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 Three


I crossed in near silence to Interrogation Room 36. I had to. I could 
no longer trust myself to speak. It was too late now, too late for so 
many things. 

But as I escorted Francesca up the cold dark stairs, I was glad to be 
heading for Room 36, I was glad that it would be her, and no one else. 
We're old friends, she and I; we've worked together many times. She's a 
small decrepit room, familiar, like an old sock, with a cold concrete 
floor and stained flaking walls. Iron pipes criss-cross the ceiling, 
around which the remains of several ropes still hang, now covered with 
dusty layers of cobwebs. Her windows are unglazed, and the night winds 
often visit, kissing my victims and licking their cold naked flesh. 

The only illumination comes from a bare light bulb swinging in the 
center from a thick grime encrusted flex. I switched it on. "Burn dear 
candle," I thought, steeling myself, shoving Francesca roughly through 
the open door into the room. "Burn for the bastard that I am."

She was blindfolded and without direction, her arms out in front of 
her, searching for obstacles, searching for support. She wore high 
platform shoes that made her top heavy. Somehow she managed to check 
herself, but I came up behind and pushed her again, abruptly, causing 
her to lose balance. She cried out in surprise, stumbling into the 
steel bed placed in the center of the room, cracking her shin and 
groaning at the force of it.

"That hurt, my Captain," she gasped, pulling herself up from the bed 
and rubbing her bruised leg.

"That's why you're here," I reminded her softly. "I tried to release 
you, but you wanted to be hurt, remember?"

I wanted her to argue, to fight me, but she refused to rise to my bait. 
"Is this the place?" she asked reverentially, still massaging her leg 
through her loose maroon skirt. "Is this where you do it? Is this your, 
your torture chamber?"

"This is the place," I answered quietly, walking across to the unglazed 
window and staring out. "This is where you learn what true suffering 
means. Things must be different now, Francesca. While you're here in 
this room, I won't treat you as my wife, or show you compassion. That 
is my job. You are simply my property to use and abuse. Out there you 
may be Francesca Rodriguez, my sweet Chiquita. In here you are nothing, 
just a worthless object for my gratification. Do you understand this?"

I watched her flinch at my words, witnessed her distress, but for the 
first time her pain left me flat, unmoved. Dr. Jeckyl was dead; Mr. 
Hyde had risen.

"Are you beginning to feel sorry, my love?" I mocked sadly. "Are you 
beginning to regret this game that you have started?"

She drew in her breath, forgetting her bruised leg and standing erect. 
She steeled herself against my taunts. "Please," she begged. "I know 
what you're doing. I understand. Of course you will use your tongue to 
hurt me..."

I turned back to the window. "You will experience far worse than my 
tongue," I warned. "I don't speak to hurt you. I'm just telling you the 
truth. No more, no less."

"I know, my Captain. But first, please, before you start, may I be 
permitted to see? I want to see this place where you work, where you 
have tortured so many women, where you will torture me. I need to look 
around in order to understand. Please can I take off this blindfold."

I smiled with bitter satisfaction, my bottom lip turning into a snarl. 
I hated having to hurt my fragrant flower. But more than this, I 
despised my little one for forcing me to do it. 

"No," I hissed, my voice changing, becoming harder and colder. "Aren't 
you forgetting where you are, dear Francesca? This has already started. 
We are already in the Interrogation Room. Need? Want? What do I care of 
these things? What does anyone care? What you need and what you want 
are no longer of interest to me. You've decided that by forcing my 
hand. You are here to answer my questions and to do what I tell you, 
nothing else. Is that understood?"

Her head fell forward. She didn't argue. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I understand."

I carefully corrected her. "Yes, I understand, sir."

She opened her mouth as if to complain. My manner had rankled her. But 
then, just as she was about to speak; she thought better of it and 
submissively closed her mouth shut. She was finding it difficult to 
accept, but she knew the basis on which she was here, and that this 
began with subjection. Reluctantly she repeated my words: "Yes, I 
understand, sir." 

I nodded, satisfied, and then left her waiting while I got ready some 
things. She stood in total darkness, unaware of her bearings; of what 
was about her; or even whether we were alone.

She began to panic. "What are you doing, my Captain? Sir? How long must 
I stand here?"

"No one asked you to speak!" I rebuked. "Silence!"

She stepped back. "I'm sorry..."

"Silence!" I bellowed, watching her recoil at the ferocity of my voice. 
"I mean it! I won't tell you again!"

Anger rose from her belly. I saw it in her face, mingled with the pain. 
She bit hard upon her tongue, holding herself back, tasting blood in 
her mouth. The anger had nowhere to go, and so it seethed within her.

"Or perhaps you would like me to fill your mouth with red ants, 
thousands of them, all alive and crawling about. I could stuff them 
inside and then tape your mouth closed. Would you like that, 
Francesca?"

She shuddered. "No! Please!"

"Then be quiet, stand still and wait. What's your hurry, Francesca? Why 
are you so impatient to be hurt?"

When I was convinced that she was under control, I turned from her, 
unlocking the steel cupboard and pulling out a large drawer of tools. 
Juan would be here soon with Pedro. Then I could start. 

"Not long, Francesca," I said brusquely. "Just a little longer. Until 
then, think about the pain and pity your poor breasts. I love breasts. 
Think of all those little ways we may choose to hurt them."

Juan is our clerk. He writes down everything that's said and records 
the confession. Everything, that is, apart from, well, nearly 
everything. An accurate record of torture is never a clever thing to 
leave for posterity. Attitudes change, governments get thrown out. 
Neither Pedro nor I can read Juan's writing, and neither, 
unfortunately, can Juan. 

Pedro, on the other hand, is the medic on our team. Government 
regulations dictate his presence during any session of physical 
torture. He has to be there in case there's a medical emergency. Pedro 
claims to be a doctor. However, I'm married to a nurse, and I find that 
I know more medicine than he does.

For instance, every medic knows that when it comes to electrocution, 
you should never attach an alligator clip to each of a woman's nipples 
and then pass a current between them. It can cause nasty problems to 
the heart. Pedro, however, once saw it done that way in a movie, and 
now he suggests it every time.
 
He would be here soon: with Juan. Not long. And then it would start.

I couldn't help but pause and stare at her there. At the outline of her 
round breasts, modestly hidden behind her patterned sweater. Then my 
gaze skimmed down her broad hips, chastely concealed behind that long 
maroon skirt. And suddenly I knew. 

No doubts any more.

This young lady needed teaching a lesson. Francesca needed bringing 
into line. She had asked for it, although perhaps not really knowing 
for what she was asking. She was making me do this thing, forcing me to 
hurt her. Well now, unfortunately, she was going to get what she had 
asked for with interest.

I was going to grind her down. And, what's more, I wanted to do it. No 
doubts.

Even better, I knew how. I had the advantage of being her husband. I 
knew her better than I have known any of the women that I've 
interrogated. 

I knew her strengths and I knew her weakness. I was the one person who 
knew her Achilles heel.

Francesca is a religious woman, a faithful Catholic. She attends mass 
regularly; she has always been to confession. She has her rosary and 
regularly offers her prayers. That cross always hangs around her neck. 
Always, that is, except when we make love.

I once asked her about that. "Do you think sex is sinful?" I asked. "Is 
that why you take it off?"

She had grabbed my cock and thrust it eagerly between her breasts, 
squeezing them together, throttling my cock. "I couldn't do this," 
she'd said, quite seriously. "If I thought sex was sinful. But neither 
can I do it when Jesus is watching."

"Why not?" I'd asked. "We're married. Doesn't he know what married 
people do? I thought he could see everything, everywhere."

My cock was by now quite hard, as it rubbed against the warm valley of 
her bosom, the foreskin pulled back and the magic eye in its tip 
opening and shutting. "Eve listened to the serpent," she gasped, 
pinching her nipples and squeezing her breasts tightly together, moving 
her body backwards and forwards over my cock. "And after she'd listened 
to that serpent, she ate the fruit. It was only then that she realized 
that she was... that she was... was, totally naked."

I had screamed at her, feeling the come rise into my balls. "So what? 
What does that mean? What the fuck is that all about?"

Of course she hadn't answered. She was too busy pushing me towards an 
explosive orgasm. But afterwards, afterwards we had an amazing row, no 
more sex for a week, and she hadn't talked to be properly for days. As 
a result we don't talk any more about religion, crucifixes or God.

But I know her. I know her thinking, and right now it would be her 
undoing.

From a very young age, her parents have taught her to be modest, to 
cover her body and keep it sacred. This is her weakness. This is her 
Achilles heel. For instance, she wouldn't cope well with the removal of 
her clothes, not in front of strange men. And if I made her go even 
further, what then? She would find it so degrading and humiliating.

I smiled. It was a cruel, evil smile. It was no more than my darling 
wife deserved. I sat down on the narrow wooden bench, and took a moment 
to watch her more closely. She was still blindfolded, unaware that I 
was looking at her. She was standing awkwardly, rigidly, in that multi 
colored sweater, and her high platform heels. 

In darkness. In fear. 

Her maroon skirt was quite long, covering her knees by several inches. 
It was also fairly loose, sweeping about her legs when she walked. 

And then I began to undress her. I did it slowly, casually, in my mind, 
enjoying the experience, mentally plucking the clothing from her 
defenseless body as I might pluck the wings from off a helpless fly, 
each action cruel and well resisted. In my fantasy I lined up every 
police officer in Grimaldi, every flabby weasel and every unruly 
miscreant. They must all watch. This is what she would hate. I would 
strip her before them all. She would be Faye Wray to my King Kong. Only 
I would go much further than that dumb gorilla. I would remove her 
things, piece by piece, garment by garment, everything, until she stood 
with her hands self-consciously shielding her privates, tearful, and 
without a stitch to her name. 

Yes, she would be mortified, humiliated. My quiet reverie made me feel 
better, calmer.

Just then I heard movement outside, a low whistling as someone walked 
along the corridor. "Pedro is coming," I cried urgently. "Don't slip up 
now, Francesca. Don't do it! If you do, if you let on who you are, that 
you're my wife, then it'll be the end."

"What have we got?" Pedro asked waltzing into the room. He stopped, a 
few paces in, smiling, and then ran his gaze over Francesca's generous 
curves.

"Nurse," I told him tersely, proud that Francesca had immediately 
caught his fancy. "She decided to treat the bullet wounds of a 
renegade."

Pedro is a short fat man with greasy hair and an oily complexion. He's 
in his early thirty's with a wife and two small children. He continued 
to stare, moving steadily towards her. 

She knew he was close, even with the blindfold, for she could smell the 
stale garlic mixed with his cheap lotion. She tensed, sensing his 
scrutiny, and her breathing quickened, like a frightened rabbit caught 
in the lights of a fast approaching juggernaut. 

"Pretty," Pedro affirmed eventually, peering salaciously down the vee 
in her sweater, into the chasm between her breasts. "It's just a shame 
about the uniform."

"Which uniform?" 

"Precisely," Pedro responded curtly, now staring down at her ankles and 
then slowly tracing the line of her calves up to where they disappeared 
behind the folds of her loose maroon skirt.

Next he went behind her and stood admiring her ass. "Very nice. What's 
your name, love?"

She stood rigidly still.

"Answer the man, Francesca," I instructed.

"Francesca Rod... Francesca Fuella, sir."

A Catholic too," I added, pointing to her crucifix nestling securely in 
the deep hollow between her breasts. "Could be good. It wouldn't 
surprise me at all if she turned out to be quite prudish."

Francesca drew breath at once, blushing profusely. I noticed her hands 
tightening into tight fists, and the gentle quiver of her lip. Well, my 
sweet one, I thought, now you know that you've been rumbled.

Pedro left her, walking across to the steel cupboard where he pulled 
out a bottle. "Where's she from? Is she foreign? She doesn't sound 
foreign."

"No," I replied. "She's local. From here in Santiago."

"Pity," Pedro said good-naturedly, pouring a malt whiskey from the 
bottle into a large unwashed glass. "Foreign girls are smart. I love 
them. They anticipate so well. You only have to light a cigarette and 
then look longingly in the direction of a nipple and they know at once 
what you're about to do." 

Just as he sat down on the uncomfortable bench, sporting a big open 
smile that revealed two missing teeth in the front of his mouth, Juan 
arrived. 

He's older than either Pedro or myself. He must be about forty-five. As 
far as I can determine, he's never had a girlfriend, not for many years 
anyway. He just dotes on this old underweight tabby by the name of 
Sumo. Juan is a self-confessed cat lover. I've often wondered whether 
this is because he's very shy, or because he allows his work at 
Grimaldi to interfere with his personal life. He should be able to get 
a girl, at work he gets lots of experience, and for his age he's not 
bad looking: he's tall, almost six foot with silver hair and with a 
large bushy moustache. 

He marched in quickly, nervously, not giving any of us a glance, 
hurrying over to the desk, where he pulled out an unused notepad.

"You won't be needing that," I told him. "Not for a while in any case."

He stared at me blankly.

"Sit down, Juan," I grinned. "We'll be working later. But first, we 
play. Or did you think we didn't know your secret?"
He was surprised that I knew, but nevertheless, after a little 
vacillation, he obediently sat where I was pointing on the bench. 

I walked over to Francesca, who was still standing in total darkness, 
trying to work out what was happening. I took hold of her blindfold. 
"Now, let's get this off you," I declared, standing directly behind her 
and pulling deftly at the knot. 

"Thank you," she murmured.

The fragrant scent of her perfume was so intoxicating. I drank its 
sweet honey, filling my lungs with it. The knot began to loosen. And 
her hair! What a wonderful aroma! How well I remembered it tussled upon 
her pillow while I covered her with my kisses. 

"You wanted to see what an Interrogation Room looks like," I 
spluttered, pulling the blindfold free. "Then see."

She blinked, her eyes adjusting quickly to the light. Immediately, she 
glanced around, searching anxiously for whatever information she could 
find. She began with Juan's desk, in the corner with its hard chair set 
before it. A length of high-pressure hose was coiled next to it. Moving 
round the room, she saw the steel cabinet, now unlocked. It was open 
and inside she could see an assortment of whips and canes. 

A brown wooden bench, on which Pedro was somehow managing to relax, and 
Juan sat uncomfortably, stood against the wall. Above it there were 
several posters. Francesca's eyes opened wide as she stared at each: 
glamour pictures of busty women with clothes covering all of the wrong 
places, and with legs wide open. She stared accusingly at me and then 
back at the pictures, reddening slightly, but not offering a word.

Her gaze then traveled to the far corner, where there stood a small 
table, its legs on castors, on which I'd placed a green plastic tray 
full of wires and clips. She knew what these were for and the agony 
that they could cause, and her heart was heavy with dread.

Her tour concluded with the object immediately behind her, directly 
beneath the bare hanging light bulb.

It was the bed, the bed on which she had knocked her shin: a simple, 
metal bed, with no mattress. It's one of the old fashioned types, with 
large iron springs that had long ago gone rusty. It has a name, this 
bed. Fortunately for her, Francesca didn't know that name. We call it 
the parrilla - or the barbecue in English - and it is one of my 
favorite toys.

"Later," I told her, enjoying her worried expression. "We're saving 
that for later."

She stared down at it again, then over at the tray, then back at the 
cupboard with the whips and canes. She was piecing together the clues. 
She was guessing, anticipating her fate. 

"I know you've never been here before, Francesca," I said. "But I'm 
sure you must have heard the stories, the things people say about the 
Grimaldi."

She glared at me blankly, but her mind was still upon our toys.

"Answer me Francesca. I wouldn't like to get angry."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Of course, I'm also quite sure that most of these stories 
are nothing but gossip and innuendo. But there's a commonly whispered 
rumor, one that you may have heard. Have you ever heard people recount 
stories about women and their clothes."

Hesitantly she nodded.

"Excellent. So tell me, Francesca. What stories have you heard? What is 
it that you've heard people say?"

I watched the color suffuse through her cheeks while she nervously 
straightened her sweater at the waist.

"Come on, Francesca," I repeated. "What do people say?"

She lowered her head, glancing nervously towards Pedro and Juan. "They 
say that women are asked to undress..."

"Go on."

A shiver ran through her body. "They say that women are ordered to 
remove everything, absolutely everything."

"Yes?"

She was so conscious of Pedro and Juan listening, watching. Her hand 
pulled at her hair, anxiously tugging upon it. "Someone said, a woman 
said, she said that women are permitted no modesty, that they're tied 
with their legs wide apart, wipe open, with everything on display."

I considered. "And do you think these rumors can be true? Do you think 
that's possible? Or do you think that people make these things up?"

She drew in a deep breath. She was still nervously touching her 
clothes, her sweater and her skirt, pulling at her hair. "I'm sure that 
the stories are true," she said. "You see, I was told this by someone 
who knows."

"Ah!" I stepped away from her, sitting casually at the end of the 
bench. "By someone who knows?" I nodded thoughtfully, scratching my 
chin. "Someone that knows. So I suppose that you're prepared?"

"Prepared?"

"Yes. Since you seem to know how things operate here, since you are so 
certain that the stories are true, then I imagine you must have given 
the matter some thought. Or is it an everyday occurrence for you to 
remove your clothes in a room of strangers?"

She glanced wildly across the bench to where Juan and Pedro were 
seated, and then quickly down at the floor. "I'm not prepared," she 
murmured.

"Pardon?"

"I'm not prepared." Anger was building inside her. I could hear it 
swelling in her voice. "How could I be prepared? What kind of person do 
you think that I am? Do you think I'm just itching for it? Is that what 
you think? That I'm just some cheap slut? I'll have you know that I've 
only ever removed my clothes for two men, two, two men in the whole of 
my life. How can you think I would be prepared?"

I smiled graciously. "It was just a question, Francesca. Nothing more. 
We weren't doubting your moral character. Well, anyhow, prepared or 
not, do you now know what you have to do?"

The question wiped the anger off her face and from there, out of her 
being. It took the wind from her sails, leaving her confused, dazed and 
frightened. "Well, Francesca?"

"Yes. I mean: Yes, sir."

"And you're going to it?"

She gulped. "Yes. I'll try. I'll try, sir."

I moved towards her. "Oh yes, you'll try, Francesca. You most 
definitely will. Because if you don't do everything I ask of you then 
I'll let Juan here hold your arms while Pedro undresses you. Pedro 
would like that."

I paused to check that Pedro was in agreement. I guessed from the size 
of his leer that he was. 

Francesca whimpered, clutching the crucifix round her neck 
protectively. "That won't be necessary," she whispered.

"I'm glad to hear it," I remarked. "We do have a request for you, 
though. Just a small one."

She waited anxiously, stretching her sweater at the waist, pulling it 
tight.

"I know you may not have had a lot of practice, and so, we promise to 
make plenty of allowances. We know that you're not a pro. But you see 
it's Juan's birthday today, and he doesn't have a girlfriend, and, you 
see, I forgot to buy him a present. So I thought, what better, we have 
Francesca. You can see that he likes you, the way that he looks, the 
way that he leers. I would very much like you to strip for him. Do you 
know what that means, Francesca?"

She stared at Juan for the first time, wide-eyed, her mouth dropping 
open. "I couldn't."

This was a surprise for Juan too, but he did his best to contain it.

"Of course," I continued, "I did consider asking Pedro to hold your 
arms and let Juan undress you himself, he'd like that even more. But I 
thought you might like to wish him happy birthday yourself. Do I make 
myself clear, Francesca?"

I allowed the cloud of this threat to hang over her.

"I do make myself clear, don't I?" I repeated.

"But I've never seen... A striptease. I wouldn't know what to do..."

"Francesca!" I warned.

She stopped, trying to speak, trying to protest, and yet unable. Her 
face was a mask of mental denial.

"Of course," I continued. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking 
that you could never bare your breasts or your pussy here in front of 
three strange men, for us to stare and leer at you. You could never do 
it in a way calculated to arouse and incite us. I understand. I do. But 
lots of women have stood where you stand, just as shy as you, and it's 
amazing how, after they start, just how easy it is."

"Please!"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. You have biology on your side. You have a 
naturally sexy body, beautiful breasts, wide curves and a nice tight 
ass. You'll barely have to move to have us all creaming our pants."

She blushed red. "God. Dear God! Please!"

"Now, Francesca," I teased, reminding her of her own words to me in 
Reception. "You wouldn't want me to make a special case of you, now 
would you? Juan or Pedro would think I was getting soft. All the other 
women in this room have managed to strip for us. They all tell us how 
they can't, how mortified they are, but eventually they do. And some of 
them have been very young: virgins. You don't expect us to believe that 
somehow it's impossible for you, do you, Francesca?"

She shook her head slowly. I wasn't sure whether this was in answer to 
my question, or whether she was refusing to undress.

"So come on. Get your things off, Francesca. Strip."

She stepped back, stiffly, turning away. "No," she cried, shaking her 
head more firmly. "I can't. I can't. I couldn't do that."

Time for action. I jumped forward, pouncing upon her, grabbing hold of 
her brightly colored sweater at the waist. "No!" she shrieked at once, 
striking out with her hands, fighting, retreating, forcing me to 
release her. Her flailing hands thrust mine away. 

She fled to the far corner, breathing heavily, wrapping her arms firmly 
and guardedly around her ample bosom, covering and protecting her 
clothes and her breasts. 

"Please, no!" she wailed, swaying unsteadily first to the left, then to 
the right, glaring at me fearfully, her long hair swinging from side to 
side. "Don't! Don't touch me! I'll do it, I will. I promise. Just don't 
touch me. Please. I just need a little time."

I stepped back and leaned against the wall. I crossed my arms and 
waited.

"No problem, Francesca. We've got plenty of time. In fact, all the time 
in the world. We can keep you in this room for as long as it takes. But 
remember, you don't eat or drink or sleep or use the bathroom until 
this thing is done. It's you that should be worrying about the time, 
not us."

She stared at me from the far corner; confused and numbed by her own 
distorted thoughts and emotions.

I left her there. There was no longer any need to harass her. She knew 
that she was going to have to do it: that she was going to have to 
undress. She knew that she was going to remove all of her clothes for 
us, and that there was nothing she could say or do that would change 
that. And she also knew that if she stubbornly refused, it would be the 
worse for her. She is an intelligent woman, my Chiquita.

But although she knew it, she hadn't as yet accepted it. That was to 
come. 

I waited. Pedro, Juan and myself all watched expectantly, sensing the 
struggle going on within her head, that was so clearly reflected in 
every aspect of her being. 

Maybe I saw it clearest because I know her best. Her face was downcast 
and slightly twisted away from me. Her eyes darted continuously in 
small jerky movements, constantly focused on different areas of the 
rough concrete floor. She kept wringing her hands, one in the other, 
and I noticed several repeated twitches in the muscles of her throat 
and her neck.  

Her mind was coming to terms with the fact that she no longer had 
control over her own modesty: that I was going to reduce her to a 
subservient wretch, was going to make her reveal her charms and use 
them to titillate Juan, a man she had never met. A man who would soon 
take great delight in humbling her completely. 

Her mind was numbed by these thoughts, was overloaded, enveloped in a 
massive black cloud of despair: a deadly gloom that congealed every 
positive thought and coagulated every action.

She stood in this fearful dilemma, knowing that what she had been asked 
to do was something she had been taught was sinful and wrong, that she 
had been brought up not to do, and yet she was being offered no choice.

"What's the matter?" I teased. "What is it Francesca? What are you 
hiding under those clothes? I'm quite sure that you're not flabby."

A tear rolled across her cheek and came to rest in the dimple by her 
mouth. I smiled with cruel jubilation, for it was a victory, clear 
evidence that I'd inflicted a psychological wound.

So how deep did it go? How much was she hurting? If only I could know. 

When would she begin? How long would she wait? What final spark of 
thought or emotion would trigger that critical movement that overcomes 
inertia and signals acquiescence? So many questions; so full of 
expectation.

There. Finally. There it was. A little choked sound, insignificant, 
almost missed, and very slowly, as if in slow motion, her hands begin 
to tug at her sweater.

"A strip, remember," I reminded her. "You're my present for Juan's 
birthday, so I expect you to make his cock real hard."

She whimpered, glancing fleetingly at an embarrassed Juan sitting 
rigidly with his hands crossed in his lap. 

"I'm bet you're not flabby at all," I repeated, as she pulled the 
sweater across her chest and then over her head, shaking her hair 
loose, letting it tumble across bare shoulders. Underneath she was 
wearing a tan colored bra. The cups were semitransparent and through 
the translucent material I could make out the clear outline of a small 
brown nipple in the centre of each breast.

"You've no reason to be shy, Francesca!" I drawled, as she self-
consciously covered her breasts while slipping off her platform shoes. 
"None at all. I can see already that you're a real sexy stunner."

She stood there, ten seconds, twenty, holding back her tears, burning 
at my taunts. We didn't hurry her, we didn't harry her. "A real sexy 
stunner," I intoned, watching every movement, every choked sniffle, as, 
embarrassed by our gaze, she pulled her sweater protectively over her 
chest.

I waited patiently for her to continue, staring at this contrite 
confused creature who had been caught between the devil and the deep 
blue sea. The room was silent apart from her stifled sobs. 

She was beautiful.

Finally, however, her hands began to move again, reluctantly, slowly, 
dropping the sweater onto the rusty bed and then resignedly slipping 
her fingers over the belt of her skirt, unbuttoning it and lowering the 
zip, pushing the skirt over her hips.

"Dance, Francesca," I ordered. "This is supposed to be a striptease, 
remember. So tease us. Where is the tease?"

"I trying, damn you," she burst out. "Can't you see? I'm trying. Don't 
you understand?"
Her face was drawn and pale, despite her rouge. She was thinking of all 
those times that her parents had told her to cover herself, to be 
modest, chaste like the Virgin Mary and not lewd like the sinners 
tossing and turning in hell. She was staring at nothing, staring into 
air, while her hands continued to push her skirt down her legs, letting 
it drop to the floor. 

"I'm trying, sir," I corrected pedantically.

"I'm sorry. Yes. I'm trying, sir."

She was a sinner now: lewd and dirty, worthless, disgusting. She rolled 
her feet from side to side, swaying her hips, making a weak attempt to 
do what she knew the cheap girls did.

But Francesca was far sexier. My cock was filling my pants. It always 
does when I'm making a lady undress. Some men get off on strippers and 
whores; I don't: they leave me cold. Where's the thrill in watching a 
woman who wants to undress, who is being paid a great deal of money to 
perform? The excitement isn't there: it's in compulsion, in forcing a 
woman to perform against her will, and to my whim.

She was so ravishing. I could barely restrain myself from sweeping her 
into my arms; scooping her up and fucking her until both our bodies lay 
limp and saturated. For she was doing what came as so alien to her; she 
was in such mental distress.

She stepped out of her skirt, neither looking at it nor picking it up. 

This time the pause was shorter. She went straight to her white under 
skirt; pushing the elastic of the slip over her hips and letting it 
slide to the floor. It fell with the merest exhalation of noise, a 
white polyester flimsy fluttering down in a loose wintry heap, falling 
gently onto shuffling naked feet and painted toes and hard gray 
concrete.

"Dance, Francesca," I reminded her. "Remember to dance."

She lifted her arms, and pretended to obey, moving her feet, twisting 
her torso.

"I'm no good. I can't! I've never done this! Please! Please, sir!"

She was wearing a pair of blue cotton briefs. I could see that now. Not 
the undergarment of a stripper or a lover preparing for bed; instead, 
the everyday garment of a woman caught on the street and then required 
to disrobe.

"That's good," I commended. "It's great, Francesca. Well done. Just 
think, you're virtually a stripper now." And she was good; she had her 
figure on her side. She was very good for a woman who had never done it 
before.

"Come on," I encouraged, as at last she reached for her bra. "Let's do 
it properly; let's do it sexy. Touch yourself. Stroke your body. Come 
on. For Juan, now. Do it for Juan!"

Francesca released a low whimper, allowing her lips to part and her 
hands to caress her body.

"That's good," I cooed. "But get closer. Let Juan see exactly what 
you've got."

"Oh God! Please help me!"

She knew we were looking, and so she kept her head averted as she 
stepped forward, her bare white feet with their splashes of red paint 
standing submissively between Juan's enormous black shoes.

"Be sexy," I chanted. "Turn him on. Make him hot. You can do it, 
Francesca. You really can."

"I can't! I'll try but... Oh God!"

Her hands gently massaged her breasts, slowly squeezing the soft flesh 
inside that translucent bra, beginning at the base, pushing towards her 
nipples. These movements were clumsy and crude compared with the 
practiced ease of an accomplished dancer, but it was this very 
inexperience that made her so good to watch.

"That's it," I encouraged. "Now touch yourself, Francesca. Feel your 
breasts, touch your nipples. Make out that you're enjoying it. Pretend 
that it's turning you on!"

Her head tipped slightly to one side and her eyes began to flutter. It 
was fantastic. I could make her do anything, absolutely anything now. 
She leaned back and used the flat palms of her hands to gently massage 
her firm round tit flesh. Fantastic!

"The bra, Francesca," I crooned. "Come on now, show us your tits."

Her eyes were barely open as she reached round her back, searching for 
the clasp of her bra. She was retreating to a world of her own making, 
shutting out the degradation into which I was driving her. She was with 
us and yet also elsewhere.

"Come on, Francesca," I ordered, pointing towards the pictures on the 
wall. "Get that bra undone. Quit stalling. Let's see your tits; let's 
see if they can cope with the competition." 

Her fingers were shaking as she slipped the catch undone, releasing her 
breasts. She slid the straps from her shoulders, then lowering them 
down long slender arms, allowing the tan colored cups to fall free, 
exposing her bare chest to us all.

"Oh God!" she moaned. "Forgive me! Please! I shouldn't... I feel so 
bad!" I felt the shudder, then the involuntary gasp as she opened her 
hands and allowed her bra to drop to the floor.

She moaned quietly, low and animal, holding her breasts in her hands, 
as much to caress and squeeze them as to hide them.

I couldn't believe her. She was hurting, sickened by her cowardice, but 
yet she was concealing it well. She was some actress, my wife: worthy 
of an award. 

But I wanted more, much more. "Do you take me for a fool?" I snarled. 
"I told you to play with your breasts, Francesca, so come on, grab 
them, play with them, do it properly, like you mean business! Come on. 
Touch your nipples. Pinch them. Pinch them hard, Francesca. Come on. 
Make them go hard."

I glanced at the wooden bench, at my South American Laurel and Hardy. 
Juan's wide eyes and open stare might be a nineteenth century 
photograph; such was the vacancy of his expression. But he likes 
ladies, even if he doesn't always show it. He was highly appreciative 
of what Francesca was doing, watching carefully as for the first time 
she obediently tweaked the ends of her teats, rubbing them, forcing 
them to swell and harden. 

I could tell that he liked her: he'd slipped a hand was inside the 
waistband of his trousers. 

The tips of her red painted nails bit into her thin brown bullets, 
making them stick out like short stubby pencils on the end of her tits. 

"Oh God!"

"Dance, Francesca," Pedro reminded her, joining in my chorus, his broad 
grin tempered with a cold mask of lust. "Grind your hips! Come on, 
bitch! Do we have to tell you everything? Make your sexy breasts 
wriggle. Pinch them. Wriggle them. Come on, prove to us what a slut you 
are."

She threw him an anguished glance, but then obediently began swaying 
her hips in time to an inaudible melody. She began slowly, awkwardly, 
but then warmed to the task, her torso undulating convolutedly in long 
smooth movements. As she rocked from side to side her breasts bobbed up 
and down, shimmering and shaking. Occasionally she would touch them, 
squeeze them, while Christ on his crucifix bounced in agony in their 
midst and small hard nipples swayed hypnotically in jerky figures of 
eight.

She was steaming, roasting in the clumsy exotic pressure cooker of that 
room, and she was despairing of every moment of it. "Pull down your 
panties," I stammered mechanically, drinking her breasts, yearning to 
squeeze them and hurt them. 

The air was red hot and melting the lining of her throat. Her lungs 
were burning and a tight knot pulled at her stomach. She tried to fight 
my command, to fight, to resist. Her panties: she couldn't, wouldn't 
pull them down. But her hands wouldn't listen: they offered no debate, 
no argument. Her hands moved despite her inner scream of denial into 
the waistband of her panties, pushing them down. My spirits leaped. She 
was bending, bending to my will. 

"God," Pedro growled, the grin finally frozen and the glint in his eyes 
sparking a deeper, darker reaction. Instinctively he lowered the zip of 
his trousers and pulled out his swollen dick, stroking it fiercely.

"God," Francesca repeated, staring at him in fear, at his angry 
throbbing cock aimed directed at her, thick, pulsating. Her arms froze 
at the sight of it.

"The panties, Francesca," I insisted. "No one told you to stop. Take 
them off. Come on. Do it. Do it now, Francesca."

"No! Please!"

Choking, she pushed down with her hands, sliding her panties sinuously 
across her hips, shyly lowering the thin blue cotton down her legs to 
her ankles and stepping out of them.

"Keep going, Francesca. Open your legs. Keep dancing. There's no need 
to stop."

"She's very pretty," Juan whispered, rising rhythmically as a snake 
towards its prey, gazing hungrily at the trimmed neat pussy dancing for 
his birthday. 

"Dance with me," he hissed, advancing quickly upon her.

Francesca tried to retreat, but despite the desperate screams of her 
mind, her legs wouldn't listen. She stopped dancing and stood, 
terrified, transfixed to the spot as he approached, staring up at him, 
starry-eyed, the heavy mounds on her chest swelling with agitation.

My own cock was also uncomfortably hard. It makes me irrational, when 
it gets like that. It makes me want to do things I wouldn't otherwise 
do. I now had an uncontrollable urge to twist her arms behind her back, 
and then hang her by these from the iron pipes above us. I wanted to 
hear my beauty scream, to watch her naked body writhe and twist at my 
orchestration. I had never been so aroused by her body.

Pedro had plucked her panties from off the bare concrete. "They're 
wet!" he burst out, sniffing into the cotton gusset.

"They're not!" Francesca contradicted at once in acute embarrassment, a 
bright crimson glow extending down her neck and across the upper part 
of her chest. 

"Here, let me see!" I ordered, snatching the garment from out of 
Pedro's grasp.

I stared down at the fragile gossamer, a broad hard smile creeping 
across my face. "You've become excited, Francesca," I exclaimed. 
"You're just a bitch in heat, raring to use your charms to incite every 
male that you meet."

"I'm not," she denied adamantly, feeling for her crucifix. "I don't 
know what happened. But it can't be that! I don't believe it. It can't! 
It must be perspiration. Sweat. What do you expect when you make me 
dance like that?"

"Sweat!" I roared, advancing upon her. "Perspiration? I don't think 
that I can believe this bitch. Let's prove it, shall we boys!"

I grabbed hold of her, one hand falling into the small of her back and 
the other clutching at her right buttock. I could feel her breasts 
squashed hard against my chest, as with her legs and arms she fought 
and struggled.

"Tie her," I ordered, my voice catching in my throat from the 
excitement of it all. She kicked at my legs and pushed hard into my 
face, and all the while her naked flesh jerked and slithered against my 
clothes, rubbed against my throbbing erection. I almost came.

"God!"

Juan fetched a number of lengths of quarter inch hemp rope from out of 
the cupboard. He handed several to Pedro and the two of them converged 
upon Francesca simultaneously.
 
Juan grabbed hold of one of Francesca's wrists, while Pedro looped a 
length of rope round her left ankle. And all the time I hugged her 
naked jousting body to my own, carrying her towards the heavy metal 
bed, holding her tight. She fought like a banshee, biting and kicking, 
yet knowing that whatever she did, they would still get their way. Juan 
knotted the rope to Francesca's wrist, and then, as I lowered her onto 
the bed, he pulled it round one of the metal bars at its head.

She knew exactly what they were doing, and her cries became more vocal. 

"Please. Don't tie me. Not like this. Please. I'll let you feel. Down 
there. If you must."

I pushed her butt down onto the rusty springs, forcing her back, 
holding her steady while Pedro fastened her first ankle to the corner 
of the bed. He then began tying one end of a new rope to her other 
ankle, the right one.

Meanwhile Juan was tying Francesca's second wrist. She had drawn her 
hands into tight fists, and as I looked at them, I noticed a belt of 
red nail gloss digging into the palms of each hand. I smiled. She hated 
this. Maybe I'd been wrong before, maybe this was her Achilles heel. 
Her body was heaving from emotion and from her wrestling. 

As I held her down, forcing her to lie with her back and head against 
the springs, both Pedro and Juan fastened their second ropes to the 
bed. They drew them tight, stretching her, pulling her, applying their 
considerable weight to the job and maneuvering Francesca into a fixed 
spread-eagled position in the center of the bed, with her legs drawn 
firmly apart.

Now that she couldn't move, now that she was captive, I let go of her, 
standing up, towering above her and straightening my clothes. I waited 
while Juan and Pedro finished their tasks, grinning down at her, 
staring in anticipation at her open legs and the blonde down that grew 
there.

She watched me in horror, knowing exactly what I was planning to do. 
"Please, sir," she begged. "Please don't do that. Hurt me if you must, 
but don't, please don't touch me there."

"You've forgotten, Francesca," I reminded her, sitting at her side, on 
the rust of the bed, from where, beginning at her knee, I slid my hand 
along the smooth fair skin of her inner thigh, up towards that special 
area where ladies' legs meet. "You're not in a position to bargain," I 
continued. "Not any more. I can hurt you if I wish, and I can touch you 
too, your breasts and your pussy. I can do anything that I choose."

"I know, sir. You can, sir. But I beg you..."

My fingers slid between her puffy pussy lips, and moved inside, feeling 
for myself just how dry and parched it was. 

"No!"

She groaned, arching her back, trying to expel my fingers with her 
aching cunt muscles, trying to push them away from her most sensitive 
spots. I resisted the urge to continue, pulled out my fingers, looking 
down at them and finding that the cupboard was bare.

"Well," I exclaimed in assumed surprise. "So Francesca enjoyed 
stripping for Juan."

"I didn't," she moaned, pulling at the ropes holding her hands, her 
body bouncing gently on the old metal springs. "It's not true. How can 
it be? How can you think that? How can you? You don't understand!"

"Oh, I think I understand," I contradicted. "I think I understand very 
well. There are some things that can't be feigned."

I held up my dry fingers for her to inspect, knowing that at the 
distance there was no way that she could, lifting them to my nose, 
smelling.

She shuddered, closing her eyes to shut out the embarrassment. "God! I 
didn't know. I'm sorry. I don't understand... How could I? I couldn't 
help it. Please. Can you forgive me?"

"Who am I to forgive," I replied offhandedly. "Am I your boyfriend? 
Your husband? What am I? More to the point, Francesca: you lied to me. 
You denied that you were excited, remember? You told me it was 
perspiration on your panties. That was a lie. This isn't perspiration."

"I'm sorry!"

"You will be. Oh, you will be. You see, I can't stand lies. My wife and 
I, we have a contract, never to tell each other a lie. That's how much 
I hate lies. How I wish everyone were like us! I'm disappointed in you, 
Francesca. I'm sad that you don't feel so strongly about telling the 
truth. So now, let's think. I wonder how we should punish you?"





End of Part Three

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you to everyone who so kindly responded to part one by 
encouraging me to write more. Thank you to my proofreaders for their 
invaluable assistance and suggestions.


Please feel free to write with your suggestions. I'll use them if I 
can.

Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com

