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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 5) MF caution
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Date: Sun, 12 Aug 2007 10:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=205.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 Five : "Colt, Kalashnikov and Cock"



Howard was torn.

He sat in his dormitory staring into vacant space,
thinking and worrying about Lucy, as he'd been thinking
and worrying since the night in the rain.

He didn't like keeping secrets and right now he was
carrying a horrible, terrible secret, but what could he
do? He couldn't unburden himself.

He couldn't, if for no other reason than the Major had
told him that what had happened was classified and
disclosure was a crime.

He was torn.

"You have two lives," the Major had advised him. "You
have your life on the outside, which is public and open,
and you have your life as a soldier, which is private. 
No one outside this barracks must know what's happening 
to you here, no one breathes a word of it. Do you 
understand me, laddy?"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"You don't talk to your mother, your best mate, and
certainly not to your bloody girlfriend. You keep them
ignorant. Ignorant. You got it? You don't want them to
know what you're thinking, what you've done and who
you've been fucking..."

"Yes, sir. That's clear."

It made the situation worse that Howard had been drawn to
SJ6 for its sexual promise. The Major had told him that
he could have any woman he liked, anyhow he liked her.

That was the department's motto according to the Major.
Sex was a perk of the job: any woman, anyhow, and Howard
carried the maxim in his heart.

Six women. All at the same time. God. How could he have
done it? He'd been sleeping and dreaming and suddenly
he'd been out there in the rain with a woman sucking his
cock, and five others wrapping their wet flesh around his
body and sucking him too.

And for that pleasure he'd betrayed dear Lucy, and was it 
worth it?

God.

Each time he relived the events it got worse, or better,
and he couldn't make up his mind which. The first time he
groped a few breasts. The next time he stuck his fingers
into a strange cunt and stroked its clit and gave its
owner a good time. After that, there were so many breasts
and wet cunts doing so many things he no longer knew what
was happening at all.

God.

He could hear Lucy's quiet voice reprimanding him and
although she wasn't angry, thank God, she was
disappointed that he'd betrayed her so easily; but then
her voice became brittle and she reminded him that he'd
promised to be loyal and he'd reneged on that promise.

She accused him of raping the blonde, for hadn't the
blonde been crying when Howard had fucked her? It was
obvious that she'd been coerced. She'd been sucking his 
cock because of the power and influence of SJ6... and for 
no other reason...

As the discussion descended into argument and from there
into an ill tempered slanging match, Lucy became emotional 
and threw ornaments and cutlery while screaming 
irrationally and Howard did what he had to, what he always 
did. He changed into a tracksuit and went running down 
endless avenues, hoping to clear the dirty cobwebs from 
his mind. What was he thinking? How did he feel? What was 
going on in his head? Everywhere he looked he kept seeing 
the same pointing finger, and it was pointing at him and 
damning him.

His feet burnt tracks in the road, mile after mile, and
yet still he could hear that same shrill voice screaming
at him and he couldn't escape it.

Lucy. God, yes. Lucy.

The problem was, despite his pangs of conscience and his
guilt, he enjoyed the memories of those muddy women
squirming beneath him in the rain. He remembered dipping
his cock into some random hole and not caring to which
woman it belonged.

How many times can a man do that?

There was no face to behold, no body to caress, just a
wet squelchy cunt, and he filled it because it was there
to be filled, and his cock was hungry for more. That was
his power in this sport and he liked it.

Only a scream identified the owner, and then a
disconnected breast flopped into his face, and a nipple
appeared in his mouth; and he bit it. He chewed it, and
the owner tried desperately to save herself and extract
the proffered object and all hell broke loose, but Howard
wouldn't let go. He claimed it. He owned it.

A nipple.

He bit harder even as he screwed another woman's pussy,
and afterwards, the following day, he met the owner of
the teat as she walked along a long dreary corridor
wearing her uniform. It was neat and starched, and her
hair was pinned and her makeup immaculate.

"Hello," he said, and the woman looked at him and blushed
and hurried on, pretending not to have recognized him:
this man whose dick she'd sucked and whose teeth had
bitten through her nub.

Howard rushed in front of her and prevented her from
passing. He asked her whether she'd recovered and she
said that she had, and she thanked him, and again she
walked on, but he wouldn't let her by.

"How are your breasts?" he insisted, leering at them and
peering at her bosom. It was bound, like there was a
bandage swathing her tits. There probably was. "Surely it
must be hurting where I... I mean, where I... disfigured
you...?"

Apparently, the woman's name was Captain Mavis Halley and
Howard already knew that she was a tall, quiet woman with 
pert, cherry like breasts. Howard remembered her panicky 
eyes and her firm small breasts as his teeth had sunk 
into her teat and he'd bitten it off.

Captain Mavis blushed like a school girl and she
confessed that her breasts were painful. She spoke
politely and curtly and she was focussed and to the
point, but Howard persisted. He discovered that she'd
visited a doctor earlier that morning and that the doctor
had stitched up the wound.

"Did the doctor ask you how it happened?" Howard asked
her cunningly. "And did you tell him that I ate it?"

The Captain's blush deepened and she begged Howard not to
humiliate her more, for there were people around and they
might be listening and as a married woman, the gossip would
be harmful.

Howard smiled: "I can be far more inventive than chewing
off a lady's nipple. What do you think? Do you want that,
dear Mavis?"

The poor Captain shook her head.

"Maybe I should bite off your other nipple," he hissed,
glancing down again at her bosom. "That would even
things out. Maybe I should chew it and eat it because
I've grown partial to your flesh. You taste nice, dear
Mavis, and now that I belong to the Department, maybe we
should discuss my eating some other parts of you, what do
you say?"

He remembered that he'd persuaded himself that Lucy was
ignorant of SJ6 and she wouldn't find out; and as for
dear Captain Mavis: she'd suffered a war wound and she'd
flipped in her mind, so who would believe her? 

It was that simple. She was a casualty of war. And yet 
somehow, despite his logical reasoning, it wasn't simple 
and it did matter because his conscience was kicking him 
and it wouldn't lie down.

For a third time she tried to get past him. "Maybe
instead of eating you, I'll just hang you," he said, once
again blocking her way.

He liked that her hand moved immediately to her tit and 
then to her neck. She did it in time with his threats, 
which told him that she was listening and she was 
suggestive to his ideas, and so he looped an imaginary 
noose round her neck and hauled the rope tight.

He was like a mime artist relying on the power of mental
suggestion. He took the slack from the rope and checked
that it was flat against her skin and that there weren't
any kinks, and she gulped. She could feel the tightness
of the rope around her neck and the knot resting behind
her ear, and she begged him for mercy, but all that she
got was a further tightening of the rope. It constricted
about her neck, hurting and suffocating, and then he
pulled on it again, lifting her onto her toes, and she
could feel herself swinging and the world going fuzzy.

She could hear the hollow resonance of footsteps treading
on wood and the creaking of a trapdoor beneath her feet.

He pulled her forwards and then to the side, positioning
her carefully upon it. She could feel his hands holding
her arms and the irregular rattles of breath on her face
and she made a final supplication: a long, rambling
prayer, and throughout it, even as she made her peace
with her maker, Howard played aimlessly with her pussy,
fingering her clit and making her wet.

He was imagining her kicking and dying and her breasts
becoming cold like those dear wretches at Tyburn, and
then, when the Amen was said, he hoisted her further from
the ground and let her kick as she wanted. She cried, and
her breasts swung in opposing directions and her legs
jerked randomly, exposing her open cunt to him, and he
stared in delight at her wet glistening hole, and he
watched her.

These thoughts were all fantasies, of course, and yet he
was aroused. He kept remembering that the Major had told
him that these thoughts were okay in SJ6 and that he
needn't be worried. He recalled that it was the Major
who'd told him about Tyburn: that terrible place where in
olden days pretty women were taken, led through the noisy
streets of London and then hung in public until dead.

Christ.

After these periods of angst, he would wander silently
through the streets to the theatre where he'd slip unseen
through the stage door and sit alone in the darkness,
confused by his demons; and there, in the upper circle
he'd watch, unrecognized, as Lucy rehearsed for Salome
ignorant of his presence.

The music was repetitious and dull because Howard wasn't
into modern Opera and he heard noise, discord and no
beat. He was tired and bored by it, and yet occasionally,
he would see Lucy practicing her moves and that would
refocus his thinking. He would lean forwards, his chest
constricting.

Look at her!

She was wearing a flesh coloured body suit beneath her
veils, and yet Howard knew that this wouldn't always be
so. Soon her performances would be real and any man
willing to pay the price of a theatre ticket would see
her bare breasts and her long puffy slit - those parts of
her she'd guarded for so long, and the thought gave him
grief.

He should be first! He had that right! And yet even he
thought this, Lucy was disagreeing with him. "It's only a
part," she was insisting. "It's not me up there on stage.
Not really, Howie. It's someone else. I'm only an actor.
Can't you see the difference, my dear?"

But Howard couldn't see the difference because it was
Lucy's breasts exposed, her ass shaking for the whole
town to gawk at, and her naked pussy gleaming with
wetness. And yet, although he disputed with her bitterly,
she wouldn't give way, which riled him because he could
make an analogous case: "If Lucy can have two lives, if
she can be religious and yet be a stripper, a dancing 
Salome, why can't I have two lives? One persona in which 
I'm true to her and another in which I'm deviant?"

He reasoned that SJ6 was his Salome: a role disconnected
from reality and into which he could retreat and create a
fictional persona. And yet, although he held this view,
he didn't voice it. He hid it.

It was the weapon with which to assuage his conscience,
his fig leaf, and so he awoke at dawn on the day that
Major Steiner had decreed for it and he prepared for his
interview at SJ6, keeping his weapon secret as he must,
his analogous case, his mind solidly focussed and clear.

He showered and dressed and studied what he saw in the
mirror, pleased with the agreeable reflection. His collar
was starched and his boots were carefully polished. His
cap was tucked beneath his arm and his hair was shorn to
one eighth of his skull. Everything was combed, dusted
and to order.

He was ready. He looked the part. This was it.

Calm. Resolute. Confused. Full of so many conflicting
emotions, he left his quarters. "Whatever you do, don't
blow it, Pendrill," the Major hissed at him, walking at
his side. "Concentrate, my lad. Be ready!"

But that was so easy to say! So easy! But this was a
demon. "Sign the paper," Cecily ordered as he walked
through the door, as she handed him a copy of the
Official Secrets Act and pointed her finger at the place
awaiting his name.

He signed it, of course.

"Thank you, Mr Pendrill," she nodded, checking the
signature and verifying that everything was in order.
"Now take off your clothes."

No modesty. No decorum. No grace or social pleasantry:
just the order, blunt and threadbare. "Take off your
clothes!"

So easy for a Director of Psychology to dictate; so
difficult for a soldier to perform.

He stuttered.

"You heard me, Mr Pendrill. This is an interview and I'm
in control, so take everything off: your pants, your
shirt; your socks; your boxers. All the way to the buff.
I'm in control here and I want you naked. I want you
standing in front of me playing with your cock. And then,
when it's purple and hard, we'll measure its size and see
how good you can aim, because I want it to spurt and to
hit me..."

No reticence, no modesty, no decorum.

"Take off your clothes! Don't be bashful, Mr Pendrill.
This is my interview and I like my men naked and playing
with their rocks."

No reticence, no modesty and certainly no decorum. That
was how she was.

"I want it to spurt. I want it to hit me. I want to feel
your cum dripping from my cheeks. I want it on my nipples
and in my hair. I want to bathe in your cum as Queen
Cleopatra did in her ass's milk. As I've said, Mr
Pendrill, there's no room for modesty in a spy, so strip
for me and jerk off. Do it slow and spice it up because I
want to get nicely warmed up before you cum in my hair."

What does one do in the face of such an order? Does one
obey it or ignore it or challenge it in court? Where does
one start? Well, Howard made his choice and he obeyed. He
stripped because it was that or go home.

This was his chance at SJ6, his one and only.

He removed his uniform and his underwear, and then
finally, when he was naked and showing his cock, he
waited for her instructions, not daring to touch himself
because his dick was hard and about to spurt and she
wasn't yet positioned in front of him. Not yet. Oh God.

He could barely hold it. Look at her!

The light danced from her eyes. It teased and cajoled and
prodded at your heart strings; and you imagined that she
was someone's sister, or someone's daughter or
girlfriend. She was the secretary in the upstairs office
or the carefree girl next door. She had silky hair and a
contagious smile and you never imagined that she could do
this for a living...

"You're going to cum in my hair, Mr Pendrill," she told
him, getting down onto her knees and coming closer, her
face, her nose just millimetres from his cock. "And when
you have, we'll comb it in. You'll like that, won't you,
Mr Pendrill? For me to use your cum as my conditioner. 
I've heard that it does a very good job."

She looked for all the world like the kind of girl who
fell in love with her childhood sweetheart and who got
married and had noisy babies and spent her life cleaning
their vomit. She wasn't the kind of woman who was
supposed to get down on her knees and ask about torture,
stapling tits to a tree and spurting men's seed in her
hair.

Who in their right mind thought about things like that?

"Come on, Mr Pendrill," she cajoled him, shaking her
hair. "Move your hips and pretend that you're a stripper.
After all, you wouldn't want to keep me waiting. I might
get impatient."

God. This was too much. What was she on? She was a Miss,
not a soldier. She wasn't a professor or a shrink or
anyone of importance. She had no title or rank or
authority. She wasn't a doctor with letters after her
name or a minister of religion. She was a plain, vanilla
Miss. Period. That's what it said on the door - Miss
Cecily Freeman.

Director of Psychology.

And yet, as she leaned further forward, shaking her tits
and inviting him to look down her blouse: teasing him and
wanting him to stare at her breasts. He knew that he
daren't, and so instead he paused, he gulped, and he
resisted the temptation.

She was exposing her boobs for him now, her cleavage. The
chasm there was deep, fragrant and hypnotic... and she
wanted him to look at her there, and yet he daren't...

He daren't.

"You've spoken about your duty, Mr Pendrill," her eyes
danced. "But what if your duty involves hurting a young
woman? What would you do then? What if I asked you to
rough up a woman? A stranger? A civilian straight off the
street: a singer..."

Howard rubbed his forehead and frowned, confused, for
surely it wasn't a coincidence... Lucy was a singer... He
drew back, shaking his head. "I'm sorry... I couldn't..."

"Mr Pendrill?"

"I couldn't..."

"Why not, Mr Pendrill? Why couldn't you obey my orders
and rough up this woman if I asked you?"

"Because it would be illegal."

"Mr Pendrill? If this woman had a gun and were aiming it
at your head, you'd shoot her surely. You'd kill her. You
wouldn't say that it was illegal."

"Yes. I suppose... Maybe."

"But if, on the other hand, if she made a bomb and was
intent on planting it in a busy marketplace, you'd
question the legality of stopping her? Is that right? Are
you levelling with me here?"

"No. That isn't what I said! You're misrepresenting me!"

"Then talk to me, Mr Pendrill. Be open! This woman is
unlikely to divulge the whereabouts of her bomb
voluntarily. What do you do? If she were a determined
terrorist then surely it would take persuasion to stop
her."

"Yes. I guess."

"So wouldn't it make sense to work her about a little?
Slap her and fiddle with her clothes? Think about it, Mr
Pendrill. Wouldn't you agree that these indignities are
worth a few dozen fathers? sisters? mothers and children?
And mightn't it even be fun...? You might enjoy it, and
why not?"

She poked her tongue at his cock, the tip of her tongue
flicking to within a few millimetres from his stem.
Jesus. She was so close and she was flirting like a woman
oughtn't to flirt. "Mr Pendrill. Stroke him for me!
Stroke Mr Bony Dick. While we talk. While I look. Stroke
him. I want a good show!"

"Sorry? I mean? You want me to play with my cock?"

"Yes, Mr Pendrill! With your cock! I feel horny. I want
to watch you jerking it while I play with my pussy, and I
want to smell your arousal and feel your sticky cum
landing in my hair. That's what you're going to do for
me, isn't it? Haven't I said so?"

And with that, to Howard's horror, she grabbed his dick
between her fingers and squeezed it and held it within
her grip. She rolled it across the side of her cheek and
her lips and across her chin and into her hair. "Isn't
that nice, Mr Pendrill? To feel my face and my hair on
your dick? I can do anything I like with your cock.
Anything. That's my power. I could shove it in ice. I
could stick needles in it. I could suck it so sensuously,
so sexily... So wank for me, Mr Pendrill! Do it fast and
furious and shoot your load in my hair. Point to my
forehead, pull the trigger and shoot my brains out with
your cock. Make me feel good, and I'll help you if I have
to."

"It's not real!" Howard mumbled in a terrible damp sweat,
trying to ignore her nimble fingers and her face, sensing
that she was leading him towards a horrible degrading
humiliation. He was losing control of his climax. He
couldn't help it. "I mustn't get stressed," he stammered
reflectively and in panic. "Oh God. Please. Stay
focussed, just as the Major warned me."

But it wasn't easy with Cecily pulling at his dick and
showing her cleavage. She was pumping it, holding his
cock and beating it with her fist.

"It's not real!" Howard shuddered, grinding his teeth,
for she was milking him like some farm girl with the
udders of a cow, like she was determined to take from him
what was rightfully his.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she motored, wanking him
frenetically. His foreskin was drawn back and she was
rubbing him with professional relentlessness, and her
face was just millimetres from the knob, her mouth, her
lips, and he couldn't hold on. "I had a man once, a
normal life, but not now. Why should I have one when I
have soldiers that please me? Eh, Mr Pendrill? Shall I
pump slower? Eh? Mr Pendrill? You seem excited and I
wouldn't want you to cum too soon. I need your cum
drizzling in my hair, and we'll comb it all in."

His jaw was shaking and things were going from bad to
worse. She was attacking his balls and groping them like
she meant to... to... Oh God.

There were tears in his eyes...

She placed his hand where hers had been, and she made him
squeeze and rub as she had squeezed.

But he couldn't. He stared at her blouse and the gold
locket and the swell of her charms; and she was leaning
back and opening her mouth and inviting him to aim for
her forehead, but if he did that... God.

Was one of the lads setting him up here? - or even the
Major... the Major could have arranged it, for he had the
necessary knowledge. It was a practical joke. The girl
was a stripper - a singing, dancing telegram girl togged
up in uniform and about to remove it.

Why not?

Her uniform was unlike anything Howard had encountered.
The jacket was green with a badge on the left pocket and
the blouse was unbuttoned at the top. Who wore a uniform
like that?

It was a pastiche: a joke.

And as if aware of his suspicions - Cecily shrugged off
her jacket and threw it onto the table, like a poker
player calling his bluff and raising the stakes. "Just to
make you feel less exposed," she murmured with a shrug,
brushing back her hair and glancing at his burgeoning
manhood and shivering at the sight of it, for she was
undoubtedly sexually aroused. But was it a setup? A con?

Was it?

It was plausible. She was opening her mouth again.
Waiting. Waiting for him to shoot his load. God. She had
the right manner and she made the right moves. You could
imagine her jumping to her feet and the lights growing
dim. The room would become dark, and the music would
strike; the spots would point to her curves, and the slow
grind would begin.

You imagined the glamour of tassels and of sequins, of
the shy lifting of her skirt and the sparkle of the
lights. She'd lick her lips and launch into a well
rehearsed routine oozing lust and forbidden sexual
desire; except that those things didn't happen and away
from the fantasy, the jacket stayed on the table
shrieking its challenge; and Cecily didn't move. Not one
iota.

She remained on her knees with her head tipped back, and
she waited, while Howard clutched at his non-existent cap
and cleared his parched throat and saw what she'd done.

Now that she'd removed her jacket he could see it, and he
shook. Jesus fucking Christ! He could see into her
blouse. The bitch! He could see that she was wearing no
bra.

The slut! Howard could see the top part of her breasts
and also the shadow of her nipples seeping through the
fabric of her blouse.

There it was! The answer, for what officer would be
dressed so inappropriately for a subordinate?

She was a stripper! You could smell it, taste it, the
musky perfume seeping from her person, the faint cocktail
of woman mixed with the glamour of danger.

"Fuck me!" she was whispering from the stillness of the
late winter morning. "I'm a slut! I want to be laid,
pinned to a table and mercilessly screwed! Please, Mr
Pendrill. I have no boyfriend and I need it. I need to be
screwed. Will you help me?"

But she didn't talk like a stripper. Her manner was
wrong, and so was her demeanour. She was too cocky and
condescending - and far, far too disagreeable.

Whoever heard of a disagreeable stripper?

"Soldiers are conditioned to think of the enemy as
masculine," she frowned, folding her arms and gazing at
him intently. "They let women bedazzle them with their
charms and they lose focus." And she played with her
pencil without any hint of irony. "Don't you agree, Mr
Pendrill?"

Howard nodded inanely, trying to concentrate on her words
and not on her breasts, and yet he couldn't escape them.
They were everywhere that he looked, pointing at him and
bouncing provocatively, and yet she seemed totally
unaware that they were visible through the thin fabric of
her blouse. But how was that possible? How could any
woman remove her jacket and forget that she was wearing
so little beneath?

"Let's imagine," she added meticulously. "You're with a
North Korean girl in a village near Pyongyang. The girl
is eighteen years old and pretty. She has short black
hair and almond shaped eyes. However, she's discovered
that you're an American agent and she's in the next room
radioing her minders. What do you do?"

Howard was a mental step behind her, where he was
paralysed by the unexpectedness of Cecily's near-naked
breasts and he was analysing them carefully. He noticed
that they were pleasantly shaped but not large, and they
hovered in front of her chest. He liked them. In fact, he
adored them. "What would I do?" he frowned.

"Yes, Mr Pendrill. What would you do?"

Despite his concentration - he was obviously distracted.
His mind kept lingering where it shouldn't, upon dear
Cecily's breasts.

They were lovely.

God. He sighed. This woman was unravelling him with the
flutter of her eyes and the transparency of her blouse.

He refocused.

It was the Korean girl - that's what she wanted to know.
Cecily had asked him a question and she was awaiting an
answer, and he hadn't understood, so he glanced at her
again.

"Are you listening to me, Mr. Pendrill? We haven't all
day. What will you do with the girl?"

That was it! The girl. The pretty one with the almond
shaped eyes.

It came to him.

"I'd kill her," he pronounced with typical aplomb. "In
that situation, I'd have no choice!"

"No choice?"

"I must cover my tracks."

Why not? What did it matter? There was no girl, no
rebels, no village. No American agent. Everything was
fiction from beginning to end. It was a test, not real.
Opaque. It was a game of seduction and Cecily was sexy
and he wanted to impress.

But instead of impressing her, he'd annoyed her. "How, Mr
Pendrill? How would you kill her?"

Her light brown hair - almost blonde - was severe, and it
was pinned to her head in a bun. Her makeup was unfussy,
basic without being frumpish; defining her eyes and
accentuating her cheeks but without being obvious. She
was lovely and she was on her knees, with her face six
inches from his cock, and swaying and waiting, her mouth
open. And God. Her breasts were divine.

He would kill her - the Korean one; but how would he kill
her? That's what she'd asked...

He reflected that Cecily didn't look like a stripper. She
was more like a business executive or a sales director
except for the lack of a brassiere. That cheapened her
outfit. And of course, she was down on her knees with her
head tipped back, and her mouth open. God! She ought to
be a stripper! She'd make a fortune with those nipples.
He could see through her blouse that they were delicious.
They had saucers with hats on, incredibly large.

Jesus.

He tried to concentrate. What had she asked?

Oh yes.

How would he kill the Korean girl?

He shrugged, imagining that somewhere in the depths of a
tropical jungle he was chasing a woman who'd assumed a
European appearance. He crept through the bush in the
shade of the trees, following what appeared to be a slim
and athletic Miss Cecily Freeman.

She wasn't aware that he was following her. She was
relaxed and clad in her traditional attire, unaware of
any danger. But then suddenly, Howard jumped her from
behind - pulling her into his body and downing her in a
single long sweep. He could feel her heart racing and the
soft warmth of her body, and her red lips reaching up to
caress him. "A gun would be too noisy," he hissed, and
his hand slid down between the folds of her garment. She
wore no bra and her jugs were loose so that inside her
shirt, he was filling his hands with her bosoms while she
struggled and twisted in his arms.

He pulled at her breasts, ripping the loose shirt. Her
breasts were curvy and young and although they weren't
large, there was no heaviness or sag. He could see the
swell of her nipples, and as he squeezed them, her legs
collapsed beneath her, and that's when he pressed his
advantage. He pulled her towards him and he stared at her
face. "I'd slit her throat and keep it simple, eh, mam?"

She swallowed dryly. "And then?"

He took a knife and eased her out of her garb, slicing
her from it like a hunter skinning a deer, cutting from
the bottom and finding nothing but flesh beneath the
robe. It took just a handful of cuts to leave her
vulnerable and naked, and that's when he went further.

He nicked the side of the face, and then her chin and
across the top of her tits before scoring her skin down
the side of her thighs to be sure that he had her
attention.

She swallowed breathlessly and stared at him and did
nothing, so he told her again that he wanted to screw her
and he showed her his knife and what would happen if she
didn't cooperate. He showed the blade and its traces of
blood, and she looked at it, and after that, when he
asked her, she opened her legs and held her pussy lips so
that he could see her pink flesh.

"That's better," he purred, stroking her mound and her
slit with the flat of the knife, admiring the pearl at
its centre. "That's much, much better."

He aimed his cock at her slit, and she couldn't help but
lift her pelvis to meet it. Her body was reacting
instinctively because that's what it did when it wanted
to be pleasured. It rose towards his cock and she fell
metaphorically upon its blade. She felt the stabbing of
it in her belly; and she gasped and wrapped her legs
hungrily around his hips, pulling him in.

What was the question?

What had she asked?

He couldn't remember and neither could she; and yet it
was somehow important.

His thumb thumbed the side of his head, massaging the
tension from his temple. "I don't understand," he
flustered. "What do you mean? Are you asking me what I'd
do once I'd killed the Korean girl?"

Cecily twisted her pencil through her fingers, staring at
the fine graphite tip that danced through her nails.  "Mr
Pendrill," she returned. "Having killed the girl, what do
you do next? Do you continue with the mission or abort?"

Howard froze and his skin crawled to a shake. Everything
became slow; and all of it stopped. The image of Cecily
grovelling amidst the remnants of her clothes vaporized
and was replaced by a stern, disapproving matron,
frowning and venting her displeasure.

He'd made a gaffe: an almighty clanger, a huge whopper of
disastrous proportions, and he knew it. Fuck!

The girl was dead and he had no idea whether she'd
revealed anything to her superiors. Jesus! He'd done it
too soon. What a facile, juvenile mistake!

He was angry with himself and with Cecily. "Bollocks!"

"You're fucked and in the shithouse, Mr Pendrill. Admit
it. You don't know whether the Commies are about to shoot
your brains out or if they're comatose in their beds and
that's incompetent, Mr Pendrill. It's negligent."

What had she done? Had she drugged him? He felt faint in
his thinking and he didn't know why. He turned from her
and pushed her jacket across the table - just in case
she'd drugged him with her perfume - and then, as an
afterthought, he tossed away the jacket to be sure.

But then, maybe it wasn't the jacket at all. Maybe it was
the locket, that gold jewel encrusted spangle dangling
between her twin globes. Howard's eyes returned to it,
drawn by its spinning, unable to escape its slow motion.

God. He must give her credit. She was distracting him
with her tits, and they were good! They were swaying with
the locket.

He smiled, knowing that he'd fucked up, and moving
quickly to the offensive. Would it work? Would she
respond to a friendlier approach? Well, there was no harm
in trying. Cecily hadn't a boyfriend and she was horny
and laden with lust because she'd said so.

She was a frustrated goat on her knees begging for sex
without guilt.

"Let's try another, shall we, Mr Pendrill?"

He was about to ask her what she meant when the next
words hit him on the chest, delivered staccato fashion
from a pistol, the repetitive thumps indicating the use
of a silencer. "You're in Iraq," she rattled with a
seductive mechanical echo. "You've captured the wife of
an insurgent and you can't get her to your colleagues in
Jordan. She's tall, slim, and she has an excellent
figure, and you fancy her bad. You haven't had a woman
for weeks and you ache for her pussy, and you're thinking
what to do and you imagine it, Mr Pendrill, her smooth
olive skin and her long silky hair lying beneath you,
squirming, and in your head, you imagine her oriental
fragrance and you're oiling her slit with your tool,
filling her with juice. She's eighteen, unsullied, and
with breasts like ripe figs and a flat, sunken belly.
She's a new bride and freshly married, inexperienced but
passionate - and everything you lust for. Yet you know
that before the hour is out you must kill her - somehow,
and that's her destiny - but first you must interrogate
her and discover how much she knows of the insurgency,
but she's refusing to talk. She's bound and seated, and
her hands are cuffed behind her back and her ankles are
tied to the legs of a chair. She's wearing a burqua that
covers her so completely that only a slit exposes her
eyes, and through this streams an uncontrollable hate.
She's screaming and struggling, threatening you in Arabic
with the wrath of the Devil, and so Mr Pendrill, tell me,
please; presented with this woman, what do you do?"

It was an excellent question! Howard found himself caught
in the impasse between honesty and diplomacy; and
imagining this woman hidden behind her veil. What would
he do?

What indeed!

He wondered whether this test was similar to the last one
or was it more devious. The Major had warned him to be
prepared for misleading questions interwoven into the
fabric of a conversation. "It's to trap the unwary," he'd
suggested with stern, pyrrhic earnestness; and now, on
cue, Cecily was acting as the Major had warned him. Her
proposition suggested the answer that she wanted, and she
was swaying around on her knees and waiting, almost
begging him for that answer, and her eyes were intent.
Her cleavage was beckoning, and her black nipples were
pointing at him and their hats were firmly worn.

"I'd torture her," Howard exclaimed quickly, gulping
uncertainly and glancing at Cecily's blouse and her
proffered tits and those dark, strangely shaped saucers
lying at their centre.

Torture her. Yes. That was the easy bit. The nice bit.
But how?

As the word registered in his brain, a pistol fired back
at him. It was Cecily: her voice lowered in a staccato
impersonation but formulating the same question. "How?"

Howard heard it and stumbled for a response, confused and
wounded by the power of the projectile hurled so
violently against him.

How?

"Yes, Mr Pendrill. How would you do it? You're in the
field and so you don't have a maiden's chair or a thumb
screw, and anyway, you don't have time for those
pleasantries. So: explain because the clock is ticking.
An hour - that's all you have. How precisely do you
extract the necessary information from this dark Sunni
beauty?"

She jerked the long pencil through her fingers: in and
out, the momentum steadily increasing. Her face was
flushed and her nipples had swollen and they were clearly
discernible through the fabric of her blouse.

Howard considered the torture he might use, but he was
disarmed by Cecily's breasts and those black, saucer-like
nipples.

"I'd use a wet bag," he declared, turning the statement
into a question because the answer had been pulled from a
void. Was it okay, he wondered. Was it all right?

He saw at once that it wasn't.

He heard a groan of frustration and Cecily turned
despairingly to the heavens. "Mr Pendrill," she groaned,
throwing her pencil and staring at him in ridicule.
"You're joking!"

But Howard hadn't been joking. He'd been serious and so
he jumped back, the sweat pouring from his face because
he knew that he'd fucked up. But how? Why? He could feel
the perspiration draining from his arms and between his
legs, and it was wetting his chest. He cursed, determined
to recover the initiative. "It's effective," he defended
bravely, hurriedly, quoting a few details from the spy
text book. "It uses available materials... and it's
quiet."

"Quiet?" Cecily screamed at him viciously, dropping back
onto her haunches. "Are you wasting my time, Mr Pendrill.
Wet bag is for nancies - it's drowning dressed up. What
kind of torture is drowning?"

Howard staggered beneath her ire and he tried to explain
it to her. What did she have against wet bag? "It
involves pulling a water soaked bag over the victim's
head and pulling it tight," he said, "or submerging the
head, but it's effective and it works."

"Works," she mocked. "Are you sure? Who says so?"

"The South Africans say so, mam. If you remember, it
gained a lot of publicity because they used it during the
Apartheid era. It works. It does."

"Have you tried it personally?"

"No. Of course not. Not personally."

"Then how can you be so sure that it works, Mr Pendrill?
Are you taking it as gospel solely on the testimony of
some so-called truth trial, because it ain't necessarily
so, Mr Pendrill. Success and failure are a hairsbreadth
apart, and everything rests on your judgement, and that's
lacking in this case. Don't know that scruples are
burdensome?"

"Mam?"

"You have a woman at your mercy, Mr Pendrill - a defiant
young female. Isn't it obvious what should do? Morals are
an interference to clear thinking. Get rid of them.
There're a weakness, Mr Pendrill. Listen to me because I
say this to help you."

But Howard's mind had escaped the rant and he was instead
in a fantasy of his own.

Imagine: Cecily in a wet bag, struggling and fighting.
Wouldn't that be perfect? There would be a metal pail in
the middle of her cell and he'd immerse her head,
pressing firmly upon the nape of her neck and keeping her
from breathing. She would jerk and twist beneath the
water but he'd push her down to keep her there. Her mouth
would battle to break the surface, and her hair would
float around upon it, and he'd hold her under, watching
the bubbles screaming from her lips; and he'd sense her
desperation turning to panic as her drowning reflex
kicked in and her struggles became frenetic. Howard would
wait until the last gasp residue of oxygen had exhausted
from her lungs and until she was belching for air and the
bubbles had ceased. He'd wait even then, as her mouth
opened and closed and her eyes stared despairingly at the
last images she'd see in this world - the bottom of the
bucket - and as they closed forever on this life, he'd
lift her out. He'd save her.

He'd kiss her.

"Isn't that nice?" he'd coo, rubbing his hands across the
front of her breasts and soaking her blouse. "Doesn't
that feel good, my love? Shall we unfasten your blouse
and get a peek of your tits?"

She'd shake her head to say no and he'd kissed her again,
and what could she do? She'd be gasping and wheezing, and
she'd protest; but nothing would be done. She'd shake her
head: wet, frozen, frightened, and she'd object. For that
trouble, he'd punish her. Down she would go into the
water, into the terrible abyss, and while she was under,
Howard would play with her tits: pinching her bosoms and
slapping each nipple, playing with her soft flesh,
squeezing and kneading it - until he would lift her up,
her lungs burning, spluttering, spitting and coughing.
His hand would search between her legs for her clit,
violating and punishing her pussy, opening it, not to
tease this time, but to humiliate and teach.

"Isn't that nice, my love?" he'd whisper softly into her
ear, his arm hooked around her neck and his hands
caressing her breasts. He'd thrust his mouth against
hers: demanding and forceful, opening her up to the abuse
of his tongue. "Wouldn't you like me to unfasten your
blouse while I kiss you, or should I dunk you again?"

She'd gasp: wheezing; water streaming from her hair and
draining from her blouse, seeping into the soft fabric.
Braless, the cotton would cling to her chest and it would
show every sinew and curve, and also the perfection of
her black teats. It was as if her chest were covered in a
layer of wet paper and not in a blouse, and Howard would
see the image of her breasts and her torso and the stubs
in the middle surrounded by goose bumps, and his hands
would fondle her, teasing the buttons of her blouse and
pulling it open.

"I can do this for hours," he'd whisper mischievously,
pushing her head again into the ice water, and her wail
would be strangled as she disappeared into the bucket.
"Hours and hours and hours," he'd add to the back of her
neck.

She'd reach helplessly for the top of the bucket and
she'd grab and get hold of it, whilst Howard's hands
would return greedily to her clit, his index finger
pressing tightly against the bud, pinching and caressing
it. "Wouldn't you like to strip for me, my love, as I did
for you? Play with yourself? Wouldn't that be a nice
game, for there's no way that you can beat me. You'll do
as I ask in the end."

He'd pull her again from the water and she'd come up
having consumed a huge lungful of air, gasping heavily;
and another; and another; wheezing and coughing. And
while she did so, Howard would slide his hand down her
blouse, and he'd cup her breasts and squeeze them. He'd
kiss her throat, and his hands would rub the front of her
jugs, first this one and then that one. He'd whisper
softly into her ear: "Tell me how you'll take off your
clothes, my dear, - describe it to me - how you'll lie
naked and play with yourself, my love, how you'll pose on
the floor and tease me, with your fingers in your pussy.
I want to hear it from your own sweet lips."

But she wouldn't tell him that because she was choking
and coughing, and Howard would prepare to dip her again.
But this time he'd restrain himself, for her lips were
moving.

He couldn't hear what she said but he could see it, so he
got closer and struggled to listen, but the words didn't
make sense.

"You get no marks," she was rebuking him sternly, tossing
her head and appearing to arise from a mist. Her hair was
dry and combed and the bucket was gone. Her blouse was
buttoned all the way to the top: severe, drab and out of
reach, and she was composed in her speech, stately and
condescending. Howard was confused. "Mr Pendrill. I will
report you to the Department. Your answer was both a
compromise and a cop out. You're a man with a cock. Don't
you know how to use it?"

Howard jerked from his dream and he was caught by the
reality of her face. "I suppose..." he gasped.

"Mr Pendrill? You suppose? What kind of answer is that?
Your cock is a weapon. Ask any woman who's ever been
raped and she'll tell you that it's a knife. Women never
forget being raped, never, and for a fundamental Moslem,
it's the ultimate torture. Use your cock to unhinge our
sweet Sunni beauty, Mr Pendrill! That's the answer to
your problem! Colt, Kalashnikov and Cock - that's the
ideal military hardware, the deadly trio. I quote from
the handbook: 'in situations where lethal force is
contraindicated, rape is an elementary tool that offers
the operative powerful leverage'"

Howard remembered it well, as Cecily was quick to remind
him.

"You recognise those words as I do, Mr Pendrill, better,
I'm sure. Of course. All male operatives remember the
sections on rape because they read the dirty bits first.
They like the pictures and that the women are naked and
distressed. They like it that the rapes are real and
nothing is censored. But let's focus: the handbook states
that under Sharia law, raped women are stoned and
ostracized, and even if not, the husband will divorce her
and take the children. All virtue is lost. Honour is
gone. The woman is sullied; dirty; wanton - with no
prospect of work or future or remarriage. She's dead,
rejected, Mr Pendrill. Have you grasped the opportunity
that this offers to a spy?"

"Yes. Of course, mam."

"Mr Pendrill. You're mistaken. No. You disappoint me. I
don't think you've grasped anything at all, for this is
how people live; how they work; how they worry and feel.
Fathers kill daughters rather than endure the dishonour
that a rape brings to the family. Haven't you read such
stories in the news? No one wants it; no one talks of it;
and it's swept up, hidden and gone. But it's there if you
look for it; so look for it, Mr Pendrill. The threat of
rape distorts the woman to your will. It bends her mind -
bends her thinking and her body in unimaginable,
unbelievable ways. So use it!"

"Yes," Howard mumbled begrudgingly, ogling Cecily's tits
through the fabric of her totally transparent blouse.

"Mr Pendrill? Are you listening? What do you mean, yes?
What are you saying?"

"I mean that I understand. I do."

"But what do you understand, Mr Pendrill? Have you raped
a woman? Felt her spirit fall silent and die in your
hands as you pump out her cunt; for that's what will
happen to this Sunni if you rape her."

Howard shook his head.

"Mr Pendrill? You've never done it? Not even on a first
date with a girl who's so drunk that you could have peed
in her pants and still have been rewarded with a kiss?"

Howard shook his head and Cecily sighed at him.

This was going to be harder than she'd thought.

**


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