This is a fictional story depicting images of violence, rape
and torture. Don't read if these are likely to offend, or if
you are not an adult. Although this story is loosely based
upon the notorious Villa Grimaldi in Santiago, Chile,
remember, the story is fiction.


A Red Hot Chile
by Grim Williams

Copyright 2000. All rights reserved.


Part One



Last night I was fast asleep when my Chiquita woke me. She
was hot, excited. I noticed it at once.

"Have you been playing with your pussy?" I quizzed, groping
under the covers for her hands. When I found them I pulled
them up, sticking her red finger nails beneath my nose.

"You have," I declared in surprise. "Your hand. It's been
inside you. It stinks of wet pussy."

Her face fell. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to.
I know I shouldn't. But I couldn't help it."

Her eyes were blue and open. Her blonde hair piled loose on
her pillow framed her beautiful young face. I felt my
flaccid cock begin to stir with desire. There was something
different about her tonight, alluring, something I had not
seen before. "What is it?" I asked. "What is it that's
making you so hot?"

She became embarrassed. She didn't want to say. "It is a
secret," she sighed, fluttering her eyelashes, suddenly
embarrassed and coy.

I laughed. I could smell her perfume, sprayed between her
breasts. It was feminine, pungent, divine. I sat up. "We do
not have secrets, you and I. We promised. What is it? Tell
me, my sweet one?"

She lifted her head, leaning her delicate features upon the
palm of her hand. As she moved, I caught the glimmer of her
gold cross, nestling secretly between the upper contours of
breasts hidden beneath the bed covers.

She was quizzical. "Why do you ask? What good will it do
you? I don't think that it's healthy for you to know such
secrets. It is nothing, just a minor insignificant thing."

I disagreed. "There should never be secrets between husband
and wife," I insisted. "You should tell me what it is. What
is it that has made you so excited?"

She didn't want to tell me. She tried to fob me off. "You
are too assertive," she complained, rolling onto her back.
"A wife should not have to tell her husband everything. He
has secrets. Why should she not have them too? Sometimes I
think that it is your job that makes you this way, that
makes you think you have some divine right to know
everything about me. It makes you demanding, overly
demanding. It isn't right, my Captain. Your job is
interfering with our marriage."

I rubbished the idea, because it was nonsense. "My job has
nothing to do with you and I, it never has done. My work is
work and that is where I leave it."

She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself to conceal her
nakedness. There was something bothering her, something
different about her tonight. "That's what you tell me, my
Captain. I used to believe you, but now I am not so sure.
Sometimes I think that things can become blurred. Maybe they
haven't yet, but that isn't to say that they won't. For
instance, let me ask you. Let me give you a hypothetical
situation. Let us suppose that the police were to take me to
the Grimaldi..."

"You?"

"Yes, me. It is not impossible. It could happen. Let's
suppose that one day, the police were to accuse me of
conspiring against the government. What would you do then?
Would your work still just be a job to you? Would you be
prepared to torture me, your own wife, because the
government tells you that this is what you must do? Could
you do that? Tell me, my Captain. Could you actually hurt
me? Or would you just pretend? Tell me how it is."

I pondered. It wasn't a question I had ever considered. "You
think I should pretend?" I asked. "You think I should
protect you because you are my wife? Is that what you are
saying that I should do?"

"No," she disagreed, quite firmly. "That is not what I'm
saying. That is not my question at all. You are missing the
point, my Captain. My question is about you, you, my
husband. I should like to know what kind of man I have
married. I would like to know how he would act given such a
situation. So tell me, what is the most important thing in
your life right now? Am I the most precious thing or is it
our President?"

I thought again, and the more I thought, the more I realized
that I couldn't answer her. Not truthfully. "I don't know,"
I conceded. "I really don't know. But I do know that there
is a third option that you haven't considered."

"Which is?"

"That I might give you to someone else to question."

She nodded. "Yes. I had thought of that. You might. But is
that what you would do? If the authorities decreed that I
must be tortured, your wife, would you do it yourself or
would you turn me over to another? Or would you find some
way out for me? Please, my Captain. Tell me. I should like
to know. I need to know."

I felt uncomfortable under the pressure of her questions. I
shrugged. "Which would you prefer? Would you like it to be
me?"

I knew at once that this was the wrong answer. It was a cop
out. It made my Chiquita upset, very upset. She climbed out
of the bed, pulling the sheet about herself, pulling it from
off me. She held it against her body as if to say 'This body
is mine. I don't trust you with it any more. And so I don't
permit you to look upon me or to take my body's spoil.'

Desperately I tried to retrieve my mistake. "It was a silly
question," I protested, laughing rather nervously. "You have
to admit that. It's nonsense. You are a good citizen, a true
citizen. You are never likely to be in such a position, my
love. Why do you ask such a thing?"

She swallowed hard. I could see her breasts rising and
falling behind the white cotton sheet. I could imagine them,
firm, round, and without any trace of sag. She is quite
gorgeous, my Chiquita, and not given to hiding herself from
me. I found this sudden modesty quite sexy and appealing. I
wanted to grab hold of the sheet and tear it from her body
and then stare greedily upon her nakedness.

She must have seen the hunger in my eyes, because she pulled
the sheet even tighter about herself, and moved away from
the bed, sitting coyly upon her dressing stool. I felt like
I was a stranger from whom she needed protection.

She looked down at the carpet, avoiding my gaze. Then she
murmured, very quietly. "I need to know, my Captain. How
would you behave? Would you be soft? Would you be lenient,
given that I am your wife, your only one?"

I sighed. "I might want to be soft," I explained. "Of
course, in my heart, I would wish to be lenient. But how
could I? I am expected to get results. I must get results. I
must be as hard as is required to obtain those results. What
is it, my love? Why do you ask?"

She looked up, staring at herself in her mirror. I noticed
for the first time that she was still heavily made up,
mascara on her eyes and gloss upon her lips. Her cheeks were
fiery red and burning. "Oh, I don't know. It struck me the
other day that I don't know anything about what you do at
work," she said.

"So? What does it matter?"

"I should know. People say, 'What does your husband do?' I
say, 'He tortures people.' They say, 'Doesn't that worry
you?' The more that people ask me that question, the more
that I wonder. Should it? Should it worry me, my Captain?"

Her face was so open and questioning. I hardly knew what to
tell her. I began slowly, honestly. "Maybe. I get confused.
Maybe it should worry you, just a little. It is not an
honorable profession to be an interrogator. I ask myself the
same question. I don't know any more. But to be brutally
honest, I suppose, yes, maybe it should. I think you should
be a little concerned."

She was silent for some time. I wondered whether I should
say something more. I also wondered what she could be
thinking. Was I suddenly a demon? Is that what she thought?
Finally, she asked. "How many of the people that you
torture, how many of them are women?"

I cleared my throat. It seemed such a simple thing, and yet
I had never told her. I couldn't understand. Why had I kept
this a secret? Of what had I been frightened?

"They are all women," I said, my voice quiet and apologetic.
"The Grimaldi is center for women. Only women are ever
brought there."

This seemed to confirm her worst suspicions. Suddenly, she
found it difficult to frame her questions. "What is it that
they have done? These women? The one's that you torture?"

I sighed. "Many things," I lamented. "Usually something
small, but which could damage the government in some way.
Perhaps someone in their family, or a friend, is working for
the resistance. Or else they have been heard to say things
against the government. We have to discover the full extent
of what they know, or what they have done. It doesn't mean
anything, Chiquita, the things I do. I don't do it to make
you jealous. It doesn't mean anything at all. To me, it is
just a job."

Her hands were shaking as she held the two edges of the
sheet together. "There was a woman," she began. "A pretty
young woman. I was speaking with her today down at the
library in Santiago. We were talking. She knew who I was,
and what it is that you do. She said that she had heard that
when women are arrested and taken to the Grimaldi," My
Chiquita's voice faltered. "She said she had heard that the
women are required to undress. She said that the
interrogators insist on questioning women without their
clothes. Tell me, my Captain. Is this, what this woman told
me, is it true?"

I nodded, blushing. "I'm afraid that she is right. It is
true. We ask the women to undress."

"And you do this, my Captain? You do it yourself? You always
strip them naked? The women that you question? There are
never any exceptions?"

I had to be straight with her. I had promised. I could not
lie. "I do not pretend," I admitted wretchedly. "But yes, it
is always the case. In all these years I have never left a
lady with her clothes."

"But surely they must protest?"

"Of course they do," I sighed. "I'm not proud of what I do.
It is not an honorable profession. You are right, my love.
Many women protest, in fact, most of them do. Some get
extremely upset and cry. They find being stripped in front
of several men extremely embarrassing. Sometimes they
refuse. Someone has to then hold the arms while I pull off
their clothes myself."

She seemed churlish. I'm not sure why. She began to stride
up and down the bedroom, emotionally, stridently, the white
sheet flowing behind her. There was color in her cheeks. I'm
sure that it wasn't the rouge. "Why do you do that? It must
be so humiliating. I have to know, my Captain. Are you told
to do it, does the government order you to do it that way?
Or is it because it excites you to have control of a naked
woman? Is that what it is? Is it lust that drives you? Do
you do it simply because you can? Tell me. Does it turn you
on to make a woman remove all her clothes and bare her body
for you against her will?"

Reluctantly, I nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry, my love. You are
right. The government does not command it. We do it, we do
it because we want to do it." I admitted wretchedly. "Are
you angry? Do you hate me for it?"

She wouldn't answer. Instead, she pursued me relentlessly
with her questions. "So how aroused do you become? Does it
make you very excited? Please be honest. Please, my Captain.
Does it make you more excited, for instance, than when you
make love to me?"

I remained silent. How could I answer that? It would hurt
her so much. "Tell me," she repeated. "Why are you so quiet?
Answer me, damn you!"

"I can't answer because I'm too ashamed," I admitted
miserably. "You are right. I am not proud of myself. I get
far more aroused stripping and humiliating a woman, a rich
socialite, for instance, who is sent to me in her designer
dress, her expensive jewels and her hand sewn underclothes.
To have such a lady as my degraded slave, obeying my every
whim, under my absolute control, is far more arousing to me
than when you and I make love. I'm sorry. I wish this
weren't true. But you asked for the truth. There is nothing
to compare in terms of excitement with inflicting pain on a
beautiful woman. Nothing."

She became quiet. I could tell that she was thinking, her
eyes were so distantly focused. At last she said. "I want to
be there. Just once. I have to see what it's like. What you
do. How you operate. Please. Just once. I shan't interfere
or get in the way."

I smiled. "That is not possible, Chiquita. It is not allowed
for wives to come to Grimaldi. It is the law. Only those
women who must be interrogated are allowed inside its
gates."

She fell silent again. "They say," she said at last. "People
say, that you care about nothing but torture."

I jumped at her. "Who says this?"

"It doesn't matter. Lots of people. The lady in the library,
she said it for instance. But she is not the only one. There
have been others too."

"But it isn't true. How can it be true? Chiquita, you know
me. You know that it's a lie. I care for many things. I care
for our great dictator. I care for his illustrious
government. And I care for you, my dear little wife."

She smiled, relaxing a little. "That it what I said. I told
them all. I said that you are a great man. You care for your
family, for me."

"Of course. This is so."

"However, the people, the woman this afternoon. She did not
believe me. She said again that all you care for is torture.
This talk makes me very angry, my Captain. Very, very angry.
She said, this lady, that the only believing was if I did
something, a token act for the resistance."

I felt my chest tightening. This couldn't be true. "But you
didn't listen. You didn't do this thing?"

"You understand," my dear one said, very slowly. "If we are
to have a life together, if we are to be happy, I have to
understand your work. People say such disturbing things. I
have to see what you do."

I shook my head. "I have already explained. That is not
possible. Wives are not allowed..."

"I understand that. You have told me. No women are allowed
inside the Grimaldi, that is, except for those that have
been taken there for interrogation."

For the first time I began to understand what she was
asking, what she was really thinking. I shook my head
firmly. "No," I declared absolutely, angrily. "It is not
possible. I won't have it, not my wife. This is ridiculous.
How could you possibly think of such a thing?"

Her face was more radiant than I have ever seen it. The
flush extended to her neck where it disappeared behind the
folds of the sheet that she held across her breasts.

"Are you sure?" she asked coyly. "You've sometimes asked to
do things, to make love to me in ways that I couldn't
tolerate, that the church has said is wrong."

I was astounded. "You mean when I asked to take you in the
butt? Are you serious? You cannot be. You cannot understand
what you are saying. Do you understand what I do? I torture
women, Chiquita. I cause them immense unimaginable pain. No
one in their right mind would volunteer for such a thing."

Her bottom lip was trembling, the muscles in her neck
contracting nervously. "You would cause me great pain, I am
sure. But I think you also love me. I don't think you would
hurt me more than I can bear. You do love me, do you not, my
Captain?"

"This is ridiculous," I protested.

Her face was so open and trusting. I didn't understand her,
couldn't comprehend why she would ask this of me. "I have to
do this thing," she explained with such sincere earnestness.
"I have to understand the man to whom I am married, whose
children I should like to bear. I have to understand of what
he is capable. Can you not grasp this?"

"No," I howled. "This is lunacy, I forbid it."

She looked down shyly, at her feet with their red painted
nails. "Then tell me why you are so excited. I can see your
cock. It doesn't lie. Why is your cock so hard, my Captain?"

Guiltily I stared down at the massive erection that
protruded obscenely from my groin. Now that she had taken
the sheet from the bed, I was uncovered, and my penis was
there openly exposed for her to see. I blushed, for I had no
excuse.

"Tell me the truth," she urged. "The thought of having me in
your power, it excites you. Please do not lie to me. We are
too close. Be honest with me, my Captain."

I had no option but to admit to it. She could see the
evidence with her own eyes.

Her breathing was now fast and shallow. "Wouldn't it also
excite you to show me off?" she whispered hoarsely. "To make
me strip in front of your colleagues, to know that it is
your wife that they are looking at and lusting over? You
would like to see my body twist and heave to your perverted
command. Admit it, my Captain. I can't bear lies. Tell me
the truth."

I did. I admitted that she was right. "But you cannot want
this," I added. "I can accept being called perverted, evil.
I'm not sure, perhaps there is something very wrong with me.
But with you it is different. You do not want to be hurt: no
one desires that. I don't understand. Please. You must also
tell me the truth. Why, my love?"

She looked up, her blues eyes clear and open. She grasped
the crucifix about her neck, clinging to it tightly. "I do
not desire it. Pain is my enemy, not my friend. I am more
terrified than I have ever been in the whole of my life. But
I have to know. I can't live my life always wondering." She
took a deep breath. She was sweating; there was a sheen of
perspiration covering her rouge and upon her bare shoulders.

She spoke very quietly. I could barely hear. "I have done
wrong," she confessed. "I have betrayed both you and my
president. I have to tell you. If I do not admit it, then I
could not live with myself."

What was this? "Tell me," I asked slowly, firmly, anxiously,
steel creeping into my voice. "What is it that you have
done?"

She didn't move. Her eyes were lowered. There was a
flickering of her lower lip. "My Captain," she said at last,
her voice quivering.

"Yes, Chiquita."

"Can I trust you? Can I truly trust you? You will not mark
my body or spoil my looks?"

I couldn't answer her. What was she asking? What did she
mean?

"You will remember that you love me and that I would bear
your children?"

"Tell me. Tell me what you have done," I demanded.

"Please. Promise me."

"I am your husband," I said noncommittally, making no
promise at all.

"Yes, you are my husband," she agreed, reflecting that she
had gained no promise, no commitment at all from me. She had
to ask the question of herself: to what extent did she trust
me? It seemed that she did, for, despite my lack of
reassurance she continued with barely a pause.

"But you are also an officer of the law, an official of my
government. Today, I think I have done a stupid thing. Very
stupid. I believe I need your advice."

I waited for her to tell me. It took her a number of
minutes, but in the end she did.

Very slowly I made the call. It wasn't easy. I felt
physically sick afterwards at what I had done. But I had to
do it. When it had been made, I said. "You realize that
there is nothing I can do now. What is done, is done."

"I know it," she whispered. "I thought perhaps, I hoped that
you would not make that call. But somehow, I knew deep down
that you would."

"You have betrayed me, my Chiquita."

"I know it. I am very sorry. I had hoped that our
relationship was stronger than your sense of duty. I had
hoped you would forgive me. I said to people, to the woman
this afternoon, that that's what you would do."

"There will be much pain. Why did you have to be so
foolish?"

She shivered. "Have I been foolish? Was I wrong to trust
you? Will you be very cruel to your Chiquita?"

I looked away from her guiltily. "I don't know. I really
don't know. I hope not. I have never been asked to torture
my own before. I have no idea of what I am capable."

Her voice was still calm, although she was obviously full of
emotion and fear. I was proud of her strength. "Then it is
God's will. I have to know the worst. I have to know whether
I am married to a man or to an evil monster."

I became distraught. "I am so scared, Chiquita. I am
frightened that I will to such terrible things to you that
you will never want me again. I am afraid that you will hate
me afterwards, that things will never be the same between us
again."

"Things never remain the same," she counseled. "They change.
We grow. Life moves on. We constantly discover new things in
each other and this causes feelings and affections to
change, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse."

I nodded. She was right, but I was still very scared of what
I might lose.

The minutes ticked by. She didn't move. I think she was
reflecting on what was now going to happen. The way she
stood, it was as though she were already in custody. She was
holding the white sheet to herself; her long hair flowing
across her shoulders, her makeup slightly stained from her
perspiration. Finally I could bear it no longer. "Please my
dear one. Don't make me do this. Let me hand you over to
another. Let me hand you over to another man."

She smiled. I could not believe this strength. She spoke
simply, almost in a whisper. "But will it not excite you to
torture me, my Captain? You have already admitted it. My
suffering will stiffen your cock more than my love making
ever managed to do."

I agreed. This had already been decided. "That is true."

"So tell me about the man, the other man. If you were to
hand me over to him, wouldn't he be aroused too?"

"Of course, my love. Of course he would. How could he not be
aroused? You are such a sexy woman, my Chiquita. He is bound
to be aroused."

Her face beamed with pleasure. "You have never told me that
before, my Captain. You have never said that you think I am
sexy. Why have you waited until now?"

I was flustered. "I'm sure... I must have said it many
times."

However, she was quite sure. "No. Never. Not once. I would
have remembered."

"I cannot believe that I have never told you. I must have
done so at least once."

"Not even once. You may have thought it, but you have never
uttered the words. Perhaps it is not my body, but the
thought of what you are planning for it that you find so
sexy."

I was about to deny her accusation, to tell her that it was
ridiculous, when I realized that it was probably true. I
felt awful. I didn't deserve this woman. How could I live
with her now, now that she knew the kind of man that I was?

However, she was sweetness itself. I felt worthless.
"Listen, my Captain. I would so much rather it were you,
that is, if I really must have a tormentor. Of course, I
would rather... I would rather..." She gulped. "Oh dear. But
that is impossible. So given what must happen, what will
happen, I would rather that my suffering and my humiliation
excite my husband than be gloried in by some stranger."

Now I felt truly despicable. For there was something else I
would have to tell her. "My dear one," I began. "I must tell
you that it will not just be me. I will not be the only one
abusing your wonderful body. I am one of a team. There are
two other men too. Their names are Juan and Pedro. They also
will be there. They too will watch your nakedness, and will
become excited by the twitching of your body. I'm sorry, my
pet. However much you try, there will be no part of you that
will remain a secret to them. They will touch your every
crevice. And when they are sufficiently aroused, you will
take each of their cocks in whichever hole they care to
choose. Chiquita. How can you possibly bear this?"

She bit her lip nervously. "And is that what you do, my
Captain? Each day at work? When you are sufficiently
aroused? Do you also plunge your cock into whichever hole
you choose?"

I looked away from her, distraught. I realized what I had
said. "Yes."

"So what must I call you? Now that I know this? When people
say, what is your husband's occupation, must I say, he is a
rapist? Is this what you do, my Captain?"

She made me feel dirty and contemptible, but she was right,
that's what I was. I'm a rapist. I rape women. I do it every
day. I no longer consider that it's unusual or wrong. It has
become a habit. "Yes," I said, my head lowered. "That is
what I do."

"And I will be raped?"

I nodded again.

"And you will not stop this? Are you telling me that you
will watch your own wife being raped and that you won't lift
a finger to stop it?"

"I cannot," I answered her abjectly. "I cannot stop it. If I
try, then they will suspect. They will know that you are
someone special, someone close to me. And once they know
that, it will be over, this game. They will make an example
of you, do such unimaginably horrible things. I could not
bear that. You must promise. My Chiquita. Whatever happens,
however much pain I ask you to endure, you must never ever
intimate that you know me or that you are my wife."

Her mouth dropped. She still did not understand the
importance of what I was saying.

"Promise me," I insisted. "You cannot imagine what they
would do, how evil these men are and how they would use you
to test my loyalty. It would be fun for them. They would
make me cut you, mutilate you, and they would watch to see
that I could do it. Please. Promise me!"

She looked up eagerly. "But if I manage this, if I conceal
from them that I am your wife, then everything will be okay?
You will make it easier for me?"

I snorted. "It will not be easy."

"But you will try? You will at least attempt to make it
easier? Just a little?"

"I will try. But..." I looked to the heavens. "What can I
say? How can I tell for certain how I will react when you
are tied to the grill? I am so sorry. However will you bear
it, my dear one?"

"I will have to bear it. What choice do I have? But if I
know that you are tempering your excesses, that you love me,
then I take some comfort. Nothing else can be done. You have
made the call. It is already too late to stop what is to
happen, is it not?"

I nodded. It was.

"Then God have mercy on my soul," she avowed. She looked
down at the sheet she was holding, deciding, working out
what she thought. Suddenly she let go of it. It fell to the
floor with a gentle sigh, in an airy heap about her ankles.
She stood entirely naked, her blonde bush neat and well
trimmed, her firm breasts beautiful and round with small
raised nipples that called out to be touched. In the valley
of her breasts stood her crucifix. Christ was hanging in
torment in the middle of paradise. "Please, my Captain," she
begged, trembling at the ferocity of my gaze. "I trust you.
I pray that I am not mistaken. I know that I will suffer,
and that you will hurt me, but I trust that you will
discover my limits and not go beyond them. Fuck me. Fuck me,
my Captain. Do it now. Please fuck me hard before they come
and take me away."

My cock had never been harder than it was right then. I'm
sure that if I had so much as touched it, then it would have
exploded, shooting my come in a fountain across the room. I
went over and took her in my arms, my penis twitching in
front of me, pressing against her stomach. I lifted her
easily in my arms, kissing her tenderly, and deposited her
softly onto the bed. We didn't wait. I took her at once.
Time was short, and we didn't possess enough of it for
romance or finesse.

I turned her over, opened her legs and, parting her labia,
pushed my aching tool inside. The sex was hard and fierce, a
bout of mutual taking, each of the other, orgasms stolen,
moments of ecstasy snatched with animal passion.

When we had finished I allowed her to shower and to dress.
Then we sat together talking, waiting, for the officers to
come and take her away.



End of Part One


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you for reading the first part of 'A Red Hot Chile'. I
have to confess that my sole involvement in the torture
scene has been in a fantasy capacity, so "the experts" will
probably spot many inaccuracies and shortcomings as this
story progresses. For these I apologize. But hey, this is
fantasy.

I've written a good chunk of part two, but any thoughts as
to what it should contain will be gratefully received.

I'm also planning a new story, which I'd like to write from
the female perspective, ideally to appeal as much to women
as to men. If there is anybody out there brave enough (or
desperate enough) to provide any insights into what makes a
torture story work for women, I'd love to hear.


Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com
