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From: Grim Williams <grim_williams@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Governor (Part 3) MF caution
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<1st attachment, "=?utf-8?q?Governor=203.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 Three : "Becoming Salome"



Lucy Caldwell was 22 years of age, smart and beautiful, and
she was Howard's girlfriend. To concentrate on her more
important statistics for a moment: Lucy had a 34 inch bust,
34 inch hips and a 23 inch waist. She was 5 feet 10 inches
in height, and she weighed 125 pounds in her lace panties.
She had a tanned Mediterranean appearance, so much so that
her friends asked her if she was Greek, Spanish or Italian,
to which she answered, yes. Her mother was Italian.

Lucy's long black hair caressed her breasts at the front and
it swept across her shoulders at the back. Below it, her
torso was flat, long, and dark on the eye, sweeping from her
breasts to her groin in a single sweet curve, and her legs
were majestic, taut and sinewy. It appeared when you looked
at them that they continued forever, and if you started at
her feet and climbed to the top, you were sleep-walking on
Everest, and in this cold rarefied air, there were frostings
of triangular snow untrimmed by scissors and razor, and you
yearned to run your teeth through this hair: and this was
Lucy's beauty and charm, for there was something naturally
unspoilt about her body, and when you gazed through the
pubic fronds at her swollen slit, you couldn't help
wondering whether you might be the first man to have seen
it, although you weren't, not by a long chalk. Not at all.

What else could be said?

Perhaps this: Howard was Lucy's fianc, and yet he'd never
properly set eyes on this feminine treasure or even touched
it - her Mount Everest, her triangular snow, not in the
privacy of a bedroom or even during a secret embrace. It was
only on stage whilst she was performing Salome that he'd
seen it. Here, he'd seen it as one of a thousand strangers,
which was perverse given that Lucy was his girlfriend; but
then, that was her nature. Lucy was perverse. She was the
world's greatest perversion, an enigma, and this was her
madness.

You see: she wouldn't swear, smoke, or drink alcohol. She
refused to laugh at dirty jokes and she certainly wouldn't
entertain matters that she considered 'unseemly'. She
imitated her mother in her dress sense. Her skirts were
generous in their length and sturdy in their construction,
almost dour and Victorian. Her blouses were high around her
neck and they hadn't any hint of a bust; and although she
wore makeup, it was never to excess; and although she wore
jewellery, it was never to distraction.

This then, was Lucy Caldwell, the supporting actress of our
story. She was a relic of a bygone age, a prehistoric
dinosaur. She'd told Howard on several occasions that she
was opposed to sex before marriage, and when she said it, it
came as a pronouncement: "I must tell you, Howie. I don't
believe in sex before marriage, and I won't fuck you - I
mean it - I won't do it, however ardently you ask me."

And yet, unaccountably, this self-confessed prude had oodles
of sexual experience.

For instance - and we shall describe these events in more
detail later in our story - at seventeen, she privately
entertained twenty eight boys with an afternoon of exotic
striptease at an ice cream parlour; and a year later she
stripped and flashed outside an army camp, and there were
police, soldiers and journalists all looking on. At college,
she was known for singing operatic arias in a seedy downtown
strip bar for tips; and more recently, she danced the Seven
Veils in a local production of Salome, a performance which
caused such general uproar and mayhem that Lucy became an
object of gossip in the town.

Only in these staged, impersonal performances had anyone -
including Howard - seen her naked. In these, she was another
person: a sex crazed whore, wanton, lustful and abandoned;
but at all other times, she was plain good old Lucy - the
perfect embodiment of decency.

So when you put these sides of her together, Lucy Caldwell,
for certain, was an enigma. Her quirks were variously
romantic, irritating, sexy and unpredictable; and Howard was
alternately frustrated, angered and endeared to them.

For instance, suppose he put a hypothetical proposition to
her. For the sake of our argument, suppose he said: "Lucy,
imagine that I've invited some friends for dinner, and that
you're the hostess, and following a main course of Boeuf
Bourguignon, served with mushrooms, shallots and new
potatoes, accompanied by two bottles of Chateau Lafite
Rothschild Pauillac 1999, I suggested that you go to the
kitchen and bring out a Pistachio-Walnut Baklava dessert in
your skimpiest black underwear, and then you should sit down
in your mock Georgian carver chair whilst I tie you up,
loosen your underwear, and spoon you dessert, you'd have a
fit and you'd scream and you'd say that my suggestion was
offensive and a violation of your human rights and your
conscience. Isn't that the truth?"

Lucy would smile and agree to this: "If you did that," 
she'd offer. "I'd never want to see you again. What of it?"

And it wasn't a joke. She meant it, which was the point!
Lucy was weirder than an enigma and a paradox rolled into a
bacon sandwich and Howard would shake his head and unbutton
his collar and not know what to make of her. He would
continue his imaginary conjecture: "Luc. That's what I don't
grasp," he would add. "You tell me that you're shy and that
you don't want to act sexy, and then, when I know your mind,
you do something one hundred times worse than the thing that
I dreamed up. For instance, how could you have danced as
Salome in that stupid Opera? How could you, Luc? Sometimes,
I think you do it to spite me. I don't understand your
thinking at all."

And Lucy would skip across to Howard's side and snuggle
against his shoulder, and then her fingers would snake into
his shirt and she'd play with his nipples. "Wait till we're
married, my dear," she'd whisper, winking at him and shaking
her tits. "Because, then, when we're married, I'll serve
dessert to your friends dressed anyhow you want me. It might
embarrass them, of course, especially if the underwear were
skimpy and you tied me and unfastened my bra before spooning
me dessert. But I'll do it, Howie; I'll do it for you. After
the wedding I'll consent to any of your nonsense, but I
won't do it before."

And he'd groan and protest because she was cracking his head
in. "There you go again, Luc! You're supposed to be
conservative and Christian - that's what you tell me - but
you don't act it. This Salome thing is a fucking
contradiction!"

And Lucy would snuggle more deeply into his shoulder, and
she'd feel his warmth and sniff his familiar manliness.
"What's the matter, my love?" she'd tease. "What's this
about? Do you object to my singing?"

"No. You know it's not the singing," Howard would belly-
ache, weighing his words because she was unbuckling his belt
and undoing his fly.

"Oh God!" he'd gasp, because she'd slipped off his belt and
she'd tossed it casually onto the floor, and the noise was
loud. "Then what is it, my dear? Don't you like my dancing?
Is that it? I'd have thought that you'd have loved to get a
good view of my tits shimmering and jimmying on stage,
because I have pretty tits, Howie. Nice, sexy tits. Don't
they turn you on, my dearest? I think they do; they must do.
I hope that they do."

"You know that they do," he shuddered, for she was sliding
her tiny fingers into his fly and she was exploring inside.
There was a pair of black boxer shorts that she found there,
and a generous bulge that was getting bigger and larger
because her hand was groping and teasing it out. "What about
my pussy and my ass, Howie?" came her innocent repost. "Did
you look at them as I danced in Salome? When I was naked and
everyone saw me? Did my pussy excite you and were you aching
to possess me?"

"Of course I was!" he gasped, not breathing, for she was
extracting his bulge from his pants, and it unfurled, a big
purple knob and a swollen stem, with veins running its
length and a big fat hole at the top. She settled down at
his side, making room for herself. and then she spat saliva
into her palm and rubbed it into the walls of his tool.

"Be patient with me," she cooed gently, applying her saliva
generously to the sides of his cock, and her fingers worked
it around his balls and into his groin, and she kept
rubbing. "I know that my restrictions are frustrating and
don't seem to make sense, but it isn't all bad, my dear.
Having a Christian wife does have its benefits, because, you
see, a Christian wife is bound to her husband for the length
of his lifetime and she must obey whatever he asks of her.
That's her duty, and even if the command is painful,
uncomfortable or cruel, even if it makes her feel awkward
and embarrassed, a wife's duty is to be obedient to her
husband. Think of the power that bestows to a man, my dear,
for there is no possibility of divorce, and no separation or
way-out even if the husband becomes intolerant and
unreasonable. A wife must stay at his side and do as he
demands: no argument, and no discussion, and no alternative.
Think about that carefully, my dear, and understand why I'm
careful in choosing who I marry."

She purred to him softly and she kept rubbing his tool with
the skill and wherewithal of a professional, and her face
was buried in his shoulder, hidden from view, and she was
smelling a man: her man, and her breathing was deep and
erratic. "You can make me do whatever you like when we're
married, Howie. You can beat me. You can make me serve
dessert in black underwear or with a ball gag filling my
mouth. You can strip me naked and parade me in front your
mates and have them fuck me while everyone watches. You can
play poker and wager me for a brace of one dollar bills. The
Good Book says that a wife must be obedient to her husband.
It says that if she won't do as he says, that he must punish
her until she learns to obey, and that's the way it should
be, my dear, and I support the right of a husband to apply
such discipline to his wife."

Howard clung to his chair as the speed of her hand
accelerated on his cock.

"When we're married you'll be my master," she whispered
softly, her tiny fist working faster and furiously as she
worked on his foreskin. It seemed that she was after
conquering his dick and her hands were devious and evil!
"You can torture me and humiliate me, and I'll be your sex
slave, Howie. I'll obey you absolutely and irrevocably.
Anything you ask of me, I'll do it - anything - but until
then, you must prove that you deserve me and keep your hands
to yourself."

Yet secretly, despite her words, she yearned that he kiss
her, that he rip off her clothes and carry her upstairs and
tie her to her bed. She yearned that he would touch every
inch of her flesh and tease her, and when he was done, she
wanted him to hump her pussy and screw her to the floor. She
was so horny for Howard's cock that she could barely contain
her hands and her mouth and her words; and yet the limits
had been laid down, and she had no choice but to observe
them.

For now, at least, the candy must stay in its box...

Howard was horny too, and yet for him the waiting wasn't so
frustrating because Lucy's fingers were making him happy and
they were artful and they were bringing him off. He moaned
again because his climax was building, and he could sense
from his spasms that he was threatening to blow. Oh God.
Here it was. Her hand was in control, beckoning that he
spurt. Here it was. He could feel it, and that he was
coming! Here it was. His orgasm! It was coming! And yet,
suddenly, her fist stopped in mid stroke and although she
was holding his dick, it was too firm, too strong, too
calculating, and she'd ceased her movement and very
deliberately she was starving him of stimulus and
encouragement, nailing the lid on his pleasure.

Then she kissed him, and it was a long, lingering passionate
kiss; a kiss of hunger and emotion, of craving and pain. Her
hand was holding tightly to his cock and he could feel
Lucy's climax bubbling inside of her and building like
molten lava rising in a magma chamber and searching for the
surface, and he knew that there was nowhere to escape to,
nowhere to go, and the force of his own cum was rising too.

And then, just as the frustration got to be intense and
unbearable, she let go of him and the pressure exploded and
it blew out the volcano and he didn't know what had happened
or where it had come from, but he knew that he'd made a mess
of his pants.

Jesus.

And again, she kissed him: deep and passionate, and Jesus.
He was embarrassed and mumbling his apologies and looking
for a tissue even as she wiped his cock with her skirt. She
wiped her hands afterwards in the same way, again, cleaning
them with her skirt, and then she French Kissed him using
every square inch of her tongue, and at the end of it, she
sighed and shuddered and groaned, before returning to her
keyboard and that same terrible piece of music that she'd
been playing before, the only visible sign of what had
happened being the sticky mess of his cum staining her
skirt.

God.

Howard was confused. What was going on here? What had she
done? Lucy was driving him to distraction, repeating those
same damned chord sequences, and there was the stain of his
cum on her skirt and she was doing nothing to hide it.

Howard sat there on the sofa in bewildered silence,
listening to her playing despite not liking the music
because it seemed the right thing  to do after what she'd
just done. He sat there admiring the curve of her torso and
the shapeliness of her ass through her clothes, and it was
worth the confusion to experience that stain on her skirt.
It was worth the wait - Lucy was worth the wait, and he
could wait. He could wait if he had to. He could wait until
after they were married. He could wait. He could wait
because then he could fuck her and he could own her.

He could have her. He could possess her.

Oh God.

He'd tried so many times to make sense of their
relationship, to know what they were and where they'd come
from and where they were going, but he hadn't yet managed it
and he couldn't, and that was the truth. "You play that part
of Salome because it's art," he'd complain, slow and
confused. "But what is art, Luc? Tell me. Tell me what you
think."

"I'm not qualified to answer," she would answer, striking a
dud note and staring disbelievingly at the keyboard. "I sing
because I'm a singer and I'm in need of the work. I do it
because I have to and not for any higher spiritual reason,
and certainly not because it's called art."

"But it isn't art, it's licentious," Howard would complain.
"That Strauss Opera is obnoxious! It's a piece of tat that
should be given to a stripper to dance! It's not worthy of
you, Luc!"

Lucy Caldwell would stop playing, and she would object,
because she always objected to Howard's rants. "Salome calls
for a strong, technically trained voice," she would flush
indignantly, clearly enunciating her words. "No stripper
would do as I did, and she couldn't. She might dance quite
well, but she couldn't sing the way that I can sing, because
she wouldn't know how to start!"

But Howard's argument wasn't drawn from the technicalities
of singing. It was about Lucy's sexuality: about the fact
that she was stripping, and yet she was always so dour.
"Salome takes off her clothes," Howard reminded her slowly.
"There is Grand Opera and there's Comic Opera, and that's
popular too, but this isn't either of those. In fact, it's
not Opera at all - I mean - not the way that you dance it,
Luc - it's simply a strip show and worse. There are people
who come to this show to be titillated and for no other
reason, and I've heard people admit it. I've heard them say
that they don't come because of the worthiness of the music
or the cleverness of the plot, but because they've heard it
rumoured from some mate down the pub that an otherwise
devout lady who sermonizes in Church is undressing and
making a bare-assed spectacle of herself down at the
Majestic, and that's what draws them."

Lucy laughed as she listened to Howard's protest. She flung
her arms into the air is some dramatic creation of her own
and she laughed aloud. "Howard. That's humbug! It's crap!
What I do is theatre - can't you see it? The fact that I
dance the role doesn't mean that I think Salome is wonderful
or that she'll be someone to emulate; neither will I copy
her morals. It's a role, Howie. What's so hard to understand
about that?"

Howard dropped his head and bit his tongue and said nothing
because Lucy was passionate in the way that she defended
herself and it was unsettling to hear her being so
passionate about stripping when there were so many more
important things to get passionate about: like Global
Warming and the war in Iraq.

Here was the enigma again. Here she was the contradiction.
what could Howard say? Lucy was wearing a roll neck pullover
and calf length skirt. Her hair has tied back and her makeup
was dour and conservative. Dressed like this, so modest and
sedate, it was difficult to imagine her cavorting on stage
and manipulating her sexual parts and inciting male watchers
to fuck her, yet that's what she'd done and Howard had seen
it.

He sighed, and he withdrew from the argument because it was
perturbing and it was tensing him up. All the time they were
talking he kept imagining Lucy on stage, naked, and how he'd
seen her that first time.

He remembered it well.

He remembered it being a Tuesday night and that she'd taken
him to the Majestic in search of an opinion. That's what
she'd said, shyly holding his hand, her every nervous touch
dripping with tension and promise. An opinion. She'd taken
him to the stage door and there she'd stood in the distant
gloom of a single sodium street light, struggling to open
the lock.

"I need a male opinion, from a man that I trust." That's
what she'd said.

He remembered that she'd been emotionally high, giggling and
elated, tripping through the open doorway and along the
corridors that lead to the foyer. Here, it was cold and
dark, full of dull hollow echoes and expectant spaces.
Nevertheless, Lucy had been talking incessantly about the
production and how exciting it was and who was in it and how
she'd come by the part.

And then she'd thrown open a door and they'd walked together
out of the foyer and into the cold, damp auditorium, and
there she'd kissed Howard's cheek and she'd squeezed his
arm, and moments later, she'd abandoned him by the orchestra
pit and she'd rushed up on stage.

There had been silence for some seconds while she was doing
it - emptiness, loneliness - and Howard was thinking that he
was missing Lucy already when suddenly the lights came on
and she'd reappeared on stage as a mystical whimsy of beauty
and sex. She'd glided slowly across the stage and there
she'd stood bathed in the focus of a warm spotlight, radiant
and already quite sexually aroused, her face flushed, her
clothes loose and her hair tied back.

That was what she'd been born for, what she enjoyed, being
glamorous and erotic: treading a stage and assuming a
fictitious character. Here, she could escape from her
present troublesome life with its strict moral code and
endless rules and she could become someone foreign, with
that person's loves and hates and strengths and phobias. She
could transform herself into another, more morally ambiguous
individual, and she could discard her religious constraints
and negativities, her ethics and her conservative
brainwashing, and she could clothe herself with another
contrary set of beliefs, and believe them.

There she was. Salome. She stood on stage, and she lifted
her skirt at one side - something that Lucy would never do.
She lifted her skirt casually to her hip and she began by
giving Howard an overview of the Opera. She began slowly,
explaining that Salome was born to a noblewoman, Herodius,
of an earlier marriage. Her father was Philip, but the
mother deserted Philip and married Philip's younger brother,
King Herod Antipas, and this, Lucy explained, was the crux.
Herodius's marriage to Herod was a sham, a political
coupling designed on the one hand to gain influence for
Herodius, and on the other hand to give sexual access to
Herod.

Herod made no secret of his lust. He wanted to bed Salome
and he was determined to do so, regardless of the sacrifice.

He explained to his friends and officials that he'd paid
handsomely for the mother so that he could gain proximity to
the daughter, and he would have her. There was to be no
refusing him.

Lucy stood at the front of the stage and explained this,
walking confidently, her dark sultry eyes glinting as she
acted the parts.

She explained that Salome had been raised in Rome amidst
decadence and brutality, and Herod's desires hadn't come as
a shock.

Here, sex was openly visible. Captives were brought to the
Capitol as fodder for the games; the men to fight as
gladiators, and the women to be used as dessert once the
combat was done. They were dispensable, all of them. The
fates of men and women alike were sealed before they ever
arrived fettered and chained in Rome. They were here for one
purpose only: the men to fight, and the women to be raped,
exhibited and executed.

Salome had experience of these events from a very young age.
She'd been taken to the games as a girl along tree lined
roads where the strange foreign women clung overhead,
clawing for their lives, begging and sobbing and pleading to
be spared of their misery. She'd been taken this way by her
mother, and she'd held her mother's hand and she'd looked up
at these unusual women hanging from their silvery leafed
trees high above her, their hands and feet riven with nails
and nothing else to support them.

As an impressionable youngster, Salome witnessed their bare
breasts and their shaven pussies sweating in the intense
Italian sunshine, and she grew accustomed to their hollow
wails and their terrified cries, the brutal sights and the
inhuman smells. Sometimes she would study the jagged lines
left by the whippings and the dried semen that clung to
their bodies, and she'd wonder with naive curiosity what it
was all about and what it meant.

The wretches would hang there for days, growing thinner and
weaker, calling in strange peculiar tongues to various
powerless Gods, until eventually their sounds would fade
into silence and they'd die in a whimper.

Throughout this time, there would be jeering and cat calls
from the crowds; and Salome would partake in this sport. She
would place bets, just as the other girls did, as to which
of these women would die first, who would last longest, and
all the other sexual things too.

By the time she was thirteen she was old enough to attend
the games unaccompanied, and she would arrive at the stadium
suitably jollied, and be escorted to her seat by male slaves
where she'd be given drink and refreshments. The drink was
drugged, and the refreshments were marinated in red wine.

They intoxicated and curdled Salome's mind. They made her
floozy, light-headed and sexy, and that was okay because she
had her male slaves who'd been ordered to service her
needs...

And afterwards, she would gaze into the arena where the
musicians blew their trumpets and she would see a column of
women limping round in chains, their heads bowed, their hair
shaven and their backs bent from the weight of their heavy
iron collars. They were the attractive ones, the girls too
pretty to be nailed to the trees, and although they'd been
picked for this special treatment, their fate remained grim.

They were tonight's prizes. These were the ones who would be
given to the Gladiators and be stripped of their clothes and
scourged and raped. They would then be killed in sexually
ingenious and entertaining ways.

Salome regularly came to the games for the excitement of
this combat, for the spectacle of raw violent sex and for
the service of male cocks. She watched the contests in a
daze, thrilled by the sight of foreign beasts wrestling each
other to the death. She liked the noise and the colour and
the clatter of clashing swords and the crunching of shields
and the smell of petrified sweat and bile. She adored the
thrust and the glint of a lance, and the judder of broken
bone as it hit.

Salome was hooked on this. She was attracted because the
Gladiators fought naked, and because their highly developed
muscles were exposed and because they aroused her feminine
curiosity.

She could see from a distance that the men's cocks were
built like pistons and she could see what they could do to
an ordinary woman's pussy, and she would lift her skirt and
beckon that her slave kneel and use his tongue to excite
her, and he would do so, flicking her pearl and teasing it
deliciously.

Salome took no notice of her slave. She was in a whirl and
she remained focussed upon the arena, applauding throughout,
for the Gladiators were muscle and masculine and powerful.

And suddenly, without warning, there was a winner and the
crowd became silent. One vanquished Gladiator lay shrieking
in pain, dying on the sawdust while his counterpart posed
for the benefit of the crowd, showing them his rolling
muscles and his huge swinging cock, and gesturing that the
women should taste it.

Salome sat enthralled, not breathing at all, while her slave
licked at her pussy, and she waited, knowing what was to
come. She waited, aware that the man would choose a prize
from the women, and he did so. He walked amongst the women
who'd been led shackled around the arena, and then he
pointed to the one that he wanted and this one was led out,
crying in her strange tongue and struggling to free herself
from her big heavy irons.

Salome squeezed her slave's head against her sex, beckoning
that he quicken, for the Gladiator was approaching his
prize. This was it. He walked across to her, and then, a
moment later he was next to her, and then he stepped around
her, and behind her, posturing for the benefit of the crowd.
Then, to the approval of his female audience, he lay down
his sword, and approached the manacled woman and tore off
her clothes, ripping them violently with both his hands,
leaving the various shreds at her feet.

The crowd loved this theatre and they were in uproar. They
cheered and screamed, and they liked that the woman was
being toyed with, being teased, and they loved it when the
victorious Gladiator forced her to the ground, where he
opened her legs and he fucked her.

Salome loved it too: everything. She loved the enforced
strip of the female slaves, their screams and their rapes.
She adored it, especially being so close to the reality but
not being part of it: yet having the slave lick her pearl
and making her cum.

She gripped the handrail in front of her and she gripped her
slave's head and she screamed in excitement. She screamed
manically and enthusiastically, and the slave's tongue
darted inside of her and his lips were sucking her juice.

He was inside of her, his tongue, probing her cunt, getting
deeper and exploring, inside her pink, taking her on.

This was Salome at thirteen years of age. This was the girl,
so, it'll come as no surprise that by sixteen she was no
longer a child but a grown woman with a lust for blood, a
woman who yearned to be corked at any and every opportunity.
It was sport to her, a diversion and a pleasure.

So as you'll have doubtlessly concluded from this
description, this woman was very different to Lucy. She was
in many ways her antithesis, and yet the two women were also
in harmony, for Salome had Lucy dwelling inside of her, and
vice versa. Salome was Lucy on stage, and Howard stood at
the front of the Majestic, by the orchestra pit, watching
her performing in front of him, his chaste reverent woman
suddenly transposed into this sensual other individual,
first of all mimicking the women as they were nailed to the
trees, then jeering with the crowds, then copying the
suffocating shuffling humiliation of the foreign women as
they were led around the arena in chains. Howard watched
Lucy playing these women being stripped of their clothes,
becoming part of it and hot on it, and then he watched Lucy
being fucked by a Gladiator, and that was magically sublime
as he watched her sweat, and perspire, and then burn.

God.

Here she was. Age 22. 34 inch bust, 34 inch hips and 23 inch
waist. She lay on stage, her legs open, pretending to be
fucked. She was half Lucy; half Salome. This woman lay there
bathed in the glare of golden lights and they pricked her
skin and teased off her clothes. She lay there pretending to
be raped, and she was burning for it and arching for it, and
by the end of it, she came. She climaxed.

Howard didn't know how or why or who or what, except that it
had happened and then he saw Lucy slip two buttons of her
blouse undone, and it seemed nothing of consequence, except
that Lucy never played like this with her clothes.

She parted her feet, licked her lips and she looked intently
at Howard, her hands unfastening her belt, and her hips
pulsating to an uncontrollable beat. Soon, she was lying on
her back in the middle of the stage, jerking her hips ad
unfastening another of her buttons, her body shaking like an
epileptic in the middle of a fit.

What the hell?

"Mr Pendrill?"

Howard jumped from his reverie and was caught in a strange
fiction between reality and imagination, dragged from his
trance by the insistence of Cecily's reminder.

"Can you hear me? Mr Pendrill?"

He pulled together his disquieting thoughts, and he looked
up into space, evading Cecily's quizzical gaze. He was
trapped between the stifling heat of his own unenvying
nakedness and Lucy's jealous wrath, for he'd promised to be
faithful and what was he to do now?

"Mr Pendrill!"

What was he to do? What was he to say? What was Cecily
asking of him?

"I'm sorry, mam," he mumbled awkwardly, superimposing an
image of a naked Cecily onto a story being invented by Lucy,
and suddenly it acquired a freshness that a moment before
had staled.

Oh God. Cecily was hanging from a palm tree outside the
Coliseum, and beneath her, a young Salome stood with her
mother, her young aristocratic face consumed with wonder.
Salome's eyes flicked to Cecily's bare breasts, and then to
her swollen nipples before settling finally on the nails
that had been riven right through them, and Salome grew
curious.

She was eleven, nearly twelve, and not yet adolescent. "Why
have they nailed her through the breasts?" she inquired of
her mother, pointing at the nails. They were six inches in
length, and they were uncut chisels that appeared more like
tent poles than nails.

Cecily could hear every word of this conversation as she
hung upon the tree, nails penetrating her labia and draining
her of energy.

"That's how men prefer it," the mother, Herodius replied
lazily, following her daughter's eager gaze. She saw that
Cecily's nipples had been ripped through the centre and were
begging to be touched, but that no one was there to touch
them. Both mother and daughter stared at Cecily's bare pussy
and the big nail that protruded there, and they each felt a
tingling in their groins, the daughter more keenly than the
mother. It was a feeling that was strange and new to her,
one that she didn't yet comprehend. "It's said that men find
it more alluring to watch a woman pierced through her
breasts and her pussy," Herodius observed dryly. "And while
I can't comment myself on the truthfulness of the rumour, I
believe it."

Salome's eyes became saucers and she stared at Cecily's
pussy and the terrible, diabolical nail protruding through
its centre. "Oh my God!" she muttered in her weak childish
voice, her hand rising innocently to her mouth. Cecily's
flesh had bruised before swelling and closing around the
wound. "Oh fuck!"

"Indeed, my dear," Herodius observed casually, looking for
herself at the nail and shuddering at the idea of it,
imagining that it was her pussy being penetrated, and that
it was her on the tree being looked at, and this was good
and fun to imagine because it wasn't for real. "But look how
she's enjoying herself. See how she likes it!"

Howard reminded himself that he'd vowed fidelity to Lucy and
that he wasn't playing around, and he was determined to
resist temptation because he'd promised to be loyal. He
reminded himself that this was the pact. If he kept it, in
return, once he and Lucy were married, she would obey him,
whatever he asked, anything, no questions, no limits.

Even in this last, terrible matter, she would obey him. And
if not: she would pay a terrible forfeit.

But right now it was Cecily filling his thoughts and his
mind. It was Cecily hanging from a tree with nails riven
through her breasts and with another nail penetrating her
pussy. It was Cecily sitting on a maiden's chair with twin
daggers penetrating her from front and behind, pushing up
towards her belly and making her roar. But Howard wasn't
done with her yet. He shrieked, cranking the iron stakes
into her holes in a manoeuvre of terrifying cruelty.

"Shriek, you bitch!" he screamed into her torn, twisted
face. "Shriek to the Devil and see if he hears you!"

Cecily studied him intently, teasing Howard with her pencil,
and tempting him to confide these cruel terrible thoughts,
but he refrained. "Will you answer my question, Mr
Pendrill?" she offered him again. "I asked whether you could
torture a woman."

"I know," Howard mumbled soberly, understanding the gravity
of the question much better than before. "And yes," he
answered. "If it were my duty to hurt a lady: I'd do it. No
problem, for I'm a soldier, and if it were my duty, I
would..."

He would do it... And the answer seemed noble, just and
simple.

"You mean it, Mr Pendrill? You're sure?"

"Of course. If it were my duty..."

But it wasn't noble, just or simple, because Miss Cecily
Freeman, the formidable and erudite Director of Psychology,
had contemplated more terrible thoughts. What would happen,
she wondered, if Howard's duty coincided with the torture of
his demure, beautiful and classically Italian girlfriend,
Lucy Caldwell?

What then? What if she were the victim, the lady whose tits
must be nailed to a tree?

How far might Howard's loyalty be strained before it
snapped? Could he - would he - torture the woman he adored
and admired? A woman who'd withheld her body pending a
marriage certificate, but who'd offered her body and soul to
him afterwards?

And how would the curiously enigmatic Lucy react to such
treatment? Well, there was only one way to find out,
although not just yet.

That was for later.

***


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