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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 14) MF caution
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Date: Wed, 12 Sep 2007 23:10:02 -0400
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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 Fourteen : "The Pretty Young Mum at the Corner
Shop"


Put simply and honestly: Cecily was a torture girl. She
worked at the barracks and it was her job to be tortured.

It wasn't the only thing that she did, of course. She
also got involved in the torture planning, the endless
meetings, the practice sessions and the writing of
reports, all that mundane stuff that every torture girl
does; but at the core of her role was being naked and
vulnerable and tied up: being tortured.

Cecily had learned early on that if she were going to 
survive in such a job, she would have to keep the two 
parts of her life strictly separate, and so she divided 
her mind into different mental compartments. At home she 
was Harriet Gordon, the woman with a keen dress sense 
and an inordinate sense of fun, while at work, she was 
Cecily Freeman, the sex obsessed spinster.

These were effectively two different women.

The notion of mothering a child was preposterous to
Cecily, whereas Harriet was a wife and mother, and the
idea of not having a child was preposterous to her.

Cecily was to be seen around the barracks in her sombre
green uniform because it provided her with a veneer of
authority, although she knew that she was at the bottom 
of the military food chain and expendable, a resource 
that could be thrown to the mincer and diced, quite 
literally if need be.

Harriet, on the other hand, had very different worries.
She was married, although badly, and so she was insecure
and jealous. She was always the life and the soul of the
party, but this was because she craved the adoration, the
approval. She wore outlandish, adventurous styles of
makeup, and hair to attract - again - because she needed
her confidence to be bolstered.

If you put these two women side by side and looked at
them, they seemed as different as chalk and cheese and
you wouldn't believe that they could be the same person.
Yet when you looked at them more closely and you saw the
patterns and similarities, you realised that the
separation was simply a device because Cecily's work was
uncompromising and brutal, and in her wiser, saner
moments she wondered why anyone with any semblance of
sanity would be part in it.

You see, she was an average woman. She had an average
figure and average sized tits.

She was ordinary, mundane and average, and yet, in her 
alter ego, she was abused by whatever trick or stratagem 
her tormentor devised, and if his attacks were 
particularly savage or sick, then she had no recourse 
or comeback, no august body of impartial arbitration, 
no wise counsellor to listen to her frustrations and 
intercede on her behalf.

Harriet might have been average, then, but Cecily wasn't.
She was a torture girl. It was her job. She was a victim, 
an object of sexual abuse. She would stumble back to the 
recuperation room at the end of a rough day with her 
uniform in rags. There would be bite marks puncturing her 
tits and the impression of a rubber hose bruising her 
torso. Perhaps she would be carried there by stretcher 
after an incident of brain numbing savagery, and she would 
sit huddled and numb and comatose in a shower cubicle, 
shivering and insignificant and naked, with hot steaming 
water spraying across her swollen and heavily lacerated 
private parts.

Every day, it was the same - the endless heartache, the
constant abuse of her flesh. Every day, Cecily endured
the brutality afresh: the electrical shocks, the
boilings, the freezings, the knives, the countless
surgical tools, the vintage pear, the thumb screw and
even the strappado.

Every day she sat huddled on the floor of a shower
cubicle, naked, alone and wretched. Every day the pain
would be suffered anew. It would be endured, and
afterwards, slowly, her flesh would heal, the bruises
would fade.

Every day.

The problem was, Cecily's brain wasn't as clever and
every time that she was raped and juiced by some over-
sexed man to give him a thrill; every time the electric
current screamed up her clit and dried out her pink flesh,
she died; and although she washed herself afterwards and
sat weeping on the floor in the shower cubicle, the dirt
never completely washed off.

Bit by bit, her emotions were eroded. Her self confidence
sagged. It was cut from beneath her and eaten away.

However.

Although this constant erosion sapped her spirit, it 
didn't break it.

That job fell to Harriet's husband, Dominic. He was the 
one who struck the fatal blow, for his blows weren't 
aimed at the resilient Cecily, but at Harriet.

Two women. Two carefully separated lives, each with their
own personalities, each with their own identities and 
their own names. They each had their own clothes, their own
characters: everything about them was unique, except that
Dominic blurred the barriers and showed the women to each
other.

It began by him watching Harriet as she showered and
dressed in the morning. He asked her about her bruises
and the strange unexplained marks, and then he casually
reminded her that when she got to work at the barracks,
she would be stripped naked, raped, humiliated, and made
to scream her lungs out.

"Have a good day," he might conclude gaily. "And
don't forget that the customer is always right."

One morning he casually questioned her about her stockings. 
She was taking a long time straightening them. "What's the
point?" he quibbled as she double checked the seams. 
"They'll be on the floor as soon as you get to work. A man 
will tear them off of you. Do you think that it'll matter if
they're not straight? Get real!"

Another day, because she refused to give him head, being 
tired, he drew three rectangular boxes across Harriet's
midriff with red lipstick, leaving a narrow space beneath 
her breasts and another above her mound. In the upper space 
he scrawled the words: 'I suck good cock," and in the 
lower space, just above her slit, he squeezed the words: 
"Sign the left box if you agree, the right box if I need 
more practice; and sign the middle box if you want me to 
get me a good whacking."

Dominic had the power to stop it, and it would have been
easy for him to have stopped it. He could have rung up 
the barracks and told them that Harriet wasn't coming to 
work that day, and if he'd just done it, Harriet would 
have stayed Harriet and Cecily wouldn't have woken up.

He had the power to end the crazy absurdity. He could
have told them that Harriet was resigning, and if he'd
done that, she'd have torn up her contract, at once, 
Cecily would have died. She'd have lived no more.

But Dominic chose not to do those things. Instead, he
chose to tease and torment his wife. He chose to sign the
middle box on her midriff and give her her whackings.
He chose to ask her what it was like being raped, and to
have a man's cock pounding her cunt.

He chose to ask her about everything: about the men who
raped her, what they did, how she felt, and he'd relay
this information to his friends and to Harriet's friends,
and he'd enjoy the power that this brought him.

He told the guys at the pub and the old folks at Church
about Harriet and what she did, although it wasn't
Harriet but Cecily. He told the teacher at school, the
shop assistants and the pretty young mum at the corner
shop. He did it to shock them, to offend them, to
frighten them, and while most of these friends were
suitably shocked and offended and frightened, the red
headed mum who worked at the corner shop listened in awe,
and she dreamed of being a torture girl like Harriet.

Dominic was her friend because Dominic had stumbled
across her at the grocery store and he'd flattered her.
He'd asked her her name and she'd confided that it was
Meg. He'd asked about her children and she'd told him
that she had two, a boy and a girl, and that the father
had deserted her, and that she found it difficult to be a
single parent.

Dominic had seemed to understand her plight. He understood
everything. He came in every evening, and he paid her
those special attentions that a man gives to a woman
who's gagging for his cock, and then, one day, he
mentioned his "girlfriend" and what Harriet did at the
barracks, and he noticed Meg's reaction, how it put fire
in her belly.

So he upped his ante. He was blunt and clinical and he
described in detail the horrors his "girlfriend" endured,
and Meg listened in awe, avidly, and she was in ecstasy.

She didn't understood why Dominic's stories had such a
strong powerful effect on her belly, but she knew that 
she liked the pretty feelings. She counted the hours 
and minutes to his next visit, and as Dominic's accounts 
became increasingly frank and excessive, so did Meg's 
behaviour.

Soon, he'd enter the shop and she'd hastily unbutton her
dress, button after button, until it was unbuttoned all
the way to the waist.

She was breathless. She was wanton. It didn't matter
whether there were customers in the shop, or children.
"It's so hot," she'd stammer and then falter, and Dominic
would lean across the counter. He'd choose a copy of
Playboy or Hustler from the magazine counter, and then
he'd ogle Meg's cleavage and he'd tell her about the
things that his "girlfriend" must do.

Meg would become confused and stressed as Dominic turned
the pages of his magazine and stared at one or other of
the models, and he'd point at the breasts of this one or
the pussy of another, and he'd tell Meg which ones he
fancied and why. He'd order her to describe to him her
own breasts and pussy, and then, if she did a good job,
he'd recount stories of intrigue and espionage, racy
ones about Harriet being tortured by big brooding men in
distant corners of the globe, of being stretched on a
rack or impaled naked in an iron maiden, and Meg would
drool as she'd listen to these tales, and she'd shiver in
silence.

At some point Dominic would slide his palm into her dress
and he'd cup her breasts, and immediately Meg's stomach
would churn and become knots because he'd be describing
to her what a torture girl did at the barracks, and how
the big brooding men would become intimate, and how they
would feel her all over.

Dominic would feel the weight of Meg's breasts, their
texture and firmness, and as he headed rapidly towards
the conclusion of his story, he'd observe the glazing of
her eyes and the shaking of her lips, the hardness of her
nipples, and he would gradually pinch and pull each of
them in turn, extending them to several times their
normal length, stretching Meg's tits, and Meg would sweat
and growl and moan, until the end of the story when
Dominic would lean across the counter, he'd pull her
towards him, and he'd kiss her with urgency and force.

"Who are you?" she'd whimper weepily, and then he'd show 
her a centrefold picture and he'd make her study it 
carefully. "Please sir," she'd swallow. "What do you 
want?"

He'd smile. "I want the truth."

She'd swallow nervously, glancing again at the picture.
"Don't hurt me. Please sir. I beg you."

He'd stroke her cheek, doing so softly. "I'm sorry, Meg.
It's my job to hurt you. You don't want me to neglect
my job..."

Then, he'd turn to a shelf close to the counter and he'd
shuffle through a random assortment of toys and he'd pick
out a child's water pistol, and he'd extract it from a
yellow cellophane wrapping, and with Meg watching, he'd
point it at Meg's open top, touching her sweaty skin with
the barrel of the gun, and he'd move it slowly towards
her breasts.

"You'll tell me the truth, Meg. Sooner or later. You'll
tell me everything I need to know. Whatever it takes...
because you're a spy..."

"My children..." Meg would murmur softly, shutting her
eyes and imagining herself being forced to obey several
brooding men each of whom held a gun to her skin. She
imagined that they were surrounding her and making her
undress and pose like the Playboy model in the picture.

"Fuck your children," Dominic would reply, picking up a
pair of plastic hand cuffs from the same shelf that
he'd found the pistol, and he'd tear them from their
cardboard mounting and he'd open the bracelets and dangle
them for her to look at. "You're coming with me, Meg."

He'd ease the gun beneath the edge of her bra and he'd
push it inside. "Lock up the shop, Meg," he'd whisper
softly, "You're under arrest. You're coming with me for
questioning."

And with that, he'd snap the bracelets around Meg's
wrists and lead her out to his car. Her top would be 
still open and her bra would be showing and her shop 
still unlocked. There were people observing from their 
windows, bored young housewives in smart suits and 
ready-to-go hair, spotty teenagers with baseball caps 
and baggy blue jeans, and haggard old men. There were 
others walking along the pavement, naive girls in 
non existent skirts and a gaggle of children just being 
children, but he ignored them all, and he pushed Meg into 
the car, doing so roughly, dispassionately. "Before the 
night's out," he hissed at her, slamming the door of 
the car. "You're going to understand what happens to a 
woman suspected of being a spy, because, you see, I 
hate spies, and you're a fucking spy, Meg, and so help 
me, I'm going to prove it, and when I do, I'm going to 
drop you into the mincer... You're going to find out all 
about the mincer, Meg. By the time tonight is done, 
you're going to find out what I do with a woman when I 
get her out of her clothes."

Indeed, Meg did find out. Unfortunately, we can't linger 
to watch. We have more pressing matters to attend to.

You see, that evening, Harriet arrived home from the
barracks. It was dark, and Harriet knew immediately 
that something was wrong because Ruth was lying 
unattended in her play pen and there were two other 
unclaimed children sitting as if hypnotised in front 
of the television.

She frowned. Who were they?

Ruth was red faced and hysterical. Her cheeks were wet
and puffy.

"Dominic?" Harriet called out warily, but without
receiving an answer, so she picked Ruth up and comforted
her child, holding her and talking to her soothingly and
making her a bottle of milk.

Only then, once Ruth was pacified and drinking it, did
Harriet feel calm down enough to investigate further.

The two unclaimed children were sitting on the sofa,
spellbound, and Harriet asked them who they were, but she
received no answer. They glanced at her sardonically and
they didn't reply.

Jesus.

What was going on here? Where was Dominic?

Harriet had been praying for a quiet evening and a long
private soak in the bath, for she'd spent the day being
stretched on a rack and then she'd been given an enema of
hot, scalding water by two spotty faced school boys. With 
the cramps in full swing, her tormentors had placed a match 
beneath her anus and they'd held it there, with the top of 
the flame flickering against her skin and circling her 
asshole.

They'd enjoyed her screams and her panic and her
struggles. They'd liked that she'd pumped herself out in
record quick time. They'd laughed and joked and messed
around at her expense, and as a result, now Harriet was
spent. She had nothing more to give. Her emotions were 
frayed and she was physically a wreck.

Where was Dominic? Why wasn't he here?

She didn't want to argue or fight. She wasn't going to
shout, but she needed his help. Who were these strange
children?

Where was Dominic? Where had he gone?

That's when Harriet saw a woman's cotton dress at the
bottom of the stairs, abandoned and inside out. She
paused. A pair of flesh coloured tights lay dishevelled
two steps away from it, and higher up from here was a
bra, pale pink in colour and lying untidily across two
stairs, a strap hanging in a long lazy loop from one
carpet-covered stair to the other.

Harriet felt empty: vacant. She seemed to know...

She picked up the bra and looked at it blankly, noting
its size, 34B, and then she picked up a pair of discarded
women's panties, discarded towards the top of the stairs,
also pale pink in colour. They were twisted and inside
out and she saw that they'd been worn and that there was
a stain of feminine arousal lining the gusset, a
transparent sticky substance that hadn't yet dried.

Harriet smelt it and she discovered that the smell was
strange and unfamiliar and womanly. What? Why? When?

Harriet's mind slowly absorbed these miscellaneous tawdry
facts, and as it did so, the sound of sexual exertion
blew to her from the main bedroom upstairs. It had been
there before, perhaps, but now she understood it. She
stood listening as if spellbound, her face slowly
reddening. Slowly, she climbed the stairs, one painful
tread after another, one foot, one stair, up to the
landing where she stopped, staring in through the open
door to the bedroom.

Inside, a spread-eagled woman was tied to the bed, to
Harriet's bed. She was tied to its corners and stretched
to the point of significant and undoubtable pain. Pillows
had been pushed beneath her buttocks and also beneath her
shoulders lifting her torso from the bed.

She was naked and her body was arched, hoisted in the
middle by the pillows, and she wasn't alone. Dominic was
with her and astride her and he had a toy gun that he was
holding in his hand, a plastic water pistol, the barrel
of which was inside the woman's mouth and Dominic was
squeezing the trigger.

The woman's eyes were frightened and open and staring up
at the ceiling, and she was sucking a strange juice, and 
every time Dominic squeezed the trigger of the water 
pistol, the woman's body arched up further towards him 
and she howled.

That's when Harriet realised that Dominic was fucking
this woman. His cock was like a dagger and he was doing
it hard, aggressively, quite brutally, long sudden stabs
that made the woman grunt with pain, and yet each time
that he squeezed the trigger of his gun, the woman's body
rose to meet him despite her pain, and she impaled
herself on his spear, and she was shafted.

Harriet could see it all: Dominic's erect cock and how it
was slamming the woman's pussy. She could see this
strange woman and how she was turned on by the gun, and
that Dominic was using his considerable weight to bear
down on her and hurt her, and this was what she wanted.
The woman was having to accede to his pace because she
was tied up. Her body was lifted and presented more
tastily by the pillows, and she groaned, because it was
good being tied up, and she sucked helplessly on the 
water pistol. She sucked hard, wickedly hard, and
as she sucked on the toy gun and chewed at the juice, her
body arched and rose from the bed and the pillows, and
she howled, and then Dominic slammed down on her again,
thrusting his cock deep into her belly.

Once again, the woman was shafted and her eyes became
glazed and white.

Harriet stood motionless in the bedroom doorway watching 
with her heart beating wildly, randomly, madly; yet cold, 
like ice, an unwelcome voyeur to a scene worse than 
anything she'd endured at the barracks.

Dominic was fucking the ass off this poor sod. He was
doing it brutally and the woman was sweating from
discomfort and exhaustion, and yet pleading, needing...
wanting...

Oh shit.

Harriet grunted in anguish, and she made a horrible
gurgling noise like a slaughtered pig witnessing its own
death. Oh God. Oh shit. This was like seeing herself in
her own nightmare, at the barracks being raped. It was
like seeing Cecily, except that her mind forbade such a
horror and she turned and ran down the stairs, shutting
out carefully concealed memories and tossing away the
woman's bra and her twisted panties and her stockings.
Harriet ran from the house, leaving her fornicating
husband and his victim and the glimpse of a subconscious
thought. She left a crying distraught baby and two
television addicted children, and she ran through the
open door to her car.

She was shaking, breathless, but despite of it, she
switched on the engine and she drove, not caring where
she was going or how she would get there or when she
would know that she had.

She drove endlessly through the evening and the sunset
and the night, past endless street lights and through
empty soulless suburbs until she realized that she was
close to the river, lost and alone and out of fuel, with
tears in her eyes and a dull aching heart.

It could have been alright.

If she'd been Cecily, it would have been okay. Cecily
would have managed, Cecily would have been strong, Cecily
would have risen to the challenge, but Harriet was
Harriet, and Harriet and Cecily were different
characters, and Harriet was done for.

She stopped and switched off the engine, and, in the
middle of the road, without parking or caring, she left
the keys dangling in the ignition and she ran to the river 
because she had nowhere else to run to, and she needed to 
run. The driver's door was ajar but she ran down a back 
street alley littered with old discarded needles, used 
condoms and half empty Coke tins.

She was heading for the river.

She couldn't think. She couldn't plan. She was shaking.
She was crying, and she didn't even consciously know that 
she was heading for the river.

She needed the river, and as soon as she saw it in front of
her - invisible, powerful - it was a relief. She had to get 
to it.

She passed a disused warehouse and its rusting derricks
and abandoned machinery. She passed the wreck of a burnt
out car that lay rusting in a mountain of dirty rubber,
and she passed a rotting pile of builder's debris that
towered and threatened to topple.

Harriet saw these things from the edge of her peripheral
vision but she ran on regardless, on and on, stumbling
and sobbing and running in the darkness towards the
river.

Now that she'd seen it she knew that she needed the
river. It was her Governor, her lover.

Oh God.

There were no lights to see by and no activity to watch
for and no people to see her running, nothing but
loneliness and neglect and black dirty shadows, looming
forever from the backdrop.

She needed the river to love and discipline her for the
perverted things that she'd done at the barracks. She 
needed it to punish her, to clean her and ease her guilt.

She passed a graffiti-clad factory and a third-world
processing plant, dark and black, and then finally she
saw it and she came to it: the river, dark and swirling
and fatally attractive.

It was filthy, and so was she. It was friendless, and so
was she. It was her lover, her Governor.

She could see every one of her rapes in her mind, and she 
could feel every one of the cocks bouncing around in her 
cunt. Her ass was stretched and her pussy lips were swollen 
and she could feel the dirt inside, staining her rectum,
dribbling from the bruised swollen lips of her pussy. Her 
breasts were bruised and so was her neck, but in her mind she 
kept replaying the image of Dominic with his water pistol, 
two naked bodies on one bed, one of them the ecstatic young
mother from the corner shop, the other her husband.

Harriet looked at the young woman's spread-eagled legs
and the red hair. It was so beautiful, the river: such a
pretty thing, so cute, so nice.

Harriet absorbed its magic and she walked purposely towards 
it. She was dressed smartly, elegantly. She was wearing a
femininely shaped champagne jacket with a rich satin
blouse and a tightly cut black pencil skirt, slit at the
back to make her look sexy. She was wearing black
stockings, expensive shoes, and more jewellery than
seemed tasteful.

Harriet liked to wear jewellery because jewellery was a
comfort. Harriet liked to wear expensive clothes because
she could afford it, although - the detail - the memory 
of who paid for those clothes - and why - was a mystery.

She had on her wedding ring, of course, and a pair of
gold earrings, a bracelet and a pearl necklace to cover
the bruising caused by a noose, two days before.

It seemed to her right and good to have good clean 
clothes and Harriet was content and at peace.

This was it.

The river looked at her lasciviously, at her legs and her
tits, at the slit at the back of her skirt and it
told her to undress.

"Take off your clothes," the river cried out, and it
grabbed her legs and tripped her, ripping at her blouse
and her skirt, ruffling her up, even as she tried to
jump, but she couldn't, because her jacket was caught and
there was something holding it, something unforgiving,
something dark, and she tried to get free herself and get
away and jump and become one with the water, but she 
couldn't.

She turned frantically to discover what it was that was
holding her and preventing her from falling to her fate, 
and to her dismay she saw an ugly, dirty and repulsive 
old tramp.

Where had he sprung from? Jesus. He was holding her
jacket, and he was looking lustfully at her body and
there was only one thing on his mind.

Sex. He was after sex. He wanted sex. He needed sex.

"Take off your clothes," he lisped. "If you're going to
jump in the river, pretty lady, then I don't care because 
that's your business, but I get the pickings of everything 
that goes in the river - it's mine - so since you're going to
jump in the river, I'll take what's mine now on
account, thank you very much..."

**

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