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 Five

In which I listen to Francesca's confession...

****

He approached me shortly after mass. Please God! He said I could help 
both him and the Church. God, forgive me! I wasn't thinking. I said I 
would do anything: of course I would help him, since it was for the 
Church. He said: 'Good!' and that I should be happy, because the job he 
had in mind for me, it would likely help me atone for my sins.

I blushed, because he shouldn't mention such things outside of the 
confessional. But who was I to teach him? So I asked him what I should 
do. God, I was so shy, and he told me to come to the rectory in about 
an hour. He would be ready for me then. I had nothing to do, nowhere to 
go, and so I sat in the park and watched the small children. My mind 
was so confused. This was the man I'd been dreaming about, fantasizing 
about and now he was asking me to his home. Of course, even then I had 
no idea what he really thought, what he really had in mind.

When the hour was up, I went to the rectory as he had asked me, and he 
opened at once, inviting me inside. He took me into a small sitting 
room, where he said that I should sit down. I did, very demurely, 
blushing bashfully when he complimented me on the color of my dress, 
pulling the hem down over my knees, as I'd always been taught. 

He poured himself a drink, and then offered me one too: but I refused. 
I was too self-conscious to be able to drink in front of this man.

We spoke for a while: small talk; how long I'd been married, how long 
I'd lived in Santiago, and then, quite casually, he revealed a little 
of his own background and hobbies. I listened attentively. He told me 
that in his spare time he painted pictures: religious pictures, I was 
to understand. There was one that he'd painted that hung in the Church. 
Had I seen it? It was Eve in the Garden, before she had first 
discovered apples.

I blushed, for it was a picture that had caught my attention on many 
occasions, especially recently. I had found it uncomfortably erotic. 
Unlike most religious pictures of Eve in paradise, there were no fig 
leaves in this picture to hide her beauty. Several times I had stood 
admiring it for several minutes before moving away, full of guilt at 
the way it had made me feel.

After he told me about the picture, he sat, silent, waiting for my 
reaction. I hadn't known what to say, quite how I should respond. But 
eventually, full of embarrassment, I told him that the picture reminded 
me of someone I knew, the face was peculiarly familiar, but I couldn't 
quite place it.

With a sly smile he mentioned a name, Signora Gonzalez, the new wife of 
our Mayor. My jaw dropped and he challenged me at once as to why I was 
so surprised.

"She didn't... not like that..." I began to say, thinking back to the 
picture and Eve's immodest pose and her lack of clothing. "You don't 
mean that she took off... not the Mayor's wife?"

I let my question lie between us, but he understood. Of course he did.

"Are you surprised?" he asked, smiling, dismissive of my concerns. "But 
why? It's art, a gift to God. Are you suggesting that it is somehow 
shameful for Signora Gonzalez to have posed for my picture?"

What could I do? He was the priest. How could I attempt to correct him 
on matters of religion? I was obviously the one who was mistaken.

"Of course not," I denied. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest..."

It was then that he told me that he'd been intending for some time to 
paint a picture of the Madonna and then hang it in the church house, 
but that he hadn't been able to find a suitable model. He said that I 
was perfect, and that he would be honored if I would be that model. 
Would I do this for the Church and also for him? Would I consent to act 
the part of the mother of God? 

The way that he put it, how could I refuse? 

So he got out a bible and turned to St Luke, where Simeon prophesies 
about the sacred Virgin. He handed me the open bible and asked me to 
read out loud. I remember those words verbatim, how could I forget? 
"Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also, that the thoughts 
of many hearts may be revealed."

He became excited, stabbing his finger emphatically at the bible. 
"That's what I want to paint," he said.

I hadn't understood. How could I? I was too innocent. I read the words 
a number of times from his bible, trying to work out what they might 
mean. He laughed, a small shallow laugh, and said that it would be 
easier if he showed me. He took hold of my hand, pulling me up from my 
chair and tugging me eagerly towards his study. I was dumbfounded, 
protesting. But when he opened the door my jaw just dropped.

He had built a cross, and it was fixed to the far wall. I stared at it 
for several minutes in awe, my mind confused and numb. I saw it, but I 
had no idea what it meant. 

A cross. In his house. How bizarre! But then, he was a priest. What did 
I know about such things? Perhaps it wasn't such a crazy thing for a 
priest to do.

He came up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, holding them 
firmly. "I want to tie you to that cross," he said hoarsely. "Can you 
imagine, the Virgin Mother on the cross with a sword piercing her side. 
It will be so poetic."

I didn't understood what he meant by any of this. I was so naive. God, 
I can't believe how naive I was. I stood, with my mouth wide open, 
gazing disbelievingly at his cross. 

Then suddenly he said, "If you'll just get undressed, then we can 
begin."

 I was certain that I couldn't have heard him right. I was so 
embarrassed. Maybe I'd dreamt it. "I'm sorry?"

"It may not be historical," he replied easily. "But how else can I show 
the wound? The red blood dripping down the naked Madonna's hips and 
thighs?"

I still couldn't grasp what he'd asked me to do. He was a priest, my 
priest. "My clothes?" I gasped, my jaw hanging open. "You mean you want 
me to undress in front of you? I don't understand!"

He reminded me of Signora Gonzalez. "You saw my picture of Eve. It's 
for the Church; it hangs in the Church. If the Mayor's wife can do it, 
then how can that be a sin?"

But I wasn't worried for the Church; I was worried about me! This was 
the very man whose image I'd held in my mind as I'd masturbated, night 
after night. How could I possibly now undress in front of him? My body 
was sure to betray me. What if I became aroused as he gazed at my 
nakedness? Oh God. "But I've not undressed before," I complained 
desperately. "Not for any man apart from my husband. I couldn't. It 
wouldn't be right."

But he was totally dismissive of all my objections. "Nonsense," he 
said. "I'm a priest, a man of the cloth. I've taken an oath of 
celibacy. It's no different to when you're examined by the doctor."

My Captain. He made out that I was being foolish to protest. He was so 
adamant. He explained that it was not improper in the least, that my 
protests were foolish, because he was a man of the cloth. I know I 
shouldn't have done it. Deep down, I knew it then. I certainly know it 
now. I should have asked you. You are my husband, the one I once 
promised to obey, but on the other hand, he was my priest, the man who 
stands between Almighty God and myself. How could I refuse him? And so 
I did what he asked me. Ostensibly because he was my priest, but also 
because I was infatuated by him and wanted so much to please him. 

I didn't know what to do, where to begin. He waited impatiently, 
crossing his arms and examining my loose cotton dress. There was no 
curtain, no dressing room. He expected me to do it there, in front of 
him while he watched. I was terrified. Full of misgiving and yet 
strangely excited, I went into the corner, and there turned my back and 
pulled off my clothes: all of them, my dress and my slip, my stockings, 
my bra and my panties.

I was so shy as I turned to face him. My arms were across my breasts 
and my mound, but they were so inadequate because of the way that he 
was staring. I didn't think he'd look at me like that, although I 
hoped... He stared the way that a man stares, the way both Juan and 
Pedro stared, and not as a priest.

"Excellent," he said noticing that I hadn't yet removed my crucifix. 
"No, leave it. Don't take it off. I like you like that. It's very apt."

The crossbeam of his cross was high, much to high for me to be able to 
reach. So he placed a chair in front of it, and I had to stand on that 
chair, with my bare back against the upright of the cross. There were 
two pegs, one at each end of the crossbeam, and I was thankfully able 
to grasp these for support. As I held onto those small sturdy pegs, he 
fastened my arms to the crossbeam. He had to reach up to tie the knots, 
and as he did so, his robes brushed across my naked skin, my stomach 
and my breasts. He bound each arm in a long loop of soft cotton rope 
that began at my wrists and extended half way to the elbow. There was 
such a weird cocktail of emotions running through my body, fear, lust, 
reverence and awe. And such excitement, such an unbelievable ferment in 
the pit of my stomach as he tied my ankles to each other, and finally 
bound my legs to his cross.

"Excellent," he murmured, checking that these bindings were secure. 
"Are you ready?"

I nodded, not really knowing what to expect, what it was that I as 
agreeing to. I soon discovered.

As he pulled the chair from beneath my feet, my body slumped and my 
arms took the entirety of my weight. I clung desperately to the two 
wooden pegs. That, my Captain, was the first time I truly felt pain, 
unbelievable pain.

It started in my wrists and moved quickly to my arms. They were 
screaming in agony, pulling mercilessly upon my shoulders. I couldn't 
breathe. God, what panic! My diaphragm was stretched far too tightly 
for me to be able to inhale. I was suffocating, dying. My mind went to 
scream this fact aloud only I couldn't breathe. God. He was going to 
kill me! He was going to snuff me for his picture of the naked Madonna. 
I had to breathe. God. How to breathe? What to do? Panic. I clenched my 
fists about the pegs and pulled hard, lifting my entire weight the 
couple of inches necessary. The pressure eased on my chest and I sucked 
in several deep lungfuls of air. Two, three, four long desperate drags 
of precious oxygen. But with each breath the pressure on my arms and 
shoulders mounted. They were holding me up, taking my weight. But they 
weren't up to it, the muscles were screaming, shaking: I wasn't strong 
enough. I had to rest. I felt myself weakening, slipping, sliding down 
the cross, the air being squeezed from my lungs as my arms gave way.

How long could I last? How long could I survive?

In anguish, I watched him take his comfort, settling into a comfortable 
chair with his sketchpad. There he began to pencil the shape of my 
agony, the lines of my breasts and the terror in my face, the tormented 
horror of a modern woman coming face to face with an archaic torture 
that has lost none of its venom.

Panic set it again. My lungs were screaming and demanding air. I was 
being asphyxiated. I pulled myself up, strained with every fiber to 
claw myself those couple of inches higher that would enable me to 
breathe.

He saw the misery in my face, the agony, the panic as every chaotic 
thought screamed that this was death, that I was staring it face to 
face, looking it in the eye. If I was left here much longer, then I was 
going to die.

I sucked in my precious air, gasping and panting, struggling to hold 
myself up, clenching my teeth, fighting my shoulders, screaming at my 
arms. They were weakening; they couldn't hold me much longer. Once more 
my body slid down the cross. I felt the air being squeezed out of my 
lungs, leaving my face red and gaunt and wild eyed.

But then a miracle. He got up from his chair, found another wooden peg 
like the ones I was clinging to with my hands, and pushed it into a 
hole prepared for it in the upright of the cross, just above my feet.

His face was level with my cunt, only inches away, but he was staring 
up into my eyes, reading the confusion and panic written there.

God, what was I thinking? I don't know. I don't think that I was 
thinking. I was running on instinct, on blind emotion. At that moment I 
was so thankful to him, so grateful for the meager support he had 
provided for my feet. I had been so desperate that any small gift was a 
godsend.

But even in his comfort he was cruel. As I reached frantically for the 
support, I realized that it was only large enough for a single foot. Oh 
God, of what use was this? With effort I was just able to gain enough 
purchase to place the ball of one foot upon its narrow surface.

At first this was enough. It was truly heaven to be able to breathe, 
even if with considerable difficulty. And it was absolutely wonderful 
to be able to give my arms a rest. I was so overwhelmingly grateful.

But very soon I began to worry. I quickly realized that the gift of a 
footrest could only mean one thing: that my agony was now to be 
prolonged. He wasn't going to get me down. How long was he going to 
leave me dangling upon this cross?

With my weight now centered on that narrow peg, my feet were just irate 
balls of pain. I switched from foot to foot, each time setting myself a 
small goal to reach for. 

A minute. I would count to sixty in my mind. Sixty seconds. I could do 
it. I was determined. One, two, three, four... The pain was beginning 
to build. I steeled myself: I could do it. Five, six, seven... The peg 
was higher than I would have ideally placed it, and so, in order to 
rest my foot, I'd had to tilt my hips forward. I had support, but it 
caused my back to ache, spasms of sciatica shooting down my spine and 
into my legs, into my thighs and my calves.

Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine. God! I can do it! I can! I 
can! The pain! My chest was constricted and burning, breathing was 
labored and difficult. God, my back! Forty three, forty four. 

He was staring at me, at my crippled body, at my pain, at my nakedness. 
And he was enjoying every moment of it. God. What had I got myself 
into? Had I turned myself into his personal floorshow? Is that what I 
was? Would he demand a lap dance next? Forty eight, forty nine, fifty. 
I gritted my teeth. I had cramps in my legs, and in the ball of my 
foot, such pain... I wasn't going to make it. Hold on! Hold on! Fifty 
three, fifty four. Nearly there. Not much longer. I can do it. I can 
get to sixty, but I've got to concentrate. God! My arms! Fifty five, 
fifty six. I can. But he was gloating in my pain. I could see it in his 
eyes. I was his morning's entertainment. He was enjoying my suffering. 
Oh God. Fifty seven. Oh dear Jesus. He was staring at my cunt: drawing 
it, deciding how wide to draw the slit, exaggerating the shape of my 
lower lips, filling in the extent of my pubic hair. The humiliation! 
Fifty eight, fifty nine. He's excited. He likes my pain. I'm turning 
him on! Why are my nipples hardening? Please no! If he sees, if he 
draws me like that...

Sixty.

I switched from my left foot to my right.

Relief.

Sudden relief. Oh sweet mercies! Thank you, thank you, thank you. What 
wonderful release!

But then it starts again. One, two, three... How long could I last this 
time. A minute? No way. Not again. Forty seconds, maybe. I could try 
for forty seconds.

Four, five, six...

My nipples are quite hard. Perhaps he won't see. Dear God, what 
foolishness is this? Of course he will see. How can he not? Any moment, 
yes he's looking. He's seen. He knows. He's beginning to draw. God, 
dear God, look how he's sketching them. They can't be that prominent, 
surely! How can my teats be protruding so far? Like small stubby 
pencils on the ends of my breasts?

I felt myself blush bright red, and then blushed still deeper because I 
knew that I was blushing.

God. It was awful. On and on, I endured. I thought it would never end. 
Several times I thought he was going to let me die. In fact, he left me 
there for about an hour, hanging, being crucified on his mock cross.

Can you imagine my confusion? Here was this man that I'd fantasized 
about, that I'd loved in my dreams, and now he was intent on recording 
my actual suffering for his canvas.

And I was letting him. This was the part I couldn't believe. I was 
actually letting him. Not once did I demand that he untie me and take 
me down.

You would have enjoyed being there, my Captain. You would have been 
pleased with the way that I suffered. At the end of the hour he did let 
me down. I was faint and collapsed onto the floor, my lungs sore and 
tired but panting for air.

He left me there to recover, complaining that my skin was too pure and 
silky soft.

He returned a couple of minutes later wearing gloves and with a clump 
of nettles in his hand. My helpless fingers splayed out in a reflex of 
fear. I prayed despairingly to Jesus as he approached, begging for 
absolution, that this punishment atone for my impurity. 

He began with my breasts, as I guessed that he would, but then moved on 
to my stomach and my thighs. My skin broke out in an unbroken rash. I 
wanted so urgently to scratch where the nettles had fallen, to placate 
my prickling front. Such fire! He finished with several upward sweeps 
between my legs, striking cruel blows on my sensitive genitalia.

God that hurt!

When he finished he got out a camera and took some pictures. I could 
hardly keep still. Those pictures were rather obscene. I was desperate 
to rub myself against something, anything, to calm the itching, 
especially the throbbing between my legs. Somehow, he managed to 
capture that agony in his photos. He told me that he needed the 
pictures in case he had to rework his portrait, but I didn't believe 
him. I know when I've aroused a man. 

And yet deep inside, I wasn't disappointed. Not at all. I'm so ashamed 
to have to admit it, but I was pleased. After all, this was what I'd 
been yearning for in my dreams for several months now.

Nothing more happened that day. I went home disappointed, with my body 
stinging and sore from the nettles. But when I got there, I brought 
myself to the most amazing series of orgasms. I hated myself, cursed my 
weakness, but it was such bliss.

But out of despair came joy. Two weeks later he asked me round again to 
see the finished picture. However, when I arrived, there was no 
picture, no pierced Madonna, only the photographs that he'd taken, laid 
out on the table in his study.

This time he came straight to the point. "Please undress," he said.

"No," I whimpered. "I can't. Not again." But I knew that I could and 
that I would.

"Unless you undress," he said threateningly. "I'll show your husband 
these pictures. What do you think he'll have to say?"

I cried and begged him, but to no effect. He made me undress in open 
view, in front of him. I wasn't allowed into the corner this time. He 
was hardening. I had to do it with him watching.

"Kneel," he commanded when I was trembling and naked and fearful. I got 
down on to my knees, not daring to look up at him. Then he got out his 
tool and showed me that it was hard. "Look what you've done!" he 
exclaimed, holding his swollen cock only inches from my face. "Jezebel! 
I must punish you for this."

I succumbed to a surge of panic as he unbuckled his belt and glared 
menacingly at my breasts. 

"Cup them," he ordered, pulling his belt through the loops of his 
trousers. I mewled softly, protesting, but then obediently placed my 
hands under my firm titties, lifting them and squeezing them together.

Dear God!

In my mind there was no doubt what he intended to do. My feeling of 
exposure and vulnerability was disturbingly complete. He was going to 
beat me. He was going to strike me on my bare tits with that belt and I 
was not going to stop him. I knew that I could if I wanted. If I really 
wanted, then I could stand up, get dressed and leave. No one would 
prevent me. He certainly wouldn't, he had far too much to lose. There 
was no one forcing me to kneel in front of him with my breasts cupped 
so that he could more easily beat them.

Why didn't I stop him? What was up with me? Although I wasn't yet ready 
to admit it, I knew already the answer. I deserved it.

Somehow I still felt that he had the right. He was my priest, my 
confessor, and so if he told me that this was penance for my lust, then 
that was the way it was, and I must endure it. 

I wasn't downhearted, in fact the very opposite. It gave me hope, the 
prospect of being punished. Maybe a little pain was a sacrifice worth 
paying if it allowed me to continue wallowing, guilt free, in my carnal 
desires.

I gritted my teeth and waited. He held one end of the belt, with it 
wound round his hand, swinging it threateningly, and his cock in the 
other hand, gripping that firmly at the base and pumping furiously.

It was so humiliating, holding my tits out for him to punish, while he 
patiently played with himself, and waited. He seemed to want to milk my 
fear, to build my anticipation for the pain that was to come.

And then he began, bringing down the tail of his belt, cracking it 
against the upper swell of my proffered tits, striking them again and 
again. I'm sure he had done this before. He seemed to know what he was 
doing. I wanted to scream, to cry aloud, and through my cries to 
relieve the pain and the torment. But I couldn't bring myself to let 
go. To display such weakness would have been even more humiliating.

The long length of leather rose and fell with an almost hypnotic 
rhythm, cutting through the air with a low whistle to stroke the 
entire, blushing quivering mounds of sore tit flesh. It was an 
accurate, efficient and deadly effective administration of punishment.

My soft white breasts were soon flawed with a deep crimson tan; the 
impression of the belt clearly marked for anyone to see. I closed my 
eyes and bit deeply into my lip, enduring, holding on. I was trembling. 
God. The pain was churning my insides: I felt sick inside. My chest was 
burning and stinging, the regular strokes painfully sharp. 

I was desperate to move, to cover my bosom with my hands and arms, to 
protect myself, but I knew that I daren't. He hadn't told me that I 
could.

He varied his strokes, ensuring that each breast was struck in turn, 
spreading the strokes over each breast so that the flesh was an even 
color throughout. He paid particular attention to the nipples, landing 
several blows on each so that they stood out pointedly and glowed a 
deeper color than the surrounding flesh. Each time the belt connected 
with one of my poor teats, the agony was excruciating. It seared 
through my body bringing tears to my eyes. I couldn't look. I squirmed 
and wriggled, the dread mounting up inside me with an unstoppable urge.

Finally he stopped. "Let me see how you are marked," he panted.

My chest was aflame; the smarting concentrated in the tight sensitive 
buds of my nipples. They were sending such confused bittersweet 
messages to the rest of my body.

He was impatient. "Hurry. Let me see! Take your hands away. Come on. 
Put them up on your head!"

Obediently, I did as he asked. I uncupped my two punished mounds and 
placed my hands where he'd requested, elbows parallel to my shoulders, 
which I pressed back, so that my breasts were displayed to their best 
advantage. God, I was hot. To my shame, I wanted him to see me. I 
wanted him to lust as I lusted. It was wrong, I know. I know that. 
That's why I must now be punished, my Captain.

The flesh on the underside of my breasts was still milky white, but it 
merged gradually with the scarlet lined flesh where I'd been beaten. My 
small red-brown nipples were provocatively erect; pleading for relief 
from the smarting ache that covered them.

He made me stay like that, kneeling on the floor with my hands upon my 
head, naked with the upper part of my breasts stinging and on fire. I 
had to suffer the humiliation of that pose while he continued to pump 
his cock.

And yet, perversely, he was exciting me. I know that you don't wish to 
hear this, my Captain, but I ached to have his rod deep inside me. I 
couldn't help but stare at it voraciously, so hard was it as it 
glistened in the pale light of the window.

The agony in my breasts had become a strong itch, which continued 
unabated. I yearned to scratch and caress them, but I didn't dare move 
either my hands or my arms without his permission. The soles of my feet 
felt cold.

"Would you like me to fuck you," he asked. "Would you like me to stick 
my dick in your hot sticky pussy?"

"Oh, yes," I cried, reaching out beyond the shame of my words. I 
couldn't help it. I just needed him to take me, to fill my insides with 
his monster tool. "Please. Please fuck me. I need it so much."

But my entreaties fell upon deaf ears. "Delilah!" he yelled, slapping 
me hard with the full force of the palm of his hand. "Temptress!" His 
blow crashed against my cheek, jerking tears from my eyes and 
compounding my misery.

And still he continued pumping his cock, more furiously now. "I'm a man 
of the cloth: celibate. Don't you understand that? How dare you entice 
me with your witchery! Remain still, damn you!"

His balls were swollen with the pressure of his come. It was building, 
waiting for the moment to spurt. I was so humiliated, shamed, and yet 
still my breasts and pussy were on fire. I couldn't understand.

He slapped the undersides of my breasts, hard, bringing up his arm in a 
swift cruel movement, and striking with the flat of his hand. His firm 
hands beat the white virgin flesh that had escaped the belt, tempting 
me to rebuke him. I gasped, wanting to hold and protect my poor bruised 
breasts, and yet knowing that I daren't, that he held the mastery over 
me, that I would endure whatever he willed. He beat me again and again, 
causing the tears to stream down my face unchecked. I didn't care what 
he saw, how bad the degradation got now. Each time he struck, my breast 
would fly from off his hand, then jerking back wildly as if pulled by 
an invisible bungee cord. 

He liked that.

His cock twitched and he groaned, tightening his hold upon the base of 
his hairy cock. And then he came, suddenly and almost without warning. 
His pump gun spurted potently, come jumping from the jerking tip and 
spraying across my crimson titties. He waved it back and forth across 
my chest, so as to cover the widest area. Four, five times he spurted 
his creamy semen across my upper body. I gasped as the initial beads of 
warm come splashed across my front. I was unprepared, and feeling so 
foolish. It landed and then the sticky globules trickled down towards 
my aching nipples.

How can I tell you? Worse was to come. When he finished, he wiped his 
cock clean on the side of my breasts and then made me rub his come into 
my skin. He watched me most carefully, insisting that I rubbed and 
caressed my breasts, especially round the nipples, feeling such 
confused arousal, kneading his sticky fluid into my itchy flesh. 

He knew what he was doing, how my actions were inciting my passion. And 
yet he wouldn't permit me to do what I so longed to do, to touch my 
pussy and bring relief to a body that was now on fire.

Instead, he kept me teetering just below the edge, craving to push 
myself towards an earth-shattering climax.

I was screaming inside, my nerves strained to breaking point, delirious 
with anguished frustration. 

"Please," I begged, my dignity long gone. I ground my thighs together, 
trying to heighten my arousal. "Please let me finish. Just let me touch 
myself down there."

He made me explain, to tell him precisely what I wanted. "Pardon. What 
is it that you want to do?"

"Please," I pleaded. "I want to come. Please. Allow me to play with my 
pussy. Just a little. It won't take long."

Of course, he wouldn't hear of it. That was his hook, how he was able 
to draw me in. Instead, he told me to dress. I stood up, fuzzy headed, 
my breasts stinging and on fire, and I crossed stiffly, awkwardly, to 
the small untidy pile of clothes lying in the corner. God. I was so 
very conscious of his dark burning eyes scrutinizing my every action, 
and his contented cock lying limp and sleepy upon his trousers. 

He watched me sternly as I picked up my panties and poked my dainty 
little feet through the holes, drawing them quickly up my legs and over 
my hips. It was such an anticlimax. Every cell in my body was aching 
for satisfaction, pleading for it. I tugged my panties tight, pulling 
the gusset into my slit, feeling a measure of relief as it rubbed 
against my clit. Perhaps this way...

He coughed.

I looked up, only to see him with those large doleful eyes, shaking his 
head apologetically.

Such frustration. I snorted with thwarted need, obediently dropping my 
hands and picking up my bra. I had to do something.

I tried to wriggle, to create my own friction as I pulled my bra over 
my throbbing breasts. I tried tightening my thighs together in an 
effort to release the pressure building between my legs. 

But none of it worked. What disappointment! The sensation faded between 
my legs, and the fire slowly ebbed. 

But he knew. He knew perfectly well what he was doing. He knew that the 
experience would last much longer with me this way. He knew that this 
way, I would be back.

As soon as I had finished dressing, he dismissed me. Just a parting 
wave of the hand, no goodbye, no thanks, nothing. He sent me away with 
his come covering my body, sticky and cold under my clothes. 

I blushed all the way home, positive that people would smell his 
passion upon me, wondering how I would explain my the soreness of my 
breasts to you, my Captain.

I couldn't wash him from my body. I tried hard as soon as I could. I 
showered but his stench wouldn't leave me. It was impossible. I knew, 
there was no going back, he owned me now. Just as an animal sprays his 
scent to mark a territory: this was his mark. My body was his now. My 
mind too, I knew it: he had only to threaten to reveal what I had done 
and I was as good as lost.

That was the beginning. 

Please sir. These ropes, I'm tired. I'm hurting. Will you punish me 
now? I confess all this, for I have sinned. Please sir. I hope, because 
you love me, that you will ease my guilt and administer an appropriate 
punishment. It is right and proper that you should do it, because it's 
you that I have hurt through my unpardonable conduct. Please. I need 
it, my Captain. There is no one else that I can go to. I cannot confess 
in Church, not any more. Can you see that now? Please. Punish me, sir. 
I deserve it for the wickedness I have committed.

****

From outside it the courtyard I heard a horrible moan followed by the 
noise of much jesting.

Soon. Oh yes. Soon. But not yet. There were other toys in the cupboard. 
And I hate to play alone.



End of Part Five


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you to everyone who so kindly responded to part the earlier parts 
of this story by encouraging me to write more. Thank you to my 
proofreaders for their invaluable assistance and suggestions.


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




Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com
