Chapter 12 : "Jaffar the Electrician"

"Tell me about Chechnya," Howard growled, channelling his thoughts onto safer, less sensitive ground. "You said that you served in Chechnya..."

Cecily smiled, gratified and a little encouraged, for it seemed that she was gaining Howard's wayward attention. "What would you like me to tell you, Mr Pendrill?"

"Everything. Of course. What happened? What did they do? Tell me about the torture."

"The torture, Mr Pendrill? Are you sure? Wouldn't you rather be talking about Lucy?"

This question was mischievous, of course, but Howard refused to rise to the bait.

"No. Not Lucy! Chechnya!"

"Okay, Mr Pendrill," she acquiesced, enjoying that her seeds of discontent were alive and growing. "What shall I tell you? Would you like to know how many times they knelt me on all fours, put a rifle up my butt and told me to beg? Is that what you want? How it felt to have that cold steel stretching my ass, and have them playing with the safety as the barrel of their gun raped my ass? Would you like to know how many men were watching and playing with their cocks as they did it? Or what was I thinking? Yes? Or would you prefer me to tell you how they screwed me with electric wires taped to my breasts? Is that it? I can tell many, many things. I am an experienced lady in these matters, but which would you hear first?"

Her questions were aimed at Howard's groin and they hit their target with ease. Howard slumped and stumbled and recoiled as each hit landed on its mark. "Tell me everything," he groaned, sinking to his knees and staggering in his wretchedness from the window.

"Everything?"

"Yes. Everything. Don't overlook a jot or a tittle."

There was a chasm from which there could be no return, and they were standing before it. Lucy didn't know this in the courtyard outside, but as a guy slid a sweaty hand inside her top and another caressed her trousers, Howard was deserting her. He'd left her. His interest had transferred to other more interesting propositions, and the evidence of this was obviously manifest, for he was naked, and his cock had blossomed in length.

Cecily gazed at it curiously and she smiled coquettishly, liking the product of her scheme. "What's wrong, Mr Pendrill?" she purred. "Aren't you looking at Lucy? Maybe your friends are undressing her, unbuttoning her blouse, tugging it from her chest. Imagine how embarrassing that would be to her conservative religious sensitivities, to be stripped and have her pussy caressed. Imagine how she must be feeling, Mr Pendrill! Shouldn't that be your concern?"

Howard remained motionless. He was thinking.

"Perhaps."

"Mr Pendrill? Perhaps?"

"Yes, perhaps. But that's for me to decide."

"Of course - I agree - it is, but I was thinking: maybe your friends have invited Lucy to strip for them, and maybe she's consented, for a girl would rather remove her own clothes than have strangers do it for her, don't you think, Mr Pendrill? I'm sure that if it was me, if perhaps I were an Oriental Princess of a Barbarian Kingdom, or even myself, I would prefer to do it and gain the mastery."

"Stop it! Shut up!"

"Mr Pendrill? Is something the matter?"

"Shut up about Lucy! Stop it!"

Howard's hands looped rope around Cecily's stockinged ankles, becoming angrier and distraught and agitated: circling her calves round and around, again and again. It appeared to him that Cecily's legs had grown longer, tauter, shapelier. He imagined sinking his teeth into her soft flesh, biting her skin and enjoying its taste. He wanted to think about that, and not about Lucy.

Lucy was primeval. Lucy was history. Lucy was painful.

"Tell me about Chechnya!" he growled, stroking Cecily's legs, liking it that they were tied and that he could attack them.

"Mr Pendrill?"

"I want to know about the rifle. The rifle they stuck up your ass! And the electricity! That first. Tell me about the electricity. What does it feel like to have 120 volts jolt up your pussy? Tell me about that!"

"Mr Pendrill. Calm down. The pressure of Lucy is getting to you. You're sweating. You're stressed out. It's not good that I tell you these stories. We should discuss something else: about you, perhaps."

If only he could see how tranquil and serene she'd become now that he was a fish on her hook. If only he could see Cecily's quiet, contented smile and how it stretched from the centre of her face to the slit between her legs. If he had seen it, he would have wondered. But Howard couldn't see these things because he was embroiled with the logistics of coiling rope around his fist and yanking the ends and pulling Cecily's ankles from under her. He couldn't see her sly smile because his vision was clouded by red mist.

"Damn you!" he shook. Everything was wild and incandescent with fury and rage. "Never mind that!" he roared. "Tell me about the torture - how it hurt! The pain! Describe the pain! And fuck! - tell me again about your breasts and what they did to them!"

Cecily lay on the floor as he ranted, and Howard pulled her to the left and the right by the ropes and dragged her around by her ankles. He tugged her across the wooden floor like she were a sack of vegetables, through the dirt and the spillage of his cum. He did it because he was able, because it gave him something to do. "You understand, Mr Pendrill," Cecily cried, shuddering as her head banged against the leg of a chair, and her back clattered across the uneven planks. He was dragging her bodily around the floor. "You... you understand that being a Director of Psychology, what I say is prone to opaqueness, and I warn you... this interview has the objective of uncovering knowledge. Nothing is as it seems. Once again, I remind you of these facts."

"Never mind that!" Howard was livid. "Tell me about the torture! Damn you, woman! Tell me!"

Cecily swung across the floor, her legs arcing behind her, and yet her smile was in place. It gave her strength to know that Howard was ensnared in her yarns. It made her strong, and he was weak.

"Mr Pendrill. Since you insist. I'll tell you. I admit: it hurt. Of course it hurt!"

"Tell me more! Everything. In detail! Bitch! You know I want to hear it!"

He rolled her again through his cum, using her body to clean it up, and she could do nothing for there were so many ropes, tied with such venom.

"It interests you a great deal to hear about my tortures, doesn't it?" she groaned as he slammed her into the glass table, and then past it into a wall. She took her time recovering her breath, lying with her face against the cold wooden floor. She could feel the splinters in her back and there were grazes and bruises on her breasts from the rough wood. She could smell the fragrance of Howard's passion clinging to her arms and her legs, and even to her face and breasts. It was in her clothes and on her hair.

Everywhere. The smell of cum.

She swallowed, very deliberately keeping her eyes looking at the floor, and not at him. "You'd prefer to hear my stories than know what's going on outside," she muttered. "Mr Pendrill. I like that. We'd make a great team, you and I."

He was standing across her, over her, naked, and his cock was recovering quickly. She sensed it without looking up. "Mr Pendrill? If we worked together, we'd attract less attention than two spies working independently. And at night, back in our hotel, you could tie me to our bed and I could tell you my tales."

She purred, aroused by the idea, and then with considerable effort she rolled over onto her front. "Mr Pendrill," she growled lustfully, her breath quickening and her hips rotating in ever decreasing circles, and then her toes starting moving in ever decreasing figures of eight. She was pressing her pussy and her tits against the hard wooden boards and giving herself heat. This was turning her on. "How do I say this, Mr Pendrill? The department has liberal attitudes towards sex. It recognizes that this can be an aid in helping its operatives survive in what could otherwise be a lonely, dangerous business. Individuals sharing such sexual liaisons are called conjugals."

"I'm sorry?"

Cecily squirmed suggestively around the floor, her movements becoming frenetic and passionate as she engineered to summon a climax for herself. But Howard was having none of it. He reached down and tugged at her arms, rolling her onto her back and thereby frustrating her climax. Cecily groaned in fury and shut her eyes, squeezing out the dregs of lost pleasure. "Please, Mr Pendrill," she shook, pleading for his help. "That wasn't kind! Help me! I need to cum!"

But Howard smiled wickedly and stared at her scratched and dirty breasts. "I don't want you to cum," he slurred impishly. "I want you to lie on the floor craving release and yet be unable to attain it. That's more interesting..."

"Mr Pendrill! Please! I beg you! Don't do this!"

"Why not? You humiliated me. You laughed at my cock and you made me jerk off, and now it's my turn for revenge. I want you to suffer."

Cecily knew she was in trouble, but what could she do? "Mr Pendrill. My cunt is wet and open and I'm unbelievably hot. My clit is swollen and on fire. Please, Mr Pendrill. I need your cock. I need it in my hole, banging my pussy. Is that too much for a woman to ask?"

"You can ask, but I'm not going to help you..."

"Mr Pendrill. If you were to assist me, I would voluntarily become your slave, your conjugal."

"My what?"

"Mr Pendrill. Listen to me. Listen hard. In our work, the distinction between private or professional lives is indistinct, so I present you with the imaginary situation of two operatives who pretend to be married. They're assigned by the Department to a country where conditions are basic. They have a room, and it contains a flea-ridden single bed, and they have a bathroom that they share with five other families. Both their room and the bathroom are bugged with electronic devices - cameras - and the eavesdroppers are downstairs hoping for sport. They want a good fuck show from our couple, especially as they know that the 'wife' is young and voluptuous. However, as the relationship between the two of them is politically correct, they undress beneath the covers of the bed and the husband sleeps on the floor, which makes the eavesdroppers irritated and distrustful and in the middle of the night they gatecrash the room.

"They stand the two spies facing each other and make them undress, garment by garment, and then - when they're both naked - they force them to rub oil over each other's body, and then they tell them to fuck. In such circumstances, the evidence becomes apparent, Mr Pendrill. Body language tells all, for strangers don't fuck with the same familiarity as lovers. The chemistry is different. There is no need for nastiness or questions. The eavesdroppers will know, and they'll either applaud, or they'll take the couple for interrogation."

Howard scratched his forehead. "Is this relevant?"

"Absolutely relevant," Cecily answered. "You see, the department assigns its field operatives to teams: with male and female operatives assigned to each team. The junior provides backup to the senior. They stay in the same room and sleep in the same bed: because rooms - as I've said - are bugged, and it averts suspicion. However, given that only genuine familiarity is convincing under persistent scrutiny, the department requires partners develop not just a social, but also a sexual intimacy prior to assignment. It specifies that its agents share full intercourse twice a week and they must sleep together overnight on at least one of those occasions. Then they qualify to serve as conjugals."

"Fuck!" Howard exclaimed, and he gazed hungrily at the bound, semi-naked woman at his feet. He rubbed the bottom of his foot along her leg, lifting her skirt. "And you're offering to be my conjugal?"

"That's the purpose of this interview, Mr Pendrill," she quipped. "I need to assess your suitability for such an assignment."

"Fuck!" Howard repeated, and he then became quiet.

Cecily's skirt was at the level of her thighs. He couldn't tease it any higher because the material had become trapped between her legs and the floor.

He considered his next move.

"Tell me. Have you been in a 'conjugal' relationship before?" he asked.

Cecily smiled mischievously. "Of course, Mr Pendrill. I've fraternized with many partners, often two or three at the same time. It works, because as I've told you, I don't have a regular boyfriend, and neither do I need one. I do, however, need plenty of cock."

"And... do you, I mean... will you currently... I mean, is there someone else that you're seeing? Since you don't have a boyfriend?"

"Mr Pendrill. As I've told you, I need plenty of cock and I don't go short... But that's not the point. What about you? If you were my conjugal you'd need to screw me at least twice a week... and preferably twice a day. I'm not joking. I need a man. A real man. Are you up to it, Mr Pendrill? Do you have what it takes to be my conjugal?"

Howard looked at her in cold bewilderment. "I don't know. Lucy would hate it..."

"Mr Pendrill. Forget Lucy. Lucy would be accommodated. If we can manage to forge a working partnership, then the rest would be arranged. The department handles the detail. But before you answer, think carefully, because I must be honest and warn you that I'm not easy to live with. I've been diagnosed with a compulsive disorder that borders on nymphomania, Mr Pendrill. Could you handle that? A woman who can't get enough of your cock? And I'm inclined to overreach my authority. I can't help it. It excites me to make men play with themselves, as I did with you, and shoot their load across my face and my body. I'm not supposed to do it and men sometimes become resentful. They don't like being told what to do and they see me as aggressive, and so they betray me to the enemy. It's happened too many times, Mr Pendrill. The frequency with which I've graced the world's most gruesome torture chambers is not coincidental. It's the result of my sexual predilections, and it's a problem to the department. My line managers are tired of having to trade arms and political prisoners in exchange for my freedom. So, they've brokered a deal. The department has decreed that to avoid further embarrassing incidents, the man that I choose to be my next conjugal will be empowered to express his resentments directly. The next time I abuse my rank, Mr Pendrill, my conjugal will have the authority to avenge himself. He'll be permitted to torture me in whatsoever manner and to whatever degree that he desires: not in the field where discipline is paramount, but back at base. My line manager thinks that this will act as a safety valve, and it'll remove the temptation for this partner to betray me to the enemy. Do you understand? That's why I'm focussed on whether you can torture a woman, Mr Pendrill. I must show the department that the man I choose is capable of hurting me. So once again, I ask my question: would you like to hurt me, Mr Pendrill? Would it excite you? Would it turn you on?"

"Yes, mam," he replied truthfully. "It would."

Cecily considered the reply carefully. "I've explained that I have a powerful sexual drive. I expect my conjugal to be attentive. I expect him to fuck me frequently - twice a day, I said - and he must masturbate whenever I ask. I like that, Mr Pendrill: watching a man play with himself and waiting for him to erupt across my tits, my face, and over my hair. I'm addicted to sex. In the field, this man - whoever he is - must obey my orders, because I'm the senior officer, and he must follow my commands to the letter. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, mam. I understand."

"If, however, my orders upset or embarrass him, Mr Pendrill - then the governor kicks in. He would be able to requisition me to appear in one of the department's torture chambers after our return home, in a uniform or dress of his choosing, and for a duration agreed between him and the department, and I would be duty bound to report to him there. Am I clear, Mr Pendrill?"

"Yes, mam. Absolutely."

"As for Lucy, you could screw her from time to time if you must, but as your senior officer and your conjugal partner, I would have first use of your cock. Do I make myself clear, Mr Pendrill? If this angers or frustrates you, then again, you're free to book the torture chamber and detail me to appear there. And there, in that room, you could discuss your feelings and irritations in any way you see fit. You are the master inside the torture chamber, and I am the master outside of it. Do you understand, Mr Pendrill? Is this a problem?"

"No, mam. I understand."

But did he? Although he said it, what was he saying? What kind of hole was he digging? Lucy would never, ever agree to this kind of arrangement, but that was something to be resolved later. For the present, Cecily ruled supreme.