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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 15) MF caution
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Date: Wed, 12 Sep 2007 23:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=2015.asc?=" 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 Fifteen : "The Filthy Tramp"




Harriet froze. She was trapped. She was squashed,
breathless, bemused, unable to move. Fuck. There was a sooty
black building behind her and below, somewhere, was the
river, full of endless foam and icy noise, gurgling and
rumbling, and beckoning that she jump.

And here, in her face, was a tramp, and she was sandwiched
between him and the building. He was holding her jacket and
his hot burning eyes was traversing her clothes.

First, he looked at her chest. He stared at her jacket and
her strings of white pearls. He stared at the swell of her
cleavage and the globes that sat on either side of it. He
stared at her crudely, hard, like he'd stumbled across her
naked and her breasts were exposed. He stared at her like he 
could see the fossilised marks that surrounded her nipples 
and he knew what they meant.

He grinned, impishly and boyishly. His attention was
unfriendly and Harriet couldn't move. She was confused. 
She'd been thinking about the river and about the fog of
unwanted memories that had been floating in towards her and 
how she needed to escape them. She'd been thinking about 
Dominic and the red headed mum from the corner shop and the 
water pistol in her mouth. She'd been thinking about how 
that woman had been tied up and naked on Harriet's bed, and 
how Dominic had been fucking her.

She'd been thinking that perhaps the river and the fog and
the water pistol were all somehow connected although she
didn't know how.

And then, suddenly, the tramp had appeared and his interest
was only in Harriet, in hoisting her from the ground. His
hands had pinned her to the wall so that her feet dangled
uselessly above the abyss, and Harriet shuddered from the
pain and also from an involuntary disgust, for this tramp's
garments were flea ridden and soiled, and his hair was
crawling with lice. Not only that, but he stank of alcohol
and of something infinitely more revolting. His teeth were
rotten, yellow and black, and they were grinning at her like
the hideous last of death, beckoning from the other side of
the grave.

His lips pursed and then hurtled towards her mouth and she
knew that he wanted to kiss her, and she recoiled from that
prospect in horror.

"Leave me," she gasped, salty tears springing from nowhere
and mingling and smudging her mascara. It was an insult that
this tramp should interrupt her and want to touch her when
she couldn't think, look or feel; when her heart was bitter
and confused. She was emotional and fragile, but even so,
she was instinctively aware that her feet were now kicking
at the empty air and that there was a roaring emptiness
below.

It was the river and it was calling to her - asking her to
throw herself from this ugly man's grasp, and she was
yearning to obey, to do as it bid her because he was
hideous, and yet she couldn't, for she was trapped beneath
this ugly tramp's weight by her own feminine fear.

"I fish what I want from the river," he spat at her, and 
his lips came closer, dirty and musty; calloused and 
blistered. "I get the pickings of the things that goes in 
the river. It belongs to me. Even you, pretty lady. You 
belongs to I fished you up on my hook, and so now I get to 
take what I want."

Jesus!

He was determined to kiss her. His tongue was after
penetrating her mouth. His lips were coming closer, even as
his cock was after penetrating her pussy, but then, he
stopped, and he frowned. He stared inquisitively into her
eyes, and a benign temerity registered her despair and her
feeble exhaustion. He saw her loneliness and he listened and
he waited, holding his mouth just inches from hers.

Harriet's heart fluttered. What was he doing? Why was he
waiting? And then she felt the masculine interest gnawing at
his loins and she realised that her very fragility was
turning him on.

She's misread his expression.

His cock was pressing against her belly and his hot breath
was blowing at her face.

Oh God.

It was inevitable, she supposed. He was turned on by her
frailty and her fear, and it was giving him a thrill, making
him more determined.

"Rich kid, are you?" he grunted, breaking the silence, his
hands gripping her arms, and he was looking at her clothes,
but not yet letting her remove them.

She didn't answer. She was confused by the deafening roar
that was distracting her - chortling and teasing, beckoning
and directing that she jump. It was the weight of her
thoughts that she heard, the spasm of painful memories and
the cry of a naked woman pinned to a bed, a woman with a
plastic gun in her mouth and a hard cock in her cunt. It was
stabbing her and making her recoil, this memory. It was
frightening because as she looked at the unfamiliar woman,
Harriet recognised her own face. She was looking in a mirror 
and seeing someone else. The gun was in mouth of the woman in 
the reflection, and the tramp was on top of her, his cock 
spearing her to the bed; and this last image made the greatest 
din of all.

"What have you got besides your clothes?" the tramp growled,
holding Harriet above the crevasse and letting her dangle by
his grip. He was toying with her. His head was rolling
sideways, and then he looked again at her breasts, and his
gnarled grey lips retreated from his teeth. He felt such
massive, explosive lust. "What have you got, pretty lady?
Jewellery? Money? What are you going to leave me once you're
drowned?"

"I have no money," Harriet wailed miserably, for the tramp's
tongue was kissing her face - licking her tears. "Leave me,
please. I have nothing, nothing but credit cards."

"No money, eh?" the tramp whispered, and he looked
lasciviously down her blouse. His eyes traversed her
breasts, touching and caressing their shape. He observed the
white pearls that encircled her neck and that dangled
loosely against her cleavage, and he licked his lips. "Course
you have money," he smiled. "You're a smart lady and well
heeled. The question is: where have you hidden it? In your
bra, perhaps? Or is it in your silk panties? What goes into
the river is mine, you know. All of it. The pearls. The
purse. The bra. The panties. Everything inside your panties
too, including your pussy and your ass. It's mine. Shall I 
peel off your silks and shall we take a better look at you? 
Eh, pretty lady? Or would you prefer do it yourself?"

Harriet wailed, for it was already too much. "Oh God! 
There's no money! I swear it! I have credit cards and you 
can take them! And my necklace, anything you want. But don't 
touch me! Please don't touch me! I beg you. I can't stand 
this any more!"

It was just unbearable that this tramp was gazing at her
tits and she could feel his rampant excitement, and now, his
hands were wrapping her ass and cupping her thighs and there
was nothing she could do to stop him. God. She was pinned to
the bricks and caught, at the mercy of this monster and
unable to break free.

"You're mine!" he lisped, threatening to kiss her.

Shit!

She couldn't endure another rape. Not again, not today - no
more - and she tried to jump. She tried to end her life and
fling herself into the water with every fibre of her being,
to escape this terrible vile creature with his strong
reassuring arms, but he held on to her too tightly.

His clasp became stronger and his fingers slid easily
between her ass cheeks, parting one cheek from the other
and stretching them apart, working his fingers up to her
asshole.

Oh shit. Oh fuck! No! Please! What could she do?

Her shoes clung uselessly to her feet - black stilettos with
silver filigree buckles, leather, with fine patent straps.

"What would I do with a credit card?" the man whispered in
his slow melancholy voice; and he was examining and
discovering the hollows of her face. He was feeling her
womanly texture and measuring her past. His eyes were
consuming her body and becoming like eddying whirlpools -
and yet he was searching her out, shy and intelligent, but
he was determined to see more. He could see her desolate
nakedness through her civilian disguise, and soon, he would
remove it.

"I've no use for plastic," he murmured, his fingers
wandering across her rich satin blouse, cradling her chest
and touching her black teats. Oh shit! Oh Christ! Please no!
Don't touch me there! Not there! Please! "Cash on the other
hand - that I have a use for, or kind."

His fingers tightened on her Frankenstein nipples and he
gripped them, and as he did so, Harriet closed her eyes and
she baled from the scene, and a moment later, Cecily woke up
to take her place. Cecily awoke and saw the old tramp in front
of her and she knew instinctively from his expression that he 
was going to rape her even as her stilettos dangled above the 
edge of oblivion, swinging precariously, slipping and cloying 
to her feet. She curled her toes and hoped this would keep her
shoes from falling, but it didn't. They were sliding down
her arches into the abyss.

"Oh God!"

She was falling towards the river, and there was no way to
escape it. She was swirling about in a dream, confused and
with all her thoughts jumbled, because Harriet had
metamorphosed into Cecily and now her one world had
disappeared and another was remembered.

In this new world there were a thousand random scenes, all
of them known and painful to Cecily but concealed and 
hidden from Harriet.

For instance, in one of them, nails were penetrating
Cecily's nipples and electrical current was running through
the nails. She was spread-eagled and tied up, and Albert sat
in his comfortable chair with his creased black trousers,
and with his black polished shoes, and he sipped at his
expensive red wine and he looked at her pain and her misery
and her body.

Cecily growled as she remembered this. Her chest constricted.
She was lying on an iron mattress having been dipped in tar 
and feathered with goose feathers. She was naked, of course, 
and Albert was dressed in his uniform, with creased black 
trousers and polished black shoes. There was a glass of red 
wine in his hand and he was relaxing. This was to be a pleasant 
evening spent enjoying Cecily's misery - pleasant for him, not 
for Cecily.

But even as she twisted and sobbed on the bed, Cecily
metamorphosed back into Harriet. Another scene. Another
time.

What had happened?

Albert had kidnapped Ruth. Harriet remembered this clearly
because Ruth was her child and since Cecily was childless 
she hadn't been able to hedge her anguish. 

So what to do? She'd been frightened. She hadn't known where 
to turn and so in the end, she'd panicked and run.

It had been a stupid decision, leaving Ruth, but Harriet
hadn't anticipated that Albert would send his dogs to track
her down. They'd found her and grabbed her and they'd thrown 
her into their van, and inside...

What had happened in the van was a mystery, because Cecily
had been in the van: and not Harriet.

Only Cecily knew how vicious they'd been, tearing her to
bits, almost like wolves.

Harriet remembered her piece of the puzzle. Dear God. She 
remembered one or two other things too, just the hazy
outline. She remembered that she had nothing to give.
She was spent. She was drained, and beneath her, the river
chortled and it called to her seductively.

It whispered her name and it swirled hypnotically around her
clothes, scurrying in sweet, sinuous circles that rose above
her head and plummeted beneath her feet. "Close your eyes,
my dear one!" it chorused with its many seductive voices,
wrapping Harriet's body in its warm protective embrace.
"Relax, my honey! Let me fold you in my lover's kiss! Kiss
me, my sweet one, and let us entwine and merge into one!"

But Harriet couldn't relax because the tramp was clutching
her body in his hard, icy grip and he was preventing her
from moving. He was controlling her. He dominated her mind,
and his soft warm eyes wouldn't let her go.

"Pretty lady like you," he rasped, pressing his dirty heavy
body against hers and rubbing it suggestively against her
clean new clothes. His hands had gone from her breasts and
they were now back on her ass, feeling her up, squeezing her
cheeks. His fingers slid deliciously into the crack, just as
they'd done before, but this time searching
unapologetically for her hole, circling around, and he
smiled, for he had her. He owned her, and his finger was
about to go in. "Out here by the river in all your posh
clothes - and me nothing but vermin. It doesn't seem right,
does it, my lady? Such people as us - strangers they say,
and yet - do you know how long it's been since I had a
woman?"

Harriet was about to vomit because the stench of this man's
breath was repulsive, and the touch of his hands an insult,
and yet it was unsettling her, and she didn't know why.

It made her remember the time when Albert had sent his dogs
and she'd stood outside the van with Cecily inside. They'd
gone at Cecily inside the van, ripping her clothes and
biting her flesh, tearing at her skin with their nails, long
deep lacerations that had scoured her breasts, her torso,
her back and her thighs. They'd made her a bloody state and
then they'd raped her front and back while beating her with
sticks.

All the way through Cecily had kept praying to die, to be
oblivious, to be gone; but her prayers hadn't been answered,
and the torture had lasted for hours.

At the end of it Harriet had followed Cecily at a discreet
distance. She'd been curious, like jelly, and so she'd watched 
as Cecily had been carried to Albert, naked, bruised, battered, 
bleeding and covered in dirt. Even from that distance, Harriet 
had smelt the aroma of cum on Cecily's body. It had been in 
Cecily's hair and mixed with her blood, and dripping from all 
three of her holes.

Harriet had watched aghast as Albert had conducted a summary 
court martial and he'd followed it by sentence. She'd heard him
say that Cecily was to be humiliated and punished, Islamic
style, he'd said. Harriet had drawn breath in surprise and
Albert had continued unabated. Both of Cecily's nipples were
to be amputated with garden seceteurs, he'd said.

With that straightforward statement Albert had turned Cecily
to mush: but at least, Harriet had been watching from a 
distance. 

Harriet was safe.

Harriet had watched as Cecily had wept for her nipples. She'd 
been on her knees grieving, but Albert had taken no notice. 
He'd told her to go to the parade ground and undress, 
because if she didn't, the whole of her breasts would be 
forfeit.

Soldiers had gathered round, dozens of them. They'd stood
silent and observant, but privately excited, and they'd
watched Cecily walk to the centre of the parade ground and
undress.

Harriet had been amongst them. She'd followed the crowd and 
she'd witnessed Cecily removing her uniform first, and then 
her stockings and finally her underwear. Harriet had stifled 
her sympathy because Cecily was covered in bruises and 
swollen with scratch marks and cuts, but no one else had shown 
compassion and Harriet had felt obliged to follow their lead.

She'd been a voyeur watching silently, but excitedly.
She'd watched Cecily standing, crying, and then
stifling an involuntary sob. She'd watched Cecily stepping
toward a wooden chopping board set atop a table-like
structure - screwed to it. And next to this chopping board
was a kitchen knife.

Cecily had lain one of her breasts on the board as Albert
had directed and she kept perfectly still.

Harriet had waited. Harriet had watched. So had Cecily.

Albert had said that Cecily must keep still. Cecily wasn't to
move. And then he'd picked up the knife.

Oh shit. It was too much!

Harriet howled to the Gods because she needed this tramp.
She needed his cock. The tip of his finger rested on the
edge of her asshole and it pressed against the fabric of her
dress and she couldn't breathe because there wasn't enough
air for her lungs. They seemed paralysed and she was aware
of a finger somehow inside her, penetrating her clothes and
entering her ass.

"It's ten years since I fucked a woman," the tramp declared
roughly, maintaining the pressure on Harriet's anus while
staring intently into her frightened eyes - and round and
round went his finger, deeper and deeper inside. "What do
you say to that, my lady?"

Harriet said nothing, because she was melting,
remembering, becoming one with his dirt. His finger was
invasive, circling and making her feel thoughts that
horrified and repelled her. "That's a long time," she
shuddered eventually, wishing she could stop him, because 
the stink was nauseous and so was the groping of her buttocks, 
and he wasn't gentle. He was ripping her cheeks and every 
time that he did it, his finger slid more deeply into her 
asshole, through her clothes, and she felt a sinking griping
sensation in her stomach.

It made her clutch at the grey sooty wall. It made her
grovel. She was cheek to cheek with the bricks and she 
scratched the wall and broke several of her fingernails. 

Oh shit. 

She was desperate for something to hold on to and she was 
shaking. She had nothing to grasp but the soot and the dirt 
and she was slipping. Her hands were sliding down the 
crumbling bricks, and it was only the weight of this man's 
odorous body that stopped her from tumbling into the eddying
nothingness seething below.

And suddenly Harriet felt herself falling, drowning,
sinking, and she panicked. Her arms flew to the tramp's neck
and she embraced him because she needed his support, and out
of nowhere, she was clinging to his body as to a lover, and
holding him tight, and she could feel his big masculine cock
against her pussy, hard and aching and yearning to screw
her.

"Fuck me!" she growled, rubbing his cock against her belly.
"Oh God, fuck me!"

She didn't mean to say it but she'd said it and it was 
moving, his cock, sliding against her slit, over her dress, 
getting harder and talking persuasively with the gift of the
blarney.

Oh shit!

Her knees were weakening. Her arms were locked around his
neck and her legs were wrapped around his waist, opening up
wide and sucking his cock into the depths of her cunt, and
yet her clothes were a barrier to his entry, and he paused,
distracted, and he stared even more deeply into her eyes. Then
his hands came between them and he touched the front of her
blouse, strumming the buttons like the weeping strings of an
acoustic guitar.

Oh shit.

Neither of them spoke, but Harriet knew what was going to
happen. Their faces were touching and at any moment he would
kiss her, and unseen by either of them, his erection was
touching and whispering to her pussy, urging it to open.

Oh God! Her hips moved.

Harriet wished she could scream. This man was repulsive. His
body was pressed against hers and she could feel his
terrible arousal digging into her groin, the hardness and
weight of a man who'd been ten endless years without the
smell of a woman.

His stick was thick and enormous and she wanted to scream.
With one mind she wanted to give this erection to Cecily to
cope with, to struggle with, and with another mind she wanted 
it herself.

Where was Cecily? Where had she gone? Oh God!

In desperation, Harriet began to scream, to do so in panic,
in fear - for the tramp's cock was too big for her hole - 
except that there was no sound or air in her lungs and she 
clung to the tramp tightly, urgently, and there wasn't a 
cigarette paper's thickness between them. She could feel the 
outline of his cock, the foreskin and the tiny hole at the top, 
the hard masculine balls at the bottom. She could feel it
through her dress and through her panties. She could feel
the crinkly shape of his testicles and the constant
throbbing of his purple aching veins.

"Fuck me!" she cried, over and over, and her throat
tightened because of the humiliation of having to repeat
herself. "Fuck me! Fuck me! Oh God. Fuck me!"

She couldn't swallow. Her voice was nonexistent and silent,
caught between her lungs and her mouth. This man. He was so
close. Only the pressure of his body against hers, swaying
and insistent and holding her tightly kept her from falling
into the river!

Only that. Her life was in his hands. She was his - really,
totally, honestly his. Cecily had fled! Where had she gone?

"Fuck me!" Harriet's lips begged.

She was beholden to this vagabond, this unedifying pile of
fetid anonymity. What fell into the river was his, he'd
said, so her clothes were his. Her money, her jewellery, her
credit cards and her makeup were his. Her breasts were his
and so were her pussy and her ass. Her life was his. It
belonged to him to do with as he wanted: to love, to hurt
and to fuck. She belonged to this man as a slave belongs to
a master. She'd tried to kill herself but he'd stopped her.
He'd bought her, and now he could take ownership of her body
and do with it as he willed.

"Please," she wept, shaking from fear, from a sense of
lonely abandonment and from three years of desolation and
confusion, and also from a growing feminine need. It was his
closeness, his smell, his cock against her belly. She
belonged to this man and she wanted to have what Cecily had
concealed from her for so long. "I beg you! Please. Fuck me!
I mean, fuck me if you're going to; else drop me - oh God -
but please do one or the other! I'm prepared for either, but
don't make me wait!"

But he did make her wait. He made her beg and she hated him
for that, but more worryingly, she hated the weakness of
needing his cock.

She kept saying it, again and again. "Fuck me! Please fuck
me! Oh God. I need you to fuck me. I need you inside and to
fuck me!"

Her tool was pressing against her slit and his finger was
teasing her asshole. She hated that her body yearned for
this monster, that it cried out and that it needed this vile
piece of dung.

Her lips parted: urgently inviting him to kiss her, and he
did.

He had empathy and warmth, and yes, he had an erection and
that was strumming her clit and his finger was invading her
asshole. She hated his craggy, crooked nose and his heavily
furrowed brow, the tangled whiskers and the dark solemn
eyes. She hated his soul.

Oh shit. She had such treacherous thoughts, and his mouth
merged into hers and his tongue was warm, rough and yet
demanding. It found her and it asked all the wrong
questions, and his beard scratched at her skin.

She hated him. She hated that his cock was see sawing
against her pussy, soothing it and reminding it of what it
was to be needed by a man.

Oh shit. What was he going to do?

This man with his filthy woollen hat and black,
disintegrating scarf that hung loose about his neck: he was
making her want to fuck him. He was quiet, lost and small
beneath a stained, moth eaten stole that stank atrociously
of the river and the sewer, and yet he was forcing her to do
it. He was raping her as surely as Albert had ever raped
Cecily, and she hated him, even as the tramp's fingers slid
down her shoulder and returned to her blouse, fondling her
neck. His words were soft and hypnotic, sweet and
empathetic. He told her that she was pretty and that she
mustn't be sad. He told her to relax and he reminded her
that she mattered.

And then he told her that he was going to fuck her. No
apologies or smart lines, just the bald facts. He told her
that he owned the refuse that ended up in the river and that
she was part of that refuse and so he was going to fuck her 
and impale her.

God.

She hated his hands; the unexpected power that he maintained
over her body. And yet, she was touched, emotionally
embroiled.

Perhaps it was the tenderness of his eyes or the warmth in
his fingers - or his soft reassuring voice. It was hard to
tell which, and yet she knew, she wanted, she needed to be
fucked one last glorious time before throwing her satiated
body into the mire.

"Oh please!" she implored the river as it surged towards her
again. "Consume me if you must! But wait. Don't do it yet.
Wait until after he's fucked me!"

And then, as she made this hard bargain, he fondled her
hair, sniffing it and rolling it tenderly through his
fingers. "Prison's warm," he muttered softly. "Prison has
clothes and hot food, unlike here or down there. Pretty
ladies deserve more than to be meat for the fish. Pretty
ladies deserve to be sexed by a man."

And as he spoke to her, his fingers twitched and she
imagined that this was the moment and he was going to let
her fall. She expected it, and she closed her eyes and
waited for the blast to sweep over her and wash her body to
its depths.

But it didn't. It couldn't, for the tramp was holding her
tightly: guarding her, protecting her, his one manly arm
somehow caressing her while his hand unfastened her blouse.

She cried. She couldn't stop herself, because she was
emotional and it was horrible to know that she was still a
lowly paid torture girl and that this man would do with her
as he willed. She wept inwardly for this wasn't how it was
meant to be. The daily violations were meant to be over, the
wandering hands and the lusty masculine lips, and yet, as
this horrible tramp caressed her twin round globes and
unfastened the next button on her blouse, her arms didn't
move. She didn't fight him and she didn't protest.

She couldn't, for her arms were entwined around this
miserable tramp's neck and she was holding him tightly,
knowing that he owned her.

"Oh God, please! No!" she pleaded, kicking with her legs,
lashing at the darkness and the night air and the countless
jubilant faces that stood gawking from the edges of the
parade ground. She was to be punished, because Albert had
said so, and she'd seen the faces, lots of them, men and
women alike, waiting expectantly for her nipples to be cut
off. Her breast had rested on the wooden chopping board and
then there had been a sudden flash of cameras and the murmur
of excitement, ready to capture her punishment.

Harriet had seen their purple senseless faces and their hard
vacant expressions, their rapid breathing and their thick
purple cocks.

She'd seen the men frenetically jerking upon their cocks,
and the women with their skirts raised and their knickers
down, frigging furiously and rubbing their gaping pink
slits. God! Cecily would have been comfortable with this,
but Harriet was Harriet and she hadn't been prepared for so
many coarse, uncivilized female soldiers!

She'd seen them pressing and getting closer, their bloodshot
eyes and their large bulbous noses, and she'd seen their
slits.

And then Harriet had heard a mighty roar and she'd seen
Cecily's nipples on the cutting board, and she'd seen
Cecily's breasts jerking about, each of them minus a nipple.

Except that they weren't Cecily's breasts at all that she'd 
seen. As Harriet looked more closely at them she realised 
that they were her breasts: her nipples.

"The young lady is excited," the tramp breathed jubilantly,
sliding his hand to the next button of her blouse and
unfastening it. Harriet fought to understand the pattern and
project it forwards. She fought with her feet in the only
way that she could think of, and as a result she lost her
stilettos. They flew off and vanished into the torrent
without a mark or a splash.

The tramp grinned at this, and he laid his head on her
shoulder, slipping his fingers inside her blouse and her
cleavage, and he rubbed her bra so as to tease and torment
her. "I believe the young lady is losing her temper," he
smirked broadly, squeezing her breasts. "I shall enjoy it if
she does, because if the lady loses her temper, then the
lady will be punished!"

Harriet kicked at him again. She didn't understand. She was
confused. Where had Cecily disappeared to?

"The pretty lady will be beaten!"

And again. Harriet's temper was flowing and she mewled and
kicked, except that her foot jarred against the wall and it
came to a stall. Her toes shrieked and her tears welled in
her eyes. "You bastard!" she sobbed. "Let go of me! Get off
of me!"

What a fool she'd been to think that this tramp was
sympathetic! Waves of misery shot through her leg and they
tensed in her chest. Her foot was throbbing, and yet he
continued to unbutton her blouse: slowly, deliberately,
button after button.

Oh God!

"That was a stupid thing to try," the tramp muttered,
licking his lips and liking what he saw. Her bra was a good
one, lace, with a delicate filigree pattern. He could see it
more clearly now that her blouse was largely unbuttoned and
he stared at her hard. "Kicking is not tolerated," he said.
"The pretty rich lady will be beaten on her bare ass!"

"No!"

He unfastened the final buttons of her blouse and then he
opened it to get a better look at her bra and her chest, and
she knew that he could see the blackness of her nipples and
their hat-like shape through the transparent motif of her
bra.

They weren't hers, of course. After her own nipples had been
amputated by Albert she'd bought a pair for two thousand
dollars from a Somalian butcher living in Bradford. He'd cut
them from his daughter's breasts, he'd said, although
whether this was true or opaque was anyone's guess. The deal
had been struck and he'd gone home, and thirty minutes later
he'd returned with the contraband items safely sealed in a
brown paper bag.

The daughter's name had supposedly been Zanita, and
apparently she'd been nineteen at the time, and what she
thought of her father and whether she'd been a willing or an
unwilling participant - or a participant at all - neither
Harriet nor Cecily found out.

Harriet had hurried home with her paper bag and she'd locked 
herself in her room and she'd sewn these new teats onto her 
breasts with a sewing needle and black cotton, and that's the 
reason that she had Frankenstein breasts, the real reason, the 
honest reason, the reason she never spoke about with anyone.

The tramp looked at them. He looked at Harriet's tits, at
her nipples - or rather, at Zanita's nipples - and Harriet
knew that she was in trouble. He was looking at her teats
like he knew where they'd come from, and his mood suddenly
changed, and somehow, his hand became entangled in hers and
he wrenched her wrist up behind her back, up between her
body and the wall. She shuddered as her wrist was forced
backwards, as her arm and shoulder screamed in anguish and
became arched beyond reason.

"Stop it!" she cried as he held her dangling between death
and life, only to be kept from the Grim Reaper by the power
of his fingers.

He was pulling her blouse out of her skirt.

"Oh my God!"

"I don't think you understand," he whispered sombrely,
kissing her shoulder and fingering her black teats. "It
wasn't a question, my lady. I was telling you for your own
sake. You are going to be whipped on your bare ass."

"Please! Stop... I shouldn't have kicked you. It was bad of
me, but please. Let go of me."

"After you've been whipped, you're going to be fucked until
you're sore and swollen."

"My arm... let go of me... Please! I'll do whatever you
say..."

What else could Harriet offer him? He was going to take her
clothes, her jewellery, her credit cards, and her body. What
else could she give? Maybe Cecily would have known what to give 
him... Maybe Cecily had worked it out...

Another yank and he would dislocate her shoulder. He would 
drop her for sure.

"Fuck me!" she begged him again. "Do what you like, only
please fuck me!"

And then suddenly, without warning, he carried her from the
precipice and danger. One moment the watery abyss hung
beneath her feet, beseeching her to jump, and then the next
he'd swung her around and he'd lowered her onto the narrow
gravel path.

She fell to her haunches, testing her arms and feeling her
legs, overwhelmed by a sweaty and overwhelming paralysis.

She gulped in large breaths, fighting her panic because this
wasn't the end. It couldn't be.

The air smelled of urine and prostitutes: and so did the
gravel, which was dark and slimy and oozing with mud.

"I'm not scared," Harriet mumbled nervously, trying to
convince herself of this fact. So often she'd retreated into
Cecily's mind, but Cecily had fled. Cecily was gone, and
Harriet was petrified because she was alone and vulnerable.

The walls to the side of her were grey and covered in
graffiti, and the gravel was sharp and dirty and rough on
her knees.

"Stand up," the old tramp ordered, moving steadily around
her and blocking her way. "I haven't all day! Stand up now,
or I'll hurt you."

"I'm sorry," Harriet sobbed, grabbing his legs and trying to
stand up but she fell flat on the gravel. For a second time
she attempted to get up, but she collapsed to her knees.

"Take off your top," he demanded, pointing at her blouse.
"Stand up first, and then let's see what you've got."

Harriet let out a whimper but then she did as he asked.
Cecily had done it many times, but this was Harriet's first
time and she felt suddenly shy.

Oh God. Oh Christ.

She began with the blouse, and then she unfastened the button 
of her skirt because that was where the tramp's finger was 
now pointing and what he expected her to do.

The skirt slid down her legs and it lay motionless upon her
feet. "Please don't hurt me," Harriet cried, and underneath
the skirt were her stockings, wet, dirty and frayed at the
feet. She was also wearing suspenders, a black thong and a
sheer lace bra. She tried to cover herself with her hands.
"If you're going to fuck me: I'll give you a good fuck. So
fuck me. Fuck me. But please don't hurt me. Please. I don't
want to be hurt."

She unclipped her stockings and rolled them down her legs,
slowly wiping the mud from her sore, lacerated feet.

An old addict sat watching her from a nearby wall, and in
his confused state he saw two lovers on a tryst. There was a
dishevelled man with a scraggy unbarbered beard, and a
melancholy woman, who, on closer inspection, appeared to be
crying.

"I tried to kill myself once," the old tramp mused, glancing
at the river but unable to see it. There was a black, hollow
space where he expected it to be, with a footpath to one
side of it, and a grey brooding horizon on the other.
"Couldn't even get that right," he muttered, biting his lip. 
"Couldn't even kill myself."

Harriet unclipped her suspenders, dropping them to the
gravel and she let them lie with her skirt and her
stockings.

She didn't feel sorry for the tramp, because he was, after
all, just a tramp, but he was making her wet, and her
breasts were aching and swollen, and so she reached behind
her back and unfastened her bra. She paused momentarily, and
then she let the cups slide from her breasts and she stood
with the tramp gazing at them in leisurely anticipation.

She felt dirty and in need, and her breasts were heavy and
wanting to be touched. "You're very pretty," the tramp
lamented softly, staring at her tits, and then he smiled.
"And I see that you don't want to die."

Harriet blushed at that, and she swallowed hard. Where would
he fuck her? Where would he do it? Would he take her here on
the gravel by the river? Or somewhere else?

In her mind she could see herself lying on a dirty blanket,
naked, with the tramp kneeling above her, his cock impatient
from ten years of need and pointing at her groin.

"Open your legs," he'd demand, and for some unaccountable
reason, despite her loathing, she'd do it, she'd need it.

"Wider!"

She'd hate that word because it brought back too many
memories, but again, she'd do it. "That's nice," he'd
respond, wiping his knob against the inside of her thighs,
and that would send a shiver down poor Harriet's spine.
"Wider still!" he'd order. "As wide as it goes. I want to
see to the back of your pussy, right to the top!"

She couldn't believe what he was asking, but she'd show him
nevertheless. She'd show him her lot. She'd show him her
wetness, the aching nasty kind of wetness. She'd show him
from one end of her tunnel to the other.

He'd show him everything. The lot.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't just in her mind that she was 
thinking these things. It was real.

"What about your panties?" he asked, interrupting her
thoughts, throwing a quick knowing nod towards the final 
garment.

"Please!" she whispered hoarsely, her fingers already
tugging at the waist band. "Don't make me do it! 
Don't humiliate me like this!"

He watched her. He waited. Her words meant nothing.

"Take them off!" he ordered. "Your jewellery too. I want
your clothes in a pile and your possessions in another.
I'll sell them for whatever I can get, and what's left 
I'll take up to Lode's Wold."

"What's left?"

The words came as a shock, and Harriet's heart bled. 
"What do you mean? What's left?" She watched him 
helplessly, because the tramp had now produced a 
syringe and he was filling it with a pale, sticky liquid, 
and he was preparing to inject it into her arm.

"Please don't!" Harriet wailed, crumpling her knees and her
legs into a tight ball. Where was Cecily? Where had she gone?  
Why had she deserted her? "Please, leave me alone!"

The old tramp smiled. "You're very sexy, pretty lady,
and if you don't mind, I'm going to fuck your pretty pussy
before I take you up to Lode's Wold. They pay good money for
female flesh up there. Excellent money, and I'm going to
sell you for ready cash."

The tramp sat down on the gravel and he looked at her. 
Behind him was a crate, and behind that, a pile
of wooden pallets that hid a threadbare, god forbidden
blanket.

It lay dishevelled upon the ground.

Harriet knew what it signified and she kicked and screamed, 
but it was the scream of a broken woman, a woman whose lives 
have been brought to a common reckoning and who is 
unprepared for that consequence.

The needle sank into her arm and she screamed a final, 
wretched time.

Oh Jesus.

The tramp tossed away the syringe and he opened her legs,
positioning himself between them.

He settled to his rhythm, unwilling to hurry, for Harriet
was his booty. 

Harriet closed her eyes.

She seemed unaware that there was a first time, a second
time, and even a third time.

She seemed unaware that soon she would be sold back to the
barracks for any price the tramp could get for her.

She seemed unaware that this would portend further
punishment from Albert.

Last time her punishment had been the removal of her
nipples.

This time...

Oh God.

She seemed unaware, except, in truth, it was simply that 
Cecily was back.

**

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