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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
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<1st attachment, "Governor 16.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 Sixteen : "The Arabian Doctor"



There was a ceiling, long, white, narrow, and far away; with
bright florescent lights.

Cecily looked at it.

"Where am I?" she mumbled.

She was light, floozy, swimming in a bath of warm air and
her body was lead. She forced her eyes to open, made them,
looked round, but it was hard and it took effort. Every
movement was sapping her energy. "What have you done? Where
have you brought me?"

"You're at the barracks, Cecily," replied an echoey male
voice. "We need to talk, but there's no need to worry. I'm
sorting things out."

She saw a face: fuzzy and out of focus, yet still she
recognized it as Albert's.

He was her boss, or perhaps her ex-boss, she wasn't sure
which, because she'd jumped into a river, and somehow there
had been a tramp and he'd stopped her.

"I've brought along some technicians," Albert said. "And
also a doctor to make sure that everything's legal and above
board. This is Doctor Wilson. Say hello, Cecily, and greet
him."

There was a pain filling Cecily's stomach. Everything was
blurry because someone had drugged her.

Who? Why?

And then she remembered the tramp and that he'd raped her.
But what had happened next, and why was her memory blurry?

"I don't need a doctor," she mumbled, fighting a terrible
treacle filling her muscles.

What had he given her and what had it done?

"That's not true, Cecily. I can see that you're not well and
that you need professional assistance."

She groaned. "That's not true. I'm well and healthy, at
least I was. I've never had a sick day in my life. You don't
understand..."

Never mind the tramp. She saw a heavy muscular man and that
he was standing next to Albert. Was this the doctor? He was
wearing a cream Armani suit and he didn't look like a
doctor. His hair was shorn and he had an hard, unforgiving
face.

"Hello, Cecily," the doctor said in a thick, sickly Saudi
accent. He had a lisp and he couldn't pronounce Cecily's
name. Each of the sibilants was slurred and replaced with a
hiss. "Cecily. The Major tells me you haven't been well."

"I'm all right," she groaned, screwing up her face because
of the pain in her head and the sickness in her stomach. "I
don't need a doctor... I'm depressed. I just need to
rest..."

Who was he, this strange unfamiliar Doctor Wilson? It didn't
make sense that he should be a doctor. He was an Arab and
Wilson clearly wasn't an Arabic name.

"You do need a doctor, Cecily," Albert corrected, and he was
patient, like a calm, long suffering father with a
disobedient daughter, but not a Western father with a
Western daughter. This was a different culture altogether.
"You've had a mishap and Doctor Wilson is here to look after
you. You need help, Cecily. Doctor Wilson can give you that
help."

Cecily screwed up her eyes and forced them to focus. She saw
that Albert was leaning across her and the doctor was a
little way behind. There was a bright light behind them both
and this blinded Cecily's vision. The light was coming from
the Doctor. He had a torch and he was shining it into her
eyes. "Oh my God! Where am I?"

She looked around and she saw that she was in the middle of
a corridor. The walls were endlessly white and she was lying
on a trolley and she couldn't move her limbs. They were
wheeling her along the corridor and the fluorescent lights
were high above her head, shining down into her eyes.

There were tiles: white tiles in the distance, and the tiles
were moving closer as the corridor rolled away beneath the
trolley.

"Doctor Wilson is here to do experiments, Cecily,
experiments with the mind. You've given us a nasty shock
trying to jump into that river but we've been here before
and these lapses will stop. It's embarrassing, Cecily. It
hurts me that you run from us, and so I've asked Doctor
Wilson to take a look at you and make things better."

"God!" she muttered, twisting about in anguish on the
trolley. She felt sick, ill, close to vomiting. "I don't
remember..."

"That's okay. You don't have to remember. All that matters
is that we're going to make things better: better, Cecily.
Doctor Wilson has kindly promised to assist you and that's
why he must perform the experiments on your mind."

There was blackness: darkness. Why couldn't she remember?
Everything was a blur: floozy and sinister and dizzy. She
remembered that Harriet had seen a red headed woman on her
bed, and that Dominic had been fucking the woman's pussy.

"You need help, Cecily. You've been ill. It's an illness of
the mind. Why else would you have tried to throw yourself in
the river? I've looked after you. I've cared for you and yet
you keep disappointing me and I don't like it. Things must
change, Cecily. Things must change a lot."

She tried to focus, and there were tears in her eyes. She
could see the Major - Albert; ah yes, and also the doctor;
and two or three others, but what was that behind them?

It came into focus. God. She saw it: a photograph hanging on
the wall at the far end of the corridor. It was a woman with
her legs apart and she was lying in a large cauldron of tar.
The woman was submerged in it and beneath the cauldron was a
fire. There were logs and flames and they were lapping at
the cauldron's edge, and the woman's expression was one of
confusion.

There were several Arabs surrounding the pot wearing
traditional thoub garments, that is, the white one piece
costume frequently favoured by rich Saudi men. Each had his
head covered by a shumagg - or a scarf - and an ogal - a
head band - to hold it in place.

These men were like overgrown schoolboys in drag. They were
like witches playing with their toys and they were dancing
around the cauldron, while in it a naked woman was covered
with black, sticky tar that clung to her face, her legs, her
breasts and her thighs.

It was awful.

The smell of it was foul, acrid, and dry to the lungs. It
was hot and unpleasant, and the steam hung above the
cauldron like a heavy, poisonous storm cloud.

Cecily saw it and she sucked in her breath and she did her
best to scream, for the photograph was disturbing and
obscene.

Shit. She discovered that the sound was gone from her mouth
and that she couldn't scream.

Shit.

Not only that, but Albert was whispering to the doctor and
the words wouldn't stick in her mind. "If she won't
cooperate," he was murmuring, "then I'll put the baby into
care and I'll train it to follow in the steps of the mother.
I'll do it, Mustafa. By the time it grows up, I'll have
transformed it into a torture girl."

The doctor smirked at this and he looked at Cecily severely:
at her flat belly and her Frankenstein breasts, and then
down at her groin.

Hmmm. He was excited.

Cecily was wearing a satin blouse and a black pencil skirt
with a deep slit at the back, but the Doctor's gaze held
such power that he could see through her clothes to her
flesh, and he wanted to fuck her. Cecily could read it, for
his eyes were like darts, fierce, fiery and burning; and he
had the power to pierce through her underwear to her bra and
her panties and through these as well. He was exposing her
womanly nakedness to his gaze; and Cecily couldn't cover
herself and preserve her modesty because her hands wouldn't
move.

"I want to go home," she moaned, her voice weakening and
shaking, for the doctor was visually exploring every inch of
her body, and he was turned on. He was examining the peaks
of her ruined breasts and the valleys and chasms in between,
and the more he looked at her, the weaker she got, and the
more visibly turned on he was.

Oh God. She began shaking. He was studying her belly and her
legs, and his eyes were lifting her dress and peering at her
thighs and the tops of her stockings; nonchalantly peeling
them away so that he could gaze at her without them, and
then his eyes unfastened her bra and he tugged down her
panties, dismissing both these garments as irrelevant, and
he leered at her nude figure, staring at the space between
her breasts and the other place, the lower place, the one
between her legs, and he smiled. "I hope very much that we
won't need to adopt little Ruth," he said. "I'm sure that
given a few moments, Cecily and I will be able to come to an
agreement, don't you think so, Cecily?"

And with these ambiguous words, the doctor leaned to his
side and he whispered into Albert's ear. "The clothes," he
fawned, clasping and reclasping his hands. "We must remove
them for the sake of the experiment. Do you wish to do it
yourself, sir, or shall I?"

Albert nodded gravely, his eyes haunted by lechery and
pathos. He liked the idea of removing Cecily's clothes. That
would be good. That would be special. "Ah yes," he nodded,
well aware of how Cecily was clinging to his words. "Ah yes.
How could I have forgotten? Let's do it. Let's do it right
now."

But nothing was forgotten. Nothing was forgiven. Everything
was part of his play. "Doctor Wilson is going to remove your
clothes now," Albert enunciated at her clearly, helping
Cecily to her feet and hooking his arm into hers and helping
her to move forward. "You mustn't struggle, my dear. You must
cooperate with us, if only for your baby Ruth's sake. You
wouldn't want for Ruth to grow up to follow in her mother's
footsteps, would you? So listen. For Ruth: we're going to
the laboratory now. Do you hear me, Cecily? Doctor Wilson is
taking you to the laboratory and he's going to undress you.
He's going to take your pretty picture and he's going to
hang it on the wall."

The colour rushed blankly to Cecily's face and she struggled
for balance, staring blankly and helplessly into thin air.

God.

They were going to undress her. Obviously. It had been bound
to happen. How could it not? And if she resisted, then
they'd take her baby and give her to foster parents, and
those foster parents would raise her and they'd train her to
become a torture girl.

"I don't want to stay here," Cecily mumbled, struggling for
breath. She could smell the overpowering stench of tar. "I
want to go home."

"What was that, Cecily? Can you repeat it please? I didn't
hear you?"

The two captors compelled Cecily to walk. They guided her
across the floor towards a big white door on the far side of
the room, but her feet were leaden and drugged and they were
difficult to move, and they were becoming heavier and more
leaden with each laboured step; and Cecily's balance was
faulty.

She saw blinds obscuring the windows and a nurse standing
attentively, watching her steps. "I'm not letting you go,
Cecily," Albert whispered into her ear, manoeuvring her
through the door and stealing a kiss of her neck as he did
so. "You're not well. You need help."

But she was well. She told them again that she'd never had a
day's illness in her life, but her lips barely moved and
nothing escaped them.

Oh God.

She was in a second room now, a larger one. This room was
the laboratory and it had plain white walls and equally
harsh fluorescent lights. There were posters on the walls
and books on the shelves, and a picture of a woman at the
front, just as before. It was a different woman, sturdier,
with bigger heavier tits, and she was naked just like the
former one. Her legs were splayed open and her gash was
covered in tar. But there was something else: she was heavy
with child.

Cecily absorbed the scene, knowing that she was being
watched by both the Major and the Doctor, and she felt
confused, because the more she tried to avert her eyes from
the terrible scene, the more she saw it.

Like the other woman, there was a cauldron of tar in the
picture and the woman was being dipped in it.

Cecily daren't look. There was something erotically obscene
about the picture, something primal and base, something
cruel, because the woman was in pain and she was being
humiliated and yet, ridiculously, she was playing with her
sex and becoming hot and aroused.

"That's Harriet," Albert cried venomously, delighting to see
Cecily's confusion and panic. "Do you recognise her? Eh?
Do you remember her? Harriet's a torture girl and she became
pregnant and she thought she could run away. Look at her!
She's nine month's gone in that picture and about to drop.
You can see the lump in her belly and the heaviness in her
tits, but I taught her, eh, Cece, just like I taught the
others.  Harriet was tied to a rack and stretched, like the
others were stretched, and that's how she endured her labour,
being stretched, endlessly and relentlessly pulled apart, and 
electric current juicing her tits and zapping her pussy.
When the baby finally popped out, I tarred and feathered her
and I cut the nipples from her breasts."

Cecily wanted to appear interested in this history, but in 
truth, she was more worried about he things happening around 
her than in what had once happened to poor Harriet.

You see: there were four people in the room besides Albert
and the Doctor, and one was a woman, and the woman was
wearing a white coat and she was looking at Cecily like she
was retarded or a recent scientific discovery. A man sat
behind her and he was in front of a keyboard and he was
trying to seem important, but it was the woman who held
Cecily's attention because she was placing cotton sheets on
a gurney, and the words "Harper Laboratories" were indelibly
inscribed on the corner of each sheet.

Cecily lowered her head involuntarily and she saw bunches of
cable lying strewn across the floor, untidy and random.
Another man, the second, pushed them out of her path, but
Cecily was too dizzy to think and too tired to speak. She
shuffled past the clusters of cable with every one of her
steps being a mammoth effort facilitated by Albert and the
Doctor. They were dragging her forward. "Please!" her lips
curled because Albert was standing her in front of the
gurney and leaning her against it.

Her eyes were drooping and she looked at the woman and she
begged for her help. It wasn't done loudly, but it was there
in her eyes. Her lips moved silently and her heart cried
aloud in pain, but the woman refused to look, to attend, and
instead, Cecily felt cold hands on her back, unhooking her
dress.

Jesus.

It was the Doctor. It was his hands that she could feel, his
fingers, his icy caress, and Cecily felt sick. This vile man
was touching her and undressing her. He was supposed to be a
Doctor but Cecily didn't believe it and didn't trust him, so
she kept begging the woman for help with her eyes, but the
woman did nothing and instead, she moved away and typed
something quickly on a keyboard and entered numbers and
letters and acted as if everything were normal.

Except that nothing was normal, especially what the Doctor
was doing. That wasn't normal. It was unpleasant and sick,
for there was a pounding in Cecily's ears and a crawling of
her skin for the Doctor was touching her back and unzipping
her dress.

She felt the cold air and the clammy hands, and her arms
wouldn't react and her hands didn't move.

That wasn't normal.

And then the doctor slipped her dress from her shoulders and
pushed it down to her waist. He let it rest there awhile
while he gawked at her, but then he teased it over her hips
and he nudged it so that it floated down her legs to the
floor.

"What am I going do with you, my dear?" Albert exclaimed,
bending down and lifting Cecily's feet from the dress. She
could feel his eyes peering through her green panties,
staring at her ass cheeks and the womanly divide. She could
feel him, his hot breath and his dirty lascivious gaze; and
her face grew angry.

"Ah yes," the Major paused jovially, peering more closely at
Cecily and her panties and her firm round buttocks. "That's
the question. What do we do with you, Cecily?"

She would have answered, but she was numb. Her lips wouldn't
work, so instead, she hung uncomfortably across the gurney,
slumped upon it and staring down at the tiled floor, tension
building in her arms and legs with each thumping heartbeat.
Albert and the Doctor were behind her and she could hear
their interactive titters and she wanted to know what they
were doing, but she couldn't, because if she'd tried to turn
and look at them, she would have fallen flat on her face.

This wasn't normal. There was no coordination in her legs or
her hands. None. She was paralytic: no movement.

As she considered this, Albert tossed her dress to the woman
in the white coat, who accepted it and dropped it into a
bag. Then, the Doctor unbuckled Cecily's stilettos, stroking
each leg and ankle and foot, and he deftly removed the shoes
handing each to the female technician.

"I'm going to take your little girl," he jeered, and he
touched Cecily leerily and without her permission, first her
waist and then her thighs. Then he suggested that she climb
up onto the gurney. "She'll go to school. She'll live a
normal carefree life, and then, when she's grown up, when 
her breasts are filling her clothes, I'll hurt her. I'll 
break her." Two male technicians helped Cecily up onto the 
gurney, turning her this way and that until she was lying 
face up with her arms at her sides and she was staring upwards 
at the bright fluorescent lights. "You're going to be tortured, 
my dear," the Doctor grinned at her, and he glanced 
good-naturedly at Cecily, except that there was no goodness 
to his nature, just hardness and coldness and lust. "You're 
going to be tortured over and over, as many times as your 
body can take. Imagine that! And if you protest or fight me, 
I'll hurt your girl. I won't do it now, but when she's grown up 
and naked and tied up. I'll make her scream so pitiably that 
the sound will suck out your guts. Are you ready to watch 
your girl whimper and cry? Because I'll do it. I'll do terrible
things. I'll hurt your poor little Ruth, and you'll sit
there and watch me. That's her destiny, Cecily, because she
was conceived at Lodes Wold and she'll return to Lode's
Wold. She'll always be my dear little girl."

Cecily heard these horrible threats and her vision became
hazy and blurred. She couldn't see. She couldn't smell. She
couldn't touch. She couldn't believe. She could only hear
and pray. Oh God. What was he saying about poor, baby Ruth?

In panic, Cecily became conscious of the female technician
leaning across her chest and placing her hands in
restraints, one on either side of the gurney, and buckling
them up. "Be strong," the technician whispered softly into
her ear, brushing Cecily's hair from her eyes and touching
her lips. The woman kissed them. She wet them. "For Ruth's
sake," she whispered. "Don't let these bastards break you.
Don't give them that pleasure, because they'll take your
baby and they'll train her. I know. Oh God. I know."

Cecily heard the words but she couldn't acknowledge them.

"Harriet was one of my favourite agents," Doctor Wilson
interjected, casting a cold perverted eye on Cecily's
restraints. He seemed pleased as he tested and tightened
Cecily's knots. He checked her hands, and then her ankles,
and then he got ready to hurt her. "She was sexy, pretty, 
but fucked up in the head, and she kept running and there 
was no reason to run. So we placed her in the cauldron and 
look at her! Look how high she is on the black stuff. She 
loves the heat burning her pussy and that it singes her 
minge. She loves that it's seeping into her holes and 
making her yell."

Cecily felt nauseous. She took a deep breath, because the
Doctor was playing with the clip of her bra, and he was
unfastening it, and her breasts were wobbling around, and
they were feeling like jelly.

Cecily didn't like it that the technicians were looking at
her tits, especially the male ones, but there was nothing
she could do. The Doctor was playing with them and she was
helpless. Then a moment later the Doctor grabbed the cups of
her bra and he tugged them from her bosoms. He pulled the
straps from her shoulders and he slid them down her arms and
suddenly her bra was in his hands and he was looking at her
black oversized nipples, and the top half of her body was
bare.

He stared at her slyly, meanly, touching her breasts where
the terrible scars had become feint silvery lines, where she
was at her most vulnerable and self-conscious. "We ought to
play like this more often," he commented wickedly, pinching
her black teats and making them expand. They grew hard and
became turgid, and he smiled and rolled them through his
fingers. "It's not often I get the chance to experiment."

Then, he folded the bra and handed it to the woman
technician who dropped it into her bag. Again he looked at
Cecily's breasts, teasing and touching her teats. "You'll go
down well in the strip bars," he whispered, squeezing her
breasts together and making them bulge. "These Arab guys
love an old fashioned English Rose and they'll go mad for
weird tortured tits like yours, and once I've finished my
experiment, they'll be queuing for the chance to put a kid
in your belly..."

He smiled, and then he touched Cecily's final garment, her
briefs, and he stretched the gusset, pulling it into her
slit: "Shall we remove these, my dear?" he teased. "It's
time we looked at your pussy," and then he pulled at the
waist band, extenuating the shadow of her hair and the
bulge. "You women huff and puff," he smirked jokily, tugging
further at the waistband, pulling the crotch even deeper
into her slit, making it bite. "But you'll sound very 
different once we've given you our babies..."

And with that, he tugged at Cecily's panties and he pulled 
them across her hips and down her calves, and over her feet.

It was done and over with in one sweet unbroken movement and
in an instant, Cecily was naked, and her pussy lips were
gaping.

"That wasn't so bad, now, was it?" he leered, signalling to
the woman technician that she should pull Cecily's legs
apart. She did as she was told, pulling Cecily's restraints
to the corners of the gurney and then tightening them up.

This made Cecily's pussy open yet wider, and the doctor 
smirked at her cunningly. "Very nice," he smiled, his 
smirk broadening. He could see Cecily's feminine jewel 
gleaming from between her lips, and he made sure that she 
knew that he could see it. "How cute!" he exclaimed, peering 
at Cecily's bud as it peeped between her lower lips, and 
then he pointed and touched it with the tip of his finger.

"Perfect," Albert agreed, checking the ankles holding
Cecily's feet, and then looking at her himself. "Just
perfect."

Cecily mumbled. The saliva dribbled from her mouth. She was
cold, shivering.

God.

Albert sat down and typed in a series of instructions and a
television screen lit, double underlined, with Cecily's name
and address, her age and countless other statistics,
including her vital ones. 34-24-35, it said. Just numbers.

More typing, more characters on the screen, apparently not
interesting this time. Cecily felt uncomfortably exposed and
she wished she wasn't cold. The men were all staring at her
pussy, but hey, so was the woman.

She thought she must say something, protest, do something,
when suddenly, it was as if they'd given her an electric
shock: a jolt that permeated her body and ricocheted from
her toes to her hair. She gasped and immediately the shock
was gone, replaced by something else, a strong throbbing
sensation originating in her sex organs. She felt anxious
and embarrassed. Why? What was it? What was she to do? Ideas
of resistance were out of the question. The desire in her
groin was too overpowering.

Shit.

She could feel an invisible hand reaching inside her quim
and gripping it, while another caressed her groaning
breasts. A whirlpool of desires exploded within her and her
mind wouldn't concentrate. Jesus. A hand entered her cunt
and a finger worked on her clitoris, rubbing it gently,
except that there was no hand or fingers anywhere near her.

She looked in panic at the Doctor and the laboratory
technicians, uncertain, frightened, wondering whether they'd
noticed, and what did they think? What was going on? What
had they done? Was someone touching her?

But no one was. Her eyes told her that she was
hallucinating, except that she wasn't. She could feel a
masculine touch. There was a hand, a man's hand, its index
finger caressing her jewel and making her wet. She groaned
under the weight of erotic feelings, beads of perspiration
gathering between her breasts and in the small of her back.

She swayed, consumed by the intensity of an unexpected
passion. She grunted and screamed as she hurtled towards her
climax and it sucked the energy from her lungs. She couldn't
breathe. She couldn't move. Jesus. An invisible hand was
opening the inner lips of her sex and exploring inside, and
the feelings induced by this hand pleasured her without any
question as to their propriety entering her mind.

She rolled around on the gurney, convulsing as if in an
epileptic fit and being held by the restraints, except there
was no fit, only an uncontrollable emotion.

The female technician wiped Cecily's brow with the corner of
a white paper towel, and then she wiped the sweat from
between Cecily's breasts. She flannelled her stomach and her
thighs, and then she dabbed her mound, wiping away the
excess moisture from between her legs because Cecily was
leaking. Fluids dripped from her pussy.

Oh Jesus. The woman dried her and then she stood back to
allow the men to watch Cecily's performance in silence, and
what a performance it was. Cecily was getting hotter and
hotter, and she groaned and she screamed, and she shuddered,
and there seemed to be a man's cock inside her and filling
her cunt, spurting and spitting and filling her with seed...

Oh God. It was coming. She was coming, and yet the men
didn't touch her. They didn't go near her. They just 
watched... It was coming.

Oh Jesus. She was full up with some strange man's cock and
she was cumming and she cried out.

Oh God.

And then suddenly she saw a huge copper pot rearing up in
front of her, equally as tall as she was, and the
technicians were lifting her towards it.

She was naked and aroused and wet and they were carrying her
from the gurney to the pot, holding her by her hands and her
feet.

"You don't run when you work for me," Albert said as the
technicians were strapping her to a hoist. "No one runs. Do 
you understand, my dear?"

The hoist had a plastic seat and it could be lifted and
lowered, and Cecily groaned, for she was being lifted above
the cauldron, and she was swinging in mid air, and at any
moment they would lower her into the tar.

Oh fuck, she could smell it, the disgusting foul odour. It
was getting stronger. She could hear the gurgling of its
boiling and the crackle of the fire, the tar was simmering
and it was wet and sticky and heavy upon her skin.

Soon she would be dunked. Soon. Very soon...

Oh shit. It was getting closer!

She pulled up her feet. She curled up, but despite her best
efforts, her feet plunged into the tar, and it was hot and
burning, and now it reached her legs. Oh shit. The tar was
creeping up her thighs and seeping into her pussy and into
her ass, and she screamed again.

It was too hot!

Oh shit!

It was creeping up her stomach and it was up to her belly
button and she was sinking. Oh fuck! The tar was approaching
her breasts. It was lapping against her bosoms, and still
she was sinking.

She was being immersed.

How far would it go?

She sucked in a breath.

Soon it was up to her neck and she lifted her face to
escape from the unavoidable tar. It was coating her hair,
dripping, heavy and weighing it down, dripping and pulling
at her neck.

Oh Jesus. She was drowning...

All that could be seen was her cheeks, her nose, her eyes,
her forehead. The rest of her was submerged and gone and she
was hot. She was being boiled alive, roasted, like some
Roman courtesan of ancient Pompeii.

Oh Jesus. She wasn't a courtesan...

The female technician moved, and she was above her and her
laboratory coat gaped at the front and that there was a
green bra and a set of briefs through which Cecily could see
a triangle of hair.

Oh shit. Cecily couldn't breathe. Oh shhit. She was drowning
and the tar was rising across her face, rolling across her
cheeks, and hot, and burning, and the woman was bent down.

"Cecily!" she inquired. "Do you know who I am?"

The woman was olive skinned, and she had a fruity
Mediterranean appearance. She had long painted nails and an
abundance of gold jewellery, and she parted Cecily's legs
and she reached down between them and she grabbed hold of
Cecily's cunt.

"Cecily!" she repeated softly. "Tell me who I am. Tell me my
name."

And as Cecily took one final deep breath and prepared to go
under, her face rose to the surface and she whispered. "I
don't know your name. I've never seen you before..."

"You do know me. My name's Lucy."

"Lucy?"

"Yes, I'm Lucy, and I'm your boss, your mistress, your 
governor."

"Yes. I understand. You're my governor..."

The woman signalled that Cecily should be lifted from the
tar. She commanded; she ordered. She watched as Cecily was
lifted and then she leaned across her, deliberately exposing
her cleavage and presenting it to the Doctor while she
measured Cecily's blood pressure, her heart rate and pulse.
She indicated that the hoist should lift Cecily up, and
Cecily arose from the tar, and her mind became light and
weightless.

She was dazed and she felt herself being lifted back onto
the gurney and wheeled along a long corridor. Harsh
fluorescent strip lights shone above her, and wires came
from her head, her breasts and her pussy.

Occasionally Cecily caught a sight of herself in the
reflection of a steel handrail, a panel, or a glass
ornament, and she was confused because she didn't recognise
that it was her in the reflection. Her eyes moved on, and
her mind and her heart, and there was a door, and the
trolley moved through the door and suddenly she was outside
in the open with grey rolling clouds hanging above and
buildings around her and a stiff cool breeze reminding her
that she was naked.

The trolley rolled forward and stopped and then rolled back,
and then it slid down an incline and through a crowd of
people. It turned, first to the left and then to the right
and then the brake was applied.

Cecily couldn't see the people or the technicians. She
couldn't see the sky or the clouds or the buildings. She
couldn't see, because rising up above her was a rich canopy
of leaves, and they were green and broad and dense and they
covered Cecily's nakedness completely.

She was for some reason lying beneath a tree, an Oak tree,
and Cecily saw that Lucy had a hammer in his hand, and also
two nails, and she was handing them to a man, her boyfriend,
and he was looking in the direction of Cecily's tits, and he
was going to nail them both to the Oak tree, and then he was 
going to watch.

**
<1st attachment end>


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