Chapter 2: Average Sized Tits

"Mr. Pendrill," Cecily frowned, glancing at him seriously. "Are you listening to me?"

Howard glanced up. "Of course," he stammered.

Cecily double blinked. She raised a cool, lazy eyebrow, and her face hardened. "Are you sure, Mr. Pendrill? You don't appear to be listening."

"Yes, of course I'm listening!"

But Howard wasn't listening. He was thinking: dreaming. He was lost in his local theatre with Lucy on stage; a packed house around her, and the excited buzz of opening night. Lucy was acting the part of Salome, and she was wearing a long dress and sandals, a belt round her waist, and beads and baubles hanging from anything and anywhere that would support them. They were looped round her arms, her neck, her waist. They were attached to her ears and they were decorating her hair. They were hanging from her like delicate fingers of glass. They swayed with her movements and jerked to her rhythms, although not for long, for she was dancing provocatively and removing her jewellery and belt.

She was a singer, and she was singing her arias while simultaneously loosening the ties of her dress and slipping it free. And then, abruptly, the mood changed and the tempo slowed. It became more sensual and she was kissing the grey murdered head of the Baptist and disrobing of a long linen underskirt; thrusting the disembodied mouth between her legs; tossing back her neck and gulping down hot air. Her face was flushed, and soon she was disrobing of a white linen chemise and exposing her bare breasts, gripping them tightly and squeezing until they hurt; dancing around, almost prancing; and then unwinding from a length of white cloth, a bandage that swathed her hips, unwinding from it until it fell from her body and there was nothing left but her nakedness.

Howard had previously imagined that there'd be some trick, an ingenious curtain behind which she could hide; a subtle body stocking or a dimming of the lights; some device to soften the pornography of Lucy's performance.

But there was nothing.

There were no tricks, no gimmicks. With the single exception of a little subtle body makeup on her breasts and delineating her pussy, it was just total, abject raw naked sex. There Lucy was dancing in front of her friends, her family and strangers alike - her breasts, nipples, pussy hair and everything on show - and Howard's cock stood up proud like a rock, as it should. Her performance was awesome and despite her promises and teasing, it was the first time Howard had seen her truly, terrifyingly naked.

Okay, so there was red gloss daubed on her nipples and black pencil to define the shape of her pussy lips, but effectively she was naked, and the makeup only served to highlight that fact.

"Mr Pendrill? Are you listening to me?" Cecily repeated, and Howard coughed, distracted and befuddled by the images playing in his mind. "Yes... yes, of course," he muttered. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Mr Pendrill. I'm disappointed. If you refuse me the courtesy of listening, we should finish our interview immediately. We're here for your benefit, not mine, and if you're not interested..."

Howard smiled sweetly and hoped to placate her, but he was thinking about Lucy. Beautiful sexy Lucy, kneeling on stage and singing the part of Salome with the cold grey mouth of her dead lover perched between her open legs, and his cold lips kissing her private parts and bringing her to arousal. "I'm sorry," Howard apologized, rubbing the side of his head, feeling the stabbings of a migraine. "I will listen. I promise. I will."

Cecily looked at him irritably and scowled. She couldn't abide Howard's bad manners, or any man's bad manners, and although she was gracious and she accepted the apology, his card was now marked and he'd better be careful. "We're supposed to be soldiers," she savaged him ruthlessly. "I may be a woman and you may be a shit with a cock, but we do things the military way here, and when one of us talks, the other one listens, Mr Pendrill. Is that clear? I may be dressed and you may be naked and embarrassed and feeling very hard done by, but that's life. Get over it, Mr Pendrill. You don't want to show me your dick, but that's tough: I'm your superior and you do as I say. There's no room for modesty in a spy, Mr Pendrill, so get used to it: shit happens. Female agents are called upon to disrobe when captured by the enemy, and although we quibble and complain, it goes with the territory. We endure the embarrassment because it's either that or we have to update our CV and find another profession. The interrogators don't ask us if we're married or have children or a boyfriend. They don't ask us about our husband. Neither are they interested in our PMT, or diet regimes, or whether we've just started a period. The enemy isn't bothered about whether we're taking protection, have waxed our legs or feel uncomfortable with the shape of our body. 'Strip', they tell us. 'Bend over', they say. 'Open your legs, spread your lips, take our cocks and shut up'. That's what they say. 'Faster', they say. 'In, out; and keep thinking of your country', they say. That's the lot of a woman, Mr Pendrill. It's what we do, so why not a man? A man like you? So stop being sorry for yourself and stand tall like a soldier and no more of this nonsense. I'm staring at your silly cock and I want it to get hard and long and decent. So you'll listen and nod and do as I tell you. Is that understood, Mr fucking Lieutenant? I want to see an erection."

Howard swallowed hard. "Yes, mam. It's understood. I apologize for not listening."

Lucy picked up her pencil and she licked its end and she contemplated Howard's nudity and very specifically his cock, doing so provocatively so as if to unnerve him. She leaned forward, sighing melodramatically in mock pleasure, letting her feet sway romantically between them in circles of eight.

But it was a lie, of course; deceit. Inside she was coldness and air. "I undergo interrogation resistance training twice a year," she added, but her annoyance had subsided now, and she was instead revelling in her position of power. She was staring at his cock. It was shy, embarrassed and limp, like a cut flower left without water, but she was staring at it nevertheless, just as if it were erect, and she was ignoring his face. Why? She liked to tease and torment men, to make their cocks grow tall at times and places where it made them uncomfortable. She appeared innocent and naive on the surface but she wasn't. She was a tigress; and her teeth were eager and they could tear you to shreds.

"My male interrogators take me to a cold, bare warehouse with dirty brick walls and no windows," she added while playing with her top. "They tell me to undress. 'Strip', they say. 'Dance', they say. 'Spread your lips and show us your box. It's embarrassing, Mr Pendrill. It's not nice. They line us up and bend us over and plunge their hands into our slits. It happens, Mr Pendrill; and we have to endure it because it's our job and what else can we do? Female spies have to be strong because interrogators play games with us, and we're forced to resist them. So, turn the tables, Mr Pendrill, and imagine that you've been captured by an enemy force, and there's a female interrogator who wants to torment you. Me, Mr Pendrill. Is the rationale any different?"

She smiled, and made a show of staring at his limp cock; and she leaned forward and lifted the male flesh with her pencil, weighing it carefully and holding it at half mast. "Sing to me about your experience of tits, Mr Pendrill," she said with voluble disappointment at the flabbiness of his dick. "I want to hear it."

Howard willed for his cock to get harder or stronger or smarter; to combat his embarrassment and her displeasure, but it wouldn't. He wanted it to do something under Cecily's gaze and attention, if not swelling to a tall, raging hard- on, at least to feign an arrogant disinterest. He wished that it would go up or down - he didn't mind which - as long as it did something, but it wouldn't. It was caught in two minds. It stayed ambivalent, and Cecily kept staring at it, and prodding it with her pencil, and leaning towards it, getting closer and almost falling out of her blouse in her attempts to arouse it.

"Let's start again," she purred, rolling her wrists and slamming her pencil into its sharpener. Howard grunted at the violence of the motion; and she laughed at him, an open lilting taunting laugh. "We're discussing the torture of a woman's breasts, Mr Pendrill," she said. "And very specifically the torture of a young lady's prize morsels. I've suggested that you may have caressed a fair few of these objects and you've confirmed this. Isn't this so, Mr Pendrill?"

Howard admitted it, although he was suspicious. "Of course." he grunted weakly, sliding his hands in front of his groin. "I've caressed a few tits in my time."

Cecily flicked his hands away from his tackle with the tip of her pencil, and her face was a picture of mirth and mockery combined. She stared at his cock once again, sighing weakly. "Big tits, Mr Pendrill?"

Howard nodded miserably. "Yes, mam. Big ones."

"And what about little ones?" she teased him, pointing at his inadequacy and prodding it again with the end of her pencil. "Do you like flat tits that hover like pancakes with teats on? Fried eggs, they're known as. Mr Pendrill?"

"Yes. I mean..." he flustered: confused, for she was touching his dick with her pencil, caressing his scrotum: lifting it, dropping it; and he didn't like that at all. It was making him angry. "I don't understand."

"You understand perfectly, Mr Pendrill - but I'll explain. I have a brother named Jake, and he was seventeen once when he visited my room uninvited, Mr Pendrill. Do I make myself clear? I was two years younger than him and a late developer and embarrassed by my shape. At the time I had no breasts of significance and that made me self-conscious, and I resorted to padded bras because they created the illusion that nature had been working, when it hadn't. But that day I was stripped bare. Before I'd cottoned on to what he was about and planning, my brother made some feeble excuse and he rushed through the door and into my room. He tied my hands with rope, and then my legs, and although I protested and ordered him to stop, he said it was okay, and that I should chill out, because he was thinking of training to be a teacher, and he was going to teach me about sex. I repeated that he should let me go, and although I wasn't panicking at this point because I was modestly dressed, I was unhappy and angry. I knew he wasn't going to university, and he wasn't training to be a teacher, and I didn't like being tied up. But even as I protested, he was attaching my bound limbs to my bed.

"Soon I was spread-eagled. I couldn't move. I was alone in the house, in my room, and there was no one there for me to call. He was my brother and at that moment I assumed that I trusted him, but even so, I was scared, because I didn't understand what he was doing any more. What was going on in his head? Then, just as he finished tying my hands to the bed, he said he was going to undress me, and when he said that, I freaked out. I screamed at him and told him he was foolish and that he would get us both into serious trouble, and that we'd be arrested and he'd go to prison, but what was scaring me most was that by undressing me, he would learn the secret of my tits. I begged him to stop. I pleaded, I implored him, but he wouldn't listen. Instead, he tightened the rope so that my arms and legs were stretched and wouldn't move. He made sure I was helpless, and then he got to work on my clothes. I was panicking. I was still at school and wearing my school uniform and his hands were all over it, unfastening my blouse and my cotton pleated skirt.

"My brother said that it was his ambition to be a biology teacher because sex was part of the syllabus and he wanted to teach sex. He said that his classes would have a practical element because he'd found that this was the best way of learning a subject: any subject; and he would choose a girl from his class and tie her and let the boys undress her and touch where they wanted. He kept talking such rubbish even as he opened the buttons of my blouse and unfastened the belt of my skirt; and I would have loved to have been that girl in his class if it weren't for my tits.

"So I screamed for my parents and I fought against the ropes. I shrieked, for I knew that at any moment he would discover my secret, that I was a girl with no tits, and I was so embarrassed by this that I was wetting myself. I struggled and swore, and I was in such a state that I could no longer think.

"Under my skirt I was wearing black stockings and there was also a knotted tie around my neck. I remember it clearly. He stood there panting and staring at my chest. There was such rage about him and he was an animal, and not my brother. Then he reached down, ignoring my school tie and he went straight for my blouse, pulling it open, tearing at it, and there, he could see my padded bra.

"I felt so bad that I just died. I felt humiliated, abnormal; and he was at me like a dog at the scent, and he left my skirt and my tie, and he was clawing at my bra.

"And then I realised - and I couldn't believe it - even as he pulled my bra without bothering to unfasten it - there was one violent tug - and he was staring - God - he was turned on by my breasts. I remember it. He was so hard. I remember the almighty tent in his pants and his face glowing red, and he was blabbering on and on about my tits, and suddenly, he was sucking them and touching them, and his hand was groping under my skirt and into my panties, and he was fingering me; and all the while, he was teasing me about my pancakes and telling me how hot he was and that he was going to fuck me.

"He kissed my breasts and made the teats stand up, and then he bit them and left the impression of his teeth. It was so hard that I cried. And as I cried, he said he was going to gobble my nipples and that I should say au revoir to them. He was unreasoning and volatile and not listening and he was biting my nubs so hard that I believed him. I was frightened that my baby teats would be ruined because he was biting so hard. And then he said again he was going to fuck me, and that I deserved to be fucked for making him hard. He said that if I promised not to tell anyone I could keep my girlish nubs, but only if I said he could fuck me.

"I was in tears and a virgin and I didn't want to be fucked by my brother, and I told him that; but he grabbed the tie round my neck and tightened it, and he pulled it so hard that I couldn't breathe, and I was heaving for air and struggling and going red and thinking about my nipples. And he jerked on the tie. He kept fingering my clit and pinching my nipples and preventing me from breathing, so that finally he forced me to say that I would fuck him.

"I had no choice. His cock was smelling of cum; and he was hot and on fire for my pussy, and all the while he talked about my little pancakes and he was telling me how sexy I was, and that that was why he wanted to be a teacher, and I must be grateful that he wasn't going to bite off my teats..."

The pencil hovered motionless above the table as Cecily brought back these memories of that opaque day with her brother. The pencil became stationary and quiet. "Do you like baby tits, Mr Pendrill?" she pondered faintly when she'd recovered, for the passion had gone from her suddenly. "Is it a man thing to be aroused by pancakes, because I admit, I don't see the attraction. Do they turn you on like they did my brother? Or not? Could you do to a woman what my brother did to me, because I'm curious to know."

Howard hoped to evade the questions but unfortunately Cecily wouldn't let go. She was a dog at the scent. "Mr Pendrill," she pursued him earnestly. "Don't ignore me. Answer me, please."

Howard sucked in his breath and held it. Then he prevaricated and waited some more. But Cecily kept waiting, and her intense eyes were piercing and impatient, and she wasn't relenting.

Howard swallowed hard, his mouth dry and uncomfortable. "Yes," he mumbled eventually, and he sighed, for she was dragging the words from him and he wondered why was he being honest with her. "Yes. I like little tits too."

"And you've caressed them, Mr Pendrill? Little ones like pancakes?"

Howard nodded wretchedly, feeling unease at himself and with her. "Yes," he admitted dumbly. "Little ones too. Before I met Lucy I led a frivolous, meaningless life in which sex was a numbers game - I slept with as many women as I could and it didn't matter what they looked like or who they were, as long as I could add them to my score."

"What an experienced man that makes you!" Cecily exclaimed happily, and she seemed genuinely pleased, puckering her nose and lifting her pencil. "So if I can be so bold... what about me? Look at me, Mr Pendrill. I allow it. It's permitted. Look at my bust. What do you think? You'll observe that I've grown since that time with my brother, but not to excess. I have average sized breasts, I think. There are many women with tits like mine, and we wonder about the adequacy of our chassis. We're told by the journalists that men favour big breasted ladies and those who are not so richly endowed are disadvantaged. This weakens our confidence, Mr Pendrill, which is why we resort to surgery and plastic to bolster our confidence. So tell me, given that you're an experienced man, do you like ordinary, averagely sized women? Like me? If I were sunbathing in my bikini in the garden next door and I removed my bra top because I imagined that I was alone and no one could see me, would that give you an erection? There you are, peeping at me through the curtains of the house next door, and you can see me lying on a sun lounger in the middle of the lawn wearing a thong and nothing else. What happens next? Do you get a hard on, Mr Pendrill?"