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 Seven

I sighed, feeding a little slack through the dirty ropes
that bound Francesca's feet to the posts of the old iron bed
frame. "I shouldn't be doing this," I grumbled testily,
untying one of the ropes securing her ankles, and examining
the deep red impression gouged into her soft young skin. "I
never do this. Not for anyone."

She sneezed. "Then perhaps you still love me, my Captain,"
she countered with a mocking sigh. She was subdued although
obviously relieved at what I was doing. The rope loosened
and the unrelenting tension on her shoulders, arms and legs
eased. At once, there was a visible lift in her spirits and
she was caught by a sudden, caustic humor. "Perhaps," she
muttered. "Your love for me is even stronger than your love
of inflicting pain."

"Perhaps," I scowled irritably, pinching the soft skin at
the back of her calf out of dull annoyance. She yelped. "But
then, on the other hand, perhaps everything that you have
experienced up until now has just been a taster, an
appetizer. Perhaps I am now, only now, of a mind to begin in
earnest."

"I think you're teasing me," she mumbled, shifting herself
awkwardly, trying to find a little relief from a myriad tiny
steel barbs that protruded from out of the bedsprings,
digging into her flesh. These had been nagging away at her
buttocks and back, leaving a patchwork of deep red angry
pockmarks. But movement brought no relief, only chafing, and
she finally resigned herself to defeat.

"This is very uncomfortable," she complained bitterly,
rattling the bedsprings once more. "My tits are getting very
sore. My back is aching too, and my hands, I can hardly feel
them, they're quite dead."

I nodded, gazing appreciatively at her speared tits. They
were pale and rigid and swollen. Her gold crucifix lay
slightly askew between them, its simple chain taking a long
lazy meander up to her neck.

I sighed. "That's what you're here for, my Chiquita. This is
an Interrogation Room, not a hotel." I paused. Her
discomfort, her availability, it was making me horny. My
cock was fighting to escape out of my underpants, groaning,
aching.

"I've been thinking," I declared, slowly caressing the
inside of her legs, from her calves up along her thighs.
"Seeing you like this, so sexy. I think, I've decided, that
I want to fuck you."

She caught her breath. Her mouth opened slightly and she
viewed me quizzically. "Pardon?" she queried.

"You heard me," I returned, sitting down beside her,
continuing to tickle the inside of her thighs, up now, into
that narrow crease between the top of her legs and her
spread pussy lips. "Why not? You're my wife. It's made me
horny, seeing you there, naked, hearing all these things
about the priest, what's his name, Father Barajas. So, I've
decided. I've going to fuck you."

She swallowed nervously, lifting her head and shoulders to
be able to see me better. "Perhaps I don't want you to. Not
here. Not now. Not like this."

I leaned forward, and stared deep into her bottomless blue
eyes, beautiful and radiant, my finger just touching the
wisps of fuzz growing between her legs, tickling it,
stroking it. I'd never realized what a looker she was. "I
didn't ask you, my Chiquita," I stated slowly, enjoying her
negative reaction. "I'm not asking your permission. You're
my prisoner. I can do with you as I want. I want to fuck, so
I'm going to fuck. If you've got a problem with that, then
tough, there's not much you can do. You can fight me, but
you can't prevent me."

She pulled tamely on the ropes, swallowing hard, watching
helplessly as I got up and unfastened the belt of my
trousers. "I'll hate you if you do!"

I grinned. "Isn't that sad! Then I guess you'll hate me,
because I'm not going to change my mind. I'm going to give
you a real hard fucking."

"I'll ask for an annulment! I couldn't live with a man who
would force me."

I shook my head. "You don't believe in divorce, my Chiquita.
Or have you forgotten?"

Her breathing was shallow and erratic. "But, my Captain. It
isn't very romantic."

I unfastened my trousers and pushed them down, pulling out
the belt from the waist and swishing it in the air, two or
three times. "Fuck romance."

She gulped nervously; following the tail of the belt
anxiously as it whistled through the air. "But that would be
rape! Could you do that, my Captain? Would you really force
me despite my saying no?"

"Fuck it, Francesca!" I threw down the belt angrily and
yanked my shirt over my head, slamming it down fiercely onto
Juan's tall chair. "A married man can do as he likes with
his own wife. That's the way that it is. A husband can't
rape his own fucking wife."

"Of course he can," she disputed huffily, staring irately at
the expanding bulge in my underpants. "If a woman says no,
then in the eyes of the law..."

I could feel my cock lengthening and swelling. God! Please
resist me, I thought. Fight me! I want to force you, to
dominate you, to show that I was just as much a man as your
Father Barajas.

God! I trawled inside my underpants, irritably fishing out
my solid erection, proudly exhibiting it to her in all its
crude obscenity. "Fuck the law. This is for you, my
Chiquita! You've made it like this. You can do something
about it."

She was churning inside. "Don't do it, my Captain," she
begged, still straining her head so that she could see me
better. Her eyes were glistening, blue, and wide open. Her
blonde hair snaked across her cheeks and then down onto her
shoulders. "There's no need. No one else is here. No one's
making you, no one's forcing you. Please, my Captain. Listen
to me. Not here, not like this. It's demeaning, both to me
and to you."

"Shut up," I hissed, pulling down my underpants. My prick
sprang up, bucking and dancing with lust. Lust for her. She
stared at the purple-knobbed monster with glazed
fascination. It was as if she had been hypnotized. "Just
shut the fuck up!" I growled, stroking it firmly. "This is
my show, my interrogation. I'm going to fuck you, my
Chiquita, because I want to. And I'm going to fuck you
hard."

"God!" Her head fell back onto the bedsprings. Her breathing
was all over the place. "So you're determined? You're going
to do it? There's nothing I can say to stop you?"

I climbed on to the bed, the springs squeaking as I
clambered between her legs. "Absolutely nothing."

"God." I slumped down upon her, enjoying the feel of her
warm body against mine, the steel of that cruel needle
digging into my chest. "God! I'm going to fuck you, my
Chiquita! I'm going to ravish you with my cock!" She fought
a nominal resistance against her bonds, trying against hope
to toss me off.

"Then, please," she conceded, with a scowl of discomfort
from the barbs biting into her back. "If you've decided, if
there's nothing I can do... Can't we do it somewhere else?
My Captain? The springs, they're digging into me..."

"I know," I acknowledged, grabbing hold of my throbbing cock
and aiming its tip at her open cunt. "And I guess with the
needle in your tits, they must be pretty sore too."

She groaned. "Does it excite you a lot to see me in pain?"
she asked, closing her eyes and preparing herself for the
onslaught. There was nothing else she could do, no way that
she could resist. Not with her legs tied apart as they were,
and her arms bound above her head.

I nodded, waiting momentarily before inserting my aching
cock into her soft deep purse.

"And you haven't finished, have you?" she gasped, thrusting
her pelvis up to meet me. I felt myself sinking deeper into
her, her warm pussy closing over my thick long tool, deeper
and deeper. "Not by a long way! You're going to hurt me
more."

"Of course," I agreed, pressing down with my weight, knowing
how the sharp barbs would be digging into her back.

She caught her breath, tensing, holding it for some time
before letting it out very, very slowly. Her teeth were
gritted and her eyes were watery. "I thought so."

"I'm going to make you scream," I vowed, fucking her
furiously, slamming my pelvis against her cunt, my cock deep
into her twat. "You'll scream as you've never screamed
before."

She swore, jerking on the ropes, her body bouncing up and
down on the sharp steel springs. "Please, my Captain," she
entreated, trying to ignore the misery in her back. "Please,
will you untie my hands and my legs. If you do, I swear.
I'll do all I can... to make it good... you won't regret
it."

I shifted my weight so that I could reach the long needle
protruding from her breasts.

"I'm not going to regret making you scream," I promised,
hooking the needle with my index finger and then lifting,
watching her familiar tits elongate and stretch, the curves
straightening and the chasm between them deepening into a
broad trench, in the center of which lay her ineffectual
crucifix. She sucked in a rasping breath, her fingers
clawing at the bedsprings. She fought the pain without
protesting, determined not to give me the satisfaction of
hearing her scream, biting her bottom lip hard.

"Tell me what happened when you returned," I asked her
again, holding the needle absolutely still, feeling the
considerable weight and elasticity of her distended titties.
Very slowly I moved my pelvis up and down, guiding my cock
in and out of her hole. "What happened the next time you
went to church?"

Her eyes closed as, while continuing to fuck her, I pulled
the needle back and forth with my hand, curious at the way
her tits responded to each of my movements, swaying up and
down, from left to right like a puppet obedient to its
master.

"That hurts," she growled huskily, tensing, pulling herself
taut.

"Of course it does," I returned sullenly, sweat dripping
onto her chest from my chin. "That's what it's meant to do.
Why do you think I'm doing it? I'm going to make you scream,
remember?"

She had betrayed me, disgraced me. That had hurt. One part
of me wanted to forget all about Phillip Barajas, her
priest, wanted to sweep him under the carpet, and forget
that he'd ever existed. But there was also a dark secret
side of me that was titillated by all she'd told me.

To think that my Chiquita had been seeing another man! The
thought made my erection throb, filled my stomach with a
curious buzz.

As I analyzed my confused feelings I realized what it was
that excited me. Her betrayal offered me power, a moral
superiority. As the wronged party, she had presented me with
a wonderful excuse to hurt her, to torture her, to punish
her. I was going to make her scream, beg for mercy! If she
wanted my forgiveness, to mend our "damaged" relationship,
then she must pay my price and take her discipline.

But she was itching for it. She wanted to confess. We had
traveled so far together that I'm convinced that she now
trusted me enough to find the thought of owning up to her
peccadilloes strangely exciting, arousing. There were to be
no secrets between us now, not any more.

"He took delight in humiliating me," she gasped, staring up
at the old iron pipes high above her, shutting her eyes and
remembering, sensing, reliving the experience. "I didn't see
that at first. I didn't grasp what he was doing. I was in
such turmoil, given what had happened the last time we had
met. I had these strange feelings that confused and baffled
me. I promised myself that I wouldn't ever go back there
alone again, not to his church, not to his home. It was
wrong."

*****

And I did want to stay away; I really did, never to see him
again. But he was my priest. So, what could I do? As the
days passed, I found that my sins were escalating. They were
out of control. Yet how could I confess to him? I sometimes
wonder whether deep down, my subconscious was driving me
into sin in its desire to seek him out, as an excuse to see
him again.

Every morning I would go down to church, to confess, but I
would never get there. On the way I would get nervous,
panic. I would sit around, would go shopping, would walk the
streets, anything rather than go in.

Such agony. I hated myself for my cowardice.

In fact, it was nearly a month before I ventured the courage
to return. I took to drinking, hoping that the alcohol would
give me courage. It did. I slunk into the confessional box
early one sunny day, my nerves in tatters, my mind already
befuddled with gin.

Crossing myself, I pulled the door of the confessional box
closed. "Forgive me Father for I have sinned," I murmured
hurriedly, my shaky voice far too husky and nervous. What
would he think? "It has been five weeks since my last
confession."

There was a pause. A long pause, that was both agonizing and
terrifying. What would he say? What would he do? My chest
was so tight that I could barely breathe. My heart was
thumping. What would he say?

When it came, his reply was sickening. It was far worse than
anything that I'd either feared or imagined. I could see the
gaunt shadow of his face through the thin dividing curtain
of the confessional, firm and stern. "Francesca. Why are you
wearing panties?"

God. My heart nearly missed a beat. I didn't know what to
think. How could he tell? Did he know, or was he guessing? I
wondered whether I could have heard him right. "Pardon?" I
exclaimed. There had been no preamble, no explanation, no
welcome, just that. What sort of question is that for a
priest?

"You are wearing panties," he repeated, his voice gaining
strength, becoming colder and more demanding. "Why is that?
Please remove them at once."

I was angry. I was in a fluster. I was in a panic. How dare
he! I wanted to cut him, to hurt him. Yet there was nothing
but a disembodied voice at which I could direct my anger.
"But Father..." I protested, trying to keep my voice low,
aware that others were outside, praying, only yards from
where I sat.

He cut me off while my complaint was still burning between
my lips. "Francesca. This isn't open for discussion. It's a
command. Do it. Do it, now. I won't tolerate you coming here
wearing underwear. If you don't remove your panties
immediately, then I shall neither pray for you nor hear your
confession. Is that what you want? Do you, Francesca? If you
do, then please, I must ask you to leave my church right
now."

It was a bluff, of course it was. It was ridiculous. He had
no right to make this kind of a demand. I told him so. At
least, I tried to tell him. "But Father," I spluttered. "It
isn't lawful for you to ask me to do this, just as it isn't
lawful for me to listen. I'm married. I'm a married woman."

"No," he rebuked severely. "That's not right. You are
forgetting your priorities. You are a child of Christ. That
comes first, foremost, before any other obligation or
commitment."

This was Alice in Wonderland. What was he talking about?
"But how can removing my panties be a service to Christ?" I
fumed in disbelief. I could feel my cheeks burning with
indignation. "It's preposterous."

He didn't raise his tone, or argue or shout. He remained as
calm as ice, his voice floating from the other side of the
confessional box, clear and cold and terrible. "Don't you
trust God, Francesca? Do you have such little faith? This is
a test, Francesca: a test of your faith. Eve's test was an
apple. It was just a little thing, trivial, insignificant.
But she ate it, and through that, she sinned. She failed her
test. This is your test. Will you run ahead of Him,
Francesca? Do you really believe that you know better than
the Almighty?"

"Father..." I wailed. "I do trust him, but..."

He tutted softly, shaking his head. "I would like to believe
you, Francesca, but how can I when your actions contradict
your words? Or is it me that you don't trust?"

"Of course I trust you, Father," I assured him at once. But
as soon as I'd said it, I realized that this was exactly the
problem. Father Barajas didn't behave towards me like a
priest should behave, and that was unsettling, unnerving. I
never knew what to expect next or what to make of him.

"Then remove your panties. Now, Francesca!"

God. I couldn't. I was burning, panicking. How could he
expect me to, to do such a thing? In church?

"Now!"

Dear God! I was in a trance, rising, slipping my hands up
inside my skirt, grabbing hold of the waistband of my
panties, thankful for the walls and drapes of the
confessional, sealing me from the outside world. At least no
one could see what I was doing. I gulped hard. God, this was
madness.

"What color are they, Francesca?"

A test. A test. That's what he had said. A test of my faith.
I didn't believe that. It was ludicrous. What did he take me
for? A simpleton?

Yet, I couldn't ignore him. How could I? I was a decent
Catholic. I knew no other way. That's what I'd been since
birth. I just couldn't bring myself to disobey his orders,
even though I both knew and suspected that their inspiration
came from no higher than his groin.

Yes, oh yes, he might abuse his authority, but that
authority still came from God, didn't it? Weren't there also
bad kings in ancient Israel, rotten kings who led their
subjects into war, brought pillage and death and
destruction? Yet those subjects they were still expected to
be obedient, weren't they? When King David had spied
Bathsheba naked, bathing on the flat roof of her home,
hadn't he summoned her to his palace? Hadn't he commanded
that she sleep with him? And she'd done it. What else could
she do? And after the act, it was David that was punished,
not her. He was her king; she was his subject. She had to
obey. Isn't that the way that it's always been? So how could
I gainsay it?

"Black," I whispered in embarrassment. "They're black."

"Black is the color of the Devil," he declared icily.

"I'm sorry, Father," I mumbled uncertainly.

What did he mean? Is black a sin? If so, then why is that
the color of most priests' robes? I sighed. It didn't
matter. It wasn't something I wanted to discuss.

I struggled to push the gossamer fabric over my hips, trying
to be discreet, trying to be silent. The walls of that
confessional box were paper-thin, and so he would be sure to
hear every sound, feel any movement that I made. And his
imagination was sure to fill in the gaps.

I couldn't get my panties over my shoes. I fought to do so.
I cursed myself. Have you ever tried to remove underwear
over shoes?


God! They were off. I'd done it! I told him so. "Then lift
your skirt and place your naked butt on the confession
seat," he ordered, his voice low and insistent. "And make
sure you keep your legs apart."

What was he saying? Was he some kind of pervert? Did he
inflict this mental torture on all his flock, or was I
simply the exception? If so, what had I done that he should
pick me from all of the others? Such vague thoughts flew
through my mind as the morning vapors caught on a gust of
wind, pondered for an idle instant, and then instantly
dismissed.

My naked butt on the wooden seat? I lowered my head, holding
the scrap of black nylon in my hand. "Yes, Father."

I felt so awkward and ashamed. That seat was cold and hard
against my soft skin. Placing my bare pussy upon it made me
feel like a naughty child being dared by a vindictive
schoolmate.

And my legs apart. That's what he'd said. Why? Was this part
of the test as well? Or did he get off on ordering women
about? God. My legs apart. Slowly and obediently I forced
them open, clutching desperately to the brief piece of warm
nylon that so recently had resided there. "I've done it,
Father," I spluttered, lowering my head to my chest in
shame. "I've done it. I've done what you ask. I've removed
them."

"Good. And have you lifted your skirt to your waist?" he
asked.

I swallowed hard, staring blankly and hesitantly at the
black curtain that separated me from that dark soulless
voice.

"My skirt? I queried.

"To the waist," he repeated. "And also any slip you may be
wearing beneath it. You're not wearing a slip are you,
Francesca?"

"No," I stammered.

He snorted approvingly. "Then you will only need to lift
your skirt. Tell me when it's done."

Silence. My heart was beating furiously. God. This really
was madness. How could he expect me to do this...? And then
to confess... to him...

I hesitated. How far did he expect me to go with this
nonsense?

Yet somehow, having already complied in removing my panties,
having obediently moved my legs wide apart, it seemed rather
churlish to now create a scene over this lesser request.

It wasn't as if anyone could see.

Feeling very stupid and exposed, I reluctantly lifted my
skirt, holding it in small bunches about my naked waist.
There. That's what he wanted. But how stupid! What was the
point? "I've done it, Father," I declared, sucking in a deep
breath.

I'm not sure what I expected to happen next. Did I really
expect him to listen to my confession posed like that, with
my skirt hiked high, and my pussy gaping open? Could I
really talk to him normally? I hadn't had time to give the
matter thought. However, whatever it was that I was
expecting, it wasn't what happened next.

Without warning, the curtain between us parted, and
suddenly, there he was, strong and forceful, right before
me, only inches away, invading my small private cubicle of
space. I cowered in abject humiliation. My skirt was
bunched, framing my open slit. My panties were in my hands.
I had never felt so degraded. I was shaking, traumatized.

God!

I must have screamed. I'm sure I did. Did I? I don't
remember.

How dare he!

"Well done," he was saying, staring between my legs like he
had the right, openly, not lifting or altering his tone at
all. "You are a very sensual woman, Francesca. Sexy and
sensual. But that can be a two edged sword. It can be
pleasant, but it also has a darker side. Do you know what I
mean?"

I didn't. I was shaking with humiliation. I was aching
inside.

"Have you been masturbating, Francesca?"

Now I was in total shock. My mouth dropped open and I
flushed bright red. I desperately wanted to drop my skirt,
to cover myself, to hide my naked pussy from his sparkling
eyes. Please God! I wanted to run for miles and miles and
never turn back, and yet somehow I couldn't move a muscle.
"Father!" I exclaimed, feeling my juices beginning to
trickle along the tight passage of my cunt. "Please,
Father!" I was begging him. "Not here! This is the
confessional!"

But he ignored my simple protests, taking them in his
stride. He knew that he had the mastery over me, and this
gave him an arrogant confidence.

"Have you been masturbating, Francesca?" His question still
lay between us, unanswered, as open as my legs. How could I
answer that? It was impossible. I knew that I couldn't! What
a thing to ask me! Such humiliation! I wanted so much to
cover myself. Never had I felt more naked, yet he hadn't
told me that I could. Please, I thought, begging him in my
mind. Don't humiliate me like this. Not here, not in church.
Not in front of God. My thighs began to tremble under his
constant gaze and slowly my legs began to close, almost
under their own volition. I knew that this would annoy him,
upset him, but I couldn't help it, my legs were being drawn
together by the power of my fear.

I could smell my own aroma now. God! Was that really me?
What was going on? How could this be happening? To me? Here?
In the confessional? It was so humiliating! And he knew! It
was as if he could tell simply by looking at my open pussy.
He knew the truth.

I gulped hard, still not answering. Again he asked,
insistent, asserting his will against mine. "Have you played
with yourself at all since you last came to confession?
Francesca?" I could no longer endure his hot gaze burning
into my naked pussy, staring, belittling. What right did he
have? What right? Suddenly, my knees snapped together. I was
shaking with emotion. Angry. Terrified. Embarrassed.

He smiled, a smug snigger, a simple celebration of an easy
victory.

I was afraid of what he was going to say next, because his
next command was entirely predictable. I knew he was going
to say it, even before he'd thought it. It had to be. "I
didn't tell you to move your legs." Terrible! Then he
waited, watching. "Open them please, Francesca."

I hung my head in shame, feeling keenly the humiliation and
disgrace of having to show him everything, of having to pose
for him in that obscene way while he reveled in my
discomfort.

But he was my master; he'd already proved that. I couldn't
resist him, couldn't deny him. Slowly, under unimaginable
duress, I forced my legs apart.

"You were about to tell me whether you've been playing with
yourself since we last met," he reminded me, staring at my
wet cunt as if he might find the answer there.

My thighs were shaking. I tried to hold them still, to stop
them trembling, but I couldn't. It was the way that he was
staring at me. "God already knows what you've been doing,"
he observed quietly. "No human may have seen you, but he
sees. He sees everything. So why keep it a secret from his
minister? Come on, Francesca. Confess. Have you been fucking
your own pussy?"

I turned my head towards the wall, anywhere, as long as it
was away from him. "Yes," I admitted finally, to the wall,
not wanting to say it, not daring to refuse.

"Thank you. How many times?"

God. My heart was thumping. Why is it priests always want to
know this? Do they keep some kind of league table? He added,
"For instance, how often have you done it in the last week,
Francesca?"

"I don't know, Father," I snapped, wanting desperately to
close my legs, to change the subject, to confess the things
that come easy to confess, like lying, cheating, stealing.
"I haven't been counting."

"But you must. You must count. If you don't do that, then
how can I calculate the extent of your penance?

"I'm sorry, Father. I'll count in future. I mean, if I sin
again..." He had me flustered, what on earth was I saying?
"Of course, I'm resolved not to... But if I do..."

He was still staring at me, not at my face, no, of course
not, no, but down there at my dripping cunt. I was so
aroused. How could that be? What was going on? How could my
body betray me in this way? "So what do you think about when
you play with your pussy? Are you imagining yourself being
fucked?"

I was wringing and unwringing the fabric of my skirt. "Yes,
Father."

"Who by? Who do you think of in these fantasies? Are you
thinking about being fucked by your husband?"

I blushed brighter than ever, the color extending along my
neck and down the front of my chest.

"No, Father," I was forced to admit. "I wasn't. Not him. I
was thinking of somebody else."

God! I'm sorry, my Captain. I had to be truthful. At that
time, you were working such unsocial hours. I wasn't seeing
you. Our sex life was... well, nonexistent. We'd drifted
apart. I have needs, such needs, and I filled those needs in
a world of sexual fantasy. But this was a private world that
was never meant to escape the confines of my imagination.
There was no reason for anyone else ever to know, or for me
to hurt you. Yet, somehow, he seemed to have read my
thoughts.

"Then who?"

God! This was relentless. Did he have to know everything?
Had someone told him? Yet how could that be? I didn't
understand. No one knew the secret things I had pondered in
the privacy of our bedroom, the lovers that had seduced me,
the beaux that had ravished me. No one knew how I would lie
awake at night, after my shower, with the lights dimmed,
perfumed, heavy of makeup, a long string of white pearls
about my neck, trailing between my breasts. I would lie
still, my hands above my head, imagining that they were
tied, feeling, sensing the cool air caressing my teats,
stroking my clit.

My fingers would then begin to wander, here, there, wherever
the craving drove them. My breathing would quicken, because
the fingers weren't mine. They couldn't be, for I was tied,
my hands above my head. Not my husband's either, because he
was far away, in the Villa Grimaldi, hard at work.

"Who, then?" Father Phillip Barajas insisted. "Whom were you
thinking about? Whose naked body were you drooling over as
your fingers squelched in your hot cunt?"

I swallowed hard. The air was circulating around the
tingling lips of my damp pussy. God, I felt so vulnerable. I
couldn't tell him. I just couldn't.

But I couldn't deny him either. I gulped. "You, Father."

"Me?" His amazement was so excruciatingly transparent, so
artificial. Someone must have told him. I could see it. He'd
known already. Yet how was that possible?

"Yes. You, Father."

"You think of me often?"

"Yes, Father."

"While you play with yourself?"

A shy nod.

"And do you have the urge to masturbate now? Right now,
while I watch? Tell me the truth, Francesca? I shall know it
if you're lying."

God, no!

Did I? Surely not! How could I actually want to humiliate
myself in that way? How could I? God! It would be
mortifying. And yet I was so wet. I was so bewildered.
"Forgive me, Father. I don't know. I don't think so. But
these last weeks, since we met, I get so confused. I don't
know what to think."

He nodded. "I understand, Francesca. Then we must find out.
We must find out together. It is part of the test. Go across
to the rectory. I want you to let yourself in through the
back door. It's unlocked. Then you must then remove all your
clothes, right there, by the back door, tossing them inside,
as far as you can throw them. When you've done that, you
will wait outside in the back yard, without seeking to cover
yourself in any way. I want you to wait for me there, in the
center of the yard, facing the house."

My heart was thumping against my breast. "Yes, Father."

"You must wait for me there until I come."

It was frightening, yet also exciting. I must wait naked for
him to come for me, outside. What if someone called at the
house?

"Yes, Father."

"Even if I'm some time, you mustn't move. You mustn't cover
yourself in any way. Is that clear?"

I nodded nervously. "Are you likely to be some time,
Father?"

He wouldn't answer. "While you stand facing the rectory, I
want you to consider how you will masturbate for me, for my
pleasure. I want you to think about how I will stand at a
window within the rectory, unseen by you, and watch you
finger your pussy until you are quite replete."

I felt the knot in my stomach, burning, squeezing my
insides. This was terrible, yet so exciting. "Yes, Father."

"Afterwards, when you are finished, I will punish you for
what you have done and provide you with absolution, but it
will be brutal. We must tear out this demon that drives you
to sexual perversion, remove it kicking and screaming, if
necessary. You do understand that?"

I had no idea what he was talking about. "Yes, Father."

"Electro shock. That's the answer. It's the only way. Where
there is pleasure, it must be replaced with pain. First
pleasure, then pain. That's a lesson you must learn, and
learn well. First you will pleasure yourself, and then I
will turn your screams of ecstasy into howls of anguish."

God, how terrible that sounded. I almost came on the spot.


*****






End of Part Seven




Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com





