Chapter 1: Miss Cecily Freeman, Director of Psychology

"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.

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.

Jesus.

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.

God.

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?

Staple? Shyness?

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.

Oh shit.

"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.

God.

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.