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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 8) MF caution
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Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2007 02:10:01 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=208.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 Eight : "Submissive Femininity"



To what extent do we know our parents?

We may think we know them. We grasp that side of themselves 
that they choose to reveal to us, but what of the rest?

That was the question that Lucy was left asking herself
after rummaging about in her parent's room and discovering a
box of contraceptive tablets and a packet of letters from a
man named Albert. She'd found them hidden at the back of one
of her mother's drawers beneath her private lingerie. The
dates on the letters suggested the existence of a long,
abiding friendship with this man, Albert, for they'd been
written over a period of twenty or more years.

Lucy read through the letters casually not knowing what they
were or why they were there, but soon, something stirred
within her belly. A gnawing excitement grew and emotions too
raw to be touched blossomed and fed her curiosity, for these
letters introduced to Lucy a new way of thinking and of
being. They contained and described the relationship between
her mother and this man called Albert, and it was based on
the radical philosophy of submissive femininity, and this
was new to her. There were long treatises on the merits of
reinventing the social agenda and having women as slaves.

Lucy skipped through the boring stuff, but then she found a
calendar for twenty years before, and in it there was a
history of meetings located in a tawdry hotel room attended
by her mother. There were instructions on the clothes she
should wear to these meetings, how she should fix her hair,
the perfume she must bring and at what times she must apply
it. The schedules were specific, direct and pointed,
describing makeup: colours, brands, and the style with which
Lucy's mother must apply them. There were crumpled maps and
fastidious directions in the calendar notes, and well
thumbed timetables and a jotter of phone numbers; and most
damning of all: special letters that Lucy kept close to her
always, and in these, she found a compilation of the
punishments a woman must endure before she could rightly
call herself a woman.

Lucy reread that page. Hey. What was this about then?

"The punishments a woman must endure before she could
rightly call herself a woman."

It took a while for the words to grow and flower into a
thought because she was young and naive and innocent, but
then it came to her, and she wet her pants. There was no
other way to describe it.

"The punishments a woman must endure before she could
rightly call herself a woman."

Lucy became frightened and sick at this, her third time of
reading; for here, in her mother's own hand, was a
humiliating first-hand account of the consensual submission
of an adult woman to a man. Lucy read her mother's
statements about beatings to be delivered across a woman's
private parts with a freshly cut cane, the cane 'aimed to
strike the woman's inner sensitive flesh, and if possible,
the clitoris'.

Those words brought a deep colour to Lucy's ruddy cheeks and
the choicer parts of her besides; and the lower parts below
the waist shifted around on her chair uncomfortably.

In one of the letters there was a section describing the
'horizontal stretching of a woman along a wooden post with
pulleys at each end; and prolonged electrical torture of the
breasts and sexual organs, with serrated clips applied to
the nipples and labia.'

Luce was dumbstruck. With her limited experience, she had
trouble imagining such scenes and she was indignant; for how
could her mother have endured these humiliations. She was an
independent woman, a mother and housewife, so why hadn't she
gone to the police and reported these crimes?

Lucy read her mother's detailed descriptions of the pain and
fear she felt when enduring these punishments; her terror as
the electrical clips were placed on her pussy, knowing what
would happen and how it would hurt her; her panic as the
electricity was switched on and how it felt inside her womb,
how it burned her in places she couldn't even touch.

"It was like a rape," her mother wrote in one of her
letters. "It was inside me and invading me, a terrible penis
that was sawing me in two and there was nothing I could do
to deter it. I knew that life could never again be the same
after this. I became a new woman; a new person."

Lucy studied the letters and she came to have a newfound
respect for her mother, because despite her better
judgement, she recognised the same jumbled feelings and
emotions within herself.

It was here in her mother's familiar handwriting with its
bold blue ink, slanting letters and occasional mistake,
neatly crossed out. For instance, in one letter, Lucy read:

"The pain was worse tonight. I thought I'd go mad, or die,
or end up screaming in hell, for I knew that I was at the
end of my threshold. Albert says it's part of my training
and that I'll grow used to it and accept it. He says that by
the end of my year with him I'll experience the mercy of
God.

"But how does he know? The man's a Protestant and he knows
nothing of God's will, compassion and mercy. And me: I know
that because of my wickedness it won't happen, that I'm
damned to the fires of hell where the Devil will lick my
quim and roast me forever in my sexual torment, but even so,
I try to be brave. I do it for Peter and the children
because I yearn to be back at home, but I can't be good, not
even for them. As Albert's hand hovers over the dial and
threatens me with juice, I panic. I plead with him and
promise that I'll do anything he wants of me. Anything at
all. I promise to be his slave, to undress and suck his cock
and have him fuck me: but he laughs. I'm already his slave,
he says. Even when I'm at home fucking my own husband, I'm
doing as he says, for I have to ring him up first and ask
him if I can. He's the one who calls the shots, who tells me
the lingerie I should wear, the perfume to put on. He
chooses the colour of eye shadow and the shade of
foundation, and I do as he tells me. Even when I'm in bed
with Peter, feeling his caress and his tool deep inside my
purse, I'm following my master's direction, and I can only
do the things he tells me. He orders me to be coy or brazen,
submissive or dominant, eager or reluctant. He even demands
total abstinence at times, and I do as he says. And to prove
his mastery: he hits me again.

"I have no feeling in my toes: or my feet, or my legs, or my
hips; and neither can I move them.

"I'm so bruised that I daren't look at myself. I'm ugly and
swollen, but he keeps hitting me again and again. I see the
blur of his hand and hear the crackle of juice running down
the wires, and then, as he hits me: I'm his.

"I'm his.

"I smell the acrid stench of my burning flesh and I hear the
sound of my screams. I'm his, and not of my volition: for
that's what the electric current does to me.

"I'm prepared this time, and I tense up, expecting the
terrifying jolt, but even so, there's nothing I can do. I
fly through the air and reach the extent of the ropes where
there's the wrenching of ligament against sinew and joint
against joint: ropes attached to wrists and tied to my
ankles. I hurtle to the end of their give, and there they
grab me. They control me, pulling at my shoulders and
tugging me back down.

"I drop to the bed and discover my breath: hot, clammy,
cold, and I suck it back in: once, twice, and again, until
the current hits me again. Albert turns up the juice and he
reminds me that it's to teach me a lesson. I'm crying:
sobbing, and the snot is smeared on my face.

"I'm a mess; my face is blotchy and red.

"Oh Ggod! Heere it comess!

"Pray for me! Please pray! He's turning the dial!

"Ohh Shhhhhhiiiiittttttttttttttttttt!

"I can't bear it! The electricity is fizzing in my pussy and
the screech is awful, the terrifying laugh that humbles my
clit. Oh shit! It's burning; it's black; going straight to
my being. Ojh Gggooddd!

"I'm on fire. I can't think. I can't keep still. Oh shhittt!
Why is he doing this?

"I plead with him. Master! And I beg him to stop. Please
master! Master! There's too much current inside of me and
its flowing through my pussy, and, and it's not just there,
but also in my chest. I hear the crackle and its playing
with my tits, tickling them eagerly. My nipples bulge and
struggle to absorb the senseless volts: ballooning to
several times their normal size, and God: they're enormous,
bursting, swelling grotesquely. They're like blue berries
about to explode! God. And then comes the pain and I jump,
and my body arches to the limits of the ropes and it jerks
me back down. An unspeakable agony, crushing in on me and
cutting my flesh, and then the alien shriek.

"It's me.

"They're looking at me! They think it's funny because I'm
opening my thighs and showing them my pink; but I don't care
and I can't help it.

"They're pointing to my juicy nipples and they're saying
that I like it because there're dripping with juice, but
Christ!

"Let them look at me. I don't care!

"I'm being hit by the power, two hard strikes to my breasts
and one to my pussy. I can hear the echo propelling me to
the bed and then bouncing me up and throwing me away from
it, and I rise, pulled by invisible, whistling wires. My
body arches and jerks and I'm rigid like a board. My stomach
is tense and hard and has free flowing ridges of flesh along
its length, and there's more. I've shit the bed; my muscles
have seized up and I don't have control of them. Oh master.
I'm wetting myself. I smell. Master. Please! I beg you! I
didn't mean to do it, not on purpose! Master. Forgive me!

"But he's refusing to reply. He's turned on by the power;
and the pain is all I can think about. There's no past,
present or future any more; only an indescribable pain with
no end, and unless I can endure it there's no end to this
place and I won't see Peter or my children. Dear Peter... I
know that I must be punished but please, please help me!
Please! I long to be at home with you, and with Little Lucy
and the baby..."

Whheww!

At first, Lucy had been confused and disgusted by these
words, but the more she read them, the more she thought she
understood them. She found herself wondering what it would
be like to have a master and be forced to serve his sexual
needs.

Her mother's letters aroused her to the point of pain, and
she couldn't stop reading. Here, in these cruel barbaric
chastisements delivered without reason or explanation, Lucy
discovered a lust that excited and confused her in equal
measure. It caused her to search her parent's room again,
looking for meaning and understanding, trying to get to know
her parents.

What was going on? And to what extent had her father known
about Albert, because those bruises couldn't have been
hidden. But if he had known, why had he permitted it? And
who was Albert?

Lucy trawled through her mother's lingerie drawer again,
picking out knick-knacks and dressing in the garments she
found there: satin basques and peep hole bras; crotchless
panties and red lace garters: handcuffs and ball gags. She
took them and claimed them as her own.

In the sanctuary of her bedroom, she dressed in these
strange, oversized undergarments and applied gloss to her
lips and mascara to her eyes. She put the ball gag in her
mouth and the handcuffs round her wrists and examined the
precocious strumpet that she saw in the mirror.

It only took a moment to imagine that she was a harlot
walking the streets and that it was a dark, melancholy red
light district where invisible men slid past in their cars
examining the wares. She liked this game, standing beneath a
lonely street lamp in the heavy mist dressed only in her
mother's underwear and with a digit inserted in her pussy.
She caressed herself until she was hot and desperate and
panting, and she hailed the next car without regard to the
consequence, clambering into the front near side seat and
mumbling and asking to be taken to a spot where she could
grapple with the driver, and there, she would hand him her
handcuffs and ask him to mount her as a favour. He would
crawl on top of her, snapping her handcuffs to the seat
anchors, and then he would bang her to an uncontrollable,
brutal explosion with his cock tucked tightly inside her,
and she would feel his cum spraying deep within her womb.

Except: there was no strange man or pretty cock, and no
violent explosion. There was only the wild lonely wanderings
of a naive girl pretending to be a woman and wearing a
wardrobe of inappropriate lingerie.

She was a figure of fun, someone to pity. Lucy was an addict
in cold turkey, with no boys to cork her, and so she lay on
her bed sweating at night in her mother's lingerie and with
the sheets pulled tightly between her legs.

"Do you like boys?" she muttered to herself one day,
imagining a friend lying at her side. She had on a white
bikini for no other reason than it was supposedly sexy, but
there was no one to see it and she had no intention of
wearing it in public. The bra was haphazardly unfastened and
hanging from her shoulders and the panties were pulled into
the crack between her legs: just like the sheets on her bed.

"I like boys," she added lustfully, rubbing oceans of oil
onto her thighs and imagining that she had a male audience,
pretending that the room was full of admiration and fizzing
with excitement. She shook her breasts and made them fall
from her unfastened bra by the force of their own gravity,
and she was aroused; and she liked being aroused, and she
liked being exposed. She was an exhibitionist, she supposed,
and she gazed hungrily at her tiny brown breasts. "It's my
weakness," she slathered, looking guiltily into her mirror
and shrugging her shoulders. "I like being looked at because
I crave the attention."

But it wasn't the attention that she craved: it was the sex,
and very specifically: hot lurid sex. Sex that was graphic,
terrifying and degrading.

She was addicted to it because she'd read about it and had
been fed on it from a very young age. She was compelled by
forces and secrets playing inside her mind; by the image of
her mother jerking on a bed like a wild rodeo horse, with
electrical wires attached to her tenderest parts.

Powerful forces were shaping Lucy's body, and how old had
she been? Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen?

Shortly after discovering her mother's letters, and driven
by that discovery, Lucy searched through her parent's things
and under their bed she'd found a box. It had been hidden in
a suitcase and locked; but inside it there were piles of
books and magazines and slides: a glorious treasure trove of
images and diaries recorded and photographed by her father.

Here, revealed in this box, was a father Lucy hadn't known
and didn't care to know. She picked the lock and poured over
the terrible pictures and realized that she was looking
someone who'd instantly become a stranger to her.

And not just him, but also her mother - she was a stranger
too - because she was in many of the pictures, posing, and
other women from their Church were in them too, including a
man whose wife was crippled, and there were prominent men...

Lucy stared in disbelief because there was one photograph in
which her mother was devouring the cock of their Vicar, and
it was so far down her throat that it was in her belly. You
could see the shape of it flexing in her neck and it moved
down her throat; and in another picture her mother was lying
on her back, her legs parted, and she was being gang-banged
by all the distinguished men of their Church, all of them at
once.

Her father had taken these pictures, but why? Because it
wasn't just the younger, pretty women whose pictures he'd
taken, but the ugly ones too. In fact, as Lucy leafed
through the pictures, it seemed to her that all the Church
women in the collection; the pretty ones, the prim ones, the
old ones and the Plain Janes. There were big breasted women,
flat titted women; fat ones, thin ones; saggy ones, every
conceivable shape. The single women were here: the
spinsters, the daughters, the cousins by marriage and the
nieces in pig tails. The married women were here, sometimes
heavily pregnant, at other times beyond the point of
pregnancy.

The collection had been assembled, it seemed to Lucy, to
exert control over the individuals concerned: for although
the women had been photographed clothed in some pictures and
naked in others, in work situations in some, and at home in
others, they combined to form a montage of humiliating
compromise, for there were hundreds of pictures of women
being screwed, tied up and beaten, of married ladies paired
with men not their husbands.

There was also a collection labelled 'Strip Tuesday', the
pictures carefully bound in a foolscap folder and the title
written neatly on the flyleaf in Lucy's father's familiar
hand. Inside, there was what could be loosely described as a
diary - Lucy's father's recollection of what happened on the
second Tuesday of each month.

He explained that on that day, there was a Church service
and female parishioners were offered the chance of Holy
Redemption.

Officers from Lodes Wold attended these services and they
sat at the back of the Church in their stiff, starched
uniforms and they watched the proceedings and took notes
without taking part.

Apparently the service followed a common agenda. It began
with a Church pastor giving a sermon emphasising the need
for women's humility and self-flagellation as the route to
pleasing the Lord. That was the general theme, regular as
clockwork, every second Tuesday of the month. He'd caution
against breaking the tenth commandment, the one that says
that one shouldn't covet one's neighbour's wife, and then,
he'd invite a penitent to step forward, and a pre-arranged
"volunteer" would do so.

He'd place his hands on her shoulders and he'd beg the Lord
to give her courage, and then, with his voice theatrically
raised, he'd ask her to begin.

The expectation wasn't explicitly stated, but the intent was
clear. She should begin. It was expected that the
parishioner should begin by taking off her clothes.

According to Church tradition, the penitent should wear the
same clothes to Holy Redemption that she'd worn to Church
the previous Sunday, and she should remove those clothes
while dancing to music. Strip Tuesday was meant to be an
uplifting spiritual experience and so the congregation would
clap and sing and thank the Lord, and the penitent would
strip to the music. At the end, when the penitent was naked,
she'd kneel and bow her head, and a prayer would be offered.
When this was done, she would be blessed by the minister and
she'd kiss the minister's hand, and with that she would lie
on the stone floor and place her hands awkwardly behind her
head. She would sigh deeply and open her legs and wait for
the Church attendants to tie her.

Men in white robes would step forward and grab her legs,
loop rope around her ankles and tie her to iron bolts in the
floor.

Once that was done she would be gagged and blindfolded, and
those that wanted would be offered the chance to fuck her.
It was done anonymously. They'd all file out and then, when
the Church was empty, those that wanted to would return.

The Church reasoned that if a man could ease his lust by
fucking his neighbour's wife in such holy circumstances, it
would act as a break on his greed and he would be less
likely to covet her and break the tenth commandment at other
times.

Strip Tuesday was designed to protect marriage, and it was a
noble and honest purpose, and frankly, it was bollocks. It
may have been spiritual and holy in theory, but in practice,
it had the opposite effect.

Lucy thumbed through the pictures nervously, moving from one
Strip Tuesday to the next, noting the familiar faces and
spread-eagled bodies and that the pictures were from another
generation when those faces and bodies had a youth and
freshness now extinguished.

The crippled woman was in them. In fact, she was in the most
incredible set of images, taken ten years previously. In
them, the woman began with a striptease at the back of the
church. She then continued with the customary fucking, and
then she was taken outside and nailed to a tree.

The reason for this final humiliation wasn't stated, but
Lucy swallowed nervously at the sight of these extraordinary
pictures, wondering what had triggered them, for they were
brutal and eye watering. She saw several men driving nails
into the crippled woman's breasts with a hammer. This caused
the woman indescribable pain and Lucy could feel her
incandescent screams and the anguish leaping at her from out
of the pictures. The woman was on her back, naked; her body
arched and lifted. Her ribs were stretched to the point
where they were peeping translucently through her skin. Her
arms and legs were held in place by unseen hands as the
nails were driven through her flesh.

Lucy double blinked. The pictures were eerie and terrible.

Jesus.

Lucy felt a numbing horror that turned to coldness, and a
tear formed in her eye, and then, without wishing or wanting
it, she found herself caught in a strange, mystical
fascination and she was imagining that she was the woman in
the picture.

She didn't know why she was imagining it, but she was being
dragged to the tree and her hands were being tied behind her
back. She imagined the congregation looking at her from a
distance - nodding and staring but doing little to help her
- and the elders forcing her into the correct position on
the tree.

Lucy prayed as she'd never prayed in her life, because in
her head she could see the hammers and the nails. She howled
out desperately, for the men were holding her hands and
pressing the nails against her breasts and at any moment her
flesh would be shattered. Lucy imagined the pain, the
humiliation, the utter helplessness of men looking at her
broken body and not being able to stop them; knowing that
the pain was a prelude to a much greater misery to come.

And then, as the hammers crashed into her tits and the nails
sank in: she wet herself.

She could feel the trickle of urine flowing down her legs
and she opened her eyes and blushed.

Oh Jesus. This was terrible!

She didn't know what to think any more, for here were people
that Lucy respected - good people, nice people - and they
were doing jaw dropping things and Lucy was confused. What
should she do? Should she tell the police what these elders
were up to? Or should she keep quiet?

And if she did speak out, what then? Would the police arrest
her parents? Her friends? The elders and the people from her
Church?

She prevaricated for some weeks, but in the end she told
herself that her mother deferred to her father because that
that was how she wanted it to be. There was no conspiracy or
coercion involved, no crime. In her mother's wedding vows
she'd promised to love, honour and obey: and that's what she
was doing: obeying. She went to Albert, not in secret, but
because her husband demanded it.

The other women too. They were screwing around for one
reason only: because that's what their husbands wanted them
to do and they'd chosen to obey.

Did such things make sense?

In her father's hand written text, Lucy read phrases like
"consensual rape" and "consensual torture".

Did they make sense?

Well they did if you believed that a wife must be obedient
to her husband "as in the Lord", as the good book says, and
as for the other younger unmarried women, Lucy reasoned that
they were performing sexual misdeeds to show obedience to
their parents, because they were 'obeying thy parents that
it goeth well with you.' The fifth commandment.

This too was consensual.

Lucy curled up at night and wondered what she would do if
her father ordered her to commit a similar lewd act, if he
summoned her to his study and informed her that he was going
to nail her tits to a tree.

Jesus. Or what if he decided to send her to Albert as a
punishment for her mental misdemeanours.

And who was Albert, anyway?

"I've discussed this with your mother and we're in
agreement," he'd waffle, and he'd be sitting at his desk
while she cowered nervously on the other side of it. "But
before I confirm your visit, is there anything you'd like me
to tell Albert? Any type of torture that you'd rather
avoid?"

She'd say nothing, of course: for there was nothing she
could admit to; nothing she could avoid; and so she'd cry,
protest, scream, do all those normal things, but they
wouldn't count. She must obey her father because it was
there in the bible. It was that or displease God.

Consensual.

Lucy imagined that he would deliver the instructions as to
the clothes she must wear for her punishment; the colour,
size, style; even the shop where she should buy them. She
imagined her mother going with her to the shop and leaving
her at the door; and then she would be escorted to the
changing room by a young spotty faced assistant called
Derek, and she'd find out that there wasn't a curtain in
front of the changing room, and Derek could see her as she
changed.

She'd plead with him for privacy, but Derek would say that
privacy wasn't permitted because Albert had said so, and
he'd stand in front of the cubicle awaiting her next move.

He'd know that she had to obey her father, and he'd wait
there in the certain knowledge that she'd undress for him
eventually.

And so, she'd shrug off her clothes, shifting her hands to
cover her modesty, but the cubicle had full length mirrors
on each of its sides, and so her efforts were useless and
whenever she moved or tugged off a garment he'd see her from
any angle that he liked.

"Are you going to visit Albert right now?" he'd snigger, and
when she'd refuse to answer, his voice would harden: "Albert
won't like it if you're not nice. He'll make you be
friendly."

And so, she'd tell him. She'd tell him that she was going to
Albert to be punished.

Indeed, her father's instructions had been cold and precise,
explaining that after dressing in her new sluttish clothes
she should hail a taxi and ride in them to the nearest train
station, and that she should unfasten a button of her new
outfit every time that she stopped at a red light, and she
mustn't refasten it - indeed, she must pull the button from
her garment and throw it away - and when she arrived at her
destination, Albert would be waiting for her, and she must
do as he asked.

Lucy pondered those instructions nervously, especially the
one about pulling off her buttons and doing as Albert
asked...

It was such an open ended demand. What might he ask?

Again, she imagined it. Perhaps he would offer her a drink
and while she sipped it, he would prepare a bed for her to
lie on: metal cuffs for the headboard and rope for her legs.
She would watch him while pretending to be distracted, and
then when he finally asked her to lie on the bed, she'd do
so shyly, awkwardly, carefully shuffling her knees and
straightening her skirt to avoid him from seeing too much of
her legs. She'd pull her top demurely across her midriff
hoping that he wouldn't catch sight of her belly.

Unfortunately, she'd hit three red traffic lights on her way
to the station and so she could feel herself coming apart.
Three buttons she'd unfastened and pulled off, one to her
blouse and two to her skirt, and it was her skirt that
wouldn't stay closed.

Albert lifted her arms to the cuffs and snapped her wrists
to the bracelets, and then he tied her ankles with the rope.
Oh fuck. He pulled gently but tightly and he stretched her
on the bed, and soon she was without movement, vulnerable
and spread-eagled to the mattress. Her chest was heavy and
flattened by her posture and her rib cage was stretched and
elongated. Her legs were pulled apart by the ropes and they
were aching and her arms were stretched above her head, and
her inadequate clothing made her totally vulnerable.

Her clothes had come loose, more so than before, but he left
her, uncomfortable, humiliated, helpless and frightened, and
as the discomfort turned to pain, she felt his hands
wandering beneath her clothes from below, coming up
stealthily from under her skirt, tugging at the remaining
buttons and shrugging down zips. She cried aloud, shocked,
knowing that he was going to undress her but unable to stop
him. Her clothes were sluttish, but they covered her a
little, but now, Albert was removing everything, including
her jewellery and underwear. His fingers were straying
wherever they wanted, brushing off garments and taking them
into his possession; and she was kept motionless by the
ropes.

He took several pictures while chatting to her casually
about matter-of-fact things. She was naked and shy and
unable to cover herself, and he took advantage. He took off
her rings, earrings and necklace. He touched her breasts and
tickled her pussy. He spread her lips with his fingers and
sniffed at her hole. He slapped her on the leg with his
hand, and then he struck her slit; and as she screamed she
understood and knew for certain that she must do as he
asked.

She must, because it was the teaching of the Church: to be
submissive and meek in matters of sex. She was a woman and
the Scriptures are full of women turning the odd trick and
men paying for sex, and Lucy had no doubt that trading
sexual favours was what holy women did, and she must do it
if her father required it.

It was how she'd been brought up.

She could hear the pious words of the elders. Samson spent a
night with a prostitute, two righteous spies visited pretty
Rehab at her home, which, one must remember, was a brothel.
Judge Jephthah's mother was a whore, and so was the prophet
Hosea's wife. Two prostitute mothers sought Solomon's
wisdom, while Jesus's closest friend was Mary Magdalene - a
lapsed whore.

The holy land was full of prostitutes; fornication; vice and
adultery. It was normal; what righteous women did to make an
extra buck in times of need.

None of these women were condemned for their lack of
morality. Instead, they were commended for their obedience.
They were other people's wives, daughters and mothers, and
they opened their legs at the direction of husbands and
fathers, and this was what their menfolk expected as a
woman's way of supporting her family.

It was what was expected of Lucy.

Well. No one would say that. Not directly.

It was what they didn't say... It was there that Lucy had to
worry.


**

<1st attachment end>


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