index


Message-ID: <56416asstr$1186999802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 6) MF caution
Lines: 1427
Date: Mon, 13 Aug 2007 06:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d






  
___________________________________________________________________________
_________ Be a better Heartthrob.  Get better relationship answers from
someone who knows.  Yahoo!  Answers - Check it out. 
http://answers.yahoo.com/dir/?link=list&sid=396545433

	----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
	This post has been reformatted by ASSTR's
	Smart Text Enhancement Processor (STEP)
	system due to inadequate formatting.
	----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

	

<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=206.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 Six : "Eye for Eye; Tooth for Tooth; Nipple for
Nipple"





"I'm not joking, Mr Pendrill," Cecily said. "Rape may not be
pretty, but it's ubiquitous and effective. I know, because I
was in Chechnya where I was captured by the rebels and
afterwards by the Russians. I was there, and I was gang
raped by both of these forces because that's what happens to
women at times of war, and to a female spy even doubly and
triply so. We're raped, Mr Pendrill. We get screwed and
tortured and we learn to accept it because that's part of
our job. In Chechnya, they were good at it. They knew the
knobs to turn - how to tinker with a woman's head and rewire
her persona. They knew how to re-work her self-image and
shape her ideas of love, beauty, loyalty and romance until
they became intertwined, contorted, ugly and unrecognizable.
They turned sex into something to be feared, Mr Pendrill -
something lurid and putrid; an expression of hate and not of
love, and I admired them for that skill. Having seen what
they can do, I tell you: in our line of work, if a man
hasn't raped a woman, that's a serious deficiency.
Materially so."

What could Howard say? How could he refute her?

He knew that he was onto a loser and so he didn't argue too
hard. He merely said: "An agent can extract information
without resorting to sex, and he should do if he can."

Cecily agreed readily, flicking her hair and chewing at her
pencil. "Of course. There are sensory deprivation methods
and self-torture techniques, but if you combine these
methods with sex you loosen the tongue faster than any other
method and that's been proven, Mr Pendrill - or are you
challenging the science?"

"No. I wouldn't do that!"

"Well I'm glad to hear it."

Howard had been taught how the Nazis used Jewish girls in
the concentration camps to learn how best to torture a
woman, while the Russians played with Trotskyite dissidents
in their Stalags. But it was the Americans and the CIA who
raised the bar. They were driven by fear and paranoia about
the Russian 'threat' into investing $1 billion per year
between 1950 and 1962, carefully researching the psychology
of 'exploitation', with the torture of women getting a
budgeted share of that pot.

The CIA published several manuals on the subject, the first
in 1963 called KUBARK, and this was followed by others with
names such as "Human Resource Exploitation Training Manual",
and "Contra Manual", both of these being intended for use in
Nicaragua.

Although the torture techniques in these manuals were
carefully caveated with statements that the descriptions
were "against official policy", and that they had
"objectionable material" written within them - one has to
question the purpose of including such objectionable
information and then handing it to uneducated soldiers
involved in the interrogation of women.

For instance, let's look at what happened on the ground in
Nicaragua during the Reagan and Bush Senior years. In this
one country, there were ten thousand peasant women killed by
CIA agents. That's a fact. An ex-CIA field director went on
public record with this figure, and he described how men
would enter villages and make women undress and stand in
front of their houses and neighbours and family. The men
then slashed at the women's breasts with knives and scythed 
at them, catching the various bits of tit flesh in buckets 
and taking them away in a blatently psychological attack.

He described how his CIA operatives learnt their trade in
special torture houses where they herded groups of young
peasant women into small claustrophobic rooms, and then
slowly, one by one, they brought them out, stripped them
naked, strapped them to a table and honed their torture
skills.

Which was worse, these young field operatives wondered: a
cigarette or a knife? A whip or a saw? An electrical current
or a rape?

The men joked and partied and had fun. They took calls and
spoke to girlfriends on their phones, apologising for
lateness home and wishing tender goodnights to young
children, while in front of them a spreadeagled woman would
glisten with pain and scream into a gag. The reason was that
a fifteen year old local lad was methodically snapping the
bones in her fingers, and once he'd done it, he was
intending to rape her.

The men would all rape her eventually, every one of them.
They'd rape her and torture her and when they were done,
they'd toss her naked body into the back of a dumper truck
and drive it to the incinerator, and there they'd toss her
to the flames.

These informal experiments established beyond doubt that
sexual humiliation is effective - it works - in fact, it's
the most important element in getting a woman to talk,
especially when combined with effective self-torture.

Yes, for the absence of doubt, we need a definition for self-
torture. Therefore, definition: self-torture is where you're
given such a strong and overpowering reason to hurt yourself
that you do it because the alternative would be worse.

For instance, a mother is told that her baby will be
smothered by a blanket and suffocated unless she sacrifices
one of her nipples. A pair of scissors is placed in front of
her, and a brown paper bag, and then, the tormentor leaves
the room carrying her child in his arms, and the woman is
left to do whatever she wants to.

What does she think? What does she do? Does she cut off her
own nipple or not?

Another example: a man stands in a sweaty Iraqi prison with
electrical wires attached to his person. His arms are
outstretched and he's told that if he lowers them, electric
current will turn his cock into seaside illuminations. His
picture is taken with a smiling female soldier and
distributed to the world, but what does he do? How long can
he stand there in front of the camera before the weight
drags on his arms?

Familiar pictures, but born from research conducted in
Nicaragua.

Cecily reflected on these thoughts. "Sex isn't the whole
armory," she admitted thoughtfully. "But it's certainly a
strong part of it. It's something that a professional spy
must use to threaten and destabilize his victim."

Which was easy to say, Howard thought sullenly, ignoring her
and willing his cock to deflate, for this talk was giving
him an erection at the worst possible time, and what would
Cecily think? "But how does a spy become familiar with
something that's illegal?"

Cecily was amused at Howard's quaint naivety, and she
smiled. "Mr. Pendrill. No one's expecting you to lift a
woman from the street and do it in broad daylight. There are
other, safer avenues to explore. For instance, the
department would find you a theatre of war with an ample
supply of young women - like the Americans did in Nicaragua;
I could find you a torture house in some agreeable corner of
the world - and in the meantime, well, you have your
girlfriend."

Howard nodded cautiously. He did have Lucy, but what did
Lucy have to do with any of this? What did Cecily mean?

"I'm saying, start with her, Mr. Pendrill. Tie her up and
gain some experience! Be strong and forceful and play out
your fantasies. You see, rape isn't just a sexual act; it's
about the mind games that come before, so play those mind
games. Go easy on her at first and if it offends, as it very
likely will, apologise earnestly, buy her some flowers and
take her to dinner.

"The faux pas will be quickly forgotten if you grovel
sufficiently, and then you can move on. Another day and
another game, and everything can be started afresh. Keep
playing the games and buying the flowers. Push the limits,
Mr Pendrill. Next time try humiliating Lucy and making her
feel stupid. That doesn't come easily to most men - and for
most women too, for that matter - and if it offends, as it
very likely will, buy her some flowers and take her to
dinner. Grovel to the extent that you need to, but keep
pushing the limits. The time after that, throw her onto the
bed, kiss her, rip off her clothes. Once you've corked her
and given her your load, you know what to do. Get on your
knees and grovel. Talk sweet. Buy her some flowers and take
her to dinner. Grovel. More flowers. Apologise profusely and
all the time, keep pushing the limits. Next time do it with
a knife. Hold the blade to her throat and slide it across
her chest and tell her to undress. You have a mate and he's
with you and he's taking the video, and it'll certainly be
steamy. Hold Cecily on the bed, show her the knife and take
her, fuck her; and make sure your mate shoots the whole
thing.

And after that? Take her to the theatre in a plush
limousine, no expense spared. Buy her a ring, a bracelet, a
necklace, and keep pushing the limits. Grovel to her, talk
sweet to her and then do it again. Rape her, Mr Pendrill.
Rape her hard, and once you've mastered your girlfriend,
I'll move you on and we can try some uneducated peasant from
a voiceless tin pot republic where the beaches are golden,
and the sea is blue and the days are endlessly sunny. That's
the next step."

Howard was uneasy. Although he was aroused, he didn't like
this strange talk because it centred on Lucy, and he
couldn't hurt her.

Cecily smiled. "Mr Pendrill? You don't fancy playing with
your girlfriend, do you? I'm turning you off. It does you
credit, I suppose - but remember that women have fantasies
too - fantasies that the average man couldn't possibly
understand - so relax, because this isn't as bad as you
imagine. Women are creatures of habit, Mr Pendrill. We're
civilized beings on the surface, and that's how you see us,
and yet, underneath, we're just unreasoning beasts, animals,
because that's what we evolved from, and it's an ambiguity
that men always miss. We're unprepared for this crap that
evolution has wired into our psyches. We're brought up to be
retiring, modest and genteel, innocent soft beings, but we
aren't, and so we pretend to be something we're not and we
deny ourselves the things that we crave. Unconsciously, we
want to be coerced, Mr Pendrill, to have our wills
subjugated by a hunk of a man and be driven to our limits:
it's our nature. We yearn to be tossed onto a bed, to have a
man's ding-dong shoved into our cunts, and be made to enjoy
it. It's our dream to be forced to pant like a horse, sweat
like a donkey and cum like a whore; the latter most of all,
because there's something primeval inside of us that needs
to be bucking like a five dollar whore. We yearn for it just
once in our lives - but it isn't ladylike or polite to sell
our bodies for cash, and so we tell ourselves that we don't
want it, and that we can't stand it, and that we're
disgusted by the idea of it; and we repeat this mantra until
eventually we believe our own shit, and we do believe it, Mr
Pendrill, and that's so sad."

Howard listened to her unfiltered, undiluted effluent,
wanting to believe, but unable. It was an interesting theory
that Cecily was spouting, he supposed, but that's all it
was, a theory.

He sighed. "Lucy's not like that," he griped miserably.
"She's straightforward, clear thinking and open! She talks
to me like it is and she's old fashioned in her ideas. I
know her. She'd never want someone to fuck her unless she
was married to him. She wouldn't allow it for a moment!"

Cecily sighed, obviously disappointed. "Mr Pendrill. I
understand your concerns but you're missing the point. This
isn't about Lucy's consent. It's about her makeup, her
innate physical being. You forget that women's bodies have
been wired with dark sexual desires and they control us, Mr
Pendrill. They move us to brazen outrageous acts, and they
define what we are. Even if a woman is conservative and
religious, even if she's shy and bashful, these desires are
molten magma boiling beneath her earth's crust, and if you
scratch the surface, you see it.

"Lucy denies these facts because she doesn't want to accept
and believe them. They stand in opposition to her ethics and
her religion, but she needs to believe because they're her
Mount Etna, her Krakatoa, repressed and ready to explode at
the merest provocation.

"So take advantage, Mr Pendrill, and prod her desires.
Lucy's virtue is there in front of you and ready to be
taken, so find what she wants and make her pay with her
body. Ask yourself what she yearns for, Mr Pendrill. Perhaps
she yearns that you convert to her faith. Maybe she desires
this more than anything in the world. Or perhaps she sees
herself as a bride at a wedding and you as the groom - lots
of beads and trinkets and outfits. So horse trade with her,
Mr Pendrill, as Salome did with King Herod. Show her the
ropes and make her put them on. She'll rant and swear and
cry as you do it, but don't argue. Never argue. You must
take it slow and tell her that you think that it's cool to
tie her in ropes but you understand that she has doubts.
Offer to use knots that easily slip loose and handcuffs that
open, and use them, for she'll test you for sure.

"And after that, whenever she's worried or anxious and she
panics and frees herself from the ropes - because she will -
slow her down and talk to her. Offer her a drink and
reassure her, and then, once she's settled and calm, tie her
back up and kiss her. Make it a firm rule that you're never
sexual or intimate unless she's constrained in her ropes.
Let her grow used to submission and its proximity to
pleasure."

Howard was unconvinced that this would work with Lucy. She
was too forward and headstrong. She had a mind of her own.

"She'll want to know why you want to tie her, Mr Pendrill:
for women always ask such things, and so you'll say that you
don't know what drives you, perhaps it's something primeval
and masculine in all men, inherited from the stone ages, and
it's certainly not a weakness in your character. She'll ask
what you'll do once she's tied up, and you'll say that
you'll undress her, but nothing else. Nothing more. Not yet.
Maybe that'll come later, but at the beginning you're going
to remove her clothes - and yes, you'll remove them all, and
she must be prepared for that embarrassment. You'll remove
her clothes because you're turned on and aroused by her
body, but first she must give her consent that you do it.
You implore her emotionally and beg for it. You insist on
it. You won't do anything until she gives her consent, and
she will: eventually. It may take a while, but it'll happen,
and when she gives her permission, promise devoutly to untie
her as soon as she's naked: and swear it.

"It's a game. It's like poker. Show her the ropes and make
jokes with her. Kiss her. Poke her in the ribs and laugh,
and yet be firm. Always firm. In other areas you might horse
trade and compromise, but the ropes are not for negotiation.
She must understand that once she's given her okay, there's
no backing out. She'll be tied, and while you'll be gentle
and she shouldn't be frightened; you will undress her, and
you won't untie her until she's without a scrap of covering,
and you'll gaze at her and admire her, and there's no way
she can stop you, no way at all: once she's given her
consent.

"Keep the conversation airy and sexy and reassure her that
you care, but make sure she understands that once she's
given the go-ahead - and she will give it - she's under your
control and you'll do with her as you want.

"So once she's given her consent, tie her up and lie with
her on her bed and be firm and masculine: take control. Talk
to her and touch her frequently. Slide your hands beneath
her clothes and keep telling her how beautiful she is and
how turned on you are by her body; and then begin to undress
her. All the while, keep talking, and with every garment you
remove, tell her how wonderful she looks, how hot: and
reassure her that she's turning you on. Unfasten the outer
garments first although you mustn't remove them: not yet.
Keep kissing her mouth, her arms, her feet. Then come back
to her clothes. Leave the top ones for now and instead
remove her undergarments so that you can get more easily to
her treasures, her tits and her slit. Kiss her intensely.
Use your tongue. Touch her breasts and lick her teats; suck
her pussy and tease her clit until it sighs and hums. Kiss
her all over: her feet, her tummy, the small of her back,
and especially her tits, and use a dildo in her ass while
you work on her pussy. Make sure she enjoys the attention,
but don't fuck her. Not yet.

"Much later, when she's accustomed to the rope and she's hot
and panting like a wild animal, explain to her that you're
respecting your promise to untie her once she's naked; but
she isn't naked yet, she's dressed, if only partially: and
perhaps she never will be naked. You haven't decided about
that. Then, when that information has sunk in, tell her that
she's going to be raped, and get out your cock and fuck her
like she's a doll; do it hard and brutal, with her blouse
open and her skirt bunched about her waist. Hump her without
love or compassion. Show her no mercy and ram her to the
hilt. She'll thank you in the end - eventually, but not yet.
Right now she'll scream and abuse you because her religious
sensibility tells her that she's enjoying it and that's
wrong, although she can't understand the reason why.

"You see how easy it is. When it's over you must buy her
flowers and take her to dinner. Take her to the theatre and
keep pushing those limits."

Howard shook his head slowly, unconvinced that this would
work on Lucy, but Cecily was adamant that it would work. "It
will work, Mr Pendrill," she insisted. "It will. I promise."

"But it's madness!" Howard wailed hopelessly. "Lucy has
principles and they can't be ignored. She's not your average
woman. You can't buy her with sex. She has ethics and
religion."

And Cecily: she laughed.

"Mr Pendrill," she said. "That's crap. All women are
vulnerable to sex. They just need to be approached in the
right way because it's our makeup... and I know about these
things. I know our strengths and our weaknesses. I've seen
it first hand, and in Lucy's case, her weakness is her
religion, and therefore I'll use it to persuade her. All
that's needed is to subvert the person of God in her mind
and replace him with a man: with you, Mr Pendrill. You will
be her God, and yes, I can do it. I can replace him. I've
done it before and I'll do it again because it's not
difficult to accomplish. At the moment, Lucy is devoted to
this imaginary anonymous person she calls God. She loves
him, she prays to him, she says, and she'll do anything he
wants of her; and yet, what does she know of this God? What
does she really know? She's never met him, never seen him,
never had a conversation with him face to face in which her
questions are answered or her problems are solved. She's
never smelt him, never touched him, and yet now, I shall
show her his face, Mr Pendrill. I shall show her his mind,
his heart, his likes, his hates, his person, and that person
will be you. His mind will be yours and his face will not be
a strange one, but a reflection of your face, Mr Pendrill. I
shall teach her to listen to her God's voice, and to
understand his words, and it will be your voice that she
hears, and your words. By the time I've finished with her,
she will have a different God, and he will have a different
voice and a different name, and she will do anything he asks
of her: anything you ask of her, Mr Pendrill. Anything.
Anything at all. Can you believe that?"

He couldn't.

"Then watch carefully, Mr Pendrill, and see me at work. See
what I can do. Watch, and be envious. But as a first step, I
need you to do something for me. I need your cooperation,
your help. Do I have it, Mr Pendrill?"

Howard nodded hesitantly, thinking that this was a small
thing for him to provide given her promise. Why not?

"Excellent. Then I want you to sign a piece of paper for me.
I'd like you to sign it as a token of your cooperation, and
an agreement of your help."

Howard's jaw wobbled. "A paper? I don't understand. What
kind of paper?"

"Trust me, Mr Pendrill. The words are not important. I just
need your scrawl."

"I can't! Absolutely not!"

"Mr Pendrill. We're not playing games here. This is about
the department. SJ6 is for people who prioritize and lead,
who follow orders without always knowing the reason. I need
you to sign this paper."

Howard shook his head. He was adamant. He couldn't. "What
does it say? I need to know. I'm not signing any blank
pieces of paper."

"And neither should you, Mr Pendrill. If you insist in
knowing what it says, I shall tell you. My paper states that
you assign Lucy to the members of your squadron who may use
her for purposes of sex."

"What? You're mad!"

"It's necessary, Mr Pendrill. Listen to me. I have a great
deal of work to do with Lucy's mind. Coercion is necessary.
I must have a weapon."

"No. You don't need that. I don't agree. Your paper is an
invitation to rape her. It's terrible! It amounts to a
crime."

"Mr Pendrill. Don't exaggerate. There is no crime."

"Raping Lucy is a crime!"

Cecily sighed softly, staring him down, but then she got up,
getting up from her knees and padding across to a small sash
window and she looked out of it, sighing again and not in
the least alarmed. "I think you will help me, Mr Pendrill,"
she said calmly. "You'll sign my paper because if you don't,
the alternative will be worse for Lucy."

"Alternative? What alternative? What are you talking about?"

Cecily continued to stare through the window at the sunny,
but frosty area outside, and she appeared remote, dreamy and
far off as she watched the duty officer drilling his
recruits, marching them around and around, barking orders
and bringing them to attention after each circuit of the
square. His voice was demanding and assertive, and Cecily
recognized it from her time at the barracks as a recruit, as
he'd marched her on what were euphemistically described as
"unconventional drills".

Oh, how well she remembered the "unconventional drills"!

In the first there had been twelve young women, all fresh
faced and ready to be initiated into a special program for
female operatives euphemistically known as Albert's Angels.
It had been a career change for Cecily, leaving family and
home to work in a stark new place: and what work it was!
They'd given her new kit and then she'd lined up on the
parade ground with her colleagues on either side of her and
the kit piled at her feet, and the Major had explained what
happened to women caught spying in enemy territory.

It had been a long rambling speech, graphic and unsettling.
As he'd put it, it was universal practice for female spies
to be stripped naked and tortured and raped when caught, so
it was better that they didn't get caught, but since they
probably would, it was his job to wise them up and give them
the odd rehearsal.

He described the process in meticulous detail, focussing on
the excitement and enjoyment their captors would gain from
their embarrassment and their fright. He talked of temporal
and spatial disorientation, how they might be left in
darkness for days without any clothes, and then suddenly
raped and thrown back into darkness. He spoke about self
imposed torture, how they might be made to stand with their
hands above their heads, and then whipped whenever they
moved. He described the stress and the pressure of keeping
their arms lifted for hour after hour. He spoke about sex,
how he hoped that they liked it because they would be raped,
that they should be prepared to be raped, and that they
needed to be psychologically strong.

"So," he'd said at the end of his lecture, looking at them
lasciviously. "We're going to see how many of you have what
it takes."

And with that, he picked out a woman at random, and he led
her to the front of the group. He placed a black hood over
her head, and he told her to strip.

"You, soldier!" he barked. "Take off your clothes. Get
naked. And now!"

He smiled as the woman obeyed him, removing not just her
uniform but her underwear too. He made her do it slowly,
teasing her and telling her how sexy she was, and the poor
woman was confused and torn, unsure whether she should be
obeying or resisting, but in the end, she did what she was
asked, and once she was undressed, the Major explained that
she must get used to being naked in front of strange men
because it was part of her training, absolutely necessary if
she was to last the course as a spy.

Every six months, he told her, she would be raped by men of
her own regiment, by her colleagues and friends. They would
do it just for the practice, and she'd better get used to
living down the embarrassment, and working with men who'd
raped her, and would rape her again.

Having made this comment, the Major made a number of crude
comments about the woman's body, throwing compliments and
insults in equal measure, and when he was done, he called
another woman forward and made her stand next to the first
one. He placed a bag over her head just as he had with the
first woman, and he told her to undress, and he repeated the
process. Soon, he had all twelve of them standing nude and
unable to see because of their thick black hoods.

"And now," the Major pronounced with a flourish, sweeping
along their line and squeezing the odd breast and tugging at
a convenient tuft of genital hair, and sticking a finger
into a random girl's slit. "If any of you wishes to leave
then you should do so now, because this is where your
training begins and your dignity ends. Don't expect any
favours because you'll get none, only insults and
discipline. If you stay, then expect to be fucked, and
fucked hard and fucked often."

He waited for them to move, but when none of them did, he
signalled towards the gate and twelve fully clothed male
conscripts marched into the square. These soldiers
approached close to where the women were standing with their
hoods around their heads, and the men lined up directly in
front of the women.

"Okay," the Major said to the women, when the men were
correctly positioned. "This is the beginning of your
training. There are twelve men looking at your bodies and
you're going to give them a good show. I want you to jog up
and down while shouting "look at my sad, floppy tits", until
I tell you to stop. Have you got it?"

They had it, and so they did as he said, jumping up and down
with the heavy hoods covering their heads and hampering
their breathing.

These were physically fit women and this was okay at first,
but soon they began to tire and they slowed. As soon as they
did so, one of the soldiers picked a woman a random. He
lifted his belt and lashed her viciously across the breasts.
The unlucky recipient screamed, and all of the others
reacted too, redoubling their pace, the unaffected trying to
determine what had happened while the victim howled
invisibly into her hood.

This continued until all of them had been lashed and were
glowing from the marks on their tits, and still they were
being encouraged to continue. The shouts of "look at my sad,
floppy tits" were becoming fractious and were now punctuated
with pauses. But still they kept jogging, because each
exhausted pause was ended with a lash, and their fronts were
criss crossed with lines.

And then one of them collapsed, too exhausted to continue.
The male soldiers grabbed hold of her and made her sit on
the ground. They opened the woman's legs and they inserted a
toy into each of her lower holes. Then, when the toys were
purring, one of them stuck his dick into her mouth and she
swallowed and sucked, and when she was done, she stood,
removed the toys, and shuffled back to the line where the
procedure started again: her jogging on the spot and
shouting "look at my sad, floppy tits," and the male
soldiers waiting for signs of hesitation.

They did it for hours, bringing out fresh men as necessary,
and the exercise was repeated incessantly. It took a year to
qualify to be one of Albert's Angels, a year being fucked at
each and any opportunity, without knowing who was doing the
fucking or for how long it would last.

For the women, there was frequently a knowing, unexplained
smile offered by a colleague when on some regular army
exercise, an uncomfortable shifting of the trousers and a
quick change of subject, and the woman would know that that
man had had her.

"Oh yes," Cecily muttered sourly, biting her lip and turning
away from the window. "The alternative will be worse; much,
much worse. I promise you that."

She produced a sheet of notepaper and slid it across the
table to Howard, its few formal lines brief and specific.
"This is the form I referred to, Mr Pendrill. I want you to
read it and when you've done it, sign it."

Howard didn't even look at the form. "I'm sorry," he
muttered stiffly. "I can't do that!"

Cecily ignored this remark, and instead, she twisted the
paper around and read aloud from its paragraphs,
paraphrasing freely. "Lucy is to be brought to the barracks
where she'll be shackled to a pole. A rope will be looped to
her arms, and the rope will be tossed across a wooden
rafter. She'll be lifted and left dangling by her arms. Once
she's been hanging for an hour, eleven men from the barracks
will rape her at their leisure: back passage and front. Her
attackers will be told that they'll be assisting with
resistance training and they must ignore Lucy's protests. I,
Howard Pendrill agree to these actions."

Howard shook his head. "No. It's obscene. You can't make me!
As I've said, I won't sign it!"

"You will sign it, Mr Pendrill." Cecily put down the paper
and pressed it towards him. "You'll sign it because that's
the way you get into SJ6, and you want to be setting the
rules. Lucy is nothing, a pawn, simply the price you pay to
achieve your life's goals."

"I won't do it!"

"You will, Mr Pendrill. You'll do it because - and I repeat
- it's the way to get into SJ6: the only way."

Howard knew that what she was saying was likely true and he
was torn, and he hesitated. But no, he couldn't do it. The
price was too much.

"It's the only way, Mr Pendrill," she repeated quietly.
"Think carefully. You've trained so hard... It would be a
shame to let it waste..."

Howard looked at the paper and Cecily's resolute, flint-like
chine, and what could he do? The army was what he understood
and how could he toss it away?

And yet, it was a poisonous pill. "It's not right!" he
objected wretchedly, and Cecily smiled, readily agreeing
with him.

"Of course it's not right," she grinned. "Espionage is a
grubby, disreputable business, and it's not 'right' that we
do the things we do. It never has been 'right', but it's
what we are, what we do; and while Lucy is hanging from the
rafters, your colleagues will gather in front of her and
they'll gamble for her clothes, the winner of each rubber
gaining the right to remove an article of her clothing. Do
you like that, Mr Pendrill? She'll not be given a gag and
she'll be encouraged to scream loudly: the more screams the
better, so that when the gambling's done and she's naked, we
can gamble some more and she can be buggered and then
tortured and you can hear the strength of her voice."

Howard shrunk back in horror, shaking his head, for in his
naivety, this was worse than he'd expected. "No!" he cried.
"Lucy is my girlfriend!"

"I know that, Mr Pendrill."

"I won't allow it... I couldn't live with myself!"

"Yes you could, Mr Pendrill. SJ6 offers a bounty of buxom
female compensation, all of it willing to serve you, and
fuck you, and suck you. You enjoyed my officers, I recall.
Would you like them again?"

"No. I won't listen. I won't do that to Lucy!"

"You'll sign it, Mr Pendrill - You will, despite your
misgivings - because you're army bred and military life is
in your blood. You breathe it. Am I right? For people like
you - and me also, very sadly - there is no option. It's
what we do."

"No!"

He couldn't sacrifice Lucy...

Dear Lucy!

Aged 22. 34 inch bust. 34 inch hips. Swaying. Stripping.

First her blouse; then her skirt.

Dear Lucy.

She seemed to be swirling in a mist and getting fainter and
disappearing into the nothingness. God. Where was she?

Now her stockings, first this one and then the other, and
soon she was looking at him demurely; promising to take off
her bra and her panties, and shaking her chest at him, but
he could barely see her in the mist.

"Mr Pendrill! This is boring me. Please, let's get this
done: sign the bloody paper!"

He glanced down at the form and wondered how anyone could do
such a thing to someone they loved. He picked up the pen.

"Thank God, Mr Pendrill. Now sign it. Let's move on, because
once Lucy's used to being your fuck toy, you'll bring her to
the barracks. Do it during manoeuvres when no one's about,
and undress her. Ask her to walk along the corridors and
into the men's dorm and walk with her and see how she feels.
Keep the conversation light and saucy and don't say anything
to frighten her. You know the drill. Let her know that the
buildings are unoccupied and that no one's returning anytime
soon. She's safe; but tell her that you're excited and
turned on at the idea that a man might unexpectedly return
and find her minus her clothes. Play with the idea.

"They won't return, of course, but, wait: surely she must
feel the tension too? Just a little? Isn't it sexy? A group
of trained soldiers stumbling across her and finding her
naked? Play the devil with her. Excite her. Do it slow and
arouse her. Get her used to the idea of being naked in a
roomful of strange men and of being scared and yet also
turned on."

"I couldn't do that! Don't you see? Lucy isn't into that
kind of thing. She's very conservative and... well, she
isn't an exhibitionist."

"Of course not, Mr Pendrill. No woman is an exhibitionist
until she's been trained because it's an acquired condition
that takes time, patience and effort to attain to. She'll be
terrified at first, but you'll coax her and take her from
her shell. She'll worry about the soldiers and how long
they'll be away and where they've gone and when they'll
return. She'll fret and beg you to take her somewhere
private to do it, and when you say no, she'll worry about
her body: whether her tits are too small or too large or the
wrong shape. She'll worry about whether she's too fat or her
ass is big or is sagging. You'll calm her by providing her
with a long coat, a rain Mac with two buttons on the front
and a belt, and she can put this on in case of an emergency.

"Now that she can see that there's no risk, you'll flatter
her and appeal to her ego. You'll play games: standing with
her in the men's dorm by their beds where you'll open their
lockers and show her the rude centrefolds taped to the
doors. 'That could be you,' you'll whisper, kissing her
neck. 'You, my dear, lying on your back and spreading your
pretty pink petals. Imagine it, my dear! Imagine that it's
you!' And she'll blush, and her breathing will hurry, and
when it does, you'll order her to undress.

"'The boys would like to get a better look at you,' you'll
whimsy.' They're in front of you right now - imagine it -
jostling and joking and they want to see your breasts and
your pussy, and the pink between your legs. Imagine: the
department has instructed me to tell you that you must strip
naked and be rude for those soldiers. Imagine: the soldiers
and how they want you to open your legs and hold yourself
open so that they can see how wet you are.'

"As you make her imagine this, Lucy will stamp and argue and
do whatever she can to hang onto her clothes - because this
imagining makes her uncomfortable - but you, Mr Pendrill,
will be strong and insist.

'Undress my love," you'll whisper. "It's the only way that I
can help you. If you won't do it there's no telling what
these soldiers might do. They're a rough undisciplined lot
and they might tie you to a bed and gangbang you and take
pictures and post them to the internet, and you wouldn't
want that, would you, my love?' You, on the internet, with a
broad beaming smile and another on your face."

Cecily had Howard's undivided attention. His mouth was agog,
for she was touching his mind. "And now," she said. "You'll
tell dear Lucy a story."

Howard was caught unprepared in this web of Cecily's
invention. He was trapped. He was sweating. "I will?" he
mumbled. "What kind of a story?"

"Something to pander to Lucy's burgeoning exhibitionist
curiosity: the story of what happens to a lady caught
without her clothes in the middle of a soldier's dormitory,
as those soldiers return unexpectedly and move in towards
her."

Howard wobbled. "Oh Jesus!"

"Yes, Mr Pendrill. It's surprising how a woman reacts to the
invasion of her psyche. Imagine: it's a day like any other,
when suddenly you tell Lucy that you're going to tie her,
just as you normally do when you're at home, and as you've
grown used to doing it in the men's dorm. You pick a bed
that has a locker adjacent to it decorated with naked ladies
and you ask Lucy to lie on the bed and look at the pictures.
Give her time to grow comfortable and settle and recover
from her fears, and then, point to one or two of the
pictures and reflect on the likely character of the owner of
the bed she's lying on, and then, as you get out the ropes
and show them to her, ask her to smell him. Can she sense
his lingering masculinity? His sweat? His dirt?

"As you loop the lengths of rope round her wrists and tie
the knots, ask her how he'll react when he returns to his
bed and finds a naked Cinderella with her arms outstretched
and her legs apart and vulnerable. 'It won't be long,' you
threaten, tugging at the ropes and pulling Lucy into a
spread-eagle position. 'The soldiers will return soon! In
fact, I think I can hear them outside!' And then, while
she's panicking and struggling to free herself, climb on top
of her and fuck her. Do it hard. Do it unexpected and give
her everything you've got."

Howard swallowed dryly and he listened to the speech with
difficulty. He gulped without air. "You mean," he mouthed.
"We should have sex in the barracks? On someone's bed? When
someone might walk by? But... but that's ridiculous!"

"It's not, Mr Pendrill. Why is it ridiculous? Danger is an
intoxicating aphrodisiac to a woman even more than to a man.
It's like a drug befuddling a woman's mind and stirring the
loins, and so yes, you must certainly do it at the barracks!
Tie her to the bed and when she's beginning to get anxious,
when she can hear the soldiers returning and perhaps their
voices, make love to her, and as always, make sure that she
cums."

"God!" Howard shook his head in wonder. "Honestly. Lucy
would freak out if I did that! She'd go bananas! She'd go
mad!"

"Not if you follow my instructions, she won't, Mr Pendrill.
She won't freak out at all. You'll fuck her, and then when
you're done, she'll shower and dress, and you'll each leave
the barracks in stitches at the ridiculousness of the stunt
you've just pulled, for although there were soldiers
returning, they'll pass the door as you knew they would, for
the door is locked and the key in your pocket. They've gone
to the bathroom and to the mess... But now, having broken
the ice, the next time will be easier. She trusts you, and
the time after that, easier still. Get her used to being
naked, of enjoying a sense of danger. Walk her up and down
the corridors and tell her how turned on you are, and how
excited by the risk that someone might chance by and find
you both in the barracks. Let her feel the hardness of your
cock and allow her to caress it. Press your finger against
her clit and let the pressure build...

"And then, when the time is appropriate and she's walking
freely without any clothes, tell her that you've forgotten
the coat.

"You see how easy it is? By the time that you get to this
point, the coat is forgotten. She'll be so familiar with
your story that she'll no longer be frightened. It takes
time and work to get here, and in the meantime, you make her
laugh and have light-hearted fun with her. Excite her.
Arouse her. Have good sex with her. Tell her that your
fellow officers are longing to get a peek at her tits and
describe their erections, describe the shapes of their tools
even as you play with her clit. Tell her who the guys are,
their names, their girlfriends, their backgrounds, and what
they've been doing in their beds. Lie. Pretend. Be
inventive, because women like to feel that they're the
centre of male interest, and it goes straight to their egos.

"So, what next? Having got Lucy to this point, you must put
a blindfold over her eyes and walk her through the dorm.
Explain to her that the guys are watching and waiting for
her to strip. Have her stand by each bed and remind her
whose bed it is, the owner's name, his background, what he
would like to do in his bed if he had the chance with a
naked and vulnerable woman. By this time, Lucy will have
played this game so often and she'll be so comfortable with
it that she'll be playing along with you. It's a fantasy,
she thinks. Set the scene and allow her to imagine it. By
now, she'll have conquered her fears and she's learnt that
danger is fun. She'll rise to the spirit and she'll remove
her clothes and dance ferociously, imagining the soldiers
staring at her charms and waiting to fuck her; except that
it's no longer fantasy. It's reality, Mr Pendrill. The
soldiers are actually there and they're watching and they're
playing ferociously with their cocks.

"So then you take her to the first of the beds and you lie
her down and you tie her to the bed, and once she's tied,
you hand the fantasy to the first of the soldiers, and he
takes over, he surprises and rapes her, and once he's
finished, you unfasten the ropes and pull a slightly shaken
Lucy to the next bed, where you tie her again. A second man
climbs on top of her and he rapes her too. He takes his time
and he does it slow and nice and he makes Lucy cum, and once
he's finished, you untie her and she stumbles on, and you
lead her to the third bed and you whisper softly in her ear:
'There are twelve beds, my dear, and we must visit them
all.'

"If you encourage Lucy, and you prepare her properly, she'll
do it. She'll go to each of the beds and she'll take the
cocks of those soldiers, and she won't freak out."

"God. Yes. You're right. And what happens next?"

Howard gazed feverishly at Cecily's barely concealed breasts
and her dark, saucer like nipples. He eyed them greedily and
with frustration, yearning to hurt and pinch them with his
fingers, even as Cecily thrust her sheet of paper in front
of him and stabbed her index finger at the line awaiting his
signature.

"Sign it, Mr Pendrill. If you want me to continue, then sign
your name..."

"I can't. Please! I'm not doing it. You can't make me!"

"I beg to differ, Mr Pendrill. You will sign it because you
want what I have to give, and I'm not talking about sex now,
nor am I talking about money. No, Mr Pendrill. Not money.
Not sex. They're not everything by a long chalk. There are
other, better types of compensation. I'm talking about the
power that devolves, Mr Pendrill. Power. For instance, how
would you react if I allowed you to hurt and control me?
What if I signed over such power, if I said you could do
anything you liked to my body: anything at all, even
something permanent and ghastly. Think about that, Mr
Pendrill. Wouldn't it be better than money? Better than mere
sex? Wouldn't you care to own such power even if you chose
not to use it? I'm sure you've fucked many young ladies,
enjoying your pleasure of them; but how many of that number
have you owned and controlled? What would a man give to own
such power, do you suppose, Mr Pendrill? To know that he
could order a woman to do anything at all and she would do
it? I wonder: might a man even sell his soul to attain this
amount of power?"

"I don't know - I mean... I'm sure a man wouldn't want such
irresistible power. It's too much..."

"Really, Mr Pendrill? I don't think so - and how could I
believe you, looking at that long, juicy prick staring at me
through this glass table. My suggestion is exciting you -
you like it - and you have this fantastic notion that you
might possess my body and do with it as you crave, even if
it's against my will. You imagine yourself with the
unimaginable power. But you haven't grasped it, not yet, and
I don't blame you. Men are unaccustomed to the idea of
imposing their will so absolutely on a woman."

Howard shifted, hiding the glory of his manhood. "You're
teasing me!" he shrugged, but his face was reddening and
confused.

"Lucy's torture will be filmed," Cecily informed him
quietly. "We can watch it together. I have a bed and we can
lie upon it and allow nature to do as it wants - or not, if
you'd prefer. I will offer you power, but first... I have my
favour to ask."

Howard groaned, knowing what was coming. Oh God. He was
hurting in the groin for Lucy, for his girlfriend, but
caught in a trap of his own making.

He tried to remember: Lucy. 22 years. 34 inch bust. 34 inch
hips. Swaying. Stripping.

Jesus Christ. Where was Lucy?

She had on her stockings and was removing them demurely,
first this one and then the other. She was looking at him
and promising to take off her bra and her panties, but
begging him to look at her... yes, at her; and at no one
else.

"That's better, Mr Pendrill! Your cock is blossoming
beautifully. I like a hard, handsome man with a big fat
dick. I like it when you touch it, when you stroke it, when
you look at my tits.

"Maybe it would help to clear your mind if I told you that
within my world, an agent's methods are his own. Do you know
what I mean? Do you comprehend me, Mr Pendrill? There's no
concept of 'reasonable force' here, because you're a
reasonable man, and so all force must be reasonable by
definition. I'm a field operative, a member of SJ6, and so I
can order you to strip and you'll do it because otherwise I
will have you arrested and banged up in jail and given no
redress or sentence. Since I consider that reasonable, it
is, and so you see, there's no accountability in SJ6, Mr
Pendrill - none - except in obtaining results. I have the
authority to ask you to stand and play with yourself, to sit
with a hot poker sticking out of your ass, or anything I
like. I have that power, and afterwards, when I'm done, you
have no recourse to complain to the authorities or the press
or even your superiors."

Howard glanced down. "I understand the department's
privileges."

"Then do it, Mr Pendrill; for no other reason than it's my
whim. Perform for me. I'm a grown woman and I'm of age and
feeling horny, so excite me! Fondle your cock and make me
glad that I'm alive and that I'm part of SJ6."

Howard stared uncertainly at the table and the order
awaiting his signature, and it was blackmail, because he
still wouldn't sign it. He looked to Cecily's face and the
wide, salacious grin, and he winced.

She was teasing him, leading him into the jaws of an
uncertain enemy, and it wasn't fair.  "I don't have a
regular boyfriend, Mr Pendrill," she purred at him eagerly,
rubbing her tits. "I don't have time for frivolity and so I
need to make do with what get: like you. So perform for me
and show me what you've got. I want to see the power of your
spurt... your spray... your dirt in my hair..."

Howard stood up and he hesitated. He didn't want to do
this...

"That's good, Mr Pendrill. Now move away from the table and
hold your dick down by the stem, and I want long, slow
regular strokes. I want to melt..."

But his hands wouldn't move. They couldn't.

"Mr Pendrill? I'm waiting. Any time that you're ready,
please..."

But he couldn't. He shook his head.

"I can't. Please!"

"But you can, Mr Pendrill - and you will, because you want
me to return the favour. You want to have the same power
over me as I have over you, so do it. If you don't, I'll
punish you. You're a soldier and you'll obey my orders.
That's your duty. So obey me. Show me how much you want to
be stoking my pussy by playing with your cock!"

"But I can't! No! I won't!"

"Please don't be shy, Mr Pendrill. I know the truth of what
you're feeling because I can see the state of your cock, so
tell me how badly you want to hurt me... to get your
revenge... You want to tell me what to do, to see the
humiliation on my face..."

"I..."

Howard stepped hesitantly from the table, his arms and hands
weighing heavy with dread, and he stood in front of her, not
wanting to obey, but the excitement surging to his groin
nonetheless.

"Very good, Mr Pendrill," Cecily nodded approvingly, seeing
his dick jerk in his hand. "I like it, but don't be bashful!
Grab it at the base. Don't let it get away from you! That's
an order! You told me earlier that you'll do your duty, so
show me how badly my pussy excites you. Hold the rock at the
base, please. Hold it firmly."

He did so gingerly.

"Now play with it, Mr Pendrill, because I say that you must!
Beat it. Beat it hard so that it'll spurt over my face,
because I want you to spray."

Cecily parted her legs at the knees, teasing him, lifting
her feet and placing them provocatively across the edge of
the table so that her skirt fell back to her groin. She
didn't say anything but Howard could see the strange coat of
arms stitched into her stocking two inches from the top, and
he studied it.

"It pleases me to make soldiers do as I ask," Cecily crowed,
stroking herself between her legs along the line of her
lips, and then making herself more comfortable by
unfastening the top of her blouse. Her skirt bunched up,
pulled up to her waist by her movements. "That's it - I like
that - keep doing it, keep pumping, Mr Pendrill. No one's
told you to stop."

Howard funnelled his thoughts. What next? Where was she
going with this? He could see under Cecily's bunched skirt
to the strip of white thigh and the woodland beyond. God. He
could feel Cecily's growing excitement - her expectancy -
that she was aroused at being able to force him to wank.

What now? He stared at her twin large black saucers, and his
cock stretched and thickened, aching towards her.

And then, his hand moved. He couldn't stop it and why should
he want to, he wondered. Would it be so terribly wrong if he
did as she asked?

"Imagine it, Mr Pendrill," she added, "that you belong to
SJ6 and you can do as you like. Anything you fancy. In
Central America you can rape the girlfriend of a Nicaraguan
guerrilla, horse whip her pussy with piano wire and chop her
tits into bite-size pieces - all on the excuse of getting
her boyfriend to talk. You can do it! No one will complain!
Certainly not me! No one would dare to. Do you understand
the possibilities of this unimaginable power?"

Howard did, and the movement of his hand accelerated, and
his cock darkened and reddened. He owned a hidden vein of
depravity that Cecily had tapped into, deep in the haunted
underworld of his subconscious. At the surface he found her
suggestion disgusting and repulsive, but underneath that
surface his cock was exploding with pleasure. He could feel
his balls working overtime and they were tightening,
constricting and the cum was pressurizing him from within.

"Look at me, Mr Pendrill," she demanded. "Mr Pendrill! Don't
look away! I don't permit it! Imagine my tits swaying naked
and that I'm the girlfriend of that guerrilla. I'm
vulnerable and in front of you, unable to protest and unable
to resist. Imagine it, Mr Pendrill. You have absolute power
over my body, the authority and capability to chop my dear
breasts into small, diminutive pieces. They're in the
guillotine already, and the blade is itching to fall. It's
awaiting your command and I'm screaming, I'm begging, I'm
drugged up with fear. I'm mad with fright and promising
anything I can think of, because at any moment the steel
will drop and take its first bite of my flesh, just a
slither. You know it. I know it. My boyfriend knows it. We
all know it - that the blade will remove the nub from each
of my nipples - and I'll do anything to stop it from
happening. I'll promise you my mother, my children, my kid
sister; even my boyfriend, anything I can think of to stop
it."

Indeed, Howard could see it. He could see himself as that
tormentor that Cecily was describing. He could see her
fretting and struggling, begging and promising everything
she could think of, every precious thing that he might
desire of her, and finally - it came - the last, vital
scream of metal sliding over metal, followed by metal
through flesh, and then, a moment later, a very different
hideous type of scream.

He shivered in disgust at his own inhumanity. What was
happening to him and what was Cecily doing? How could she?
How could he imagine such thoughts and desire to fulfil
them? And yet how could he deny it when his cock was red and
engorged, a giant bulbous thread of unimaginable ferocity.

"Surely these are things you'd like to do?" she cooed to
him, slipping loose a button of her blouse, and she knew
what she was doing. She was the master - a mistress, and she
was tapping into his subconscious psyche and draining it
clean.

"Mr Pendrill. The reason I'm unfastening my blouse is that I
need to show you something that you won't have seen in a
woman before, strange though that sounds to a highly
experienced man. A spy must learn how to deal with enormous
power but also with unimaginable humiliation. In my time in
SJ6, I've enjoyed power over soldiers and prisoners: men and
women alike. The attractive ones I've bedded, the
unattractive ones I've discarded. But in addition to these
opportunities, there have been other, less fortunate times
when I've experienced periods of personal humiliation beyond
comprehension. A female spy is, by definition, vulnerable to
abuse. She's there to be trampled upon. She's an object of
no regard and she has nominal value. It's assumed by her
superiors that she'll use her body to get what she needs,
and it's part of her training to use it. It's expected that
those who abuse her will be violent and cruel. Put
succinctly, Mr Pendrill: it was expected that I would
suffer, as I have. I've seen the fire of pain raked through
my bosom and have withstood its cleansing flame. So the
question I keep asking myself now is this one: are you as
strong?"

Jesus.

As she concluded her speech, she unfastened the final
buttons of her blouse and pulled it open, baring her breasts
to him for the first time.

And there she was with everything on show. There were her
bare tits and she was topless.

"Do you understand, Mr Pendrill? Look at me closely! Yes,
look at my chest! Don't blush! And contemplate what I've
endured!"

Howard's jaw dropped and his hand froze as he looked at her.
Suddenly, he could see the weight of her feminine glory, but
it wasn't the glory that he'd expected.

Now he knew the reason for the large, saucer shaped nipples,
so black, coal-like and prominent. Now he knew the reason
why she had to show him her breasts.

"Are you surprised, Mr Pendrill?" she inquired, taking her
tits in the palms of her hands and touching herself
tenderly. She glanced at him, curious to discover his
reaction, and pleased by what she saw, she lifted her
breasts, presenting them to him and holding them for his
casual inspection. "I see that you're surprised," she said.

Indeed, Howard was gob smacked. His cock was rigid.

"As you will observe, Mr Pendrill," she continued. "These
are not the nipples I was born with. They are - shall I say?
- borrowed teats. They come from an Egyptian lady, the
sister of a man I was targeting. Alas, my cover was blown
and I was arrested. I was taken to a police station in the
trunk of a cab, to a hot, rancid place without sanitation or
air. There were no lawyers or consular officials for me to
call for or object to. I was frightened, for you see, my
story of the guillotine was not entirely a fictional one. I
was taken to a dank, bleak cellar and shown that device -
the guillotine. It was rusty. It still had a little dried
blood smeared to the blade and sheared strands of festering
flesh, and I was assured that it was functional. I wondered
whose blood this was that would be conjoining with mine, and
whose festering flesh, and where were they now?

"My hands were taped behind my back. My legs were wrapped
with tape from ankles to knees. And that's when I was
introduced to Ahmed, a policeman, my target, who explained
by means of a demonstration - how he would make salami of my
breasts. He had a sausage, the German kind, and he proceeded
to cut it into wafer thin slices with his guillotine. I was
petrified, and I confess I soiled myself, but that didn't
help me. He took me to the bathroom, cleaned me up, and then
he returned me to the machine, placing my breasts where the
sausage had been. He fitted me inside his contraption and
then he did it. He cut me. Once an hour for six hours he
repeated the act, and I screamed. I screamed so unbelievably
loud. You know, I worked out that it would take him three
days to complete my mastectomy. He cut me. I thought about
that as I waited. I calculated it even in my screaming.
Imagine - once an hour relentlessly, unforgiving, without
fail, wallop, the blade falls; and a little more of me is
gone. I worked out precisely where the blade would be by the
end of the first day and where it would have got to at the
end of the second. I determined the precise time of the
final cut - and I was a blubbering wretch. I knew in advance
when it would be, the moment when I would be totally and
entirely de-breasted. I endured Ahmed applying mental
pressure as well: he made sandwiches, and used my tit meat
as filling, having fried it first like bacon. I watched and
sobbed, because he made me - and he ate the sandwiches, he
ate me all up, and he licked his lips and told me how tasty
I was."

Howard was wanking, his strokes becoming furious but
erratic, fast and manic. He was taking in every word, and in
spirit he was with her and Ahmed, tasting her flesh and
waiting for the blade to fall again.

"But then," Cecily said. "Just as I thought my career as a
spy was over, I got lucky. Ahmed was careless. After eating
the second sandwich, he decided that it would be fun to
screw me, to be fucking me from behind as the blade fell. He
had to unfasten the tape so that he could open my legs and
that's when I escaped. I got away and I fled. He chased me
but I outthought him. I was brave. I went to the one place
where he didn't think of looking; to his own house, and
there I found Jazmin, Ahmed's sister, the woman who'd
betrayed me to him.

"I gave her the same mercy that she offered me. I was quick
and efficient. I was crazy, irrational perhaps: but that's
what comes with the pain. I did to her what she'd done to me
with Ahmed her agent. First of all, I sliced off her
clothes, and then afterwards the tops of her breasts - not
with a guillotine, for I didn't have one, but with a
ceremonial sword. I cut, not just the nipples, but another
inch or so too, as compensation. I took what was mine: eye
for eye, tooth for tooth, nipple for nipple, and I sowed
what I'd removed with needle and thread to my own bleeding
breasts, restoring something of my disfigured womanhood."

God.

Howard stared at her, at the black, saucer like nipples and
the terrible scars that surrounded them. Each of her breasts
was a crevice strewn, snow topped mountain in negative, the
darker, swarthy skin of the Egyptian at the summit merging
into paler European foothills.

Between the two, fine white scars radiated, revealing where
an ancient thread had once sown one woman's flesh to the
other.

God.

"I've suffered, Mr Pendrill," Cecily muttered bitterly. "Not
just on that occasion, but on many others too. I've been
tested and tasted, and have been proven by the Gods to be
without weakness or fault. I deserve my place in SJ6, but
what about you? That's what I ask..."

She pulled off her blouse and dropped it to the floor. It
was a theatrical gesture, and it slid down her arms,
floating silently across her pale skin, like upon a warm
cushion of clammy air.

"Sign the document, Mr Pendrill. You're being approved for
this program is conditional upon it. Let's not waste time.
Sign the paper."

Howard swallowed deeply, wondering what he would say to Lucy
to mitigate his sin if he were to perpetrate it. How could
he explain the unexplainable?

"And. if I sign it..." he coughed, looking coyly at Cecily's
bare breasts. "If I agree that she should be humiliated, are
you saying that I'll be approved? Is that guaranteed?"

Cecily laughed at him mockingly, "Nothing is guaranteed,"
she countered, cupping her breasts and presenting her teats
to him. He saw that an inch of foreign flesh plus the nipple
was sitting upon each of the breasts. The guillotine had
obviously cut well in. "I'm not promising anything," she
continued cautiously, "except to say that I'll certainly
reject you if you don't sign my paper. But if you authorize
the buggering and the torture, well... I'm here to be
persuaded. You haven't covered yourself in glory thus far,
Mr Pendrill. You need to do better."

Cecily had definitely been trained as a stripper, if not in
this life
then in a previous one. She was toying with her belt,
indicating that she might remove it if he signed on the line
where she had pointed. "I can do better!" Howard scowled,
watching her closely.

"Are you sure? Your mates will be there. Do you understand
what this means? They'll be screwing your girlfriend. How
will you feel about that? Afterwards, when you're making
love together, how will you forget?"

"Yes."

"Yes? Mr Pendrill? That's not what I asked, Mr Pendrill.
'Yes' is not an answer to my question."

"I am going to do it! I want to! I choose to!"

"But she won't forgive you, Mr Pendrill! No woman would! Not
when she finds that you've signed the order and you've
sacrificed her body to save your own skin!"

"Not my skin!"

"Yes, your skin, Mr Pendrill."

"Then, then I... I don't care!"

And with that, and with his cock spurting and jerking,
pumping white boiling juice that splattered in globules on
the floor, he bent forward and with an arrogant flourish, he
scrawled his name to the warrant.

**

<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+