Chapter 1: Miss Cecily Freeman, Director of Psychology
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, NonConsensual, Rape, BDSM, Rough, Torture, Caution, .
Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1: Miss Cecily Freeman, Director of Psychology - If you worked for Special Forces and your job was to torture lady spies, getting information from them however you liked; could you do it, and how would you know? Cecily is tasked with interviewing Howard for such a role and deciding whether he meets the grade, and the main tool she has at her disposal is her body. So if Howard doesn't hurt Cecily enough: he doesn't get the job; but if he hurts her too badly, maybe she won't give him the job either. How far can he go? And how far can she go?
"Do you think you could torture a woman, Mr. Pendrill? A beautiful, arrogant and conceited young lady?"
It was such an outlandish, puerile enquiry.
It was a great grand daddy, a monster of such overwhelming girth and consequence that the gallant and highly decorated Lieutenant Howard Pendrill felt compelled to consider it studiously, stiffly, and somewhat open mouthed. He puckered his brow and paused, visibly wrong footed.
"I'm sorry?" he mumbled, stumbling over his words. "What did you say?"
The reason for his overreaction wasn't because he was naive, simple minded or prudish. He wasn't. In fact, he was a proverbial man of the world - athletic, manly - although, in more recent times he'd limited his bedtime gymnastics to a woman named Lucy Caldwell, of whom we shall learn more during the course of this story.
He appeared hesitant and awkward because he'd never imagined a sexy, attractive professional woman conjuring such a sensational question without preamble or introduction.
It was bizarre.
The aforesaid woman sat smoldering in front of him on the far side of a glass topped table, smiling and teasing him with her pungent, perfumed femininity. She appeared calm and fresh, flicking her corn brown hair from the edge of her brow and waiting impatiently for an answer.
"A lady, Mr. Pendrill," she repeated wryly, pursing her lips and tapping gently on the glass with the lead of a pencil. "It's that simple. Could you torture her?"
Her name was Cecily Freeman, or at least, that's what it said on the patinized plaque hanging from the door of her office:
Miss Cecily Freeman. Director of Psychology.
Those were the words, although when you bore in mind her profession, you comprehended that her name was undoubtedly an alias - a cover. She was undoubtedly called Penelope or Susan on her birth certificate, or Jane or Samantha, or something exotic like Amilie or Yasmin; but a name so totally unlike Cecily that it might even be guessable.
But then, as Howard reflected, the job description was also undoubtedly a cover. Why should her title of Director of Psychology be any more credible than her name?
Everything about her, he decided, was smoke, lies, mirrors and deception! In fact, in summary: fiction.
All Howard could be certain of was that she was bright, breezy and cheerfully poised on the edge of her steel chair. She was proffering her cleavage in the general direction of his eyes and threatening to topple from her stool in an ungainly, undignified heap. Yet, she didn't and that was her power. The allure and proximity of a male made her lean towards him dangerously, and yet she was detached. She was calm. She was thrusting her swollen breasts and stretching her toes, flexing them luxuriantly as if she were relaxing in an end-of-day bath.
It was those tiny things that Howard noticed: like her toes. Why was she stretching her toes? People don't normally do that, not unless there's a reason. Her toes jerked in repetitive rhythms and when coupled with the way she was pushing her cleavage at him, Howard fancied that she was in heat, lost in an erotic fantasy of her own making - in a dream in which she was surrounded by flickering candles.
Howard's imagination became equal to its challenge. He imagined a canvas and on it, he saw Miss Cecily Freeman with a lover. Her lover was a man with a thick, rugged cock and he was towering above her, while Miss Freeman was on her knees with her hands and arms tucked behind her back. Her head was bowed. She was staring at the floor and mumbling promises of loyal obedience. She opened her mouth and - keeping her eyes lowered - she licked his knob. She prepared to take him to the back of her throat, and yet the submission didn't make her weaker, but stronger. She'd grown from a cub to a lioness, and she was yet growing in stature.
Howard mumbled faintly, still staring at her toes and wondering what it meant that she was flexing them so dangerously. Then, gracefully, he looked up at her face, and he smiled. "In what way do you mean - torture a lady?"
"Don't play coy with me, Mr. Pendrill," she griped miserably, and there was something hypnotically suggestive about the way she twisted the pencil through her fingers, and about the way she eased the glistening charcoal into her sharpener and turned it with a smooth, deliberate roll of her wrists, round and around; and about the way she blew the loose spiral shavings into a white, ceramic ash tray.
It hinted of sex. It whispered of evil and declared that she was a tease. It murmured seductively that she was willing, dangerous and wet, and that she wanted to be laid.
I'm hot, it said.
Forget who I am and screw me, it said.
Hump me, it said.
The cry became a beat, a continuous mind-numbing rhythm.
Toss me onto the table, rip off my clothes and force me to surrender. Then fuck me.
Rip off my clothes.
Forget who I am.
Tear off my panties and pump me.
She was taunting him, tempting him. It was the pencil. In and out it slid: twisting and turning and playing the spider with the fetish for flies.
Don't ask, but beat me. Make me.
It was a trap. A snare. And if Howard had have done those things he'd have been a goner for it wasn't for real. It was a fake and a fraud, a heavy introduction into a covert world in which she was a mistress and he was a student, for she was no more a hungry sex crazed lioness than she was Director of Psychology or her name was Miss Cecily Freeman. She was a spy, and in that ancient and dishonourable profession she was a master.
Her long dizzy eyelashes trailed seductively across her face - teasing and flirting and pretending to be something she wasn't. She laughed and murmured and joked, and her lashes turned into fluttering fans, like those of a geisha, stuttering out thoughts and desires while hinting at more sinful pleasures within. "A man like you, Mr Pendrill," she cooed with a sharp roll of her shoulders, and she twisted her pencil and bit lightly into its lead centre with her teeth. "Surely you know about torturing young women?"
She was enjoying this game. She was a fox, and what else? What was she inside, this mysterious, enigmatic Miss Cecily Freeman?
Howard peered thoughtfully through the translucent table at her skirt and saw the fashionable black hose and the swirl of her toes, demurely visible through the dark smoky glass, never stationary but always drifting and swirling; and he paused and then smiled, imagining how it would be if he fucked her.
Howard had a strong overactive imagination, and in it, he imagined whipping off her skirt and confiscating her panties. He imagined the soft smoothness of her bulge, and he touched it, and caressed it. Then he lifted her up against a wall, holding her thighs and supporting her weight. Her breath was soft and sweet on his cheeks, shallow and expectant; and like that, he rammed her. He gave her the fix she so needed; for Howard was convinced that beneath the many bluffs and counter bluffs; she was a woman in need of a cock.
"Screw me!" she wailed: her hands beating frantically at his chest, and her nipples were tender and swollen into rocks. She shuddered at his manly physique, and he rammed her box and filled it, and her cunt screamed and sucked at his cock: "Oh Lord! Oh God! Oh yes! Screw me! Screw me good!"
It was a nice, agreeable fantasy, but it was a fiction, a lie, just as she was. She couldn't stop him from indulging his fantasies, but that's what they were: dreams, fancies and trinkets, and it begged the question: who was the real Miss Cecily Freeman? What was she like when she was away from this room?
He studied her legs: well muscled, with slim firm ankles and feet covered in luxurious black stocking. He noticed the motif, a royal coat of arms, carefully stitched into the nylon with fine gold thread two inches from the top, right on the middle of the seam. He studied it carefully and he frowned. Was it a clue? A red herring? Who was she? "If I can torture a lady as beautiful as you are," he thought quietly. "Then where will we be? What truths might we discover and what fireworks might we ignite, and how much better I would know you."
Cecily reached for her skirt and she pulled it down across the motif, hiding it, but her skirt wouldn't stay down. It was polyester and it bounced up her legs and once again the gold pattern was visible.
Howard's frown darkened.
She tugged at the hem again, feeling the power of Howard's lascivious gaze and wanting to embrace it but unsure that she should: not now, not here. "Mr. Pendrill," she exclaimed, looping back in her thoughts, lurching from defense to attack in one easy movement. "My question is an easy one, or it should be if you listened. Could you torture a young adult female? Could you staple her tits to a tree and dislocate her joints? Could you lower her into a barrel of hot, sulphurous bitumen, having undressed and shaved her first? Yes - Mr. Pendrill: could you overturn that barrel and roll her in goose feathers and cover her from head to toe, and watch the bitumen harden? What do you say, Mr. Pendrill? Think of it. Imagine it: the pain, the panic. I need to know. Could you do it?"
She lifted her chin and glowered at him aggressively, her mood suddenly brightening and brimming with assurance. "You don't expect such nasty talk from a woman, do you?" she gloated, crossing her legs and tossing them high into the air so that he could see unexpected flashes of white skin. "You expect us to be meek, mild and tawdrily shocked. You expect us to be naive and behave according to our feminine stereotypes and snivel and weep. But not so. We're built of sterner stronger stuff and we conquer our fears! I'm a woman strong and bold enough to be tortured, Mr. Pendrill, as you shall discover - but, I wonder, are you up to the job?"
She uncrossed her legs again, slowly, parting her feet, followed by her knees and then by her thighs - slowly - allowing him to see all the way to the gusset. Howard watched her every inch of the way, his gaze climbing with her skirt to the join at the top. He saw her stockings and that tiny motif. It was a royal crown and two lions. He saw the white of her thighs, and the colour of her panties, and that they were green.
She held her legs open for him, showing him how easily she could handle her shyness.
"I could do it!" Howard muttered dumbly, unsure of what he was saying, but reflecting that her panties were green.
Here she was. Miss Cecily Freeman. And she was wearing green panties, and she was trembling.
Howard's throat became dry and his mind lost focus. What was going on here? And what was this strange mercurial talk? Tar? Feathers? What sweet depravity lay buried undiscovered in Cecily's psyche, waiting to be tapped?
Who was this enigmatic Miss Cecily Freeman?
"You're polite and pleasantly spoken," she inhaled deeply, holding tightly to the table, gripping it and her knuckles becoming white. "But what are you really like?" She held her breath and closed her eyes, and her body shook, and she kept her legs open so that Howard could see that there was a dark patch deepening and spreading across the crotch of her panties.
"Oh Jesus!" Howard mumbled, panicking as he stared at the wetness. What was this? What was she doing? She was shaking. "Oh dear fuck!"
It was too much! Concentration! He had to think about Lucy: Lucy Caldwell, his girlfriend. Concentration was important. He had to think about Lucy in bed - tall, lanky Lucy, olive skinned - smiling and teasing and stripping for him. Tall, lanky Lucy with feathers in her hair, holding him tightly and whispering and telling him that she wanted to suck his dick, but he'd have to wait until after they were married because she had morals and she was a Christian. He tried to concentrate, but it wasn't working: Lucy's face wasn't clear and her tongue was tired and asleep. She was unfocussed and distant, and she wouldn't suck him, or even strip for him, and the door between them was closed, and locked. She was a Christian.
"What are you like beneath the surface, Mr. Pendrill?" Cecily inquired, leaning forward and bubbling her white froth, her eyes fluttering against Howard's will. She grabbed her knees and forced them apart, for they were closing and they had a mind of their own. Cecily shuddered, and she was shaking. "Are you an average shit who enjoys embarrassing women, or are you a man with resolve?"
She could feel him looking, staring at the stickiness staining her panties, and her white flesh and the thread stitched to her stockings. "Can you be strong when there's a need to be strong?" she rasped, knowing that the stickiness was spreading across her gusset, and her breath was becoming faster.
Howard stared at the stain, and he knew instinctively what this woman craved. It wasn't an educated guess or even intuition. It wasn't a lie or deception. He could see by the evidence of his eyes.
She wanted to be screwed - she needed it - to be feathered, tarred, to have her tits nailed to a tree and to know there was nothing she could do to stop it.
His cock unwound.
Oh dear Jesus. Where was Lucy? He needed Lucy! His sweetheart!
He needed her to save him; else he was lost. He had morals.
Lucy Caldwell. Aged 22. 34 inch bust. 34 inch hips. 23 inch waist. Height 5 feet 10 inches. Weight 125 pounds. Black hair. Swaying. Stripping.
First her blouse; next her skirt.
Where was Lucy?
Now her stockings, first this one and then that one, and she was looking at him demurely; promising to take off her bra and her panties.
Howard's cock lifted its head and stretched, searching for Lucy, but all it found was the enigmatic Cecily Freeman, Director of Psychology.
Think of it! A tarred and feathered woman with her tits nailed to a tree!
The image threatened to combust.
Lucy was forgotten and he imagined it: Cecily was bellowing at him, arching her chest and screaming as a nail ripped through her bust. "Staple - as with a staple gun," she bellowed. "And fat juicy tits - the objects we women use to entrap the gullible sex. Let's breathe it, Mr. Pendrill! Let's allow the image to fester awhile. Let's savour how this poor lady is feeling - how frightened and tearful and scared, how her thoughts turn sour as the nail penetrates her flesh. She's humiliated and unclothed. Nude, with men around her; looking at her, teasing and they're full of their ridicule. That's bad enough, but now she's being lowered into the barrel. The tar bubbles and clings to her flesh and it's burning and impossible to remove. It's in her hair and under her nails, and it's seeping into the most intimate cracks. It's gooey and hot. Oh God, it's so hot! It sticks to her face, and it covers her hands. It's tickling her ears and staining her cheeks, gluing her lips. It's thick on her breasts and her nipples and it makes them blister, and it's heavy, weighing her down: and dripping. It coats her ass and her legs, and it hangs from her nose, and it's heavy. All the same, there's a warmth in her groin...
The men are laughing, joking, and they tip her into a tank of feathers and roll her into an undignified sprawl. They hold her down, and the feathers cling to her hair and stick to her face; to her arms and her breasts. The quills tickle her skin and they prick between the legs. They're in her mouth and up her nose, carpeting her back and clothing her waist and lining her front. They're in between her toes, and the tar is hardening and she can't wipe it off. Water won't budge it so what will she do? Everything is sticking to the feathers, the tar, her hair, even the blisters: and where should she go? She's out of her mind and her hair hangs in plaits, ugly and inflexible, much of it sticking to her head.
Then strange unknown men push her around, teasing and taking pictures. They make her pose in unseemly positions. They spread her legs and hold them so they can get a snap of the feathers protruding from her cunt. They look at it and frown. They don't like the first picture and so they take another. This one's better, so now they bring out the nails. Long ones. Six inches long. God. She sees them with dread and she wonders how she'll endure them. She finds herself pushed towards the tree and a cold hand pinning her back while the nail is driven deep into her meat, and all at once an unspeakable agony shatters her thinking.
She can't move. She's stuck: impaled. This is it.
Oh God. What now? Will she be left like this for an hour? A day? How long? She's crying. She's irrational and emotional, and blurting out garbage for the nails are puncturing her flesh and it hurts. Oh Christ, how it hurts! The pain! This alone saps her sanity, her endurance, her energy, but in addition to the pain there's the humiliation, for the men are slapping her buttocks and tickling her feet, and she worries whether her tits will be scarred.
Will they heal? Will the marks ever go? From the nails? The blisters? Will she ever be normal?
Will the tar ever go?
The men around her are enjoying her pain. They're making jokes about the tar, the feathers, and the shape of their handprints on her ass.
"Imagine it, Mr. Pendrill," Cecily hissed, and her fingers clawed uselessly at the table, and her face turned red and her voice became hoarse and nervous. Her eyes were focused like slits, for she was imagining the tar and the feathers.
She was imagining a cock in her ass.
"This woman cries to distract herself from the pain, and she wonders who the men are who look on and jeer her. What are their names? Where are they from? What is it that drives them to watch her? Are they married? With children? Do they have girlfriends? Do these women know that they come here to watch her writhing and suffering in her feathers? Would they approve?
"She looks at their cocks: long, hard, and so horribly thick.
"Oh Jesus. The pain is nauseating. Its spreading from her bust to the rest of her chest. Her universe is reduced to these two unwieldy nails. She wraps her bituminous legs round the tree and hugs it for comfort, rocking it and hoping to escape the terrible sickening pain. Her arms are embracing the tree too. What are their names? she sobs. Where are they from? She repeats these questions until they become like a mantra. Oh God. Who are they? Where are they from? What are they after? Do they want sex? Humilation? Pain? Will they rape her? Surely they must. They have to, but she prays that they won't, that there won't be any disease or pregnancy. They'll rape her. God. They must; and she's never been raped.
"She hugs the tree tighter and calculates the days since her last period, and she wonders whether she's fertile or lucky. Not that. The pain is too much! Oh God. Her arms and thighs are covered in tar, and it's burning her skin, and the feathers are tickling between her legs. They cover her mound, her thighs and her breasts. They're in her face, her hair, her eyes.
"Maybe they won't rape her since she's covered in tar. Maybe the tar will squick them, and she consoles herself by clinging to that hope. Maybe.
"She frames her questions again, unable to think. Who are they? What are their names? How many times will they rape her? Do they have girlfriends?
"Would their girlfriends like to watch? Would they be jealous? Would they be turned on?
"She hugs the tree tighter. Her little clit scrapes against the bark, and it too is soon covered in tar. Tighter, rocking back and forth, her tiny desolate whine becomes louder and louder. Her clit becomes bigger.
"Will they rape her? Surely they must. They will. They have to, but she prays that they won't.
"Perhaps if she offers them her ass that'll keep them at bay. Perhaps if she does that then they won't take her pussy. She'll take them in her mouth if they ask her and she'll swallow every drop; she'll beg; she'll crawl on her belly covered in tar and white feathers. If only...
"She doesn't want a child, or babies - or scarred tits.
"She pleads with the devil and makes trades, supplicating him to leave her a future. Imagine it, Mr. Pendrill. She's trading a humiliating rape as long as there's no child and her tits remain unmarred. Imagine it. Think of it. Think of a bare tar- covered clit rubbing along the bark getting hotter and darker, and then a long sharp quill piercing the flesh. Can you see how it sits?"
Howard nodded. "I think so," he said.
"You think so, Mr. Pendrill? Is that right? You think so? I doubt that you do. But you will. You will. You've seen tits, I suppose. And caressed them as well? I bet you have. Pretty girls wait by the gates for the soldiers to pass by. They hoist up their skirts and lift their tops, baring their breasts. No decorum; no modesty; no future. Ordinary girls competing for favours and for men. Ordinary girls deserving of torture. Deserving to be hurt. Deserving to be raped. You've seen them, I suppose, Mr. Pendrill? You've seen them?"
Howard wouldn't answer because he didn't want to be thinking about pretty girls standing by the gates. He wanted to be thinking of Lucy twisting and singing and dancing the seven veils. He wanted to be loyal.
Deer lovely Lucy. 34 inch bust. 34 inch hips. 23 inch waist. Deep olive skin. Swaying. Stripping.
First her blouse; next her skirt, looking at him demurely; promising to take off her bra and her panties, but later, after they were married.
She was a Christian.
Howard's mind shifted abruptly and he saw her practicing at the keyboard, her parents in the kitchen eating sandwiches and her brother Daniel playing on his computer.
He'd been lucky to find her, to have her...
Lucy struck the notes over and over, and she struggled to find the keys. She was wearing a lemon top, blue jeans and fluffy black slippers.
"I've been practicing," she said.
"Practicing?" he queried.
She nodded coyly, blushing, and she looked down shyly, blushing and peering at her lap. Lucy was a trained singer and she'd qualified with honours from her college, but controversy had followed her and stuck to her and now she couldn't find work.
Oh God, she was sexy!
She pushed the hair from her eyes, and bit her bottom lip, wanting to speak but cowering from the act. "I've got the part of Salome in the production of Richard Strauss," she said eventually.
Howard congratulated her, but the reference meant nothing to him.
Lucy stopped playing on the keyboard and she looked at him hard. "It's the one in which Salome dances for King Herod," she said fiercely, hoping that he'd understand what she was saying, but he didn't. The inference sailed blindly over his head.
Howard wasn't comprehending. He congratulated her again, and so Lucy added a second, more laboured explanation, She coughed. "It's the dance of the seven veils," she said coyly. "You've heard of that? You must have done. It's a striptease - the one role in opera where the fat lady doesn't sing, because a performer's looks are more important than her voice."
Howard paused, sensing that Lucy was awaiting his reaction, that her hand was playing unconsciously with her top, that there was a lace, and beneath it was a bra, and she was tense, very tense. "The opera was banned for decades because of the eroticism of the piece," she added hurriedly to cover his silence, once again brushing back her hair and playing with the lace. "It's a bible tale, about sixteen year old Salome and how her mother uses her to gain revenge on the man John the Baptist because he refuses to sleep with her. She knows that her husband, King Herod, is infatuated with Salome, and so she makes Salome perform a striptease for Herod, and when Herod offers to favor her, she asks for the gift of John the Baptizer's head. In the Opera, by the end of the dance Salome is naked and she sings to the decapitated head of John the Baptist, kissing his lips."
Howard looked at Lucy hesitantly: uncertain. "You mean she has no clothes at all?" he pressed.
Lucy blushed, and nodded. "That's right. By the end of the dance I have no clothes at all. I dance for the entertainment of the King and his ministers."
Howard's expression clouded into a scowl. His face became black, thunderous: "I don't like that," he said. "It sounds gross... I wouldn't look. I'd be jealous..."
"It is gross." Lucy agreed with a fast, nervous nod. "It's licentious, and some people find it erotic; but it's art and art is often licentious and erotic."
She leaned towards him, and her hand slid across his groin. "Tonight we're going to the theatre, Howard. There's to be a rehearsal. I have some ideas and a costume but I require some feedback... feedback from a man I trust. I need to know what works and what doesn't, and your cock will be my critic."
Howard hesitated, choosing his words. "Lucy, I mean - Lucy - let's get this straight. You have a conscience - that's what you always tell me - and you won't even sleep with me. You're a Christian, you say. How many times have you said it? You dress conservatively and you condemn the women that don't: those girls who stand by the camp and pull up their skirts. In which case, I don't understand how you can take such a part. How can you behave like a cheap stripper?"
"Howard." Lucy was naive, young, open and honest in the way that she spoke, and yet she was caressing his cock and liking its hardness. "It's not me undressing on stage. It's my character: Salome. Actresses do it all the time. They take off their clothes. Don't you see that? It's a part: opera. If it bothers you then you don't have to watch me, but I'm determined to do it. I must. I need the work!"
Howard looked at her, weighing her determination, and then he sighed, and a few seconds later, again, a second time. "If you're set in your mind, then I'll be your critic," he relented.
"And are you sure, Howard? You won't be jealous of the strange men looking at my tits and pussy, because they'll look. I'll make them look. That's the purpose of my dance, to make them crave my body and yearn to fuck me. I'll be like someone else, someone you won't recognise as being your girlfriend."
Howard hesitated because he was already jealous and that jealousy could only get worse. Was he sure about this? He would have to live with whatever he decided. "I'll be your critic," he repeated.
"You're certain? Howard? The producers will shoot artwork for the publicity and they'll create dirty, mucky posters to advertise the show. They'll show my tits, for certain, and maybe a lot more, maybe my butt. I'll be visible all over town. Are you happy with that?"
"I'll be your critic," Howard said once again, grinding his teeth. "When I've made up my mind, I do as I say. Now let's drive to your bloody theatre."
"Yes, Howard. Thank you, so much."