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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 12) MF caution
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Date: Tue, 28 Aug 2007 22:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=2012.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 Twelve : "Jaffar the Electrician"




"Tell me about Chechnya," Howard growled, channelling his
thoughts onto safer, less sensitive ground. "You said that
you served in Chechnya..."

Cecily smiled, gratified and a little encouraged, for it
seemed that she was gaining Howard's wayward attention.
"What would you like me to tell you, Mr Pendrill?"

"Everything. Of course. What happened? What did they do?
Tell me about the torture."

"The torture, Mr Pendrill? Are you sure? Wouldn't you rather
be talking about Lucy?"

This question was mischievous, of course, but Howard refused
to rise to the bait.

"No. Not Lucy! Chechnya!"

"Okay, Mr Pendrill," she acquiesced, enjoying that her seeds
of discontent were alive and growing. "What shall I tell
you? Would you like to know how many times they knelt me on
all fours, put a rifle up my butt and told me to beg? Is
that what you want? How it felt to have that cold steel
stretching my ass, and have them playing with the safety as
the barrel of their gun raped my ass? Would you like to know
how many men were watching and playing with their cocks as
they did it? Or what was I thinking? Yes? Or would you
prefer me to tell you how they screwed me with electric
wires taped to my breasts? Is that it? I can tell many, many
things. I am an experienced lady in these matters, but which
would you hear first?"

Her questions were aimed at Howard's groin and they hit
their target with ease. Howard slumped and stumbled and
recoiled as each hit landed on its mark. "Tell me
everything," he groaned, sinking to his knees and staggering
in his wretchedness from the window.

"Everything?"

"Yes. Everything. Don't overlook a jot or a tittle."

There was a chasm from which there could be no return, and
they were standing before it. Lucy didn't know this in the
courtyard outside, but as a guy slid a sweaty hand inside
her top and another caressed her trousers, Howard was
deserting her. He'd left her. His interest had transferred
to other more interesting propositions, and the evidence of
this was obviously manifest, for he was naked, and his cock
had blossomed in length.

Cecily gazed at it curiously and she smiled coquettishly,
liking the product of her scheme. "What's wrong, Mr
Pendrill?" she purred. "Aren't you looking at Lucy? Maybe
your friends are undressing her, unbuttoning her blouse,
tugging it from her chest. Imagine how embarrassing that
would be to her conservative religious sensitivities, to be
stripped and have her pussy caressed. Imagine how she must
be feeling, Mr Pendrill! Shouldn't that be your concern?"

Howard remained motionless. He was thinking.

"Perhaps."

"Mr Pendrill? Perhaps?"

"Yes, perhaps. But that's for me to decide."

"Of course - I agree - it is, but I was thinking: maybe your
friends have invited Lucy to strip for them, and maybe she's
consented, for a girl would rather remove her own clothes
than have strangers do it for her, don't you think, Mr
Pendrill? I'm sure that if it was me, if perhaps I were an
Oriental Princess of a Barbarian Kingdom, or even myself, I
would prefer to do it and gain the mastery."

"Stop it! Shut up!"

"Mr Pendrill? Is something the matter?"

"Shut up about Lucy! Stop it!"

Howard's hands looped rope around Cecily's stockinged
ankles, becoming angrier and distraught and agitated:
circling her calves round and around, again and again. It
appeared to him that Cecily's legs had grown longer, tauter,
shapelier. He imagined sinking his teeth into her soft
flesh, biting her skin and enjoying its taste. He wanted to
think about that, and not about Lucy.

Lucy was primeval. Lucy was history. Lucy was painful.

"Tell me about Chechnya!" he growled, stroking Cecily's
legs, liking it that they were tied and that he could attack
them.

"Mr Pendrill?"

"I want to know about the rifle. The rifle they stuck up
your ass! And the electricity! That first. Tell me about the
electricity. What does it feel like to have 120 volts jolt
up your pussy? Tell me about that!"

"Mr Pendrill. Calm down. The pressure of Lucy is getting to
you. You're sweating. You're stressed out. It's not good
that I tell you these stories. We should discuss something
else: about you, perhaps."

If only he could see how tranquil and serene she'd become
now that he was a fish on her hook. If only he could see
Cecily's quiet, contented smile and how it stretched from
the centre of her face to the slit between her legs. If he
had seen it, he would have wondered. But Howard couldn't see
these things because he was embroiled with the logistics of
coiling rope around his fist and yanking the ends and
pulling Cecily's ankles from under her. He couldn't see her
sly smile because his vision was clouded by red mist.

"Damn you!" he shook. Everything was wild and incandescent
with fury and rage. "Never mind that!" he roared. "Tell me
about the torture - how it hurt! The pain! Describe the
pain! And fuck! - tell me again about your breasts and what
they did to them!"

Cecily lay on the floor as he ranted, and Howard pulled her
to the left and the right by the ropes and dragged her
around by her ankles. He tugged her across the wooden floor
like she were a sack of vegetables, through the dirt and the
spillage of his cum. He did it because he was able, because
it gave him something to do. "You understand, Mr Pendrill,"
Cecily cried, shuddering as her head banged against the leg
of a chair, and her back clattered across the uneven planks.
He was dragging her bodily around the floor. "You... you
understand that being a Director of Psychology, what I say
is prone to opaqueness, and I warn you... this interview has
the objective of uncovering knowledge. Nothing is as it
seems. Once again, I remind you of these facts."

"Never mind that!" Howard was livid. "Tell me about the
torture! Damn you, woman! Tell me!"

Cecily swung across the floor, her legs arcing behind her,
and yet her smile was in place. It gave her strength to know
that Howard was ensnared in her yarns. It made her strong,
and he was weak.

"Mr Pendrill. Since you insist. I'll tell you. I admit: it
hurt. Of course it hurt!"

"Tell me more! Everything. In detail! Bitch! You know I want
to hear it!"

He rolled her again through his cum, using her body to clean
it up, and she could do nothing for there were so many
ropes, tied with such venom.

"It interests you a great deal to hear about my tortures,
doesn't it?" she groaned as he slammed her into the glass
table, and then past it into a wall. She took her time
recovering her breath, lying with her face against the cold
wooden floor. She could feel the splinters in her back and
there were grazes and bruises on her breasts from the rough
wood. She could smell the fragrance of Howard's passion
clinging to her arms and her legs, and even to her face and
breasts. It was in her clothes and on her hair.

Everywhere. The smell of cum.

She swallowed, very deliberately keeping her eyes looking at
the floor, and not at him. "You'd prefer to hear my stories
than know what's going on outside," she muttered. "Mr
Pendrill. I like that. We'd make a great team, you and I."

He was standing across her, over her, naked, and his cock
was recovering quickly. She sensed it without looking up.
"Mr Pendrill? If we worked together, we'd attract less
attention than two spies working independently. And at
night, back in our hotel, you could tie me to our bed and I
could tell you my tales."

She purred, aroused by the idea, and then with considerable
effort she rolled over onto her front. "Mr Pendrill," she
growled lustfully, her breath quickening and her hips
rotating in ever decreasing circles, and then her toes
starting moving in ever decreasing figures of eight. She was
pressing her pussy and her tits against the hard wooden
boards and giving herself heat. This was turning her on.
"How do I say this, Mr Pendrill? The department has liberal
attitudes towards sex. It recognizes that this can be an aid
in helping its operatives survive in what could otherwise be
a lonely, dangerous business. Individuals sharing such
sexual liaisons are called conjugals."

"I'm sorry?"

Cecily squirmed suggestively around the floor, her movements
becoming frenetic and passionate as she engineered to summon
a climax for herself. But Howard was having none of it. He
reached down and tugged at her arms, rolling her onto her
back and thereby frustrating her climax. Cecily groaned in
fury and shut her eyes, squeezing out the dregs of lost
pleasure. "Please, Mr Pendrill," she shook, pleading for his
help. "That wasn't kind! Help me! I need to cum!"

But Howard smiled wickedly and stared at her scratched and
dirty breasts. "I don't want you to cum," he slurred
impishly. "I want you to lie on the floor craving release
and yet be unable to attain it. That's more interesting..."

"Mr Pendrill! Please! I beg you! Don't do this!"

"Why not? You humiliated me. You laughed at my cock and you
made me jerk off, and now it's my turn for revenge. I want
you to suffer."

Cecily knew she was in trouble, but what could she do? "Mr
Pendrill. My cunt is wet and open and I'm unbelievably hot.
My clit is swollen and on fire. Please, Mr Pendrill. I need
your cock. I need it in my hole, banging my pussy. Is that
too much for a woman to ask?"

"You can ask, but I'm not going to help you..."

"Mr Pendrill. If you were to assist me, I would voluntarily
become your slave, your conjugal."

"My what?"

"Mr Pendrill. Listen to me. Listen hard. In our work, the
distinction between private or professional lives is
indistinct, so I present you with the imaginary situation of
two operatives who pretend to be married. They're assigned
by the Department to a country where conditions are basic.
They have a room, and it contains a flea-ridden single bed,
and they have a bathroom that they share with five other
families. Both their room and the bathroom are bugged with
electronic devices - cameras - and the eavesdroppers are
downstairs hoping for sport. They want a good fuck show from
our couple, especially as they know that the 'wife' is young
and voluptuous. However, as the relationship between the two
of them is politically correct, they undress beneath the
covers of the bed and the husband sleeps on the floor, which
makes the eavesdroppers irritated and distrustful and in the
middle of the night they gatecrash the room.

"They stand the two spies facing each other and make them
undress, garment by garment, and then - when they're both
naked - they force them to rub oil over each other's body,
and then they tell them to fuck. In such circumstances, the
evidence becomes apparent, Mr Pendrill. Body language tells
all, for strangers don't fuck with the same familiarity as
lovers. The chemistry is different. There is no need for
nastiness or questions. The eavesdroppers will know, and
they'll either applaud, or they'll take the couple for
interrogation."

Howard scratched his forehead. "Is this relevant?"

"Absolutely relevant," Cecily answered. "You see, the
department assigns its field operatives to teams: with male
and female operatives assigned to each team. The junior
provides backup to the senior. They stay in the same room
and sleep in the same bed: because rooms - as I've said -
are bugged, and it averts suspicion.  However, given that
only genuine familiarity is convincing under persistent
scrutiny, the department requires partners develop not just
a social, but also a sexual intimacy prior to assignment. It
specifies that its agents share full intercourse twice a
week and they must sleep together overnight on at least one
of those occasions. Then they qualify to serve as
conjugals."

"Fuck!" Howard exclaimed, and he gazed hungrily at the
bound, semi-naked woman at his feet. He rubbed the bottom of
his foot along her leg, lifting her skirt. "And you're
offering to be my conjugal?"

"That's the purpose of this interview, Mr Pendrill," she
quipped. "I need to assess your suitability for such an
assignment."

"Fuck!" Howard repeated, and he then became quiet.

Cecily's skirt was at the level of her thighs. He couldn't
tease it any higher because the material had become trapped
between her legs and the floor.

He considered his next move.

"Tell me. Have you been in a 'conjugal' relationship
before?" he asked.

Cecily smiled mischievously. "Of course, Mr Pendrill. I've
fraternized with many partners, often two or three at the
same time. It works, because as I've told you, I don't have
a regular boyfriend, and neither do I need one. I do,
however, need plenty of cock."

"And... do you, I mean... will you currently... I mean, is
there someone else that you're seeing? Since you don't have
a boyfriend?"

"Mr Pendrill. As I've told you, I need plenty of cock and I
don't go short... But that's not the point. What about you?
If you were my conjugal you'd need to screw me at least
twice a week... and preferably twice a day. I'm not joking.
I need a man. A real man. Are you up to it, Mr Pendrill? Do
you have what it takes to be my conjugal?"

Howard looked at her in cold bewilderment. "I don't know.
Lucy would hate it..."

"Mr Pendrill. Forget Lucy. Lucy would be accommodated. If we
can manage to forge a working partnership, then the rest
would be arranged. The department handles the detail. But
before you answer, think carefully, because I must be honest
and warn you that I'm not easy to live with. I've been
diagnosed with a compulsive disorder that borders on
nymphomania, Mr Pendrill. Could you handle that? A woman who
can't get enough of your cock? And I'm inclined to overreach
my authority. I can't help it. It excites me to make men
play with themselves, as I did with you, and shoot their
load across my face and my body. I'm not supposed to do it
and men sometimes become resentful. They don't like being
told what to do and they see me as aggressive, and so they
betray me to the enemy. It's happened too many times, Mr
Pendrill. The frequency with which I've graced the world's
most gruesome torture chambers is not coincidental. It's the
result of my sexual predilections, and it's a problem to the
department. My line managers are tired of having to trade
arms and political prisoners in exchange for my freedom. So,
they've brokered a deal. The department has decreed that to
avoid further embarrassing incidents, the man that I choose
to be my next conjugal will be empowered to express his
resentments directly. The next time I abuse my rank, Mr
Pendrill, my conjugal will have the authority to avenge
himself. He'll be permitted to torture me in whatsoever
manner and to whatever degree that he desires: not in the
field where discipline is paramount, but back at base. My
line manager thinks that this will act as a safety valve,
and it'll remove the temptation for this partner to betray
me to the enemy. Do you understand? That's why I'm focussed
on whether you can torture a woman, Mr Pendrill. I must show
the department that the man I choose is capable of hurting
me. So once again, I ask my question: would you like to hurt
me, Mr Pendrill? Would it excite you? Would it turn you on?"

"Yes, mam," he replied truthfully. "It would."

Cecily considered the reply carefully. "I've explained that
I have a powerful sexual drive. I expect my conjugal to be
attentive. I expect him to fuck me frequently - twice a day,
I said - and he must masturbate whenever I ask. I like that,
Mr Pendrill: watching a man play with himself and waiting
for him to erupt across my tits, my face, and over my hair.
I'm addicted to sex. In the field, this man - whoever he is
- must obey my orders, because I'm the senior officer, and
he must follow my commands to the letter. Do you understand
me?"

"Yes, mam. I understand."

"If, however, my orders upset or embarrass him, Mr Pendrill
- then the governor kicks in. He would be able to
requisition me to appear in one of the department's torture
chambers after our return home, in a uniform or dress of his
choosing, and for a duration agreed between him and the
department, and I would be duty bound to report to him
there. Am I clear, Mr Pendrill?"

"Yes, mam. Absolutely."

"As for Lucy, you could screw her from time to time if you
must, but as your senior officer and your conjugal partner,
I would have first use of your cock. Do I make myself clear,
Mr Pendrill? If this angers or frustrates you, then again,
you're free to book the torture chamber and detail me to
appear there. And there, in that room, you could discuss
your feelings and irritations in any way you see fit. You
are the master inside the torture chamber, and I am the
master outside of it. Do you understand, Mr Pendrill? Is
this a problem?"

"No, mam. I understand."

But did he? Although he said it, what was he saying? What
kind of hole was he digging? Lucy would never, ever agree to
this kind of arrangement, but that was something to be
resolved later. For the present, Cecily ruled supreme.

"Very good, Mr Pendrill," she nodded. "Then I believe that
we understand each other. So let us return to the subject
that intrigued you, that you sought to enquire about. You
were interested in hearing about my experiences with
electricity, and I shall answer you plainly and without
concealment, because I know that if I don't, you will compel
me to confess the truth in the less dignified surroundings
of the torture chamber, and I prefer to avoid it. Do we
understand each other, Mr Pendrill?"

"Yes, mam. We do."

He was calmer now, although the matter of Lucy was still
nagging at his conscience. Poor dear Lucy.

"Well, foremost of all, there is a man I will introduce you
to from Pakistan - very tall - with a black, bushy beard and
hair even longer than mine, although he kept it tied in a
turban. He had dark, olive skin and a heavy, muscular build.
This man's name was Jaffar, and in his own peculiar way he
liked me sexually, although he never admitted it openly. I
was his plaything, his special toy. He donated time to my
education - as he put it. He made me his project: to teach
the pretty English spy the art of enduring pain, and for my
part, I learned well. He's one of the few men I have come to
respect. He's good. Each morning he made me stand beneath a
tall breezy tree with my bare feet planted in the dry dusty
soil atop a swarming colony of ants, and he would place his
chair in front of me, and sit there upon it in the shade of
the tree, and for hours he would discuss his religion, his
God, and the nature of paradise and hell, and he would watch
the ants doing their work: crawling over me, into my
clothes, into the very deepest most private parts of me. He
would know the strength of their sting, and he would ask me
to describe to him my discomfort and pain, and he'd want to
know where the ants were crawling, and had they crawled
inside my various holes. Then, he would tell me about his
family: his parents and his sisters, and how proud he was
that they were fighting Jihad. One of his sisters was a
guerrilla in the army of Amrat Al-Alhoudi, he said. I
remember him explaining how his sisters had been examined by
special holy women verifying their virginity, for when they
joined Al-Alhoudi, it was equivalent to them being given in
marriage to a man, or joining a nunnery. The army became
their husband and master. It fed, clothed and protected
them, and in return, its warriors were given rights to their
bodies. Jaffar smiled, noting the way I was fidgeting, and
he seemed to know the reason why. He asked if I were a
virgin, and did I have children. His question seemed casual,
but when I answered and told him that I wasn't, and didn't,
he took his time, and placed a black veil around my head,
like a hood encasing and enclosing my face, so that only my
eyes peeped out, stony and frightened. He said what I had
done wrong, but that I was not beyond redemption. He was
disappointed in me, for sure, but he could save me. He said
he was going to show me how bad I'd been: and at that, he
stripped me. Everything. The lot. He said he was doing it
for my good, to preserve my everlasting soul. He didn't
shout or threaten. He didn't slap me or push me about: he
didn't have to. I was green and naive, and there was also my
compulsion, and so I let him do the things that he wanted.

"He unbuttoned my shirt and unfastened my bra. He unbuckled
my belt and lowered my jeans. He pulled down my panties and
wiped the ants from my pussy with them. By now I was wearing
nothing but the veil he'd placed across my face. There was
also some jewellery: a ring, a bracelet, a gold locket
around my neck - but effectively, I wore nothing but that
veil and the ants. He explained that I must wear the veil
because I was an infidel and he was a Moslem. It was to ward
off temptation. And then, as he admired my bare breasts and
played with my pussy and the ants that ran there, he asked
how I felt about electricity. I told him I wasn't sure, and
I asked him whether it was a particular appliance he had in
mind, or the supply or manufacture? He laughed and said it
was none of these things. Electrical torture was his life's
work, his toy, and he planned to teach me its power. I told
him that I was scared, and he nodded, and said that I was
right to be - and when he said that, it frightened me even
more.

"Mr Pendrill, I tell these things because I have to, despite
all the pain that it now brings me, because I don't want the
greater pain of the chamber. Torturers favour one method or
another, maybe it's something they're familiar with, or what
brings them faster results, or what appeals to a peculiar
sexual fantasy. With Jaffar all these motives combined as
one in electricity. He loved it. He talked of it for hours.
I would stand in front of him, covered in ants that would
crawl up my legs and into my blouse. They'd be running
around my belly and inside my crack: all of them stinging.
I'd feel them, helpless, and be listening to Jaffar talking
about the sexiness of electricity and how it would unhinge
me. It had been his vocation, he said, until the conquest of
Iraq. Saddam's sons had sponsored his research, investing
large sums of money and a most generous supply of young
ladies. He informed me that it had turned him on to cook
these pretty young Shia and Kurds, and he asked me what I
thought of his expression - did I like it?  - the idea of
cooking a lady. I told him firmly: no, I didn't like it, for
I'm not a fool, and I knew that he was thinking of me. It
was obscene.

"He liked that I argued, and he described to me the
different ways that the electric juice can sizzle through a
woman's private parts, and how he could get a woman's
nipples to spark, from one teat to the other. He complained
that since the fall of the regime that there were too few
good ladies to cook.

"But you'll do nicely," he said, fastening me to an old
forgotten trampoline. The fabric was rotten, but the springs
were still good. He put the trampoline beneath his large
tree and he tied me to those springs with ropes fanning from
my body, so that I resembled a fly caught in the net of a
spider, ropes connecting me to every part of the frame.

"Then he began.

"He'd designed electrodes specifically for every part of a
woman's body. There was an electrode to go inside a woman's
pussy, and he showed it me first. The instrument had
contacts located at the bottom, at the middle and at the
base of a thick, dildo like phallix. He had other electrodes
resembling alligator clips for attaching to nipples, and
long needle like ones for prying under nails. There were
also flat, pad-like electrodes for gluing to the sides of a
young lady's head.

"When it came to the science of electricity, Jaffar was the
master: the best, and I knew, in dread, that it wouldn't
take me long to respect him as a master.

"I remember how at first he wiped an electrolyte solution
across the front of my body. He began with my shoulders and
my legs, my neck and my arms. He was circumspect at first,
apologizing profusely when he touched where he oughtn't. But
then his hands became less gentlemanly, moving to my
stomach, my breasts and between my legs. They became rough
and insistent: clumsy. "It helps your skin conduct more
current," he mumbled, slowly marinating the cold sticky
liquid into my flesh, rubbing around and around, and
squeezing my clit.

"And as for me, what was I thinking?

"I can't tell you. I would, but there's a bond that develops
between torturer and victim that's impossible to decipher.
It's hate, fear, loathing, and something beyond, something
infinitely more intense. It's a kinship. We're rivals doing
the same job, each outdoing and outwitting the other,
holding our thoughts hidden, and yet knowing that we're each
naked and exposed in our separate ways. I'm as naked as I
can be: my cunt invaded and violate, being touched and
forcibly humiliated. My lips are stretching and he's
pinching my pubes. He's forcibly massaging them with his
sorcerer's fluid, working it into my hole. I have nothing
that I can hide from him, not a thought, not a tremor of
emotion; not even an ant. I will do and say and be anything
he wants me to be. The electricity sees to that.

"He, on the other hand, is exposed in a less obvious way,
for if I can possibly resist and overcome the pain and
humiliation, then I can defeat him and he will pay for his
failure, perhaps with his life. For all his devices and know-
how, his thumbscrews and wizardry, he can't make me talk, he
can only encourage me, and he knows it.

"But he's confident. It's David against Goliath, and I don't
have my sling.

"'I'm going to make you cum,' he says, knowing that it will
intensify my humiliation to climax against my volition,
forced there by the man who tortures me. I know it too: and
so I work hard not to lose control of my body. It mustn't
betray me. He knows that I fight to combat my efforts, and
so to show me his power, he fucks me.

"Oh God! He fucks me! He does it to humiliate me, to hurt
me, and because he knows that I'll cum. He knows my weakness
- my passion and my addiction - and so he fucks me!

"I'm tied to the centre of his trampoline like a fly in the
web of a spider. Ropes surround me, and I'm soaked in a
ghastly, smelly stench.

"And he fucks me!

"He explains the purpose of each of the electrodes as he
does it. He tells me where they'll go, how they'll work, and
the types of pain they'll induce. It arouses him to feel me
tense and worried, to observe that I'm sweating and afraid:
but his real purpose in detailing these things is that he
knows that despite my fear, its the thing that grossly
excites me, and he wants me to cum.

"Yes, Mr Pendrill. You heard me correctly. It excites me.
That's my compulsion. His cock grows thick inside me, and
his pace becomes faster. He's thinking of me cooking,
contorting and twisting, my body stretched and jerking.

"He's telling me how I'll be, what I'll do, how women behave
when they're cooked.

"He's lying on top of me on the trampoline and my arms carry
his weight. His cock is bouncing in my pussy, filling and
abusing me. I'm stretched on the frame, spread eagled, like
a powerless cloth puppet, strings connecting me to the taut
springs of the trampoline. They're tugging at my hands, my
knees, they're binding my belly and my shoulders, my
forearms and thighs: and very steadily he fucks me.

"Oh God. It hurts. Oh God, how it hurts. All our combined
weight is being taken by my arms, my legs. He's holding my
teats in his nails to show me where he'll fasten his clips.
His other hand pinches my labia, while his cock jerks
violently in my womb. He promises to make me cry, to scream.
He tells me calmly and without exaggeration or melodrama,
that when he runs a rapid cycle, whatever that is, I'll wet
myself, because it's a matter of simple physiogamy: that's
what a woman does when the electric current pulses.

"I wonder what a rapid cycle is, and how it works, and what
will happen when I wet myself. Will it be an embarrassing
trickle or a humiliating gush? And who will be present to
see it?

"With that thought I realize that I'm on the edge of my
orgasm, and that he has induced it, and he knows it, and
that I must fight him, and that the battle between us has
entered a new phase.

"Oh Mr Pendrill.

"I must tell you that he wasn't lying: that second battle
was as hopeless as the first, and lost from the moment it
began. I hadn't a chance. He did all those things he
promised: every one of them. There aren't many men who have
made me cry, but Jaffar did. He reduced me to a small girl -
once again flat chested, frightened, lost in pain and in
need of comfort. He kept his word to the letter. He made me
scream until my lungs were rasping, hot and empty; as I've
never screamed, and never hope to scream again. I gave him
my lungs, Mr Pendrill. He forced me to give them as a
present, and as his reward, he made me piss myself.

"'I'm going to make you piss. Ready... steady...' he warned
me, just before he flicked the switch and began his rapid
cycle.

"'Go...' he said.

"And there it was. I had no idea. I tried to resist, but as
he touched that switch my mind became glass and shattered. I
had no will, no power. I could sense the violent backward
contractions of my lower abdominal muscles. I could feel my
back arching up towards the ceiling and the sweat drenching
my skin. I could hear myself begging and gurgling and the
incoherent hysterical wavering in my voice. I couldn't bear
it; I couldn't endure it. I was his slave. I was pleading
with him, crying and sobbing like a pitiable wretch. I
couldn't feel the pain any more because I was too numb, but
I heard the golden shower arching from between my legs, an
involuntary fountain beyond humiliation.

"I'd done it. I'd pissed to his order. And he was watching.
He was watching my display. I opened my legs and he could
see my water every inch of the way.

"And that's when I came. There was nothing more that I could
do to stop it: not a thing in the world. I came as he knew I
would cum, and it was the most glorious relief. I hadn't
wanted to cum, but when he made me, I was glad. It was a
relief.

"And afterwards, he took me to his tent and laid me on his
bed. His two wives stood fanning us as Jaffar ministered to
my burns and kissed me between my legs. He told me how well
I'd cooked, and that he was pleased with my performance, and
that's when he fucked me again. And as he fucked me, I told
him the things that he wanted to know. It wasn't forced and
I was no longer being tortured, and yet I told him
everything about the department and my work and my
conjugals... Everything. I was suddenly his slave.

"But enough of this!" Cecily cried, knowing that this
confession would cause her trouble and halting mid stride.
Her long puffy lips fluttered invisibly inside her green
panties and her abdomen lurched and jerked on the wooden
floor. Howard watched the rapid overpowering vibrations,
looking at her with longing, and then looking again at her
bare breasts. Cecily's legs and arms were all tied, and her
skirt was pulled up, and Howard could see beyond the top of
her black stockings to her milky white thighs. Howard looked
again at her breasts, and her black Frankenstein teats, and
how they had grown, swollen to Goliath proportions.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed.

There was something intoxicatingly erotic about a helpless
girl caught in her own involuntary arousal. He lifted her
skirt so he could see her panties and there was nothing she
could do to stop him. She tried, but she couldn't, for her
legs were tied too tightly.

Her breathing raced and became noisy; her face blushed and
turned red. He was looking at her, spying the dark stain of
her arousal on her panties - looking, still looking - and he
knew she was coming.

Her eyes closed. She couldn't think. She couldn't do
anything but allow him to look, as the stain spread slowly
but steadily across the gusset of her panties.

And then, after a while, Cecily's movements slowed and
relaxed, and she rested.

Her body became limp.

Howard carried on looking at her, but after a while, he
coughed. He couldn't wait any longer.

"Did you just... I mean... did you just do what I think that
you did?" he asked, astonished and somewhat consternated. He
was rubbing his brow because it seemed to him that Cecily
had just climaxed under the force of her own words, without
actually being touched by any external object. That was some
extraordinary feat, he felt.

Cecily coloured and frowned. Her nipples had distended out
of proportion to her breasts, and the nipples were even
blacker than ever. "I've told you a story," she declared
softly, very aware of where Howard was looking and the
reason. She wished her panties weren't so wet and that
Howard's cock wasn't quite so hard and thick. "I've told you
that I have a strong sexual drive, and that you shouldn't
believe everything I tell you. I've told you about my
opaqueness, and that this is a matter of work, an interview,
and not a straightforward relationship. Opaqueness can
sometimes extend to more than just words, Mr Pendrill. It
can extend to the sexual act itself. Men and women have been
known to fake a sexual performance. Take nothing for
granted."

Howard hesitated, glancing momentarily from Cecily's
gigantic chocolate nipples that were now like giant cones of
frosted cream, down to the dark stain on her panties.
"What?" he coughed.

She smiled, and she rubbed her thighs together with a gasp
of total delight. And she purred: "Take nothing for
granted."

**





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