, Mr. Pendrill? You don't
appear to be listening."

"Yes, of course I'm listening!"

But Howard wasn't listening. He was thinking: dreaming. He
was lost in his local theatre with Lucy on stage; a packed
house around her, and the excited buzz of opening night.
Lucy was acting the part of Salome, and she was wearing a
long dress and sandals, a belt round her waist, and beads
and baubles hanging from anything and anywhere that would
support them. They were looped round her arms, her neck, her
waist. They were attached to her ears and they were
decorating her hair. They were hanging from her like
delicate fingers of glass. They swayed with her movements
and jerked to her rhythms, although not for long, for she
was dancing provocatively and removing her jewellery and
belt.

She was a singer, and she was singing her arias while
simultaneously loosening the ties of her dress and slipping
it free. And then, abruptly, the mood changed and the tempo
slowed. It became more sensual and she was kissing the grey
murdered head of the Baptist and disrobing of a long linen
underskirt; thrusting the disembodied mouth between her
legs; tossing back her neck and gulping down hot air. Her
face was flushed, and soon she was disrobing of a white
linen chemise and exposing her bare breasts, gripping them
tightly and squeezing until they hurt; dancing around,
almost prancing; and then unwinding from a length of white
cloth, a bandage that swathed her hips, unwinding from it
until it fell from her body and there was nothing left but
her nakedness.

Howard had previously imagined that there'd be some trick,
an ingenious curtain behind which she could hide; a subtle
body stocking or a dimming of the lights; some device to
soften the pornography of Lucy's performance.

But there was nothing.

There were no tricks, no gimmicks. With the single exception
of a little subtle body makeup on her breasts and
delineating her pussy, it was just total, abject raw naked
sex. There Lucy was dancing in front of her friends, her
family and strangers alike - her breasts, nipples, pussy
hair and everything on show - and Howard's cock stood up
proud like a rock, as it should. Her performance was awesome
and despite her promises and teasing, it was the first time
Howard had seen her truly, terrifyingly naked.

Okay, so there was red gloss daubed on her nipples and black
pencil to define the shape of her pussy lips, but
effectively she was naked, and the makeup only served to
highlight that fact.

"Mr Pendrill? Are you listening to me?" Cecily repeated, and
Howard coughed, distracted and befuddled by the images
playing in his mind. "Yes... yes, of course," he muttered.
"I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Mr Pendrill. I'm disappointed. If you refuse me the
courtesy of listening, we should finish our interview
immediately. We're here for your benefit, not mine, and if
you're not interested..."

Howard smiled sweetly and hoped to placate her, but he was
thinking about Lucy. Beautiful sexy Lucy, kneeling on stage
and singing the part of Salome with the cold grey mouth of
her dead lover perched between her open legs, and his cold
lips kissing her private parts and bringing her to arousal.
"I'm sorry," Howard apologized, rubbing the side of his
head, feeling the stabbings of a migraine. "I will listen.
I promise. I will."

Cecily looked at him irritably and scowled. She couldn't
abide Howard's bad manners, or any man's bad manners, and
although she was gracious and she accepted the apology, his
card was now marked and he'd better be careful. "We're
supposed to be soldiers," she savaged him ruthlessly. "I may
be a woman and you may be a shit with a cock, but we do
things the military way here, and when one of us talks, the
other one listens, Mr Pendrill. Is that clear? I may be
dressed and you may be naked and embarrassed and feeling
very hard done by, but that's life. Get over it, Mr
Pendrill. You don't want to show me your dick, but that's
tough: I'm your superior and you do as I say. There's no
room for modesty in a spy, Mr Pendrill, so get used to it:
shit happens. Female agents are called upon to disrobe when
captured by the enemy, and although we quibble and complain,
it goes with the territory. We endure the embarrassment
because it's either that or we have to update our CV and
find another profession. The interrogators don't ask us if
we're married or have children or a boyfriend. They don't
ask us about our husband. Neither are they interested
in our PMT, or diet regimes, or whether we've just started a
period. The enemy isn't bothered about whether we're taking
protection, have waxed our legs or feel uncomfortable with
the shape of our body. 'Strip', they tell us. 'Bend over',
they say. 'Open your legs, spread your lips, take our cocks
and shut up'. That's what they say. 'Faster', they say. 'In,
out; and keep thinking of your country', they say. That's
the lot of a woman, Mr Pendrill. It's what we do, so why not
a man? A man like you? So stop being sorry for yourself and
stand tall like a soldier and no more of this nonsense. I'm
staring at your silly cock and I want it to get hard and
long and decent. So you'll listen and nod and do as I tell
you. Is that understood, Mr fucking Lieutenant? I want to see
an erection."

Howard swallowed hard. "Yes, mam. It's understood. I
apologize for not listening."

Lucy picked up her pencil and she licked its end and she
contemplated Howard's nudity and very specifically his cock,
doing so provocatively so as if to unnerve him. She leaned
forward, sighing melodramatically in mock pleasure, letting
her feet sway romantically between them in circles of eight.

But it was a lie, of course; deceit. Inside she was coldness
and air. "I undergo interrogation resistance training twice
a year," she added, but her annoyance had subsided now, and
she was instead revelling in her position of power. She was
staring at his cock. It was shy, embarrassed and limp, like
a cut flower left without water, but she was staring at it
nevertheless, just as if it were erect, and she was 
ignoring his face. Why? She liked to tease and torment men, 
to make their cocks grow tall at times and places where it 
made them uncomfortable. She appeared innocent and naive on 
the surface but she wasn't. She was a tigress; and her teeth 
were eager and they could tear you to shreds.

"My male interrogators take me to a cold, bare warehouse
with dirty brick walls and no windows," she added while
playing with her top. "They tell me to undress. 'Strip',
they say. 'Dance', they say. 'Spread your lips and show us
your box. It's embarrassing, Mr Pendrill. It's not nice.
They line us up and bend us over and plunge their hands into
our slits. It happens, Mr Pendrill; and we have to endure it
because it's our job and what else can we do? Female spies
have to be strong because interrogators play games with us,
and we're forced to resist them. So, turn the tables, Mr
Pendrill, and imagine that you've been captured by an enemy
force, and there's a female interrogator who wants to
torment you. Me, Mr Pendrill. Is the rationale any
different?"

She smiled, and made a show of staring at his limp cock; and
she leaned forward and lifted the male flesh with her
pencil, weighing it carefully and holding it at half mast.
"Sing to me about your experience of tits, Mr Pendrill," she
said with voluble disappointment at the flabbiness of his
dick. "I want to hear it."

Howard willed for his cock to get harder or stronger or
smarter; to combat his embarrassment and her displeasure,
but it wouldn't. He wanted it to do something under Cecily's
gaze and attention, if not swelling to a tall, raging hard-
on, at least to feign an arrogant disinterest. He wished
that it would go up or down - he didn't mind which - as long
as it did something, but it wouldn't. It was caught in two
minds. It stayed ambivalent, and Cecily kept staring at it,
and prodding it with her pencil, and leaning towards it,
getting closer and almost falling out of her blouse in her
attempts to arouse it.

"Let's start again," she purred, rolling her wrists and
slamming her pencil into its sharpener. Howard grunted at
the violence of the motion; and she laughed at him, an open
lilting taunting laugh. "We're discussing the torture of a
woman's breasts, Mr Pendrill," she said. "And very
specifically the torture of a young lady's prize morsels.
I've suggested that you may have caressed a fair few of
these objects and you've confirmed this. Isn't this so, Mr
Pendrill?"

Howard admitted it, although he was suspicious. "Of course."
he grunted weakly, sliding his hands in front of his groin.
"I've caressed a few tits in my time."

Cecily flicked his hands away from his tackle with the tip
of her pencil, and her face was a picture of mirth and
mockery combined. She stared at his cock once again, sighing
weakly. "Big tits, Mr Pendrill?"

Howard nodded miserably. "Yes, mam. Big ones."

"And what about little ones?" she teased him, pointing at
his inadequacy and prodding it again with the end of her
pencil. "Do you like flat tits that hover like pancakes with
teats on? Fried eggs, they're known as. Mr Pendrill?"

"Yes. I mean..." he flustered: confused, for she was
touching his dick with her pencil, caressing his scrotum:
lifting it, dropping it; and he didn't like that at all. It
was making him angry. "I don't understand."

"You understand perfectly, Mr Pendrill - but I'll explain. I
have a brother named Jake, and he was seventeen once when he
visited my room uninvited, Mr Pendrill. Do I make myself
clear? I was two years younger than him and a late developer
and embarrassed by my shape. At the time I had no breasts of
significance and that made me self-conscious, and I resorted
to padded bras because they created the illusion that nature
had been working, when it hadn't. But that day I was
stripped bare. Before I'd cottoned on to what he was about
and planning, my brother made some feeble excuse and he
rushed through the door and into my room. He tied my hands
with rope, and then my legs, and although I protested and
ordered him to stop, he said it was okay, and that I should
chill out, because he was thinking of training to be a
teacher, and he was going to teach me about sex. I repeated
that he should let me go, and although I wasn't panicking at
this point because I was modestly dressed, I was unhappy and
angry. I knew he wasn't going to university, and he wasn't
training to be a teacher, and I didn't like being tied up.
But even as I protested, he was attaching my bound limbs to
my bed.

"Soon I was spread-eagled. I couldn't move. I was alone in
the house, in my room, and there was no one there for me to
call. He was my brother and at that moment I assumed that I
trusted him, but even so, I was scared, because I didn't
understand what he was doing any more. What was going on in
his head? Then, just as he finished tying my hands to the
bed, he said he was going to undress me, and when he said
that, I freaked out. I screamed at him and told him he was
foolish and that he would get us both into serious trouble,
and that we'd be arrested and he'd go to prison, but what
was scaring me most was that by undressing me, he would
learn the secret of my tits. I begged him to stop. I
pleaded, I implored him, but he wouldn't listen. Instead, he
tightened the rope so that my arms and legs were stretched
and wouldn't move. He made sure I was helpless, and then he
got to work on my clothes. I was panicking. I was still at
school and wearing my school uniform and his hands were all
over it, unfastening my blouse and my cotton pleated skirt.

"My brother said that it was his ambition to be a biology
teacher because sex was part of the syllabus and he wanted
to teach sex. He said that his classes would have a
practical element because he'd found that this was the best
way of learning a subject: any subject; and he would choose
a girl from his class and tie her and let the boys undress
her and touch where they wanted. He kept talking such
rubbish even as he opened the buttons of my blouse and
unfastened the belt of my skirt; and I would have loved to
have been that girl in his class if it weren't for my tits.

"So I screamed for my parents and I fought against the
ropes. I shrieked, for I knew that at any moment he would
discover my secret, that I was a girl with no tits, and I
was so embarrassed by this that I was wetting myself. I
struggled and swore, and I was in such a state that I could
no longer think.

"Under my skirt I was wearing black stockings and there was
also a knotted tie around my neck. I remember it clearly. He
stood there panting and staring at my chest. There was such
rage about him and he was an animal, and not my brother.
Then he reached down, ignoring my school tie and he went
straight for my blouse, pulling it open, tearing at it, and
there, he could see my padded bra.

"I felt so bad that I just died. I felt humiliated,
abnormal; and he was at me like a dog at the scent, and he
left my skirt and my tie, and he was clawing at my bra.

"And then I realised - and I couldn't believe it - even as
he pulled my bra without bothering to unfasten it - there
was one violent tug - and he was staring - God - he was
turned on by my breasts. I remember it. He was so hard. I
remember the almighty tent in his pants and his face
glowing red, and he was blabbering on and on about my tits,
and suddenly, he was sucking them and touching them, and his
hand was groping under my skirt and into my panties, and he
was fingering me; and all the while, he was teasing me about
my pancakes and telling me how hot he was and that he was
going to fuck me.

"He kissed my breasts and made the teats stand up, and then
he bit them and left the impression of his teeth. It was so
hard that I cried. And as I cried, he said he was going to
gobble my nipples and that I should say au revoir to them.
He was unreasoning and volatile and not listening and he was
biting my nubs so hard that I believed him. I was frightened
that my baby teats would be ruined because he was biting so
hard. And then he said again he was going to fuck me, and
that I deserved to be fucked for making him hard. He said
that if I promised not to tell anyone I could keep my
girlish nubs, but only if I said he could fuck me.

"I was in tears and a virgin and I didn't want to be fucked
by my brother, and I told him that; but he grabbed the tie
round my neck and tightened it, and he pulled it so hard
that I couldn't breathe, and I was heaving for air and
struggling and going red and thinking about my nipples. And
he jerked on the tie. He kept fingering my clit and pinching
my nipples and preventing me from breathing, so that finally
he forced me to say that I would fuck him.

"I had no choice. His cock was smelling of cum; and he was
hot and on fire for my pussy, and all the while he talked
about my little pancakes and he was telling me how sexy I
was, and that that was why he wanted to be a teacher, and 
I must be grateful that he wasn't going to bite off my 
teats..."

The pencil hovered motionless above the table as Cecily
brought back these memories of that opaque day with her
brother. The pencil became stationary and quiet. "Do you
like baby tits, Mr Pendrill?" she pondered faintly when
she'd recovered, for the passion had gone from her suddenly.
"Is it a man thing to be aroused by pancakes, because I
admit, I don't see the attraction. Do they turn you on like
they did my brother? Or not? Could you do to a woman what my
brother did to me, because I'm curious to know."

Howard hoped to evade the questions but unfortunately Cecily
wouldn't let go. She was a dog at the scent. "Mr Pendrill,"
she pursued him earnestly. "Don't ignore me. Answer me,
please."

Howard sucked in his breath and held it. Then he
prevaricated and waited some more. But Cecily kept waiting,
and her intense eyes were piercing and impatient, and she
wasn't relenting.

Howard swallowed hard, his mouth dry and uncomfortable.
"Yes," he mumbled eventually, and he sighed, for she was
dragging the words from him and he wondered why was he being
honest with her. "Yes. I like little tits too."

"And you've caressed them, Mr Pendrill? Little ones like
pancakes?"

Howard nodded wretchedly, feeling unease at himself and with
her. "Yes," he admitted dumbly. "Little ones too. Before I
met Lucy I led a frivolous, meaningless life in which sex
was a numbers game - I slept with as many women as I could
and it didn't matter what they looked like or who they were,
as long as I could add them to my score."

"What an experienced man that makes you!" Cecily exclaimed
happily, and she seemed genuinely pleased, puckering her
nose and lifting her pencil. "So if I can be so bold... what
about me? Look at me, Mr Pendrill. I allow it. It's
permitted. Look at my bust. What do you think? You'll
observe that I've grown since that time with my brother, but
not to excess. I have average sized breasts, I think. There
are many women with tits like mine, and we wonder about the
adequacy of our chassis. We're told by the journalists that
men favour big breasted ladies and those who are not so
richly endowed are disadvantaged. This weakens our
confidence, Mr Pendrill, which is why we resort to surgery
and plastic to bolster our confidence. So tell me, given
that you're an experienced man, do you like ordinary,
averagely sized women? Like me? If I were sunbathing in my
bikini in the garden next door and I removed my bra top
because I imagined that I was alone and no one could see me,
would that give you an erection? There you are, peeping at
me through the curtains of the house next door, and you can
see me lying on a sun lounger in the middle of the lawn
wearing a thong and nothing else. What happens next? Do you
get a hard on, Mr Pendrill?"

Howard nodded nervously because that was the truth. In the
past he'd enjoyed many women, and even now, they excited
him, especially if he were to see something he shouldn't. Of
course, in recent times, he'd limited himself to a single,
special woman to whom he'd promised his chastity; the singer
who'd shocked a whole town with a dance of the seven veils.
But even so, it remained a challenge to be faithful to one
woman ignoring all others, because they were beautiful and
they all had something to recommend them; and if Cecily were
lying topless on a sun lounger in the garden next door, he'd
spy on her, and it would be the highlight of his day: Lucy
or no Lucy.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr Pendrill," Cecily confided,
stabbing her pencil into the fleshy hole between her
fingers. "The reason I'm here is because I've been looking
for a man with experience, a man who knows about women and
who can fuck. A man who can stroke a woman in the right
places, and yet, at the end of it, can leave her aching for
more. Do I make myself clear, Mr Pendrill? A man who
understands a woman's needs. He'll tie her in sailing rope
and leave her for hours and days by herself, for this
particular woman is strong and requires much breaking down.
But he has patience and endurance, this man. He has style.
He knows how to torture a woman in ways that extend beyond
pain because he isn't a sadist. He has flair and guile. He
knows how to deal with flighty arrogant women and conquer
their weaknesses; conceited women, and the moody and
headstrong; and he uses this knowledge to drive us to our
knees, to turn us into his slaves and we grovel and beg. He
knows that at the core of even the strongest smartest woman
is the desire to submit to a man and be his slave girl, and
he can achieve it."

Howard coughed.

"Are you this kind of man, Mr Pendrill? A man who can
torture with purpose and for pleasure, and yet can make a
woman respect you far more than she fears you? I believe
from what I've seen that you might be... and I've been
looking for this man for some time."

Howard wanted to agree with her and say yes: he was such a
man. He wanted to enter this strange new world that she was
describing, but he couldn't, for he'd promised Lucy that he
would be faithful. His girlfriend. Age 22. 23 inch waist.
Weight 125 pounds. And he was true to his word.

"I'll be frank," Cecily sighed, glancing dreamily at
Howard's bare chest and then down at his weak flaccid cock.
"I concluded a long time ago that a man's cock and a woman's
tits are different images of the same foreign coin. I've
reflected that a staple gun used against either causes
immeasurable pain and panic, and yet the damage is temporary
and superficial if perpetrated with knowledge and skill. I
sometimes imagine the effect of a staple gun against my own
precious twins, and although I shudder and retreat, I know
that given time, the wounds would recover and my misery
subside. I think I would survive the terror and carnage, and
perhaps I'd be stronger for the experience. You see, I'm not
a prude, Mr Pendrill; and neither am I easily frightened,
and so back to my original question. What would you do if I
presented you with an attractive woman and asked you to
staple her tits to a tree? If it were an order? Think about
the question, Mr Pendrill. Accompany this woman through the
logistics of the scenario. Lead her through the pain and
calculate the cost. Help me. You begin by undressing her -
you tie her arms and her legs. You overcome her natural
resistance and your own Western hypocrisy, and throughout
this, she fights you. You pin her to the floor and you sit
upon her thighs, slapping her face and hurling abusive
insults, but still she fights you. Eventually, you subdue
her and overcome her female modesty by biting her shoulder,
and it bleeds; or you bite her ass, or her stomach - or
lower - maybe you bite her cunt and threaten to eat its soft
flesh; and this scares her into acquiescence. She can't
resist that. You threaten to disfigure her and she's on her
knees and her head is lowered to the floor, almost in
prayer. She cries for mercy and you humble her. You go to
her rear, spread her ass and tell her to be silent and take
her punishment or else you'll bite off her clit. I'm not
being awkward, Mr Pendrill, but honest. It's what is
necessary if you're going to subdue her. You have to do it. 
You do what it takes. So answer me, Mr Pendrill. Could 
you do these things? Or would you beg off?"

Howard had no idea. What could he say? Cecily was telling
him that she wasn't being difficult and yet she was. These
questions were impossible to answer without any experience.
She was being shameful and surreal - especially when you
remembered that Howard was butt naked and she was
gainfully dressed and gawping at him like a teenage
juvenile, peering at his terrified cock through the glass
table like a hungry Amazon wanting to devour him.

"Come on, Mr Pendrill," she gloated greedily, fluttering her
eyelashes and peering myopically at his diminishing
equipment. She flapped at it with her pencil. "Don't be shy,
Mr Pendrill! Please hurry. I'm waiting for your answer."

Howard now had a battle with his secret embarrassment. It
was almost a war. What was he going to say? Could he torture
a woman? Could he?

The honest answer, quite simply, was that he didn't know. He
wasn't prevaricating or being difficult. He didn't know -
and because of it, he was confused and finding it impossible
to look at Cecily.

He didn't know because he'd never done it, but that wasn't
an acceptable answer. It was a non answer, a feeble excuse
of an answer. He was supposed to be a trained assassin and
how could he not know?

He didn't know.

He pondered these matters, and found himself looking down
the top of Cecily's blouse at her breasts, and wondering
what it meant that her tits were average.

It was a strange, thought provoking phrase with scant
mathematical basis, for rarely is anything arithmetically
average. The average American family is said to have 2.4
children, but no American mother has delivered this number
of offspring.

So if Cecily's tits were average, were they really average
or just approximating to average, and who decided when
approximation was close enough? He wondered about the weight
of Cecily's average sized tits and the angle of droop. And
what about their firmness? Was this on the hard side of
average or the soft? And were Cecily's teats average when
they were swollen or only when they were flaccid? And what
about their colour? Were they pink or brown or red? And
which of these was average?

And if he drove nails straight through them and fixed them
to a tree, would they still be average?

As Howard pondered his questions, he found himself drawn
towards the closeness of Cecily's bust and he observed that
the top buttons of her blouse were unbuttoned and she was
pushing her cleavage towards him, as if wanting him to do
something.

But what?

He noted absently that there was a gold locket hanging
between her average sized breasts and that it was glinting
like a slow moving pendulum: swaying, swinging, and
relentlessly beckoning him in.

He coughed and ignored it. Could he torture a woman? Could
he puncture Cecily's breasts with a nail, driving it into
the wood until she and the tree were grafted as one? He
frowned and shivered. Had he the resolve?

"Mr Pendrill?"

He paused.

Could he?

Could he squeeze her nipples into the embrace of steel
pliers and mash them to pulp?

Could he?

In fact: could he take Cecily outside as she'd suggested,
walk her to a secluded location where the birds sang merrily
and the sun shone brightly; where the grass smelled fresh
beneath his feet and the wind played mischievously with
Cecily's hair; and could he there staple her breasts to a
tree?

Could he?

He didn't know.

He imagined standing two or three feet behind her, staring
at her ass and watching as she made love to a craggy old
olive, her skin complimenting the colour of its leaves,
unable to escape. He imagined her rubbing her pussy against
the bark and the movements of her ass becoming faster and
jerkier, and her breathing more erratic. He imagined her
pulling desperately upon the nails, stretching the tips of
her breasts from the tree until they dripped with ruby red
blood.

He imagined the writhing and the cries, and her cumming
despite the obstinacy of her will, and her bare ass shaking
like a trifle.

And she would cum for certain. Unable to stop herself. In
pain. In public. In ecstasy. In confusion. In disbelief. In
nakedness. In torment. She would cum.

There it was.

That was what she was asking him: deep down. Could he do it?
Because she wanted it.

Could he make her cum like that?

He didn't know.

Cecily straightened her skirt and sat in front of him with
her knees tucked primly together but with her skirt not
staying where it should. It rode higher - showing him her
stockings, her thighs, her green panties, and the tiny motif
manufactured from black and gold thread. It rode higher,
revealing to him the dark wet stain that saturated her
gusset.

There it was.

Could he do it? Because she wanted it.

If he detached himself as a man and thought of Cecily's tits
as jelly, or as a child's soft toy, and not as tits. If he
imagined them like that then it wouldn't be difficult.
Surely?

But they weren't jelly, and neither were they a child's soft
toy.

They were Cecily's tits.

Average sized tits.

Jesus.

Cecily's skirt was bunched upon her thighs and it seemed
that suddenly, almost magically, everything was sedate and
straight and respectable and just as it should be, and there
was no more tendency for anything to move: not her skirt,
not her tits, not even the pencil.

What the devil?

"I'm sorry, Mr Pendrill," she blurted gently. "It's not that
I'm doubting your integrity, but you see - men get off on
the idea of hurting a woman, and they think they can do it.
They read bondage stories in magazines and on websites and
they fantasise about having a beautiful young lady locked up
in a dark secret dungeon. They imagine her tied naked,
surrounded by medieval implements and bowing to their will.
They imagine kidnapping her from a place of work or from her
car or from her home. The problem for such men is that in
the reality, courage deserts them and conscience betrays
them. I haven't any time for such wimps, Mr Pendrill. I'm
looking for a man who's prepared to stretch a woman without
pity, who can turn the screw until her shoulders pop and her
rib cage bulges and cracks. I need a man who can tie a lady
across a bed of coals and leave her to roast: slowly,
keeping her alive until the very last moment. I have to ask,
Mr Pendrill, are you this man? Could you watch a naked woman
spinning upon a charcoal fire, being slowly and irreversibly
roasted to the point that her heart explodes and her eyes
harden and congeal? Or are you a wimp? If it were me, could
you watch as I suffered on the fire? Could you listen to my
screams and cook me, baste me and spit me, cut me up and
then tell me how I taste? Could you torture a woman, Mr
Pendrill, without losing your balls in the process?"

Howard swallowed dryly, feeling his courage being squeezed
in the genitals, convinced that this couldn't be for real.

"I think..." he grunted. "I mean... I've never... I mean...
I'm sure..."

He didn't finish.

She was talking, asking - describing to him the working of a
maiden's chair, its two metal stakes controlled and raised
by the turning of a stiff iron screw. It was barbaric, the
stakes thickly greased and having carefully sharpened
points. The deathly spears were designed to be inserted into
each of the woman's lower holes. Cecily described in detail
the feelings of a woman as the stakes entered her cavities.
She continued on, describing the discomfort and the pain;
the fear and the panic as the stakes continued their
journey; and then she described the damage, both physical
and emotional, as the stakes pierced through the woman's
abdomen and impaled her.

Howard was dumbfounded. He was awestruck.

"Could you do this, Mr Pendrill?" Cecily asked him lazily,
inviting an equally lazy response, but Howard was strong
enough to resist, because he was captured by the memory of
Lucy.

Lucy was his conscience. Lucy was his love. Age 22. 34 inch
bust. 34 inch hips. Olive skinned. Swaying. Stripping.

God.

She was bossy: religious, strong-willed, and yet arrogantly
vulnerable. Lucy was his soul mate, censoring his thinking.
Lucy was his fantasy.

And yet, despite all that, there were thoughts that refused
to be censored, strange thoughts: traitorous darts that
suggested to him that Cecily was also a woman, a stunner,
equally as attractive as Lucy. She was tall with an angular
face, corn brown hair - almost like the fields themselves -
and respectably sized tits: average.

These thoughts suggested that things might not be as clear
cut as he'd thought, that there was room for compromise
without being unfaithful. In these traitorous whisperings he
saw Cecily outside, naked, and each of her breasts peppered
with staples, and her body arching and twisting in pain. She
was attached to an oak tree, her tits fused to its bark. The
tree's branches hung across her rear like benevolent
parental arms, clasping her flesh and caressing her ass,
slapping her haphazardly to create an angry flush on each of
her cheeks.

In this private refuge, Howard glanced at Cecily's face, and
saw it strewn with tears and makeup. He stepped closer and
observed her gaunt body rhythmically swaying, her ass
rotating through irregular gyrations. It was involuntary and
hypnotic, this movement. Cecily was helpless and humiliated
and yet she was aroused, compelled to rub her front against
the rough, uneven bark while others looked on
voyeuristically. The branches swished her repeatedly,
reducing her to a naked, snivelling wretch, and yet she
wanted this pain.

Howard walked to the side for a better angle, and here he
saw clearly the long pins puncturing her breasts, a row of
ugly steel nails that stapled her tits to the tree trunk.
This was the focus of her humiliation and her merging with
nature.

Howard touched the nails and the trails of blood that lazily
ran from them. He felt the stickiness and the warmth, and
then he bent forward and reached between Cecily's legs, deep
into the soft clean crease and the folds of her sex, knowing
that she could do nothing to stop him.

"Imagine," he hissed, finding her clit and frigging it
urgently. At once, she buckled and her legs tightened,
gripping his fingers, but she didn't otherwise acknowledge
his actions except that there was a rush of lost air and a
gasp of surprise, and his finger darted deeper. "Imagine,"
he whispered. "That you're sitting upon the maiden's chair
and my finger is its dagger, ripping you apart. Imagine,
mam, that a crowd of unruly men have gathered and are
watching your torment. Imagine the pain and how the men get
off on it. The dagger is inside your belly, becoming longer
and broader, tearing at your guts, filling you to the brim,
and you know that it means your end. Death is nearby: and
the men are excited and want it."

Cecily grimaced from the intrusion of his fingers. She
wanted to press her groin against this unlawful intrusion
but she reminded herself that she had an audience and they
were chanting and jeering, and so she mustn't, and so she
willed herself to refrain.

She also knew that Howard had found wetness in her love
canal and that there was nothing she could do or say to
defend herself against the moisture.

Howard sniffed the fluids and showed them to the crowd. It
was a smell that couldn't be disguised and neither could the
colour. These revealed that he'd touched blood and arousal
combined. Somehow he'd glimpsed into Cecily's mind and seen
her fantasies at work: her uncontrollable need. Somehow he'd
reduced her to a blabbering wretch writhing naked upon steel
rods in her holes, unable to help herself from rubbing
against them; and with that, as she continued imagining
herself stretched out upon the maiden's chair and in pain,
she came.

Oh God, how beautifully she came!

It was a pleasurable, wonderful fantasy, and it brought a
singular smile to Howard's face, and at last, an unfurling
of his cock.

It stood to attention in salute of a superior officer.

His governor.

And yet it wasn't real; not at all: for she was a lie, a
fraud, a deception.

A spy.


***

<1st attachment end>


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