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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 10) MF caution
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Date: Sun, 26 Aug 2007 15:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=2010.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 Ten : "The Pink Pussy"





"Are you a jealous woman, Lucy?" Albert inquired.

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand."

Albert took a leisurely sip of his tea and he beckoned that
Lucy move closer. Then he smiled; that oily, smarmy smile of
a man that begs to be mistrusted, of a man dishonourable in
matters of sex. He placed the cup on a waiting table,
careful not to spill it. "There are many types of women,
Lucy," he smiled broadly. "There are those who accept that
men are licentious and filthy lechers, and there are those
that aren't so forgiving." He stared tiredly around the
room, toying with Lucy but not actually communicating
anything at all. From the corner of his eye he was studying
her figure and enjoying her growing consternation. "There
are those who are tolerant of the peccadilloes of their men;
and there are those who shut their eyes to the truth."

His eyes were flirting with old family photographs and dingy
paintings hanging on the wall, and they visually caressed
the clocks ticking there noisily and announcing the time. He
kept talking in his slow monotonous rhythm, keeping time
with the clocks, while he studied Lucy and her body, his
eyes unbuttoning the buttons on her blouse: "There are
girlfriends who understand that a man fucks another woman as
soon as the opportunity presents itself; and there are those
who call for the wrath of the Gods. So. I was wondering,
Lucy; which type of woman are you?"

It was four years since Lucy had been introduced to her real
father and his sexual mores. For three of those years she'd
lived in his care - learning much, because her step father
had been right in that Albert had a great deal to teach, but
now she'd returned to live with her erstwhile parents in a
more tranquil setting, and here, with them, she lived by
their rules. She went to Church on a Sunday and she dressed
in dour conservative clothes, but she wasn't the same woman
as before. She was taller, 5 feet 10 inches in height; and
she was now almost, although not quite, 22 years of age.

She sat straddled on a leather sofa with two soldiers
opposing her; Albert was one of them, and the other was a
Sergeant. The Sergeant was a female, a woman squeezed into
an army uniform several sizes too small for her, and she had
a slutty, although glamorous appearance.

Lucy knew at once that she was a torture girl, a new one, a
girl who hadn't yet been told what she was in for. She
undoubtedly thought that she had a glorious army career
ahead of her, some heroic, dignified role.

How sad.

Albert would break her. Albert would torment her. Albert
would degrade her. He would do what he did best.

Lucy frowned because her parents were out - her mother and
step-father - and so was Daniel. They were all out. Lucy was
alone and at the mercy of her father, and the thought made
her flutter.

She sat passively as Albert's eyes finished unbuttoning her
blouse. He was her father - her real father - but he always
enjoyed unbuttoning her blouse. He pulled it off and stared
lasciviously at Lucy's chest, and then down at her legs; his
eyes distant, wayward and yet awake. He peered
unapologetically at her calves and her knees, and then up
mischievously under her skirt at her thighs, as if checking
to see whether he could make out the skimpy outline of her
panties. He smiled again, thinking his oily, smarmy thoughts
and Lucy shivered with unease, for there was a sinister
artfulness to this man, some creepy, nasty air that put her
on edge. She knew his capacity to hurt her, to hurt anybody;
and the fact that he was her father simplified nothing.

He gave her hot sweats.

"So, you have a new boyfriend," he observed slyly, still
staring intently at Lucy's chest, his eyes stepping
methodically along her bra strap until they arrived at the
clip where they worked it open with ease.

Lucy nodded.

"So does he deserve you, my dear? Eh, Lucy? He's a soldier.
He'll travel the world and he'll get horny because that's
what happens to soldiers when they're alone in foreign
parts. What would you think if your man picked up a woman
and fucked her? Eh, Lucy? What if you discovered this girl's
picture hidden inside his wallet? She's nude, her legs are
parted and there's no sign of her clothes. Her finger is
buried deep inside her pussy and she's beckoning that Howard
should play with her sex. Would you be jealous, Lucy? Would
you throw a silly tantrum and end your relationship with our
noble, virile Lieutenant? Would you be done with him?"

Lucy flicked a fleck of loose dirt from her skirt. She
knitted her fingers and laid her hands neatly on her lap,
and yet somehow, they wouldn't stay still.

"I could handle it," she muttered tensely, ending the
statement with a nervous inflection for she hadn't
understood her father's motivation for this visit, and now,
perhaps she did.

Albert renewed his acquaintance with his cup, lifting it
languidly to his lips. He slurped the contents to the back
of his throat. He swallowed, and he complimented Lucy on the
quality of the tea. It was Darjeeling, he pronounced, and he
coughed, holding his hand politely across his mouth, and
then he shared a joke with the pretty Sergeant who sat very
quietly at his side.

"Howard has been recommended to a new assignment," he smiled
drolly. "An important assignment. He must be vetted, and I
wondered whether you might help us, my dear."

He stared at her as he said this; examining her groin like
he might if she were a whore sitting beneath the lights of
an Amsterdam brothel dressed in her bra and panties, her
nipples shining through her bra and her fuzz peeping through
the gauze of her panties.

The fact that Lucy was his daughter had never changed
Albert's behaviour towards her. He hadn't a moral qualm in
his body and he treated her like he treated all his girls:
like a whore.

Their first year together had been hard. Lucy had been
billeted with the other cadets, and she'd been trained with
them, with no special privileges to protect her from the
endless fucking, and so she'd grown up fast, developing from
a mawkish self-conscious schoolgirl into a dark, olive
skinned seductress. Then, once she'd earned her crowns,
Albert had paid for her to attend the Royal College of Music
to develop her voice. As a spy she needed a genuine career
to avert suspicion, some ruse to enable her to move from
place to place, and since she had significant vocal talent,
Albert had arranged a place at the college.

A couple of weeks later, he'd turned up unexpectedly,
appearing out of nowhere as Lucy was preparing to study.

She should put on something pretty, he'd said.

He was taking her out, he'd said.

She deserved it, he'd said.

Lucy had wanted to know where they were going, but he
wouldn't tell her. Instead, he thumbed through her dresses
and he lifted one out. The evening was to be a surprise, he
said, and so, excitedly, she'd put on the outfit and she'd
prettied her face.

And it had been a surprise, although not the kind that Lucy
had been expecting. To her consternation, her father had
taken her to the seediest dive you could imagine, a place
called the Pink Pussy at the wrong end of town. Tramps,
pimps and drug pushers had been hanging around outside, and
Lucy had felt anxious, for dressed in the outfit that Albert
had picked out for her, she'd stood out a mile.

Inside wasn't much better. The punters had been drunk and
noisy and the talent on stage was old, fat and
disinterested.

"You're next," Albert had informed her as they'd sat down.
"Your stage name is the Stripping Diva and you're going to
strip in front of these people. Why? Because I want to see
how you perform," he'd said, and she'd had no choice, for
Albert was her father, and not only was he her father, but
he was her superior officer and these were her orders.

Of course, in truth, striptease had always been Lucy's
fantasy, and although she had no idea why this was or where
it had come from, Albert had known, for he'd known Lucy's
mother. He'd understood what Lucy was, what made her tick,
what turned her on.

So now, with Albert sitting at the front of the Pink Pussy,
watching and mentoring her; with him telling her how to
move, how to touch herself, how quickly to become excited
and how to reach her climax; with him knowing how to make a
man feel hot and important, she was happy. Over the next six
months, Albert turned her into the most brazen singing
stripping machine the place had known, and she was proud of
herself because Albert was proud of his daughter. He came to
know her intimately, from the various features of her
nipples to the bounce of her ass to the shade of her pink.

He remembered one occasion when she'd been on stage, wearing
her wig and nothing else. She'd been singing 'One Fine Day'
from Madame Butterfly, and demonstrating how badly she
desired the attention of her American husband, ably assisted
by her fan, the butt of it submerged in her cunt.

Albert remembered how Lucy had become so visibly wet during
that performance that her juice had dripped down her thighs
and she'd climaxed dramatically... almost
melodramatically... and she'd stared at him greedily, and
she'd been in need of a screw...

Albert took a long sip of his tea, wallowing in the memory
of those dances at the Pink Pussy, and then he swallowed
contentedly, remembering what he'd done after.

He knew everything about his daughter. Everything.

"I'm not allowed to tell you too much about the Lieutenant
and his new line of work," he meandered, and his eyes roamed
about the room, this time settling on the pictures of Lucy
and Daniel on the mantelpiece. "I'd like to be open with
you, especially as my Sergeant would appreciate your
assistance, but this visit is confidential and to say more
would be opaque..."

"What do you want to know?" Lucy sighed warily, and she
tilted her chin and blushed because Albert was looking
beneath her skirt again, like he expected her to lift it and
show him her sex as she'd done so often at the Pink Pussy.

There was so much history between the two of them, so much
shared memory, so much light, so much darkness and hurt. In
fact, the Major was remembering the time when Lucy had
protested outside the barracks with a group of political
agitators, when she'd been carrying anti-war placards and
chanting left-wing propaganda.

Albert had previously asked her to infiltrate a group of
pompous drug fermented anti-war dropouts, and that morning,
one of the guys had plied her with drink.

Soon, with the crowd pressing around her, Lucy had found
herself without air and space. She was being jostled and
harried, and then, in the middle of the melee, the man she'd
befriended had explained to her that the press were looking
for a story and he'd pointed cannily to the photographers,
and he'd suggested seductively what she might do.

Suddenly, there had been a big shout and the tanks had
rolled through the gates and onto the road, and Lucy's
"friend" had pushed her forward, reinforcing his point, and
as one, the agitators had chanted, and they'd been baying
and encouraging her to strip: to take something off, to get
her picture into the next day's papers, and the
photographers had crowded around, clicking and taking
pictures, and even though Lucy hadn't agreed to do anything,
they were telling her that she must do it and take something
off.

Only the one man who knew the inner Lucy could have
orchestrated those events: only the Major.

He'd worked out his plans and he'd pulled the strings from a
distance. He'd told his agent what to whisper and that Lucy
should do something special... something to make the next
day's papers, and then... when there had been a moment's
pause - no longer - a second in which Lucy's upbringing and
religion and her sense of caution had been swept to the
wind, she'd stepped forward. She'd been drunk and drugged
and not thinking clearly.

She'd done what they wanted but she'd also she'd responded
to her nature; for from inside her sub-conscious, she'd
heard the clicking of cameras and the buoyant applause from
the agitators, and then she'd been stumbling along, tugging
at her clothes and discarding them onto the road.

Her gait had been ungainly and her direction uncertain
because she'd been lifting her top and lowering her skirt;
and the one had been over her head while the other had been
around her ankles, and there was no ladylike way to do these
things whilst chasing a tank but Lucy had done her best; and
then afterwards she was unhooking her bra and tugging at her
panties, shuffling them down her legs while trying to
maintain her humour, if not her dignity.

It was Albert who'd made her do it. He'd created the scene
because of knowing her soul, her mind, her addiction; and
then he'd let the events play themselves out.

She'd stopped and she'd smiled cheesily at the bequest of a
friendly reporter - posing suggestively for him - and then
she'd made a final athletic bound towards the tank before
jumping onto it, tossing her panties to the photographers so
that they might have what they wanted, a naked and glamorous
and feminine Lucy; a sexy Lucy; and she'd climbed up again,
higher, scrambling a toe onto the turret and tossing her
left leg astride the main gun; and then she'd sunk down, her
delicate parts coming to rest on the cold metal and she'd
sat there at length posing for the cameras.

They'd asked her to pose as if the gun was fucking and
penetrating her pussy. They'd asked her to make faces.
They'd asked her to cum. It was supposed to be allegorical,
they'd said, to indicate how the war was affecting the
ordinary women of Iraq, but Lucy didn't buy into their
politics. All she'd known about was sex and spying and
religion, and there'd been a naughty smile on her face and
the knowing arrogant expression of a cat that's got
someone's cock tucked deeper and thicker into its cunt than
nature could have possibly managed by any straightforward
method, and that's the picture that had made the papers.

Lucy had rolled her hips and had made the right noises.
She'd leaned back and had squeezed the gun tightly. She'd
swayed provocatively and had become vocal in her shrieks,
and then vociferous in them, right up to the thick gargled
screams of her multiple orgasms; and the paparazzi cameras
had captured it all.

Had it been real, people wanted to know the next day - the
unknown readers of the cheap lurid tabloids - or had it been
faked? Albert had known of course - but his lips were sealed
and he wasn't telling - because he'd known every intimate
detail about Lucy's character, every memory, and every
nuance of desire.

He'd known such things because he was her father.

"You've known the Lieutenant for about three months, I
believe?" he coughed.

Lucy nodded. "About that," she agreed.

"And your relationship is a stable one, I suppose?"

"Yes. Of course. We intend to get married."

"Isn't that hasty? If you've only known him for three
months?"

Albert flashed her a tired cardboard smile, and he sipped
his Darjeeling and leaned back in his chair. "Humour me,
Lucy, but as your father, before we talk of romance and
marriage, imagine that Howard's role is to interrogate
prisoners, denying them the basics of food, water and sleep.
How would you feel about that? Your first reaction, please,
as his newly betrothed: tell me, would it concern you?"

Lucy looked anxious. "Yes. It would make me uneasy," she
frowned, hesitant, because she was perpetually in awe of
Albert. She knew him too well to be otherwise.

"But it wouldn't make you leave the Lieutenant or do
anything drastic?" the Sergeant interrupted, a clipboard
balanced on her lap, and it was fortunate for her modesty
that she had it, for her skirt was short and neatly folded
back, and without the clipboard, Lucy would have seen all
the way to her crotch.

"I wouldn't leave Howard," Lucy agreed, finding another
small fleck on her skirt and flicking it away. "I could
never leave him. But I wouldn't want him to be unkind
either... Of course not..."

"Why do you say that, Lucy? You see, in this new role,
Howard's job is to be a stern disciplinarian. I mean...
someone has to do that shit."

Lucy scowled. "Yes. I suppose so..."

"And you've no other boyfriends? No one you're seeing or
sleeping with...?"

"No. Of course not... You know that... There's only
Howard..."

"Or girlfriends? No other girls that you fancy?"

"No!"

The Sergeant mumbled to the rhythm of Lucy's words, tutting
in the right places and scribbling unintelligible text onto
the white surface of her clipboard, which slipped annoyingly
on her lap. "And if the prisoner was a woman?" she added.
"I'm sorry to persist in this, but would that worry you at
all? Or would it be the same as if she were a man?"

Lucy grabbed at a cushion and she squeezed it, playing for
time. She could feel the cotton gusset between her legs
becoming hot and sticky, and there was no air in the small
room for her to breathe. "I'd be worried," she stuttered
warily, noticing again how bizarrely short the Sergeant's
skirt was and that it was neatly folded back to expose her
legs and that she was wearing black stockings. Lucy noticed
that there was a strange gold motif on these stockings, high
on the leg, in the shape of two crowns.

What was her father up to?

"What would you be thinking if you discovered this, Miss
Caldwell?" the Sergeant insisted, crossing her legs and
hiding the motif. "That's what interests me. Talk me through
your feelings from the beginning, from the moment you
realize that Howard likes his job and he's throwing himself
into it. Tell me your thoughts."

Lucy was unprepared for this conversation. Her father was
challenging her choice of boyfriend as father's often do,
but this was different. It was a tunnel and she was moving
through it at speed and she didn't know why. "My thoughts?"
she mouthed anxiously.

"Yes, Miss Caldwell. Your thoughts."

It wasn't a real tunnel, of course, but something unseen and
dark and claustrophobic that resembled a tunnel; something
horrible and infested without any end.

The pretty Sergeant uncrossed her legs and Lucy was sure
that she'd seen a flash of black minge above and beyond the
two crowns, but then the Sergeant's legs snapped shut and
ruined that picture, and Lucy was left gaping at the triumph
on the pretty Sergeant's face, and she knew that she hadn't
imagined it, and that she had seen the Sergeant's Sharon
Stone, and that was why her skirt was folded back to the top
of her legs...

"Lucy? Are you listening to me? Shall I repeat the
question?"

"No, no. There's no need," Lucy mumbled hurriedly, staring
dumbly into the tunnel and seeing a faint light in the
distance. "I understand where you're coming from." She
coughed warily: nervously. "You want to know if it were a
woman that Howard was questioning, would I be worried that
he might like her - sexually, I mean - the woman. Is that
right?"

The Sergeant was writing this all down very carefully; and
Lucy was digging a hole that was becoming deeper and broader
and longer. She wanted to invent something but she couldn't
with Albert there because he would spot a lie in an instant
and he would punish her for it... or worse... Oh God. She
stammered: "It doesn't seem right that Howard should be
interrogating a woman... It isn't correct in this day and
age... and a woman should be doing it, shouldn't she, if the
prisoner is a woman; by rights?"

"A woman?"

"Yes. I was thinking that the interrogator should be a
woman..."

"A woman such as yourself, perhaps, Lucy?"

"No! I didn't mean that... No! Not me!"

"Why ever not?" the Sergeant demanded. "I would have thought
that you would have been perfect for the role. You could
save Howard from temptation... Isn't that what you
Christians do? Save people?"

"I couldn't! Honestly!"

"Imagine that the woman is naked and tied to a bed frame -
imagine, Lucy, that Howard is interrogating her. She's
crying and accusing him of having tortured her... of raping
her... Listen to her and having listened to her account, how
do you feel? Is she lying or do you believe her?"

"No. I mean... I don't believe her! Why would I?"

"Because it's the truth... There is evidence marking her
flesh, Lucy. It's on her tits and her belly. Look at her!
She's covered in burns..."

"No! I don't see it. I trust Howard..."

It was airless and Lucy was transferred to the tunnel and
its rats and she could hear them echoing in the distance.
The pin prick of hope had been snuffed out and she was
isolated and alone, and she was imagining the poor naked
woman tied to a bed frame and convulsing and screaming upon
it. The poor sod was pale and skinny and she had undersized
breasts and a tuft of loose hair at the top of her legs, and
she had a long slit that bisected it in the middle; and
Howard was in the room and he was alongside her. He had a
packet of cigarettes in his hands and he was smoking one,
stubbing the end on the woman's white flesh, doing so slowly
so as to enjoy each one of her screams.

"Let's imagine this woman's clothes are on the floor," the
young Sergeant persisted, continuing her attack in the face
of Lucy's obstinate denial. "Some are discarded, others are
torn and they're twisted and inside out. You can make out
the woman's panties and her bra and stockings in separate
locations on the floor, and you realise that Howard must
have done it because it's the only logical conclusion.
There's no one else there. He's gone berserk. He's lost his
cool and he's savaged her clothes. The stockings are
shredded; the bra straps are cut; the panties are torn...
You see scratch marks on the woman's breasts and genitals...
and bite marks too. Don't look at me like that, Lucy! You
know that it's what happens in these establishments. It's
our job! Depriving a lady of her clothes and roughing her up
is how we soften her for questioning, and unless it's done
indelicately we don't get the results. The procedures are
agreed and approved - so don't get righteous and
judgemental."

Lucy couldn't stand the confinement. The room was pressing
in on her and there was a screaming in her temples. It was
Albert: her father.

Albert.

Albert was scrutinizing her as usual and he was smiling and
nodding and enjoying her embarrassment and somehow he was
directing her torment, and all Lucy could think about was
that this unknown woman was naked and strapped to a bed
frame, and hopelessly vulnerable, and Howard was bending
over her and sinking his teeth into her breasts and chewing
at her flesh.

Would he? Could he?

Lucy brushed some flecks of dirt from her skirt, trying to
clean them off, but nothing would move them. "I'd be
worried," she cried with brutal understatement, for this was
her father and she couldn't deceive him. He would know that
she was lying. "What can I say? I'd be worried for Howard -
what he might do."

The Sergeant was writing this down, and she turned her page
and carried on writing, word after word, sentence after
sentence, question after question; noting what Lucy had
said. "Are you frightened that Howard would act with this
woman in an unprofessional manner?" she rattled, still
writing furiously on the paper. "That he might caress her
tits and play with her pussy as she shudders and convulses
upon the bed frame? Is that the nub of it, Lucy? It would be
tempting for a man to do that in such a situation, don't you
think... so easy since he has the power... He can slide a
digit down into her pussy hole and torment her to a climax
and who would know of it? No one is there. No one is
watching. And even if they did find out, what could be
proven? So let's be honest with each other and be blunt. Are
you jealous? Are you imagining that Howard might touch this
woman - go further perhaps - that he might even pull out a
bull whip and flay her?"

"No! I'm not!"

"What then? Are you envious?"

"No. Absolutely not!"

"Come on, Lucy! I need you to tell me the truth... don't lie
to me..."

"I am telling the truth..."

"You're not. Damn you! Admit it. Lucy. Tell me the truth."

"It... Oh God. It isn't Howard I'd be worried about..."

She was unable to hold herself to scrutiny any longer.

"Go on, Lucy."

"It's me."

"Explain yourself, please."

"Oh my God! Don't you see it? God.  I'm worried how I'd
react... if Howard were doing that... I don't know that I
could stop myself... God. I need air... It's muggy in
here... if I could please have some air..."

"Okay Lucy, calm down and let's keep to the point and not
start distracting ourselves. It's not you lying there on the
bed frame being whipped, but another. You're not the
prisoner but you are watching. So if the noble Lieutenant
were the interrogator, and during his period of questioning
he were called upon to torture his prisoner and gain
information, how would you feel? Suppose he had to pepper
this woman's flesh with cigarettes, concentrating on her
nipples and vagina. He's called upon to apply electrical
shocks to her clitoris and asshole. Imagine that, Lucy!
You're his girlfriend and you're planning the wedding and
you're in the room and he's at your side - and what do you
do? How do you react? He's touching another woman's genitals
and doing unspeakable things. He's using surgical
instruments and they're piercing this woman's flesh and
she's screaming and crying and in pain... He's making her
shriek and her body is convulsing and jerking against the
steel springs; and she's begging that you help her. Look at
her, Lucy! Look at her face and her tears and how Howard
fusses and touches and caresses her skin, and tell me that
you wouldn't be affected. Look into her eyes! Look at her!"

Lucy closed her mouth and she was unable to find any sound.
The sweat was dripping from her brow. It was running down
her back; between her legs and into her secret crevices. Oh
dear Jesus.

She felt sick.

She didn't know where to look. She was imagining Howard as
he applied a clear gel to the woman's clit. He was rubbing
it in; sliding his finger into her hole and clipping his
electrical contact to her flesh: a metal clip. Now he was
lifting a small box and twisting the dial to turn up the
voltage, and he was enjoying the result.

God.

Lucy looked at Howard's cock and how hard and long and erect
it was... He was excited...

"Are you saying that Howard is being trained for SJ6?" Lucy
choked, forming her own conclusions from what was being
said, and finding a hollow fear brewing in her stomach that
she couldn't entertain, for it was squeezing and killing her
from within. "Is that it... what you're telling me?"

"Not necessarily, Lucy, not at all. The Lieutenant isn't a
bad man. He's a disciplined soldier and he's doing his duty,
but he isn't a master. Our woman is the wife of a terrorist
with information that could prevent the deaths of many
innocent people, and since she's refusing to disclose it,
our brave soldier has no choice but to hurt her. That's his
duty. He must be strong. He must undress her by force. He
must burn her breasts and taunt her and humiliate her in
front of her husband. Look at the woman's husband, Lucy.
He's naked and the soldiers are forcing him to watch what
Howard is doing to his wife, and it's unpleasant and you
wonder that anyone can be so inhuman - especially a man such
as Howard; but it's all in the public interest that someone
do that shit, and the Lieutenant will be taught the
necessary skills. His actions have been approved by everyone
of importance... except... and I must say this, Lucy... by
you. So what do you think as you watch him? Do you condemn
him or do you applaud?"

Lucy couldn't look at her father. "I couldn't do either,"
she replied breathlessly. "I couldn't condemn him... but
neither could I condone the torture of another woman..."

"I understand, but how do you react? Are you angry? Do you
hit him? Slap him? A jealous woman has great passion and
jeopardizes innocent lives - and that's what concerns me. I
need to know your inward thoughts, your reasonings, because
if you knew that Howard was imprisoned in a torture chamber
with a naked woman and he was whipping and raping her and
getting hot on it... enjoying it, what kind of things might
you do? How would you be?"

"I wouldn't throw tantrums," Lucy muttered clumsily, shaking
her head. "If that's what you're suggesting... I wouldn't...
not if it were Howard's job..."

"You'd control yourself?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Because, despite yourself, you'd like to be that woman..."

"No! No way!"

"Maybe you might even be envious of her."

"No! Stop it! Of course not. You're mad!"

"Are you sure, Lucy? Because, you see, there are women who
dream about being dominated by a man, becoming the object of
his every fantasy and pleasure: tied up, humiliated and
exposed, and you're of that breed. You yearn to be tortured
in the way that Howard wants it; raped in the way that he
sees fit, and so the idea isn't as crazy as it sounds. There
are such women, Lucy, they exist, and you're one of them,
and maybe this other woman likes it too. What do you say?"

"Stop it. This is nonsense. I'm not like that... You're
insane!"

The Sergeant pulled a photograph from her clipboard and laid
it on the table, twisting it around so that the image faced
Lucy. On seeing it, Lucy despaired, holding her fist across
her mouth and biting her knuckles.

She was shivering.

She couldn't talk.

What could she say? There were no explanations or words or
apologies that wouldn't sound trite or redundant to her
father's ears. There was just a hoarse guttural gasp and a
cry; an embarrassed shaky uncertainty.

"As I was saying, you are one of those women..." Albert
smiled at her, enjoying her confusion and indecision. He
picked up the awful picture and peered at it closely, and
Lucy was inconsolable.

She wanted to be elsewhere, invisible, a fly on the wall, a
cockroach, anything; anywhere. She felt betrayed: trapped.
Indeed, she was trapped and confused by her own jumbled
thoughts, and she didn't know why.

"I understand the philosophy behind this photograph.
Christians believe that daughters obey their fathers and
endure the punishments he inflicts," Albert stated quietly.
"But there are times when daughters enjoy their punishments,
and so do the fathers. Eh, Lucy? We had a good time, didn't
we? Didn't we have a good time?"

Albert tapped the picture and pointed at Lucy's blouse. "I
don't think we should show these photographs to Howard. Not
yet. It would upset him. Don't you agree, Lucy?"

"No! Please! Don't show him!"

"On the other hand, I could argue that Howard would find it
educational to learn about the vices you enjoy... and to
find out how skilled you are in performing them..."

"Please! Don't tell him! That's blackmail! Howard thinks I'm
a saint and it would spoil everything..."

Albert again pointed at Lucy's blouse, more insistently this
time, at the buttons, and he smiled. "Aren't you a saint,
Lucy?"

"Of course not. You know that I'm not! You've seen what I
am, what I do! You're my father!"

"Most certainly. I'm your father. That's why I want to be
sure about Howard, that he's the right man for you. I want
the best for my daughter. So tell me about this photograph
because I'm intrigued. What's going on here? Are your tits
really nailed to a tree?"

Lucy blushed and there were tears of humiliation in her
eyes: tears of embarrassment and naked fear; and she glared
up emotionally towards the ceiling.

"Lucy? Don't hold out on me. Talk to me! Tell me what you're
thinking!"

But she couldn't talk or explain. The piercing of her tits
had been like the piercing of her soul, a spiritual
experience that had been magical and beyond description.

"Say it, Lucy. Tell me what you're thinking. Why did I do
this to you?"

"Because..."

Oh God. Her fingers were fluttering around her blouse,
hovering above the buttons where Albert was pointing:
demanding.

Oh God. What did he want? But she knew, of course. She knew.
"Come on... Lucy. Tell me why I did it."

She knew what he wanted, what all of them wanted, and she
sucked in her breath... "You did it because you knew that I
wanted it!"

"Lucy? Will you repeat what you said so that the Sergeant
can write it down. Did you say that you wanted to have your
tits nailed to a tree?"

"Yes, oh, God, damn you! You watched me dancing at the Pink
Pussy and you kept talking and inventing these fantasies,
stories in which I was captured and tortured, and you knew
that I liked it. It was inside me, the fire... the need to
perform and show my nakedness and my pain to strange men.
It's been there inside of me ever since I found my mother's
things as a young girl... and you encouraged that fantasy.
You explained that a woman's greatest pleasure comes at the
time of her greatest pain. You taught me to understand the
power of the mind and how to control my endorphins. I didn't
know what you meant at first, or how it could be, and so you
showed me, slowly, gradually.

"You explained that a spy who fails to complete her mission
is tarred and feathered and then nailed to a tree, and I was
hooked. I asked for how long she would be left there, and
you said that it might be for a few hours or it might be a
day, or she might even be left there to die. It would depend
on the severity of her failure."

Albert smiled, and he sipped at his tea. "Lucy, dear Lucy.
You're so like your mother when you're excited, the same
bedroom eyes and the same fuck-me abandon. I knew that your
father was weak and that he couldn't torture a woman, but
there was nothing I could do to intervene. He tries hard,
but he's too weak, too indecisive, and your mother was a
vine needing hard pruning to flower and blossom; as you need
such hard pruning, my dear Lucy: regular, hard, decisive
pruning; with branches cut back to the root stock."

Lucy blushed. She was breathing more rapidly now. "Please!"
she wept, looking at Albert's finger, the one pointing at
the top button of her blouse. "I can't! Oh God! Don't make
me!"

"It was your living, Lucy. Remember? Undressing for men at
the Pink Pussy, fucking them and being fucked. Every night,
being abused. I was there, remember, and I made you do it.
You may think you're all grown up but you're not too old to
be disciplined, and you will be disciplined. You're not a
saint, you know."

"But I don't do those things... I have escaped. I am free."

"You're not free, Lucy. You signed papers, and even if I
chose to ignore them, you're my daughter. After you're
married, will Howard cut it? When I tell him that your
fantasy is to be tarred and feathered and have your tits
nailed to a tree... will he have the gumption to do it? As
you know, it takes a special kind of man to torture a
woman."

Lucy's eyes dropped. "I'm not claiming to be a saint..." She
mumbled, swaying uncontrollably, but even as she spoke, she
couldn't stop herself. Albert was pointing at her and she
was unfastening her top button, and immediately Albert's
finger moved lower to the next button on her blouse and he
pointed to that.

"I'm not a saint. I have needs..." she sobbed. "Oh please,
please don't make me do this!"

But he did make her do it, and so Lucy unfastened the next
button too because he was making her, both loving and hating
it, but needing to do it.

"Give yourself room," Albert ordered, his finger moving at
once to the next unfastened button on her blouse. "And
continue, Lucy. Keep going. Take it all off. Everything. I'm
going to make you undress."

So she did it because there was no choice and because of the
weakness inside her sapping her strength, and because it was
what Albert had trained her to do. Despite the threats, she
had to do it, because that was the way she was made.

She finished unbuttoning her blouse and she removed it,
letting it fall to the carpet, and then, she unbuckled her
long dour skirt and levered them over her hips. She jimmied
and tugged it down her legs and kicked it off: scared and
frightened, and yet knowing what she must do.

Albert was still pointing.

Next came her underwear: her bra and her solemn blue
panties. There was no way she could keep them because he was
pointing, and when her panties were lying with her other
clothes on the carpet and she was holding her hands across
her pussy and breasts, she wondered what her biological
father was thinking. Was he turned on? Did he approve of her
naked body?

He was sipping at his tea.

There was no response. No pity. No help. No reaction.
Except: he was pointing at her hands.

Oh God.

Lucy lowered her hands, feeling empty and disappointed
inside, and as she did so, she revealed the ugly scars left
by the whip and the nails, and, of course, her father was
quick to study these marks.

"I've never shown them to Howard because he wouldn't
understand," she shook, touching the scars delicately with
the tips of her fingers. "He'd go mad and get angry... oh
God, please help me. You used my nightmares against me and I
hated you and yet.... look at that picture... look at my
cunt and how awful it is, and... look at my tits and the
nails and how long they are... I'm so miserable and I can't
think or move and yet I must have cum a thousand times,
despite the bruising and the swelling and the puncture
marks. Mother said in her letters that you practice your art
and I didn't understand what that meant until I clung to
that tree...

"She said you could arouse a woman with a whip and the odd
nail and make the pain enjoyable, and, again, I didn't
understand that contradiction, but it's true. I confess it.
Can you believe that? I've seen it. You, papa, you push the
right buttons and you make a woman weak in the belly. One
hundred strokes I endured on that day when you took that
picture. One hundred strokes - even as I clung to the tree -
aimed not just at my pussy but at my clit. You made me a
blabbering bitch, and I had to stay there in front of
everyone while they stood there watching me, and I was
beside myself by the end of it and broken: and yet you knew
not to go too far. You let me enjoy it.

"What are you telling me, Lucy? Where is this going? No
opaqueness now. Tell me the truth."

"Father. I don't know why I'm telling you this... Except, I
suppose that I do. I'm confused. I love Howard and yet
you're right that I'm too much of a handful for him because
he hasn't been trained. He doesn't know how to handle me,
and how could he know because I'm not like other, ordinary
women. I'm different. I remember you telling me to go to my
room and how you asked me to wait for you there. You said
that I should undress and lie on my back with my legs well
apart and my hands behind my head. I didn't know what to
think, what to do, but I did it and after a few minutes you
walked in and you looked at my bare breasts and my open
pussy, and you said that you were sorry but that you needed
to juice me.

"I remember. That's the way that you said it: you needed to
juice me, and I was embarrassed and frightened and confused,
and I lay there without my clothes while you pondered what
to do next.

"First you were going to hit me, but would it be a cane? A
school ruler? A hairbrush? One of the whips?

"You took your time, and I remember that the whipping took
an hour. You would wait minutes between strokes, telling me
how bad I was and then asking me how I felt; minutes in
which I was to prepare herself for the next stroke; minutes
to stop crying; minutes not knowing where the whip would
land, where it would cut, how badly it would hurt.

"And after that came the juicer and that was even worse. I
remember you attaching red clips to my nipples and black
ones to my clit, and I didn't know the difference, but when
you applied the current, I would St Vitas dance and I could
smell the acrid stench of own burning flesh. Oh Jesus."

And suddenly, without warning, Lucy started to cry. Tears
ran down her cheeks and dripped to her breasts as she
remembered her involuntary dance and her burning nipples,
and the black smoke from her clit, and how bad it was.

"You have had years of practice, and I'm spoilt by it, so
what chance does Howard have, for he's a beginner! I find
reasons, excuses... to keep myself from his caresses because
he's too generous and nice, and I know he'll disappoint me."

"I could help," Albert drawled, studying Lucy's angles and
depth. "But if I do, you must pay me back for the trouble.
Would you do that for me Lucy?"

Lucy shook her head and blushed because she was imagining
his meaning, and it was a blush that spread relentlessly
down to her breasts. "No! Please father! You don't know what
you're asking!"

"Oh yes I do, Lucy," the Major smiled back at her.

"You expect me to be a whore..."

"Maybe. Is that a problem? Don't you want to be a whore?"

"No. You're my father..."

"True, but then Rahab was a whore and yet she became an
ancestress of the Messiah and an example of faith, so
there's nothing unholy and unrighteous about whoring.
Remember the daughters of Lot..."

"But I don't want to live like that... going from man to
man... I want Howard..."

"Lucy. Listen to me. I can help. I can show Howard how to
lead you towards a tree, show him the pleasure that comes
from hurting a woman. I can teach him to thrust your tit
meat against a bark and help him to taunt you and tease you
and strike your tits with the nails. When I'm done with him,
Lucy, he'll share you with dozens of soldiers, and they'll
watch you clawing desperately to the tree with big long
nails skewering your breasts. I can help. When I'm done with
him, Lucy, Howard will be the most wicked of us all. I can
teach him. I can. Will you trust me with that?"

Lucy nodded, licking her lips. "Yes, father. I trust you.
You understand what it is about me and trees... I know that
you can help me..."

"And Howard will understand about tar and feathers, and how
hot he should heat the tar and for how long he should dip
you. I will train him, Lucy - I will - as long as you're
prepared to return a favour for me. Will you do that? Will
you help me if I'm prepared to help you?"

Lucy blinked quickly, and then she hesitated. "Papa?"

"I need you to share Howard. I need it. Could you do that
for me? Could you? Could you share him with another woman?
Or would you be jealous?"

"Papa? Would I be jealous? I don't know. Is that necessary?
Do I have to share him?"

"Yes, Lucy - because I have a woman and I need you to
comfort her, Lucy. I need you to take her to your bosom and
be a friend. I need you to share a bed with her and be a
lover to her... and for Howard to do the same..."

"Papa. I think I'm jealous. I don't do it with women..."

"Listen to me, Lucy. The woman's name is Harriet and you'll
do as your father tells you because that's the fifth
commandment. I'll teach Howard to be your master, but he'll
be Harriet's master too: one man and two women. It'll be
okay. Once I've trained him, Howard will want to be friendly
with Harriet. He'll want to love her. Can you handle that,
Lucy? I'll be disappointed if you're jealous and rude..."

"In which case I won't be jealous," Lucy sighed with humble
resignation. "You see, in addition to the fifth commandment,
I have a woman's body."

"Go on, Lucy. I'm listening. Tell me more."

"A woman's body can be tortured in a hundred random ways. I
have a woman's body, papa. A woman's body can be punished,
disciplined. A woman's body can be stretched across hot
coals and left to perspire until the sweat runs in gushes.
Therefore, father, since I have a woman's body, I'm sure
that despite my weakness, I can be persuaded not to be
jealous."

"Very good, Lucy. You are indeed your father's daughter.
You've learned well. When you and Harriet are friendly, I'll
introduce her to Howard. Howard has to understand what's
expected of him... We must teach him together how to
torture. We must teach him to be your master."

And with that, Albert placed his cup of Darjeeling on its
saucer, and he was amused, pleased with himself, and he sat
contentedly, wickedly admiring the naked woman who stood in
front of him. He made her stand there for nearly an hour
while the pretty Sergeant reminded her again that she had a
woman's body.

**








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