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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
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<1st attachment, "Governor 17.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 Seventeen : "Tribesmen of Uganda"




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

She wasn't now.

Neither was she standing at the centre of her office,
pointing at coils of rope and holding her hands so that
Howard might more easily tie them.

No.

She was outside, standing in the cold sunshine, tall and
defiant; her shoulders straight and her hands bound behind
her back. She was wearing the same clothes that she'd had on
in her office: a knee length skirt belted at the waist that
accentuated the curve of her hips and the tightness of her
ass. Her stockinged feet bore the evidence of a shoeless
walk down three flights of stairs, across a gravel courtyard
and over one hundred metres of grass. They were muddied with
dirt; and there was a tear in one heel.

Her white blouse was unbuttoned and it was separated from
her skirt, and it billowed in the wind. There was nothing
beneath it, no bra to shield her breasts from the
uncompromising face of their fate, because she, and they,
were staring blindly at the unflinching grimace of an
imposing old English Oak tree.

It was gnarled, ugly and Cecily fidgeted awkwardly as she
looked at it. She was experiencing an uncontrollable urge to
pee because she was scared of what was about to happen and
there was a numbness in her fingers and an overwhelming
sense of panic.

It was only a tree, she was thinking... only a tree... but
it wasn't. It was an instrument of torture. The evidence was
seen in the holes puncturing its bark. The holes were at
chest level, and Cecily knew that countless other women had
previously stood where she now stood, shivering and
frightened, and waiting to have their breasts nailed to its
wood. It never got easier. Every time she faced the
Inquisitor and stood at the brink, she felt the terror and
uncertainty that came from not knowing how far they would
take her.

This was part and parcel of the life of a torture girl.

"Mr Pendrill," she stammered, her voice lifting shakily in
tone. "This is difficult for me to admit to, but you must
understand that I've been captured many times and this isn't
greeted well by my superiors, and so they've said that I
must be punished and that's why I'm here today in front of
this tree. I haven't lied to you, although I may have misled
you by being opaque."

She paused, but her sentences were rushed and breathless and
shallow. "The department expects the highest standards from
its officers and I have repeatedly fallen short of those
expectations. Therefore, my manager, who has a cruel and
perverse sense of irony, has stipulated that there should be
no prescribed limits for this test and that I must endure
whatever tortures you choose to employ. I'm communicating
these facts honestly because I've been ordered to do so by
my manager, Mr Pendrill. You are permitted to perform
whatever acts you deem necessary to discover the identity of
the lady in the locket, including rape, sodomy and nailing
my breasts to this tree."

Howard was dumbfounded.

"Mr Pendrill. I must tell you honestly about this Oak tree
because the department encourages and permits it, although I
would advise you to be cautious, for as I've indicated,
whatever you do to me will be done to Lucy."

Howard was distracted from her warning by a congregation of
people, all soldiers, who were trudging along a long asphalt
track beyond a grass meadow. This crowd were approaching a
second tree a way distant, a willow, with deep weeping
fronds and a sturdy masculine trunk. Accompanying the
soldiers was a young lady, her hands and feet cuffed, her
eyes blindfolded, and her red and white blouse torn at the
front.

It was Lucy.

Howard groaned because she was shuffling along like a tired
old lady. For some unknown reason she was walking with
difficulty. "Oh sweet Jesus," Howard began, for this wasn't
what he'd been expecting.

"Mr Pendrill?"

He bit his lip and tried to work out what had happened. He
saw that the soldiers were moving slowly and taking their
time, seemingly in slow motion, because Lucy couldn't walk
any faster.

"Whose picture is in the locket?" Howard whimpered, his
attention misdirected.

"Mr Pendrill?"

His questions came compulsively. "Tell me. I beg you. Whose
picture is it?"

"Mr Pendrill. You're embarrassing yourself. You shouldn't
beg..."

"I can do things," he threatened, still watching the
soldiers. "I can ruin your life... destroy it even..."

"Mr Pendrill? What is on your mind?"

"I could..." He stopped, and he paused. "I could k... kill
you."

"Yes, you could, but you won't."

"No. No, I won't - perhaps not - but even if I didn't kill
you, I could do something equally as nasty. I could rape
you."

Cecily rolled her eyes at him. "Yes, that would be nasty,
and we've acknowledged that a rape would look good on your
CV, but may I return you to reality. As I've explained, Lucy
is my governor, and while you may certainly do anything to
me without limits, what about Lucy? Remember the
consequences to her. If you rape me, your colleagues will
ravish every hole of her body, and they'll do it repeatedly
and brutally. There are some big guys in your troop: some
very big guys - long and incredibly thick - and they'll
stretch Lucy's holes and they'll tear her. Do you know what
that's like for a woman? Shall I tell you?"

Howard double blinked.

"It'll be an experience she'll never forget," Cecily
pronounced thoughtfully. "One that she'll never recover
from."

Howard pondered on that. He was prickly. "Maybe so," he
acknowledged. "But you'll suffer too. This governor thing is
only as powerful as the threat, and I think that you're
bluffing!"

"Do you think so? Am I bluffing? It's your prerogative to
believe so. You can believe as you like, but remember that
rape and torture are not new things to me. I'm a spy, and
for me, rape is an occupational hazard: as is torture. I've
suffered the forfeit of sexual indignation countless times
and I'll suffer it again. It's my strength and Lucy's flaw
that this experience stands between us, because a woman's
first rape is a brutalizing scar. I remember mine and it'll
mark me forever. Is that what you want for Lucy?"

Howard bit his fingers, not liking the answer. Lucy had a
fresh face and she was young, and eager to oblige. She set
religious boundaries to her sexual activity and sex was
important to her as an expression of her love. It wasn't a
game to be played by antagonists. She would hate being
raped: held down, strange men pinning her limbs and grinding
her pussy. She would hate it intensely!

And then there was the torture. Howard saw a hammer at
Cecily's feet and a cardboard box containing nails, waiting
for her breasts. Waiting. Howard looked at the hammer and
then up at the tree, and he wondered. Could he really take
the hammer and drive those long nails through Cecily's tits,
knowing that it would hurt Lucy?

Could Howard inflict this wrong on the one he cared for?
Could he live with his guilt?

He knew himself well enough to know that he couldn't,
because it was too much. He could do the former, but not the
latter.

"Mr Pendrill?"

It was too much: too far.

"What are you doing, Mr Pendrill?"

He was unfastening Cecily's wrists. He couldn't go on. "I'm
freeing you," he said plainly. "There are prices that
shouldn't be paid and this is one of them. Lucy is more
important to me than anything that you or the department
have to offer."

He finished unfastening Cecily's wrists, and having done it,
he stopped.

He was trapped. What now? What would he say to the Major
when he next met him? He could already hear the Major's
scorn ridiculing him for surrendering so easily. "What's up
with you, boy?" he would say. "What are you doing? How can
you give up after all your work and effort? Answer me that -
how?"

Howard didn't know how. He didn't know what to do any more,
and Cecily was fidgeting. So what should he do with her? He
couldn't drive on but neither could he go back.

"What's up with you, boy? What about your career? What about
SJ6? Aren't you the master of these whores? I think you'd
like to be. Yes, I think you would, so line them up and
drill them, boy. Show them what they are! They're whores and
cunts! And as for the girl: let her suffer! Ask yourself
boy: she's a woman, a female: why shouldn't she take the
rough with the smooth?"

Cecily's hands were free and she was already able to caress
her bruised wrists and stretch her arms. Soon it would be
too late. Howard would have to act quickly, and so he did.
He couldn't rely on the tangible, but there was always the
intangible. "Keep your hands where they are," he growled,
looking at Cecily and taking stock of himself. What was he
to do? He was caught, trapped between two paths and two
lives. "Keep your hands clasped behind your back..." he
snapped, but the Major wasn't letting him alone.

"Use your head," he barked at him, interrupting his
thoughts; and the Major's ire was impossible to escape.
"Your girl likes you - adores you, so don't steal her glory.
She wants to make this sacrifice to demonstrate her love.
She's offering you her tits. That's her gift, and when
someone offers you a gift, boy, it's rude not to accept it,
so hurt her! Slice her, and accept the sacrifice of your
girl's tits!"

"Mr Pendrill? What is it? What are you doing, Mr Pendrill?"
Cecily was talking at odds to the Major, talking around him
and through him, and ignoring everything he was saying. "I
don't understand. Why have you unfastened me? I didn't tell
you to do that. I didn't ask..."

"Keep your arms together," Howard cried, confused in his
head now, because the Major was nagging him from one side
and Cecily from the other, and he didn't know who to listen
to any more. "Keep your hands behind your back. You heard me
- otherwise I'll kill you."

"That's the stuff!" the Major cheered, or at least, he would
have done if he'd been there in person. "That's telling the
cow! These cunts have frailties and they need testing. This
one's a flooze and she has to be fucked, boy. She needs your
willy in her love pot. She's a weak woman and she needs to
be poked and forced to sacrifice her tits. Remember that, my
laddy!"

Howard hadn't intended to threaten Cecily, but somehow with
the Major shouting at him so loudly, the word "kill" had
popped out without him meaning to say it.

The word had been wrong and Howard didn't know where it had
sprung from. He pulled the second rope loose, frustrated
with himself, irritated and picking at the knot. It had been
said. The threat had been made, and unfortunately it
couldn't be undone. "I'll grope you," he muttered clumsily,
backtracking and trying to correct his mistake. He couldn't
ignore Lucy, for she was wilting under her tree and he had
to consider that wider picture. "Any man would grope you
given the chance?" He grumbled, pacing around, rubbing his
temples, trying to work out what he should do. So much
confusion. So much rationalizing... "Any man would hang you
from the tree and grope between your legs, squeeze your
boobs, fuck you perhaps: the temptation's too great. Any man
would do that. He'd have to. So if I did torture you a
little: wet bag you; attach your tits to the tree; whip you
even, who could blame me, as long as I didn't kill you?"

He was talking to the grass and the wind and the sky and not
to Cecily. He was speaking to the cameras and the
microphones and those foulmouthed demons who were
responsible for communicating his actions to the willow tree
in the distance. He was rationizing his thoughts and getting
straight in his mind the things he could allow Lucy to
endure and those that he wouldn't.

He cared for her but his work was important too. Lucy was a
strong, reasonable woman, and she loved him.

She'd be reasonable...

The 'kill' word was, of course, out of the question, but
where was the problem in being nailed to a tree? "Thousands
of women have boob jobs," he cajoled himself, geeing himself
up. "Their tits are cut and shaped and moulded in the hope
of improving their masculine appeal. Women don't do it by
themselves! They do it for their men, to make themselves
sexy, so where's the difference? This isn't bad. It's only
two shitty nails and a tree: not a knife and a guillotine
and a scalpel."

"That's it! Now you're thinking clever!" the Major agreed,
congratulating Howard on his logical clear thinking. He
appeared from the shadows and slapped him across his left
shoulder. "No one likes losses but in war you have to break
eggs. Lucy is loyal. She has guts. She'll cope. Trust me, my
son. She'll take the bloody nails in the boobs and be
strong. She might not like it but she'll buy you some time
so you can test out the flooze!"

Howard reminded himself that he was in control, and that
Cecily had told him that what he did to her would also be
done to Lucy, so the reverse must surely also be true. What
he didn't do to Cecily wouldn't be done to Lucy.

He just had to be careful.

"Who is the lady in the locket?" he asked, refusing to
listen to the distant contrary shrieks. They were in his
head, like persistent elves and demons. He could hear them
nagging at him as he shut their thoughts from his mind, for
Lucy was on her knees, tugging at his arm, demanding that he
listen and he daren't do that. He had to concentrate on the
woman in front of him: on Cecily.

"If you move your hands," he mocked her, circling to her
rear. "I'll bend you over, spread your cheeks and stick ten
long inches of cock up your ass, and then, when I've had
what I want of your body, I'll put a noose round your neck
and I'll hang you! so don't you dare move an inch... not an
inch..."

He extended his hand across her nipples and brushed them so
that she gasped. He could feel the shallow intake of breath
and the heartache, the flush of female excitement.

She was turned on. She liked the idea of ten long inches of
cock nuzzling her ass and the thought that he might hang
her.

And as for Lucy...

"She's a young woman," he consoled himself. "She has lusts
and illicit desires. Maybe she'll be aroused at being the
centre of so much attention: a company of soldiers - all of
them looking at her. It must be the perfect female fantasy
to be bent over and plugged by shed loads of athletic
testosterone; or strung up with rope, naked and on tiptoe
with both hands tied behind your back, all those spent
soldiers standing in a circle and cheering and jerking off
as the noose tightens around your neck, and tightens... and
your toes finally lose contact with the floor..."

The thought gave Howard strength. Lucy was okay. She was
strong and she had guts. He kept telling himself that. She'd
cope.

She'd cope.

"So who is the lady?" Howard gloated, taunting Cecily and
enjoying her turmoil. "Tell me mam, for if you don't, I'll
do worse than the Iraqis, the Koreans and the Nicaraguans
rolled into one. It won't be the nails and the tree that
you'll fear. It'll be the guillotine. I'll place your boobs
into that brutish weapon and finish the job that Ahmed
began. I'll make salami of your tits and eat them for lunch.
Think about that, mam - losing your lovely beautiful tits!
And me, fixing you in the guillotine and tightening the
bolts and releasing the catch!"

Cecily's eyes sparkled as he said this. Howard hadn't
threatened her with premeditated intent. He'd wanted to
intimidate and frighten her, nothing more. It was fun to
think of Cecily squashed in a breast guillotine and Lucy
similarly attired, but that was as far as his fantasy went.
He could never allow the mastectomy to proceed any further,
regardless of the provocation, because Lucy's breasts were
too precious to him and their fate and the fate of Cecily's
tits were intrinsically connected.

Cecily, didn't understand this, however. She hadn't worked
it out. "You don't have the means..." she coughed, caught in
a whirlwind of blindness.

She was transfixed. Her arms were no longer tied for Howard
had already unfastened the last of the ropes, yet her wrists
remained locked to the centre of her back by some invisible
force. It was if the memorizing power of Howard's voice
restrained them.

He leaned forward.

"I have the means, mam," he hissed, and a cruel ripple
crawled along his mouth and an idea came to him as he
considered what he was about to attempt. "The guillotine is
with us today and awaiting your reacquaintance," he began.
"It was smuggled to England by one of your peers and brought
secretly to this place at my instruction. It's been an
attraction to the staff: a gruesome reminder of what happens
to a careless, female operative who gets too big for her
station. It's here, mam, ready and awaiting your pleasure."

Cecily shuddered. Her lips curled. Her face fell. Despite
the transparency of his lie it seemed that she was open to
doubt.

"Yes, mam," he said, nodding exuberantly. "I have it in my
possession."

Cecily swallowed hard, unsure, uncertain. "You're bluffing!"

"No. I'm not."

She stared at him, searching his face.

"You're bluffing!" she repeated.

But his face was a blank. "Am I, mam? Am I really? Are you
sure?"

"It's not here. It can't be. I left it in Egypt."

"Then I shall describe it to you, mam, and convince you that
I know of it and have seen it and that I now own it."

She paused, pestered with self doubt, her breathing paced in
fast shallow bursts to which Howard listened and smiled
maliciously. "It's an ingenious invention," he observed
slyly, working his way around her. He began at the front and
was soon at her side. "There's a hinged box that sits across
your chest like a clunky mechanical bra. Am I right, mam?
Half of it is laid against your back, and the other half has
holes for your breasts and it swings lazily across your
front, enclosing your beautiful round globes. These are
pushed through the holes so that they protrude, and when
these sit comfortably, nuts are placed onto the bolts and
tightened, fixing the front part of the apparatus to the
rear. The contraption now begins to constrict your chest and
it's painful. You can't breathe.  But it gets worse. Now we
use spanners to further tighten the nuts, and this
compresses your ribs and squeezes your tits until they poke
obscenely through the holes. They're squashed and misshapen
and a rich shade of purple, and then a third and final piece
of the apparatus is bolted to the front above and below your
swollen, pressurized tits and tightened with spanners. This
is a sealed unit that contains the blade and its runners and
it can be adjusted, controlling the line of the blade as it
falls so that it's either close to the rib cage or away from
it. In this way, the operator determines how much of the
woman's breast - your breast - to remove with each cut: all
of it, a sliver, or none at all."

Cecily tossed back her head and strained against imaginary
bonds. "God! You bastard! I believe you! You have it!"

She was unable to free herself from the power of Howard's
suggestion. Her hands were magically held to her back by the
command of her subconscious mind and she couldn't move them.
She didn't understand why it was that despite her best
efforts, despite her struggling, nothing came of it.

Despite having been freed, she was bound as surely as if
there were rope binding her wrists.

Howard watched her as he continued to circle around her,
enjoying her struggles and her confusion and discomfort.
"Does my description match the machine that you encountered,
mam?" he asked.

"Please! Let me go! I beg you!"

"I shan't repeat myself, mam. When I ask a question, I
expect to be answered. So, I asked whether my description
matches the machine that you encountered."

"Yes, it does! Damn you!"

"Very good. Now who is the lady in the locket?" Howard's
fingers walked across her shoulders to her neck, exploring
and grasping the locket, first by the chain, and then
clasping the tiny ornament itself within his large, bulbous
fist.

Cecily would have stopped him if she could, but her hands
wouldn't move. She was paralysed by the simple power of
Howard's suggestion and she didn't understand why that would
be. "Who is she?" Howard repeated, clutching the locket and
tugging Cecily forward by the chain, using it to bridle her
body to his own. She came easily, like a shellfish plucked
from its shell, and soon he had her in front of him and they
were eye to eye. They were touching, skin against skin, her
breasts mashed against his chest and his cock stabbing her
belly.

"I shall enjoy disfiguring your bosoms," he whispered into
her face, pulling her mouth to his own. She could feel his
hot wet breath blowing against her face, as he malevolently
encouraged her to protest. Fortunately for her she chose not
to because that was just playing to his strengths. "Slice by
slice I shall remove them," he taunted. "Piece by piece,
morsel by morsel, and I shall fuck you throughout. I'll do
it slowly. I'll eat them, mam. Absolutely. I'll eat your
tits, and I'll screw you as I do it."

Cecily pulled away from him, repelled by his threats. She
struggled and yet somehow her arms remained behind her back,
where he'd ordered that she keep them. Her fingers stretched
and then flexed, but she could do nothing to move her freed
arms.

"Who is it, mam?" he persisted, his mouth finding hers and
joining it with his tongue. He was teasing her now and she
twisted her head to avoid him but he followed her face and
her lips and he kissed her again, glancing furtively towards
the clock and the time. Not long: another twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes more.

He pulled at the gold chain. He was winning. He knew it. If
Lucy could keep enduring by the willow tree for just a
little longer then victory could be theirs...

Lucy was a strong one: a brave one.

And then the chain snapped - ruptured between his fingers,
the gold links cracking and splitting one after another,
pinging and spinning in mayhem and falling onto the grass.
Howard was surprised by his strength.

He'd broken it.

He looked at the locket, ordinary, and just as Cecily had
described it. The face of a woman lived in its shell, and
she was smiling at some inaudible joke.

The photo was recent and he pondered it.

"Who is she?" he wondered, and he studied the anonymous
face, the blonde hair and the classical features.

"Do you know this person?" Howard asked her, studying the
picture, holding it towards the light and scrutinizing it,
searching for clues. There were none. "Is she real?" he
frowned. "Or an illusion?"

He was wondering whether the woman might be a model, hired
by a photo agency for the perfection of her face.

But Cecily refused to be drawn, and Howard scowled at her
again, scrutinizing the picture.

"It's an illusion!" he alleged. "A trick."

"A trick, Mr Pendrill? Are you sure?"

"I could prove it. I could hurt you: make you talk."

"You could. Yes. Of course, we've agreed that that's
possible."

"You're too calm, damn you! Aren't you even a little
frightened?"

"Oh, yes, Mr Pendrill. I'm scared! But what can I do? I
carry on. That's what I'm paid for."

She was still struggling to free her trapped arms, not
seeming to understand that they weren't tied. Was this
struggle real or a clever pretence of a perverted
imagination?

"You should be scared," he mumbled angrily. "I have a
guillotine."

"Oh yes. Of course. I'm sorry. I'd forgotten."

"I'll nail you to this tree and thrust my cock up your ass,"
he added, frustrated by her gay oblivious attitude. "That
for starters!"

"Oh yes. Lucy will enjoy that!" Cecily answered him curtly.
"That'll be nice. Has she ever been buggered, Mr Pendrill?
Is she perchance familiar with the experience? And what
about the guillotine? Should our dear friends be preparing
Lucy for that delectation too? As you know, what you do to
me will also be done to her."

He lifted himself high and puffed out his chest, but no air
came out. She had him. He was trapped, and slowly, he felt
himself deflate.

"Mr Pendrill," she said. "This level of brutality is
difficult for men to master and you won't do it: not to me;
not to Lucy. It takes a special kind of man to torture a
woman in the face of repeated, pitiful screams, so let's be
honest with each other."

"I am that man."

"No, Mr Pendrill. The reality of inflicting pain is not the
same as the fantasy. Do you imagine that you can torture me
because the idea of it is amusing to your genitals, or
because you've read about it in some weird work of fiction,
or because you've seen a video in which a woman is ravished
and butchered? The story of a humiliated, de-breasted woman
may provide you with a lifetime of hard-ons, Mr Pendrill,
but the reality is different. In it, a man must deal with
vomit, blood: and the acrid stench of a woman's shit mixed
with the knowledge of having destroyed another human being.
It isn't titillating, Mr. Pendrill. It isn't nice. In the
reality, there are pangs of conscience haunting every
action, and the tragedy touches the woman's friends and even
the man's own family. They must learn to deal with it too."

Howard puffed out his chest. He was arrogant. "I can do it,"
he told her bombastically. "I can perform a bitmeal
mastectomy on your tits as God is my Judge! And don't doubt
me because if you do, I'll slice your tits until they're as
flat as pancakes, and I'll eat them too."

Cecily sighed in subdued disappointment. "Mr Pendrill.
You're talking from your ass. You forget that Lucy is my
governor and that what you do to me will also be done to
her. Are you going to let your friends slice up her tits
too? Surely that's beyond even you!"

"I will. I swear it!"

"Mr Pendrill. I don't believe you. I've lived at the coal
face and I've seen the men who torture, and you won't
condemn Lucy to the guillotine because a woman's tits are
her beauty, her glory and pride - the very essence of
femininity. Admit it, Mr Pendrill, you're not so cruel and
heartless as to steal a woman's womanhood: Lucy's
womanhood."

Howard grabbed Cecily's breast meat, squeezing the soft,
feminine flesh. It was a premeditated act of mindless
brutality designed to stop her in her tracks. Time was
ticking away and something had to be done. Thirty minutes
she'd said: and only fifteen minutes were left. If he was to
win this battle and learn the identity of the lady - he
mustn't lose focus.

"Your titties are history," he roared, rolling Cecily's tits
through his fingers, and noticing that the consistency
changed between the nipple to the base. "I don't make idle
threats, mam. I'm going to nail these titties to this tree
and be done with it."

The black flesh was firmer, harder; and the white flesh was
more pliable. He could feel where one woman ended and the
other began, and he carried on squeezing, digging his nails
into the join, just behind the nipple.

Then he heard a sound in his head. He thought he heard his
name buried in the incoherence and babbling of the shrieks,
but he may have misheard. The cries were panicky, lingering
and broken, disintegrating into a series of low rumbling
shunts. It was hideous and he knew it was Lucy!

Oh shit! What were they doing?

What was going on?

He was trapped: caught between fulfilling his threat to
Cecily and providing succour to his girlfriend, and he
couldn't do both. Hurriedly, he looked along the path to the
distant meadow, a broken and naked man, distracted and
serious, his cock heaving in long crazy arcs.

He could see them there: twelve men jostling behind her and
positioning themselves, prodding and poking with their
fingers. Someone had ripped open Lucy's vest, torn it; and a
second man had hoisted her bra and lifted it from her
breasts, scooping the cups without bothering with the catch;
and yet another man had bunched her skirt to her waist and
had buried his hand in her pussy.

"Oh fuck!" he exclaimed, bleaching pure white. This was
happening too fast! No wonder Lucy was screaming.

A single soldier was directing matters. Howard could see
that he was standing at Lucy's rear, reaching round and
dipping his nails into Lucy's nipples and pinching them as
hard as he could - just as Howard had done to Cecily.

Another man braided her hair, while a third man was tarting
her to look like a whore, clumsily painting lipstick onto
her lips so that the colour bled from her mouth. He daubed
her cheeks with powder and her beautiful eyes he circled
with ink.

And as Lucy swore at them, other men laughed at the lurid
curses this pantomime induced.

Howard's breathing quickened, and there was a tightening in
his stomach. "Oh God!" he muttered. "Oh God, Oh God, Oh
God!"

"I warned you," Cecily reminded him. "I told you it would
happen.  I told you that the soldiers would do it. If you
hurt me, Lucy will suffer too, I said. And now: what a
dilemma you face, Mr Pendrill! They're prettying her up!
Getting her ready, just as the tribesmen of Uganda do. Do
you know about Uganda, Mr Pendrill? Are you educated in the
customs of that country? The philosophy is that a woman
ought to be radiant and sexy under torture. Imagine that!
When a woman is accused of a crime, the whole village turns
out and it becomes an event. Women are brought to attend to
the hair of the accused. They bathe and perfume her body.
They decorate it with henna and dress her in expensive
clothes and men line the streets, for there is a procession
with music and singing, and the beating of drums. The woman
is led through the village with flowers adorning her hair
and she's taken circuitously to the gate, past every home in
the village, and there at the gate, the village elders
question her, and everyone gathers round and they're hushed
- the men, the women and the children. The silence is
pristine and heavy and thick and it can be cracked like
layers of glass. Everyone knows that the beautifying is a
prelude to pain, an introduction to torture, to rape and
sexual degradation. The signal is given and the trial begins
and all the men cheer. One is elected to be the woman's
tormentor and he takes the lead. He strips her naked and he
rapes her, and the villagers watch and sing songs and
applaud. He invites others to join him, apparently at
random, and these take their pleasure too. They rape her and
they hurt her. Next he calls on the woman's family, her
cousins and brothers to rape her, and when they've added
their seed to that of the others, finally, the tormentor
calls to the woman's ancestors to gather together and judge
her and he throws his magic fetishes to the ground. He bends
to study them in his solemn mystical way, mumbling to the
dead spirits for their help and assistance, and finally he
pronounces on the guilt or innocence of the woman.

"The women of Uganda know what happens and because of it
they never look glamorous. They dress dowdily and plain,
keeping themselves to themselves. The know that the spirits
will side with the men folk and will hand them to the men
they most despise for their raping.

"Mr Pendrill? What are your thoughts? Perhaps you should jog
to the far side of the meadow and tell dear Lucy about the
secrets of the ladies of Uganda? Perhaps it might help her
today."

Howard didn't think that this was a good idea at all, for it
was mockery, ridicule. He would have liked to have jogged
across the meadow, but not to tell Lucy about the ladies of
Uganda. Instead, he wanted to remind her that she must be
strong, and he wanted to reassure her that he loved her. He
wanted to encourage her to dismiss the rubbish she was
undoubtedly hearing from the buffoons around her; and he
wanted to explain that she was suffering in a noble cause
and she must be unselfish.

But he hadn't the courage or the words that he craved for,
so he didn't tell her anything. The words were rolled up and
he'd lost them. There was no comfort or salve remaining in
his heart; and no support in his soul.

He was dumb, silent, and he was wondering how Cecily might
fare in Uganda. She was well travelled and she'd visited a
great many places. Maybe she'd already been to that country
and had stood at the gate of a tribal village with flowers
in her hair and henna painted on her arms, and ink
decorating her eyes. If so, and those tribesmen had
appointed a representative from their number to tear her
clothes from her body and beat her: had she noticed that
this court representative was freely accepting bribes and
gifts from the very men he then invited to rape her? And
that they were tutting and arguing about her black,
Frankenstein breasts?

"You might tell Lucy, Mr Pendrill," Cecily interrupted,
"that despite your efforts to hurt me, you've had no effect
on my spirit. I'm not broken or cowed. You can slice off my
tits and do what you can to my body, but you can't make me
talk. I'm impervious to pain."

Howard smirked, surprised by that comment. "Impervious to
pain? Do you think so?"

Impervious, indeed. It was an absurd, facile, impulsive
remark.

And very easy to test...

**
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