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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 11) MF caution
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Date: Tue, 28 Aug 2007 22:10:01 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=2011.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 Eleven : "Oriental Princess"




Cecily had been sitting upon her stool slumped at the table,
playing with her pencil and tapping its end against the
transparent glass.

She wasn't now.

Neither was she hovering by the window, looking out at the
parade ground and reliving those heart churning days of long
ago, when she'd been a blue collar naked recruit, an
artificial cock dangling from her pussy and an assemblage of
soldiers whacking their erections in artistic appreciation.

She wasn't doing either of those things.

Instead she was standing at the centre of her office,
pointing at several coils of rope and holding her hands so
that Howard might more easily tie them.

"Do it tightly, Mr Pendrill," she directed with a cold
authoritative bite. "First my hands, and then my legs. I've
cut the rope into five meter lengths, sturdy hemp so that it
will be impossible for me to escape from. Tie my wrists
behind my back, Mr Pendrill, and my elbows to each other, so
that I can't use my hands to keep you from touching and
hurting my breasts. Loop rope around my legs - twice - first
at the knees and then at the ankles, tightly, so that I
can't kick or fight or run away. Then, when you've done
these things, I shall tell you what to do next."

She looked a heavenly sight! Her blouse was unbuttoned, and
her naked breasts were open and exposed. They were damaged
tortured breasts, Frankenstein tits as Howard preferred to
call them, partly hers and partly stolen from an unwilling,
terrified Egyptian field operative named Jazmin.

The question was, though, why did she want him to hurt her.
"It's a test," she said jerkily, steeling herself and
extending her arms so that Howard could loop them with rope.
He was still naked, and she was staring at his limp manhood
and wondering how long it would lie dormant.

"A test?" Howard frowned.

"Yes, Mr Pendrill. A test. It's a small one, I think - for
you - but a large, terrible one for me. I want you to tie my
hands and my feet like you would if I were the Oriental
Princess of some Barbarian Kingdom and you were about to
abduct me and take me hostage and rape me."

Howard folded a length of rope into two, running it through
his fingers and looping it round his hands. This was awkward
because of what had happened shortly before. He'd cum, and
his semen was splattered across the floor and Cecily was
standing with her feet and her heels in the puddle. Her
stockinged toes was smeared in the juice and she was wiping
it around the planks, writing her name on the wood in thick
rolling letters.

He frowned. "An Oriental Princess of some Barbarian
Kingdom?"

"Yes, Mr Pendrill. Imagine it. You've stormed my palace and
you've fought your way to my room. My attendants are dead,
and there's fighting all around. You see me, the great
prize, and there's a price on my head, a ransom. If you
kidnap me, you can extort my kingdom, and everything is
yours. I'm a woman, a frail vulnerable woman..."

Howard tried to think of something intelligent to say. "If
you are an Oriental Princess of some Barbarian Kingdom, then
what am I? A pirate? A bandit? Or am I just a battle-worn
guerrilla who hates you and who fights from the mountains?"

He looped a length of rope around Cecily's forearms. His
words were meaningless and inane but Cecily seemed to like
them. She tossed back her hair and studied his cock more
astutely than ever. "The latter," she decided firmly. "You
saw me once, a long time ago, when I presided over the
execution of several men from your village. They committed a
minor crime, stealing game from my land and they begged me
for their lives, but I was disinterested. I was aloof. I sat
on my throne and I made no allowance for their hunger, for
their families and for their need. I was unmoved by their
repeated pleadings for mercy.

"And so now the tables are turned. You have abducted me from
my palace and I stand before you in my gold and pearls and
rich purple robes, and I will be judged by the same harsh
standards by which I have judged others. I will be ritually
stripped, raped and then publicly branded and sold as a
slave in the very square where I presided over the execution
of your villagers. I will be led slowly from the prison and
escorted through the jostling crowds, my hands tied behind
my back and my legs shackled in irons, and the fickle
populace will grope my breasts, my ass and my pussy to test
how much I could bring at auction. Some of them will spit at
my body; while others will slap and punch me; and yet others
will push their fingers into places that shouldn't be poked;
and in front of me is the blacksmith's forge, dark, imposing
and ominous, a silky silhouette lit by an invisible sun, and
I'm too frightened to hurry towards it and too frightened to
loiter, and I know that I'm done for."

Cecily smiled, still proffering her arms so that Howard
might tie them with rope. "Does my submissiveness excite
you, Mr Pendrill? It appears from your biological function
that it does. Your cock is growing hard and it needs to be
tamed. I'm an Oriental Barbarian Princess and I'll soon be
forced to bend across a blacksmith's anvil where I'll be
tied, and brigands will cut off my clothes and my jewels.
They'll rape me and they'll cheer every time that I'm
pricked. Finally, you'll approach with your branding iron,
and you'll press it against my forehead, my breasts and my
ass. I'll carry your name, your initials. Imagine it, Mr
Pendrill. Imagine how I scream, how I kick, how I cry."

Her toes were wet with his cum and she was wiping her
stockings and smearing the floor and making crude erotic
patterns upon its hard gloss surface. But her arms she kept
still. "So having amused ourselves, let's return to our
question," she said. "The one that we began with - so long
ago that seems now. How do you answer? Mr Pendrill? You have
an Oriental Princess that you've abducted. She's naked and
wrapped round an anvil. Her ass is lifted high into the air,
and it's exposed and waiting to be marked, but can you do to
her as she has done to others? Is the fibre within you to
torture this woman? Can you resist her tears and her
persistent and irritating wiles? Indeed, could you torture
her, Mr Pendrill? And then, when she's sufficiently
humiliated and carrying your name on her skin, could you
rape her and sell her to the highest bidder, for him to do
with her as he chooses? How do you say?"

"Yes, mam," Howard answered with a new, arrogant confidence
that had been absent before. He stepped purposefully into
the puddle of his own cum and slipped the ends of the rope
through the loop and drew out the slack. Now that the tables
had been turned and Cecily was helpless, he was more certain
and not so prevaricating.

He snapped the rope tight, cinching Cecily's elbows and
doing so aggressively. "I could torture this woman," he
declared boldly. "I would, and I will!"

He knotted the rope and then tugged at the ends, and Cecily
grunted under the force of his efforts. "Confidently spoken,
Mr Pendrill," she coughed, her voice straining under the
pressure knitting her arms, and then thickening because
Howard was yanking upon the ends and forcing the rope to
bite at her flesh.

It hurt. It hurt a lot, and the pain made her pause, and she
tested her fingers for numbness: bending and unbending them
separately. They were swelling. She could feel it. "Very
good," she muttered approvingly through her clenched teeth.
"In fact, not bad at all. But the case is not proven. The
time has come for your metal to be tested."

"My metal?" Howard mocked, picking up another rope and
looping it around Cecily's stockinged knees, lassoing it
around her legs before tightening the rope quickly. She
swayed, and gasped, finding herself off balance.

"Mr Pendrill," she frowned, shifting precariously from one
wet stockinged foot to the other as she fought to keep her
balance.

She recovered it, and then she asked hastily without further
preamble: "Do you know what a governor is, Mr Pendrill?"

Howard did, or at least he thought he did. "You mean like
Arnie Schwarzeneggar?" he suggested.

"No, not that kind of governor."

Cecily tested her fingers again, bending and unbending each
one of them in turn. "I'm referring to the type of crude
mechanical device that's sometimes fitted to a car engine.
I'm not referring to a government official."

But Howard wasn't listening. His mind and hands were on
other, less erudite matters. He was stroking Cecily's calves
because he'd discovered that Cecily swallowed whenever he
did it. Her eyes were moistening and her cheeks were glowing
red.

She was turned on! The bitch!

"Put crudely, Mr Pendrill," she mouthed uncomfortably, and
her voice wavered as Howard's fingers inched beneath her
skirt and moved silently towards her crotch. "A governor is
a feedback device that limits some mechanism." She
swallowed, and then she stuttered as he closed on his
target. Then, suddenly, her eyes opened wide and she
stiffened. "Jesus! Mr Pendrill! It might be fitted to a gas
boiler to keep it from... overheating... or to a car to keep
it from speeding. Such devices can also be... applied in
other... less obvious, situations. For instance, a governor
might be used to limit the excess of a man's lusts." She
hesitated and blew out her breath. She snapped her thighs
around his hand to stop it, to hold it in place, but he
levered her legs and forced them apart, and again his hand
invaded her... her... God! Her mouth wobbled and she
blushed. Jesus! He was touching her pearl. "Oh shit!!" She
swallowed dryly. She could feel his fingers pushing around
her panties and penetrating her hole. "I have this kind of
governor." She swallowed. "A woman - I mean - a person. Oh
Jesus. Mr Pendrill! Don't! Given your... your... Mr
Pendrill! - your attentiveness to my - Oh Mr Pendrill - my
pussy - you mustn't touch me there. It's not allowed... Oh
my God - please - I was going to say that owing to your
attentiveness to my legs, but it isn't my legs, it's
also.... Mr Pendrill! Oh God, please! You mustn't! Oh God! I
perceive that I'm... in need of a Governor, and it's
fortunate that I have her... Lucy..."

Howard stopped, his hands becoming clammy and springing from
under Cecily's skirt, and he grabbed her by the shoulders,
his fingers wet with her juice. "What?" he grunted. "What
are you saying about Lucy?"

She exhaled in resigned sexual disappointment, and she was
searching for breath. "Yes, Mr Pendrill. I have Lucy. Lucy
and I have exchanged pleasantries, and I'm sorry to have
deceived you - and I have deceived you, for what I've told
you is 'opaque', and a veil of constant misinformation. But
you see, my role as Director of Psychology compels me to
deviate from the gospel. As I've explained to you, I must
verify that you have the strength to torture a woman - and
the department has stipulated that I be that woman. I must
place myself in your hands, Mr Pendrill, in a certain and
unwelcome position of vulnerability and I must ask you to
undress me and torture me; and given that I'm wise in such
matters, Mr Pendrill, and given that I know better than to
trust a man or ask him to behave as a gentleman: I've
brought my insurance."

"God. You mean Lucy..."

"Yes, Mr Pendrill. I mean Lucy. Let's be frank: you and I.
The department can no longer abduct lone females from the
street and whisk them to its dungeons and use them as
torture fodder. It may have done so in times past, but
nowadays, such happenings create friction, and we prefer to
remain outside the public consciousness whenever possible.
For the same reason, although we're free to use criminals,
the mentally insane, and even sultry enemy combatants in our
experiments, we choose not to do so as it results in
unwelcome publicity. In addition, in this case, the
Department has decided that I should be your victim - I
myself, Mr Pendrill - and so naturally, as I wish to protect
and care for my long term wellbeing, I have identified a
governor: your Lucy. But to use her, I needed your warrant.
I'm sorry to have deceived you - but it was, for me, the
only solution."

Howard didn't understand most of what she'd said but he
sensed that it was bad for Lucy. "Shit!" he expostulated,
his juice-covered fingers clinging to Cecily's shoulder.

"Precisely, Mr Pendrill: shit. The situation isn't appealing
to either of us, although you have the advantage in that can
inflict torture on me and I can do nothing to stop you. The
Department has authorized that you use your imagination to
roam through the torture chambers of history, through the
horror film archives and through your own imagination, and
then play with me. I am yours to hurt, and given that this
prospect is not appealing to me, Mr Pendrill, here is my
governor, my insurance. Everything you do to me will be done
to Lucy. At this very moment and throughout the session,
we're being watched. There are four hidden cameras covering
this room, and if you hit me; your colleagues will hit Lucy.
If you waterboard me; they will do likewise to her. Rape me;
and she'll be raped too, not just once, but by all of your
colleagues, and brutally: together and in sequence. Let me
repeat this as there must be no misunderstandings, and
particularly for my own personal sanity of mind. To the
extent that you take advantage of your power to hurt me,
your platoon will hurt Lucy. It'll be a wonderful,
unforgettable orgy of violence in which your girlfriend
stars as adult entertainer and guest rolled into one. Put
simply, Mr Pendrill: you have a choice. If you want to join
SJ6, then you must be prepared to sacrifice your girlfriend
to the lustful tortures of your various colleagues. On the
other hand, if you value and wish to protect your
girlfriend, then you must sacrifice SJ6. You can have one
but not both."

Howard listened angrily. The bastards! He wasn't worried for
himself, but he was for Lucy. The bastards! She knew nothing
about SJ6, and they were sucking her into their dirt and it
was a vile, evil trick! She was an untrained civilian. An
innocent child. They must know that she would have no idea
how to deal with a sexual assault, and that's why they'd
chosen her!

The perverts were out to enjoy her humiliation.

"I've done nothing to hurt your pretty girlfriend, Mr
Pendrill!" Cecily said, twisting around on the floor - tied
up and flailing awkwardly. "If you look through the window
you'll observe her glowing like a pretty fondant. No one has
touched her - not yet - and they won't as long as you behave
sensibly. You see, I want you to resign from SJ6, Mr
Pendrill. I want you to do so for Lucy's sake, because her
fate rests in your hands. Will you do that? I have another
piece of paper, and I want you to sign it."

Howard looked out of the window, hoping to see someone else
in the courtyard below, or perhaps no one at all. He was
hoping that Lucy was tucked up safe far away, and yet he
knew with a sickening dread that she wasn't.

She was here: down there, standing in the parade ground.

He wiped the misted glass with his hand and he craned his
neck, and then he saw that she was standing in the grey
quadrangle below. She was on a platform in its centre, her
hands cuffed behind her back and her ankles encased in thick
steel shackles. There was a blindfold tied across her eyes
and masking tape gagging her mouth.

The wind rustled in her blouse and it was apparent that she
was frozen: shivering. The wind rattled along the bottom of
her slacks, and it blew cold in her hair.

Jesus.

Where was her coat?

Howard looked at her closely. Was she unharmed? Had they
touched her?

"Open the window, Mr Pendrill," Cecily said. "Call to her!
Let Lucy know that you're here and that you can see her!
Maybe she'll answer!"

But Howard couldn't call because Lucy had been crying. The
cold and fear were clouding her face - and all the guys were
out there: Howard's friends, his colleagues.

His mates.

That made it awkward too!

"Come on. Why don't you call her, Mr Pendrill?"

Lucy's fate was resting in his hands, but he couldn't open
the window and call to her because he was trapped. That too!
He knew that if Lucy discovered his involvement in her
abduction, that he'd signed the first paper: Pandora was
loose, the secret was out, anarchy was abroad.

But... he needed to touch her hair and caress her cheek and
console her misery, help her, but he couldn't. Too many of
his men were watching and they were mates from the platoon,
men he was close to, friends that he might drink with, and
they were sitting on the ground playing cards, wary and
watchful; some of them standing, smoking, waiting for events
to unfold. The rest of them - those that Howard didn't know
had surrounded Lucy and they were teasing and jibing and
laughing about unbuttoning her clothes, touching her tits,
kissing the delicate crack between her cheeks. Howard
couldn't hear what they were saying, but he presumed they
were telling Lucy how they would be pressing their hands and
bodies against those special, private places between her
legs; and this made him emotional. He knew that they were
gloating over how many times they would hump her and make
her squeal, how well it would be done. He knew: for he'd
done such things himself.

He'd done it and he could imagine it now: their sticky
overbearing presence and their whispering lips and their
groping hands. They were touching Lucy already: stroking her
ass, caressing her belly through the fabric of her clothes,
whispering and teasing her: telling her the things they
would do.

Lucy made a noise into her gag because a hand was caressing
her groin, rubbing it suggestively. Her sounds were
inaudible because of the distance of three floors and a
thick pane of glass and so Howard couldn't hear with his
ears, but he heard with his heart, and he knew that Lucy was
crying.

"Open the window, Mr Pendrill," Cecily gloated. "It isn't
right that Lucy pours her heart to the Gods and that you
don't hear it. She's your girlfriend, Mr Pendrill - your
lover. And if you listen to the noise of her pain, you'll
ponder hard, I hope, about the things you're planning for
me."

"You bastard!" Howard cried. "What has Lucy done to deserve
this? Why must you hurt her?"

Lucy wasn't army bred. She was unworldly and ignorant of the
military machine.

"Mr Pendrill! You forget that it was you who signed the
warrant - not me - and even now, you can retrieve the
situation by turning your back on the department. It's so
simple, and it's what I ask of you, Mr Pendrill. You can
stop Lucy's ordeal by declaring yourself unsuitable for SJ6,
and if you do, I'll tear up the warrant and it'll be gone.
The choice is yours. You can do it, or you can do nothing.
But if you do nothing, then your friends will remove Lucy's
clothing, garment by garment, doing it slowly so as to enjoy
her. Ponder on that, Mr Pendrill. Your best friends; your
colleagues; the men you drink with; the officers,
specialists and technicians: think of them unfastening
Lucy's skirt, rolling down her stockings, unclipping her
bra, poking her tits with their fingers and manipulating her
pussy. Think of them licking her nipples and kissing her
slit, and telling her that you signed the form to say that
they could. Is that what you want? The choice is yours, Mr
Pendrill. You're the one to decide. But before you do
decide, reflect on the guilt of the man who can stop Lucy's
humiliation but who refuses to do so, and consider how Lucy
will feel about that man. Maybe it's your thing, Mr
Pendrill; maybe you get off on watching your girl being
fucked and humiliated: I don't know. But think well, Mr
Pendrill, and I ask you: what will Lucy say later?"

Cecily twisted in her ropes as she said this - swaying -
testing their strength, and knowing that she was testing
something much greater: the fibre of a man. Howard could
wreak his revenge on her body if he chose. If she pushed him
too far, she might drive him to the point of dragging her
outside and nailing her tits to a tree; and that risk
excited her.

It could happen; for the tree had been appointed; a two
pound hammer and six inch nails had been placed alongside.
Cecily had laid them there, fully cognizant of how they
would be used if she messed up.

It was why she needed a governor.

"Poor, Mr Pendrill," she mocked him, riling him further; and
she drew back her shoulders and puffed out her terrible
breasts, knowing that Howard could so easily brutalize them
further. "What will Mr Pendrill do, I wonder? What? Oh what?
Oh what?"

And then she fluttered her eyelashes and pouted at him
provocatively, tempting him on. "If you want my body, Mr
Pendrill, be a man and take what you want. It needn't be
difficult. I don't have a boyfriend and I need a good fuck.
Lucy won't ever know the sordid details, for you won't tell
her. Mr Pendrill. I'm yours to fuck. I'm here. I'm tied up.
All you have to do is walk away from that window... from
SJ6... from the department. Walk away, and I'll tear up the
warrant and you can have me instead. Take my body, Mr
Pendrill. Hurt it! Lucy won't know. She'll never know. Make
me scream and bellow to your demands! Dip me in tar and nail
me to a tree and roger me from behind! I won't stop you. You
can preserve what you have with your girl and you can fuck
me as well. Walk away. Say no to the department and walk
away, that's all that I ask!"

Howard wanted to hurt Cecily, but more than that, he wanted
SJ6. Now that it had been offered, he couldn't let it go
with so little effort, for he'd tasted its possibilities
during that night in the rain. SJ6 was in his blood, part of
his being. How could he explain to the Major that he'd
sacrificed his dream for a roll in the sack?

He couldn't.

But on the other hand, how could he do nothing to assist
Lucy? She was his girl. So as the Major had warned him: his
two separate lives were coming into juxtaposition and
forcing a choice. He couldn't have both.

So he picked up a rope - glancing through the window at Lucy
and then over his shoulder at Cecily, with the offer to
torture her heavy in his mind. He imagined her screaming,
crying; and then he slowly wrapped a rope around his
fingers, folding it in two.

Cecily watched him: the heavy cloud blackening on her brow,
and the light dawning beyond it, and she drew breath, and
her heart was thumping. "When I see parents playing with
their children," she exhaled rapidly, frantically testing
the ropes that bound her arms, "or couples canoodling on a
warm balmy night, then I regret that I don't have a man, a
family, children of my own. But normal life isn't compatible
with my life as a spy. How can it be? Can you imagine it, Mr
Pendrill? Me? A mother? A wife? Hanging naked by my wrists
in some grotty underground chamber with a sickly infant
suckling at my breasts; or lying pregnant on a medieval rack
with a bulging belly and swollen breasts and the pain
tipping me into labour? And what labour! Crocodile clips
attached to my pussy and a manic interrogator determined to
zap me with 120 volts at every contraction! Can you imagine
me returning to a quaint suburban home and sliding into the
welcoming arms of a husband? He grapples passionately with
my top, slips the catch of my bra - and we kiss - and he's
confronted with cigarette burns peppering my breasts. What
do I say given that I'm not permitted to tell him the truth?
Do I tell him they resulted from a freak accident, or do I
tell him that they were caused by a tropical disease? He
won't believe me, Mr Pendrill. He'll beat me for sure and
he'll threaten me with worse. But lastly, can you imagine me
sitting by the bedside of a seven year old son who's watched
his mummy being flogged by an Islamic court? He was there as
they dragged her through a riotous market before letting the
mutinous crowds rip her clothes to shreds, and he watches.
He watches her being tied to an iron post, and he doesn't
understand why she's naked and why they flog her back and
front. But he hears her screams. He sees her being
systematically broken by fanatical zealots; and he retreats
into his childish shell and he says nothing. What does this
woman do, Mr Pendrill? How does she explain these events to
her boy? How can she tell him that they did these things
because she's a woman and because her pain excites them? She
can't. And so, she's lost. A spy can never lead a normal
family life. Jews marry Jews; Catholics marry Catholics -
and a bolshy arrogant spy can do no better than look for a
kin. Do you follow me, Mr Pendrill? Do you grasp my
meaning?"

But Howard wasn't listening. He was distracted by a hubbub
in the courtyard and Lucy below. He hadn't seen what had
started the disturbance but there was now a riot in progress
and Lucy was part of it. The top button of her top was
undone and Howard could discern the tell-tale of her bra
straps and the swell of her breasts. Her trousers were
ballooning in the wind and silhouetting her legs, and it
seemed that the soldiers were attacking her clothes.

Howard felt an aching in his groin and he knew that
something horrible was out there today, something strange;
something magnetic and impossible to describe.

Cecily sighed regretfully. "She's a woman who's known to
you. You've enjoyed her dressed up and dressed down; in
health and in sickness; with makeup on and without it.
You've seen her in so many combinations of appearance that
normally you don't notice what she's wearing, and yet
suddenly, down in the courtyard surrounded by your
colleagues - she's beguiling and you can't take your eyes
from her."

Cecily would have explained further if Howard had asked her.
"Expectation," she would have said. "Lucy is condemned, and
so you're mentally undressing her, flipping her in and out
of her clothes like a child idling with a doll. You're
wondering how Lucy will behave if she's undressed in front
of strange men, and what they will think of her."

Howard couldn't disown these thoughts because they were
real. He was looking at Lucy in her striped blouse and black
trousers and imagining soldiers pulling them from her,
touching her, groping her naked breasts and inserting their
fingers in her private parts, and he was enjoying the
thought.

Loving it.

He was two persons battling in a bizarre, bitter struggle:
the first of these people was excited and morbidly curious
and wanting to see Lucy stripped naked and violently raped
by the soldiers; and the second was vexed and appalled.

Two persons and two alternate lives, diametrically opposed,
but at war with each other. The question was: who was the
real Howard Pendrill, and who was the phoney?

Howard couldn't be sure any more, but he was about to find
out.


**

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