Chapter 5: Colt, Kalashnikov and Cock

Howard was torn.

He sat in his dormitory staring into vacant space, thinking and worrying about Lucy, as he'd been thinking and worrying since the night in the rain.

He didn't like keeping secrets and right now he was carrying a horrible, terrible secret, but what could he do? He couldn't unburden himself.

He couldn't, if for no other reason than the Major had told him that what had happened was classified and disclosure was a crime.

He was torn.

"You have two lives," the Major had advised him. "You have your life on the outside, which is public and open, and you have your life as a soldier, which is private. No one outside this barracks must know what's happening to you here, no one breathes a word of it. Do you understand me, laddy?"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"You don't talk to your mother, your best mate, and certainly not to your bloody girlfriend. You keep them ignorant. Ignorant. You got it? You don't want them to know what you're thinking, what you've done and who you've been fucking..."

"Yes, sir. That's clear."

It made the situation worse that Howard had been drawn to SJ6 for its sexual promise. The Major had told him that he could have any woman he liked, anyhow he liked her.

That was the department's motto according to the Major. Sex was a perk of the job: any woman, anyhow, and Howard carried the maxim in his heart.

Six women. All at the same time. God. How could he have done it? He'd been sleeping and dreaming and suddenly he'd been out there in the rain with a woman sucking his cock, and five others wrapping their wet flesh around his body and sucking him too.

And for that pleasure he'd betrayed dear Lucy, and was it worth it?

God.

Each time he relived the events it got worse, or better, and he couldn't make up his mind which. The first time he groped a few breasts. The next time he stuck his fingers into a strange cunt and stroked its clit and gave its owner a good time. After that, there were so many breasts and wet cunts doing so many things he no longer knew what was happening at all.

God.

He could hear Lucy's quiet voice reprimanding him and although she wasn't angry, thank God, she was disappointed that he'd betrayed her so easily; but then her voice became brittle and she reminded him that he'd promised to be loyal and he'd reneged on that promise.

She accused him of raping the blonde, for hadn't the blonde been crying when Howard had fucked her? It was obvious that she'd been coerced. She'd been sucking his cock because of the power and influence of SJ6... and for no other reason...

As the discussion descended into argument and from there into an ill tempered slanging match, Lucy became emotional and threw ornaments and cutlery while screaming irrationally and Howard did what he had to, what he always did. He changed into a tracksuit and went running down endless avenues, hoping to clear the dirty cobwebs from his mind. What was he thinking? How did he feel? What was going on in his head? Everywhere he looked he kept seeing the same pointing finger, and it was pointing at him and damning him.

His feet burnt tracks in the road, mile after mile, and yet still he could hear that same shrill voice screaming at him and he couldn't escape it.

Lucy. God, yes. Lucy.

The problem was, despite his pangs of conscience and his guilt, he enjoyed the memories of those muddy women squirming beneath him in the rain. He remembered dipping his cock into some random hole and not caring to which woman it belonged.

How many times can a man do that?

There was no face to behold, no body to caress, just a wet squelchy cunt, and he filled it because it was there to be filled, and his cock was hungry for more. That was his power in this sport and he liked it.

Only a scream identified the owner, and then a disconnected breast flopped into his face, and a nipple appeared in his mouth; and he bit it. He chewed it, and the owner tried desperately to save herself and extract the proffered object and all hell broke loose, but Howard wouldn't let go. He claimed it. He owned it.

A nipple.

He bit harder even as he screwed another woman's pussy, and afterwards, the following day, he met the owner of the teat as she walked along a long dreary corridor wearing her uniform. It was neat and starched, and her hair was pinned and her makeup immaculate.

"Hello," he said, and the woman looked at him and blushed and hurried on, pretending not to have recognized him: this man whose dick she'd sucked and whose teeth had bitten through her nub.

Howard rushed in front of her and prevented her from passing. He asked her whether she'd recovered and she said that she had, and she thanked him, and again she walked on, but he wouldn't let her by.

"How are your breasts?" he insisted, leering at them and peering at her bosom. It was bound, like there was a bandage swathing her tits. There probably was. "Surely it must be hurting where I... I mean, where I... disfigured you... ?"

Apparently, the woman's name was Captain Mavis Halley and Howard already knew that she was a tall, quiet woman with pert, cherry like breasts. Howard remembered her panicky eyes and her firm small breasts as his teeth had sunk into her teat and he'd bitten it off.

Captain Mavis blushed like a school girl and she confessed that her breasts were painful. She spoke politely and curtly and she was focussed and to the point, but Howard persisted. He discovered that she'd visited a doctor earlier that morning and that the doctor had stitched up the wound.

"Did the doctor ask you how it happened?" Howard asked her cunningly. "And did you tell him that I ate it?"

The Captain's blush deepened and she begged Howard not to humiliate her more, for there were people around and they might be listening and as a married woman, the gossip would be harmful.

Howard smiled: "I can be far more inventive than chewing off a lady's nipple. What do you think? Do you want that, dear Mavis?"

The poor Captain shook her head.

"Maybe I should bite off your other nipple," he hissed, glancing down again at her bosom. "That would even things out. Maybe I should chew it and eat it because I've grown partial to your flesh. You taste nice, dear Mavis, and now that I belong to the Department, maybe we should discuss my eating some other parts of you, what do you say?"

He remembered that he'd persuaded himself that Lucy was ignorant of SJ6 and she wouldn't find out; and as for dear Captain Mavis: she'd suffered a war wound and she'd flipped in her mind, so who would believe her?

It was that simple. She was a casualty of war. And yet somehow, despite his logical reasoning, it wasn't simple and it did matter because his conscience was kicking him and it wouldn't lie down.

For a third time she tried to get past him. "Maybe instead of eating you, I'll just hang you," he said, once again blocking her way.

He liked that her hand moved immediately to her tit and then to her neck. She did it in time with his threats, which told him that she was listening and she was suggestive to his ideas, and so he looped an imaginary noose round her neck and hauled the rope tight.

He was like a mime artist relying on the power of mental suggestion. He took the slack from the rope and checked that it was flat against her skin and that there weren't any kinks, and she gulped. She could feel the tightness of the rope around her neck and the knot resting behind her ear, and she begged him for mercy, but all that she got was a further tightening of the rope. It constricted about her neck, hurting and suffocating, and then he pulled on it again, lifting her onto her toes, and she could feel herself swinging and the world going fuzzy.

She could hear the hollow resonance of footsteps treading on wood and the creaking of a trapdoor beneath her feet.

He pulled her forwards and then to the side, positioning her carefully upon it. She could feel his hands holding her arms and the irregular rattles of breath on her face and she made a final supplication: a long, rambling prayer, and throughout it, even as she made her peace with her maker, Howard played aimlessly with her pussy, fingering her clit and making her wet.

He was imagining her kicking and dying and her breasts becoming cold like those dear wretches at Tyburn, and then, when the Amen was said, he hoisted her further from the ground and let her kick as she wanted. She cried, and her breasts swung in opposing directions and her legs jerked randomly, exposing her open cunt to him, and he stared in delight at her wet glistening hole, and he watched her.

These thoughts were all fantasies, of course, and yet he was aroused. He kept remembering that the Major had told him that these thoughts were okay in SJ6 and that he needn't be worried. He recalled that it was the Major who'd told him about Tyburn: that terrible place where in olden days pretty women were taken, led through the noisy streets of London and then hung in public until dead.

Christ.

After these periods of angst, he would wander silently through the streets to the theatre where he'd slip unseen through the stage door and sit alone in the darkness, confused by his demons; and there, in the upper circle he'd watch, unrecognized, as Lucy rehearsed for Salome ignorant of his presence.

The music was repetitious and dull because Howard wasn't into modern Opera and he heard noise, discord and no beat. He was tired and bored by it, and yet occasionally, he would see Lucy practicing her moves and that would refocus his thinking. He would lean forwards, his chest constricting.

Look at her!

She was wearing a flesh coloured body suit beneath her veils, and yet Howard knew that this wouldn't always be so. Soon her performances would be real and any man willing to pay the price of a theatre ticket would see her bare breasts and her long puffy slit - those parts of her she'd guarded for so long, and the thought gave him grief.

He should be first! He had that right! And yet even he thought this, Lucy was disagreeing with him. "It's only a part," she was insisting. "It's not me up there on stage. Not really, Howie. It's someone else. I'm only an actor. Can't you see the difference, my dear?"

But Howard couldn't see the difference because it was Lucy's breasts exposed, her ass shaking for the whole town to gawk at, and her naked pussy gleaming with wetness. And yet, although he disputed with her bitterly, she wouldn't give way, which riled him because he could make an analogous case: "If Lucy can have two lives, if she can be religious and yet be a stripper, a dancing Salome, why can't I have two lives? One persona in which I'm true to her and another in which I'm deviant?"

He reasoned that SJ6 was his Salome: a role disconnected from reality and into which he could retreat and create a fictional persona. And yet, although he held this view, he didn't voice it. He hid it.

It was the weapon with which to assuage his conscience, his fig leaf, and so he awoke at dawn on the day that Major Steiner had decreed for it and he prepared for his interview at SJ6, keeping his weapon secret as he must, his analogous case, his mind solidly focussed and clear.

He showered and dressed and studied what he saw in the mirror, pleased with the agreeable reflection. His collar was starched and his boots were carefully polished. His cap was tucked beneath his arm and his hair was shorn to one eighth of his skull. Everything was combed, dusted and to order.

He was ready. He looked the part. This was it.

Calm. Resolute. Confused. Full of so many conflicting emotions, he left his quarters. "Whatever you do, don't blow it, Pendrill," the Major hissed at him, walking at his side. "Concentrate, my lad. Be ready!"

But that was so easy to say! So easy! But this was a demon. "Sign the paper," Cecily ordered as he walked through the door, as she handed him a copy of the Official Secrets Act and pointed her finger at the place awaiting his name.

He signed it, of course.

"Thank you, Mr Pendrill," she nodded, checking the signature and verifying that everything was in order. "Now take off your clothes."

No modesty. No decorum. No grace or social pleasantry: just the order, blunt and threadbare. "Take off your clothes!"

So easy for a Director of Psychology to dictate; so difficult for a soldier to perform.

He stuttered.

"You heard me, Mr Pendrill. This is an interview and I'm in control, so take everything off: your pants, your shirt; your socks; your boxers. All the way to the buff. I'm in control here and I want you naked. I want you standing in front of me playing with your cock. And then, when it's purple and hard, we'll measure its size and see how good you can aim, because I want it to spurt and to hit me..."

No reticence, no modesty, no decorum.

"Take off your clothes! Don't be bashful, Mr Pendrill. This is my interview and I like my men naked and playing with their rocks."

No reticence, no modesty and certainly no decorum. That was how she was.

"I want it to spurt. I want it to hit me. I want to feel your cum dripping from my cheeks. I want it on my nipples and in my hair. I want to bathe in your cum as Queen Cleopatra did in her ass's milk. As I've said, Mr Pendrill, there's no room for modesty in a spy, so strip for me and jerk off. Do it slow and spice it up because I want to get nicely warmed up before you cum in my hair."

What does one do in the face of such an order? Does one obey it or ignore it or challenge it in court? Where does one start? Well, Howard made his choice and he obeyed. He stripped because it was that or go home.

This was his chance at SJ6, his one and only.

He removed his uniform and his underwear, and then finally, when he was naked and showing his cock, he waited for her instructions, not daring to touch himself because his dick was hard and about to spurt and she wasn't yet positioned in front of him. Not yet. Oh God.

He could barely hold it. Look at her!

The light danced from her eyes. It teased and cajoled and prodded at your heart strings; and you imagined that she was someone's sister, or someone's daughter or girlfriend. She was the secretary in the upstairs office or the carefree girl next door. She had silky hair and a contagious smile and you never imagined that she could do this for a living...

"You're going to cum in my hair, Mr Pendrill," she told him, getting down onto her knees and coming closer, her face, her nose just millimetres from his cock. "And when you have, we'll comb it in. You'll like that, won't you, Mr Pendrill? For me to use your cum as my conditioner. I've heard that it does a very good job."

She looked for all the world like the kind of girl who fell in love with her childhood sweetheart and who got married and had noisy babies and spent her life cleaning their vomit. She wasn't the kind of woman who was supposed to get down on her knees and ask about torture, stapling tits to a tree and spurting men's seed in her hair.

Who in their right mind thought about things like that?

"Come on, Mr Pendrill," she cajoled him, shaking her hair. "Move your hips and pretend that you're a stripper. After all, you wouldn't want to keep me waiting. I might get impatient."

God. This was too much. What was she on? She was a Miss, not a soldier. She wasn't a professor or a shrink or anyone of importance. She had no title or rank or authority. She wasn't a doctor with letters after her name or a minister of religion. She was a plain, vanilla Miss. Period. That's what it said on the door - Miss Cecily Freeman.

Director of Psychology.

And yet, as she leaned further forward, shaking her tits and inviting him to look down her blouse: teasing him and wanting him to stare at her breasts. He knew that he daren't, and so instead he paused, he gulped, and he resisted the temptation.

She was exposing her boobs for him now, her cleavage. The chasm there was deep, fragrant and hypnotic... and she wanted him to look at her there, and yet he daren't...

He daren't.

"You've spoken about your duty, Mr Pendrill," her eyes danced. "But what if your duty involves hurting a young woman? What would you do then? What if I asked you to rough up a woman? A stranger? A civilian straight off the street: a singer..."

Howard rubbed his forehead and frowned, confused, for surely it wasn't a coincidence... Lucy was a singer... He drew back, shaking his head. "I'm sorry... I couldn't..."

"Mr Pendrill?"

"I couldn't..."

"Why not, Mr Pendrill? Why couldn't you obey my orders and rough up this woman if I asked you?"

"Because it would be illegal."

"Mr Pendrill? If this woman had a gun and were aiming it at your head, you'd shoot her surely. You'd kill her. You wouldn't say that it was illegal."

"Yes. I suppose... Maybe."

"But if, on the other hand, if she made a bomb and was intent on planting it in a busy marketplace, you'd question the legality of stopping her? Is that right? Are you levelling with me here?"

"No. That isn't what I said! You're misrepresenting me!"

"Then talk to me, Mr Pendrill. Be open! This woman is unlikely to divulge the whereabouts of her bomb voluntarily. What do you do? If she were a determined terrorist then surely it would take persuasion to stop her."

"Yes. I guess."

"So wouldn't it make sense to work her about a little? Slap her and fiddle with her clothes? Think about it, Mr Pendrill. Wouldn't you agree that these indignities are worth a few dozen fathers? sisters? mothers and children? And mightn't it even be fun... ? You might enjoy it, and why not?"

She poked her tongue at his cock, the tip of her tongue flicking to within a few millimetres from his stem. Jesus. She was so close and she was flirting like a woman oughtn't to flirt. "Mr Pendrill. Stroke him for me! Stroke Mr Bony Dick. While we talk. While I look. Stroke him. I want a good show!"

"Sorry? I mean? You want me to play with my cock?"

"Yes, Mr Pendrill! With your cock! I feel horny. I want to watch you jerking it while I play with my pussy, and I want to smell your arousal and feel your sticky cum landing in my hair. That's what you're going to do for me, isn't it? Haven't I said so?"

And with that, to Howard's horror, she grabbed his dick between her fingers and squeezed it and held it within her grip. She rolled it across the side of her cheek and her lips and across her chin and into her hair. "Isn't that nice, Mr Pendrill? To feel my face and my hair on your dick? I can do anything I like with your cock. Anything. That's my power. I could shove it in ice. I could stick needles in it. I could suck it so sensuously, so sexily... So wank for me, Mr Pendrill! Do it fast and furious and shoot your load in my hair. Point to my forehead, pull the trigger and shoot my brains out with your cock. Make me feel good, and I'll help you if I have to."

"It's not real!" Howard mumbled in a terrible damp sweat, trying to ignore her nimble fingers and her face, sensing that she was leading him towards a horrible degrading humiliation. He was losing control of his climax. He couldn't help it. "I mustn't get stressed," he stammered reflectively and in panic. "Oh God. Please. Stay focussed, just as the Major warned me."

But it wasn't easy with Cecily pulling at his dick and showing her cleavage. She was pumping it, holding his cock and beating it with her fist.

"It's not real!" Howard shuddered, grinding his teeth, for she was milking him like some farm girl with the udders of a cow, like she was determined to take from him what was rightfully his.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she motored, wanking him frenetically. His foreskin was drawn back and she was rubbing him with professional relentlessness, and her face was just millimetres from the knob, her mouth, her lips, and he couldn't hold on. "I had a man once, a normal life, but not now. Why should I have one when I have soldiers that please me? Eh, Mr Pendrill? Shall I pump slower? Eh? Mr Pendrill? You seem excited and I wouldn't want you to cum too soon. I need your cum drizzling in my hair, and we'll comb it all in."

His jaw was shaking and things were going from bad to worse. She was attacking his balls and groping them like she meant to... to... Oh God.

There were tears in his eyes...

She placed his hand where hers had been, and she made him squeeze and rub as she had squeezed.

But he couldn't. He stared at her blouse and the gold locket and the swell of her charms; and she was leaning back and opening her mouth and inviting him to aim for her forehead, but if he did that... God.

Was one of the lads setting him up here? - or even the Major... the Major could have arranged it, for he had the necessary knowledge. It was a practical joke. The girl was a stripper - a singing, dancing telegram girl togged up in uniform and about to remove it.

Why not?

Her uniform was unlike anything Howard had encountered. The jacket was green with a badge on the left pocket and the blouse was unbuttoned at the top. Who wore a uniform like that?

It was a pastiche: a joke.

And as if aware of his suspicions - Cecily shrugged off her jacket and threw it onto the table, like a poker player calling his bluff and raising the stakes. "Just to make you feel less exposed," she murmured with a shrug, brushing back her hair and glancing at his burgeoning manhood and shivering at the sight of it, for she was undoubtedly sexually aroused. But was it a setup? A con?

Was it?

It was plausible. She was opening her mouth again. Waiting. Waiting for him to shoot his load. God. She had the right manner and she made the right moves. You could imagine her jumping to her feet and the lights growing dim. The room would become dark, and the music would strike; the spots would point to her curves, and the slow grind would begin.

You imagined the glamour of tassels and of sequins, of the shy lifting of her skirt and the sparkle of the lights. She'd lick her lips and launch into a well rehearsed routine oozing lust and forbidden sexual desire; except that those things didn't happen and away from the fantasy, the jacket stayed on the table shrieking its challenge; and Cecily didn't move. Not one iota.

She remained on her knees with her head tipped back, and she waited, while Howard clutched at his non-existent cap and cleared his parched throat and saw what she'd done.

Now that she'd removed her jacket he could see it, and he shook. Jesus fucking Christ! He could see into her blouse. The bitch! He could see that she was wearing no bra.

The slut! Howard could see the top part of her breasts and also the shadow of her nipples seeping through the fabric of her blouse.