This is a fictional story depicting images of violence, rape and torture. Don't read if these are likely to offend, or if you are not an adult. Although this story is loosely based upon the notorious Villa Grimaldi in Santiago, Chile, remember, the story is fiction. A Red Hot Chile by Grim Williams Copyright 2000. All rights reserved. Part Three I crossed in near silence to Interrogation Room 36. I had to. I could no longer trust myself to speak. It was too late now, too late for so many things. But as I escorted Francesca up the cold dark stairs, I was glad to be heading for Room 36, I was glad that it would be her, and no one else. We're old friends, she and I; we've worked together many times. She's a small decrepit room, familiar, like an old sock, with a cold concrete floor and stained flaking walls. Iron pipes criss-cross the ceiling, around which the remains of several ropes still hang, now covered with dusty layers of cobwebs. Her windows are unglazed, and the night winds often visit, kissing my victims and licking their cold naked flesh. The only illumination comes from a bare light bulb swinging in the center from a thick grime encrusted flex. I switched it on. "Burn dear candle," I thought, steeling myself, shoving Francesca roughly through the open door into the room. "Burn for the bastard that I am." She was blindfolded and without direction, her arms out in front of her, searching for obstacles, searching for support. She wore high platform shoes that made her top heavy. Somehow she managed to check herself, but I came up behind and pushed her again, abruptly, causing her to lose balance. She cried out in surprise, stumbling into the steel bed placed in the center of the room, cracking her shin and groaning at the force of it. "That hurt, my Captain," she gasped, pulling herself up from the bed and rubbing her bruised leg. "That's why you're here," I reminded her softly. "I tried to release you, but you wanted to be hurt, remember?" I wanted her to argue, to fight me, but she refused to rise to my bait. "Is this the place?" she asked reverentially, still massaging her leg through her loose maroon skirt. "Is this where you do it? Is this your, your torture chamber?" "This is the place," I answered quietly, walking across to the unglazed window and staring out. "This is where you learn what true suffering means. Things must be different now, Francesca. While you're here in this room, I won't treat you as my wife, or show you compassion. That is my job. You are simply my property to use and abuse. Out there you may be Francesca Rodriguez, my sweet Chiquita. In here you are nothing, just a worthless object for my gratification. Do you understand this?" I watched her flinch at my words, witnessed her distress, but for the first time her pain left me flat, unmoved. Dr. Jeckyl was dead; Mr. Hyde had risen. "Are you beginning to feel sorry, my love?" I mocked sadly. "Are you beginning to regret this game that you have started?" She drew in her breath, forgetting her bruised leg and standing erect. She steeled herself against my taunts. "Please," she begged. "I know what you're doing. I understand. Of course you will use your tongue to hurt me..." I turned back to the window. "You will experience far worse than my tongue," I warned. "I don't speak to hurt you. I'm just telling you the truth. No more, no less." "I know, my Captain. But first, please, before you start, may I be permitted to see? I want to see this place where you work, where you have tortured so many women, where you will torture me. I need to look around in order to understand. Please can I take off this blindfold." I smiled with bitter satisfaction, my bottom lip turning into a snarl. I hated having to hurt my fragrant flower. But more than this, I despised my little one for forcing me to do it. "No," I hissed, my voice changing, becoming harder and colder. "Aren't you forgetting where you are, dear Francesca? This has already started. We are already in the Interrogation Room. Need? Want? What do I care of these things? What does anyone care? What you need and what you want are no longer of interest to me. You've decided that by forcing my hand. You are here to answer my questions and to do what I tell you, nothing else. Is that understood?" Her head fell forward. She didn't argue. "Yes." "Yes, what?" "Yes, I understand." I carefully corrected her. "Yes, I understand, sir." She opened her mouth as if to complain. My manner had rankled her. But then, just as she was about to speak; she thought better of it and submissively closed her mouth shut. She was finding it difficult to accept, but she knew the basis on which she was here, and that this began with subjection. Reluctantly she repeated my words: "Yes, I understand, sir." I nodded, satisfied, and then left her waiting while I got ready some things. She stood in total darkness, unaware of her bearings; of what was about her; or even whether we were alone. She began to panic. "What are you doing, my Captain? Sir? How long must I stand here?" "No one asked you to speak!" I rebuked. "Silence!" She stepped back. "I'm sorry..." "Silence!" I bellowed, watching her recoil at the ferocity of my voice. "I mean it! I won't tell you again!" Anger rose from her belly. I saw it in her face, mingled with the pain. She bit hard upon her tongue, holding herself back, tasting blood in her mouth. The anger had nowhere to go, and so it seethed within her. "Or perhaps you would like me to fill your mouth with red ants, thousands of them, all alive and crawling about. I could stuff them inside and then tape your mouth closed. Would you like that, Francesca?" She shuddered. "No! Please!" "Then be quiet, stand still and wait. What's your hurry, Francesca? Why are you so impatient to be hurt?" When I was convinced that she was under control, I turned from her, unlocking the steel cupboard and pulling out a large drawer of tools. Juan would be here soon with Pedro. Then I could start. "Not long, Francesca," I said brusquely. "Just a little longer. Until then, think about the pain and pity your poor breasts. I love breasts. Think of all those little ways we may choose to hurt them." Juan is our clerk. He writes down everything that's said and records the confession. Everything, that is, apart from, well, nearly everything. An accurate record of torture is never a clever thing to leave for posterity. Attitudes change, governments get thrown out. Neither Pedro nor I can read Juan's writing, and neither, unfortunately, can Juan. Pedro, on the other hand, is the medic on our team. Government regulations dictate his presence during any session of physical torture. He has to be there in case there's a medical emergency. Pedro claims to be a doctor. However, I'm married to a nurse, and I find that I know more medicine than he does. For instance, every medic knows that when it comes to electrocution, you should never attach an alligator clip to each of a woman's nipples and then pass a current between them. It can cause nasty problems to the heart. Pedro, however, once saw it done that way in a movie, and now he suggests it every time. He would be here soon: with Juan. Not long. And then it would start. I couldn't help but pause and stare at her there. At the outline of her round breasts, modestly hidden behind her patterned sweater. Then my gaze skimmed down her broad hips, chastely concealed behind that long maroon skirt. And suddenly I knew. No doubts any more. This young lady needed teaching a lesson. Francesca needed bringing into line. She had asked for it, although perhaps not really knowing for what she was asking. She was making me do this thing, forcing me to hurt her. Well now, unfortunately, she was going to get what she had asked for with interest. I was going to grind her down. And, what's more, I wanted to do it. No doubts. Even better, I knew how. I had the advantage of being her husband. I knew her better than I have known any of the women that I've interrogated. I knew her strengths and I knew her weakness. I was the one person who knew her Achilles heel. Francesca is a religious woman, a faithful Catholic. She attends mass regularly; she has always been to confession. She has her rosary and regularly offers her prayers. That cross always hangs around her neck. Always, that is, except when we make love. I once asked her about that. "Do you think sex is sinful?" I asked. "Is that why you take it off?" She had grabbed my cock and thrust it eagerly between her breasts, squeezing them together, throttling my cock. "I couldn't do this," she'd said, quite seriously. "If I thought sex was sinful. But neither can I do it when Jesus is watching." "Why not?" I'd asked. "We're married. Doesn't he know what married people do? I thought he could see everything, everywhere." My cock was by now quite hard, as it rubbed against the warm valley of her bosom, the foreskin pulled back and the magic eye in its tip opening and shutting. "Eve listened to the serpent," she gasped, pinching her nipples and squeezing her breasts tightly together, moving her body backwards and forwards over my cock. "And after she'd listened to that serpent, she ate the fruit. It was only then that she realized that she was... that she was... was, totally naked." I had screamed at her, feeling the come rise into my balls. "So what? What does that mean? What the fuck is that all about?" Of course she hadn't answered. She was too busy pushing me towards an explosive orgasm. But afterwards, afterwards we had an amazing row, no more sex for a week, and she hadn't talked to be properly for days. As a result we don't talk any more about religion, crucifixes or God. But I know her. I know her thinking, and right now it would be her undoing. From a very young age, her parents have taught her to be modest, to cover her body and keep it sacred. This is her weakness. This is her Achilles heel. For instance, she wouldn't cope well with the removal of her clothes, not in front of strange men. And if I made her go even further, what then? She would find it so degrading and humiliating. I smiled. It was a cruel, evil smile. It was no more than my darling wife deserved. I sat down on the narrow wooden bench, and took a moment to watch her more closely. She was still blindfolded, unaware that I was looking at her. She was standing awkwardly, rigidly, in that multi colored sweater, and her high platform heels. In darkness. In fear. Her maroon skirt was quite long, covering her knees by several inches. It was also fairly loose, sweeping about her legs when she walked. And then I began to undress her. I did it slowly, casually, in my mind, enjoying the experience, mentally plucking the clothing from her defenseless body as I might pluck the wings from off a helpless fly, each action cruel and well resisted. In my fantasy I lined up every police officer in Grimaldi, every flabby weasel and every unruly miscreant. They must all watch. This is what she would hate. I would strip her before them all. She would be Faye Wray to my King Kong. Only I would go much further than that dumb gorilla. I would remove her things, piece by piece, garment by garment, everything, until she stood with her hands self-consciously shielding her privates, tearful, and without a stitch to her name. Yes, she would be mortified, humiliated. My quiet reverie made me feel better, calmer. Just then I heard movement outside, a low whistling as someone walked along the corridor. "Pedro is coming," I cried urgently. "Don't slip up now, Francesca. Don't do it! If you do, if you let on who you are, that you're my wife, then it'll be the end." "What have we got?" Pedro asked waltzing into the room. He stopped, a few paces in, smiling, and then ran his gaze over Francesca's generous curves. "Nurse," I told him tersely, proud that Francesca had immediately caught his fancy. "She decided to treat the bullet wounds of a renegade." Pedro is a short fat man with greasy hair and an oily complexion. He's in his early thirty's with a wife and two small children. He continued to stare, moving steadily towards her. She knew he was close, even with the blindfold, for she could smell the stale garlic mixed with his cheap lotion. She tensed, sensing his scrutiny, and her breathing quickened, like a frightened rabbit caught in the lights of a fast approaching juggernaut. "Pretty," Pedro affirmed eventually, peering salaciously down the vee in her sweater, into the chasm between her breasts. "It's just a shame about the uniform." "Which uniform?" "Precisely," Pedro responded curtly, now staring down at her ankles and then slowly tracing the line of her calves up to where they disappeared behind the folds of her loose maroon skirt. Next he went behind her and stood admiring her ass. "Very nice. What's your name, love?" She stood rigidly still. "Answer the man, Francesca," I instructed. "Francesca Rod... Francesca Fuella, sir." A Catholic too," I added, pointing to her crucifix nestling securely in the deep hollow between her breasts. "Could be good. It wouldn't surprise me at all if she turned out to be quite prudish." Francesca drew breath at once, blushing profusely. I noticed her hands tightening into tight fists, and the gentle quiver of her lip. Well, my sweet one, I thought, now you know that you've been rumbled. Pedro left her, walking across to the steel cupboard where he pulled out a bottle. "Where's she from? Is she foreign? She doesn't sound foreign." "No," I replied. "She's local. From here in Santiago." "Pity," Pedro said good-naturedly, pouring a malt whiskey from the bottle into a large unwashed glass. "Foreign girls are smart. I love them. They anticipate so well. You only have to light a cigarette and then look longingly in the direction of a nipple and they know at once what you're about to do." Just as he sat down on the uncomfortable bench, sporting a big open smile that revealed two missing teeth in the front of his mouth, Juan arrived. He's older than either Pedro or myself. He must be about forty-five. As far as I can determine, he's never had a girlfriend, not for many years anyway. He just dotes on this old underweight tabby by the name of Sumo. Juan is a self-confessed cat lover. I've often wondered whether this is because he's very shy, or because he allows his work at Grimaldi to interfere with his personal life. He should be able to get a girl, at work he gets lots of experience, and for his age he's not bad looking: he's tall, almost six foot with silver hair and with a large bushy moustache. He marched in quickly, nervously, not giving any of us a glance, hurrying over to the desk, where he pulled out an unused notepad. "You won't be needing that," I told him. "Not for a while in any case." He stared at me blankly. "Sit down, Juan," I grinned. "We'll be working later. But first, we play. Or did you think we didn't know your secret?" He was surprised that I knew, but nevertheless, after a little vacillation, he obediently sat where I was pointing on the bench. I walked over to Francesca, who was still standing in total darkness, trying to work out what was happening. I took hold of her blindfold. "Now, let's get this off you," I declared, standing directly behind her and pulling deftly at the knot. "Thank you," she murmured. The fragrant scent of her perfume was so intoxicating. I drank its sweet honey, filling my lungs with it. The knot began to loosen. And her hair! What a wonderful aroma! How well I remembered it tussled upon her pillow while I covered her with my kisses. "You wanted to see what an Interrogation Room looks like," I spluttered, pulling the blindfold free. "Then see." She blinked, her eyes adjusting quickly to the light. Immediately, she glanced around, searching anxiously for whatever information she could find. She began with Juan's desk, in the corner with its hard chair set before it. A length of high-pressure hose was coiled next to it. Moving round the room, she saw the steel cabinet, now unlocked. It was open and inside she could see an assortment of whips and canes. A brown wooden bench, on which Pedro was somehow managing to relax, and Juan sat uncomfortably, stood against the wall. Above it there were several posters. Francesca's eyes opened wide as she stared at each: glamour pictures of busty women with clothes covering all of the wrong places, and with legs wide open. She stared accusingly at me and then back at the pictures, reddening slightly, but not offering a word. Her gaze then traveled to the far corner, where there stood a small table, its legs on castors, on which I'd placed a green plastic tray full of wires and clips. She knew what these were for and the agony that they could cause, and her heart was heavy with dread. Her tour concluded with the object immediately behind her, directly beneath the bare hanging light bulb. It was the bed, the bed on which she had knocked her shin: a simple, metal bed, with no mattress. It's one of the old fashioned types, with large iron springs that had long ago gone rusty. It has a name, this bed. Fortunately for her, Francesca didn't know that name. We call it the parrilla - or the barbecue in English - and it is one of my favorite toys. "Later," I told her, enjoying her worried expression. "We're saving that for later." She stared down at it again, then over at the tray, then back at the cupboard with the whips and canes. She was piecing together the clues. She was guessing, anticipating her fate. "I know you've never been here before, Francesca," I said. "But I'm sure you must have heard the stories, the things people say about the Grimaldi." She glared at me blankly, but her mind was still upon our toys. "Answer me Francesca. I wouldn't like to get angry." "Yes." "Yes what?" "Yes, sir." "Very good. Of course, I'm also quite sure that most of these stories are nothing but gossip and innuendo. But there's a commonly whispered rumor, one that you may have heard. Have you ever heard people recount stories about women and their clothes." Hesitantly she nodded. "Excellent. So tell me, Francesca. What stories have you heard? What is it that you've heard people say?" I watched the color suffuse through her cheeks while she nervously straightened her sweater at the waist. "Come on, Francesca," I repeated. "What do people say?" She lowered her head, glancing nervously towards Pedro and Juan. "They say that women are asked to undress..." "Go on." A shiver ran through her body. "They say that women are ordered to remove everything, absolutely everything." "Yes?" She was so conscious of Pedro and Juan listening, watching. Her hand pulled at her hair, anxiously tugging upon it. "Someone said, a woman said, she said that women are permitted no modesty, that they're tied with their legs wide apart, wipe open, with everything on display." I considered. "And do you think these rumors can be true? Do you think that's possible? Or do you think that people make these things up?" She drew in a deep breath. She was still nervously touching her clothes, her sweater and her skirt, pulling at her hair. "I'm sure that the stories are true," she said. "You see, I was told this by someone who knows." "Ah!" I stepped away from her, sitting casually at the end of the bench. "By someone who knows?" I nodded thoughtfully, scratching my chin. "Someone that knows. So I suppose that you're prepared?" "Prepared?" "Yes. Since you seem to know how things operate here, since you are so certain that the stories are true, then I imagine you must have given the matter some thought. Or is it an everyday occurrence for you to remove your clothes in a room of strangers?" She glanced wildly across the bench to where Juan and Pedro were seated, and then quickly down at the floor. "I'm not prepared," she murmured. "Pardon?" "I'm not prepared." Anger was building inside her. I could hear it swelling in her voice. "How could I be prepared? What kind of person do you think that I am? Do you think I'm just itching for it? Is that what you think? That I'm just some cheap slut? I'll have you know that I've only ever removed my clothes for two men, two, two men in the whole of my life. How can you think I would be prepared?" I smiled graciously. "It was just a question, Francesca. Nothing more. We weren't doubting your moral character. Well, anyhow, prepared or not, do you now know what you have to do?" The question wiped the anger off her face and from there, out of her being. It took the wind from her sails, leaving her confused, dazed and frightened. "Well, Francesca?" "Yes. I mean: Yes, sir." "And you're going to it?" She gulped. "Yes. I'll try. I'll try, sir." I moved towards her. "Oh yes, you'll try, Francesca. You most definitely will. Because if you don't do everything I ask of you then I'll let Juan here hold your arms while Pedro undresses you. Pedro would like that." I paused to check that Pedro was in agreement. I guessed from the size of his leer that he was. Francesca whimpered, clutching the crucifix round her neck protectively. "That won't be necessary," she whispered. "I'm glad to hear it," I remarked. "We do have a request for you, though. Just a small one." She waited anxiously, stretching her sweater at the waist, pulling it tight. "I know you may not have had a lot of practice, and so, we promise to make plenty of allowances. We know that you're not a pro. But you see it's Juan's birthday today, and he doesn't have a girlfriend, and, you see, I forgot to buy him a present. So I thought, what better, we have Francesca. You can see that he likes you, the way that he looks, the way that he leers. I would very much like you to strip for him. Do you know what that means, Francesca?" She stared at Juan for the first time, wide-eyed, her mouth dropping open. "I couldn't." This was a surprise for Juan too, but he did his best to contain it. "Of course," I continued, "I did consider asking Pedro to hold your arms and let Juan undress you himself, he'd like that even more. But I thought you might like to wish him happy birthday yourself. Do I make myself clear, Francesca?" I allowed the cloud of this threat to hang over her. "I do make myself clear, don't I?" I repeated. "But I've never seen... A striptease. I wouldn't know what to do..." "Francesca!" I warned. She stopped, trying to speak, trying to protest, and yet unable. Her face was a mask of mental denial. "Of course," I continued. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that you could never bare your breasts or your pussy here in front of three strange men, for us to stare and leer at you. You could never do it in a way calculated to arouse and incite us. I understand. I do. But lots of women have stood where you stand, just as shy as you, and it's amazing how, after they start, just how easy it is." "Please!" "Don't worry, sweetheart. You have biology on your side. You have a naturally sexy body, beautiful breasts, wide curves and a nice tight ass. You'll barely have to move to have us all creaming our pants." She blushed red. "God. Dear God! Please!" "Now, Francesca," I teased, reminding her of her own words to me in Reception. "You wouldn't want me to make a special case of you, now would you? Juan or Pedro would think I was getting soft. All the other women in this room have managed to strip for us. They all tell us how they can't, how mortified they are, but eventually they do. And some of them have been very young: virgins. You don't expect us to believe that somehow it's impossible for you, do you, Francesca?" She shook her head slowly. I wasn't sure whether this was in answer to my question, or whether she was refusing to undress. "So come on. Get your things off, Francesca. Strip." She stepped back, stiffly, turning away. "No," she cried, shaking her head more firmly. "I can't. I can't. I couldn't do that." Time for action. I jumped forward, pouncing upon her, grabbing hold of her brightly colored sweater at the waist. "No!" she shrieked at once, striking out with her hands, fighting, retreating, forcing me to release her. Her flailing hands thrust mine away. She fled to the far corner, breathing heavily, wrapping her arms firmly and guardedly around her ample bosom, covering and protecting her clothes and her breasts. "Please, no!" she wailed, swaying unsteadily first to the left, then to the right, glaring at me fearfully, her long hair swinging from side to side. "Don't! Don't touch me! I'll do it, I will. I promise. Just don't touch me. Please. I just need a little time." I stepped back and leaned against the wall. I crossed my arms and waited. "No problem, Francesca. We've got plenty of time. In fact, all the time in the world. We can keep you in this room for as long as it takes. But remember, you don't eat or drink or sleep or use the bathroom until this thing is done. It's you that should be worrying about the time, not us." She stared at me from the far corner; confused and numbed by her own distorted thoughts and emotions. I left her there. There was no longer any need to harass her. She knew that she was going to have to do it: that she was going to have to undress. She knew that she was going to remove all of her clothes for us, and that there was nothing she could say or do that would change that. And she also knew that if she stubbornly refused, it would be the worse for her. She is an intelligent woman, my Chiquita. But although she knew it, she hadn't as yet accepted it. That was to come. I waited. Pedro, Juan and myself all watched expectantly, sensing the struggle going on within her head, that was so clearly reflected in every aspect of her being. Maybe I saw it clearest because I know her best. Her face was downcast and slightly twisted away from me. Her eyes darted continuously in small jerky movements, constantly focused on different areas of the rough concrete floor. She kept wringing her hands, one in the other, and I noticed several repeated twitches in the muscles of her throat and her neck. Her mind was coming to terms with the fact that she no longer had control over her own modesty: that I was going to reduce her to a subservient wretch, was going to make her reveal her charms and use them to titillate Juan, a man she had never met. A man who would soon take great delight in humbling her completely. Her mind was numbed by these thoughts, was overloaded, enveloped in a massive black cloud of despair: a deadly gloom that congealed every positive thought and coagulated every action. She stood in this fearful dilemma, knowing that what she had been asked to do was something she had been taught was sinful and wrong, that she had been brought up not to do, and yet she was being offered no choice. "What's the matter?" I teased. "What is it Francesca? What are you hiding under those clothes? I'm quite sure that you're not flabby." A tear rolled across her cheek and came to rest in the dimple by her mouth. I smiled with cruel jubilation, for it was a victory, clear evidence that I'd inflicted a psychological wound. So how deep did it go? How much was she hurting? If only I could know. When would she begin? How long would she wait? What final spark of thought or emotion would trigger that critical movement that overcomes inertia and signals acquiescence? So many questions; so full of expectation. There. Finally. There it was. A little choked sound, insignificant, almost missed, and very slowly, as if in slow motion, her hands begin to tug at her sweater. "A strip, remember," I reminded her. "You're my present for Juan's birthday, so I expect you to make his cock real hard." She whimpered, glancing fleetingly at an embarrassed Juan sitting rigidly with his hands crossed in his lap. "I'm bet you're not flabby at all," I repeated, as she pulled the sweater across her chest and then over her head, shaking her hair loose, letting it tumble across bare shoulders. Underneath she was wearing a tan colored bra. The cups were semitransparent and through the translucent material I could make out the clear outline of a small brown nipple in the centre of each breast. "You've no reason to be shy, Francesca!" I drawled, as she self- consciously covered her breasts while slipping off her platform shoes. "None at all. I can see already that you're a real sexy stunner." She stood there, ten seconds, twenty, holding back her tears, burning at my taunts. We didn't hurry her, we didn't harry her. "A real sexy stunner," I intoned, watching every movement, every choked sniffle, as, embarrassed by our gaze, she pulled her sweater protectively over her chest. I waited patiently for her to continue, staring at this contrite confused creature who had been caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. The room was silent apart from her stifled sobs. She was beautiful. Finally, however, her hands began to move again, reluctantly, slowly, dropping the sweater onto the rusty bed and then resignedly slipping her fingers over the belt of her skirt, unbuttoning it and lowering the zip, pushing the skirt over her hips. "Dance, Francesca," I ordered. "This is supposed to be a striptease, remember. So tease us. Where is the tease?" "I trying, damn you," she burst out. "Can't you see? I'm trying. Don't you understand?" Her face was drawn and pale, despite her rouge. She was thinking of all those times that her parents had told her to cover herself, to be modest, chaste like the Virgin Mary and not lewd like the sinners tossing and turning in hell. She was staring at nothing, staring into air, while her hands continued to push her skirt down her legs, letting it drop to the floor. "I'm trying, sir," I corrected pedantically. "I'm sorry. Yes. I'm trying, sir." She was a sinner now: lewd and dirty, worthless, disgusting. She rolled her feet from side to side, swaying her hips, making a weak attempt to do what she knew the cheap girls did. But Francesca was far sexier. My cock was filling my pants. It always does when I'm making a lady undress. Some men get off on strippers and whores; I don't: they leave me cold. Where's the thrill in watching a woman who wants to undress, who is being paid a great deal of money to perform? The excitement isn't there: it's in compulsion, in forcing a woman to perform against her will, and to my whim. She was so ravishing. I could barely restrain myself from sweeping her into my arms; scooping her up and fucking her until both our bodies lay limp and saturated. For she was doing what came as so alien to her; she was in such mental distress. She stepped out of her skirt, neither looking at it nor picking it up. This time the pause was shorter. She went straight to her white under skirt; pushing the elastic of the slip over her hips and letting it slide to the floor. It fell with the merest exhalation of noise, a white polyester flimsy fluttering down in a loose wintry heap, falling gently onto shuffling naked feet and painted toes and hard gray concrete. "Dance, Francesca," I reminded her. "Remember to dance." She lifted her arms, and pretended to obey, moving her feet, twisting her torso. "I'm no good. I can't! I've never done this! Please! Please, sir!" She was wearing a pair of blue cotton briefs. I could see that now. Not the undergarment of a stripper or a lover preparing for bed; instead, the everyday garment of a woman caught on the street and then required to disrobe. "That's good," I commended. "It's great, Francesca. Well done. Just think, you're virtually a stripper now." And she was good; she had her figure on her side. She was very good for a woman who had never done it before. "Come on," I encouraged, as at last she reached for her bra. "Let's do it properly; let's do it sexy. Touch yourself. Stroke your body. Come on. For Juan, now. Do it for Juan!" Francesca released a low whimper, allowing her lips to part and her hands to caress her body. "That's good," I cooed. "But get closer. Let Juan see exactly what you've got." "Oh God! Please help me!" She knew we were looking, and so she kept her head averted as she stepped forward, her bare white feet with their splashes of red paint standing submissively between Juan's enormous black shoes. "Be sexy," I chanted. "Turn him on. Make him hot. You can do it, Francesca. You really can." "I can't! I'll try but... Oh God!" Her hands gently massaged her breasts, slowly squeezing the soft flesh inside that translucent bra, beginning at the base, pushing towards her nipples. These movements were clumsy and crude compared with the practiced ease of an accomplished dancer, but it was this very inexperience that made her so good to watch. "That's it," I encouraged. "Now touch yourself, Francesca. Feel your breasts, touch your nipples. Make out that you're enjoying it. Pretend that it's turning you on!" Her head tipped slightly to one side and her eyes began to flutter. It was fantastic. I could make her do anything, absolutely anything now. She leaned back and used the flat palms of her hands to gently massage her firm round tit flesh. Fantastic! "The bra, Francesca," I crooned. "Come on now, show us your tits." Her eyes were barely open as she reached round her back, searching for the clasp of her bra. She was retreating to a world of her own making, shutting out the degradation into which I was driving her. She was with us and yet also elsewhere. "Come on, Francesca," I ordered, pointing towards the pictures on the wall. "Get that bra undone. Quit stalling. Let's see your tits; let's see if they can cope with the competition." Her fingers were shaking as she slipped the catch undone, releasing her breasts. She slid the straps from her shoulders, then lowering them down long slender arms, allowing the tan colored cups to fall free, exposing her bare chest to us all. "Oh God!" she moaned. "Forgive me! Please! I shouldn't... I feel so bad!" I felt the shudder, then the involuntary gasp as she opened her hands and allowed her bra to drop to the floor. She moaned quietly, low and animal, holding her breasts in her hands, as much to caress and squeeze them as to hide them. I couldn't believe her. She was hurting, sickened by her cowardice, but yet she was concealing it well. She was some actress, my wife: worthy of an award. But I wanted more, much more. "Do you take me for a fool?" I snarled. "I told you to play with your breasts, Francesca, so come on, grab them, play with them, do it properly, like you mean business! Come on. Touch your nipples. Pinch them. Pinch them hard, Francesca. Come on. Make them go hard." I glanced at the wooden bench, at my South American Laurel and Hardy. Juan's wide eyes and open stare might be a nineteenth century photograph; such was the vacancy of his expression. But he likes ladies, even if he doesn't always show it. He was highly appreciative of what Francesca was doing, watching carefully as for the first time she obediently tweaked the ends of her teats, rubbing them, forcing them to swell and harden. I could tell that he liked her: he'd slipped a hand was inside the waistband of his trousers. The tips of her red painted nails bit into her thin brown bullets, making them stick out like short stubby pencils on the end of her tits. "Oh God!" "Dance, Francesca," Pedro reminded her, joining in my chorus, his broad grin tempered with a cold mask of lust. "Grind your hips! Come on, bitch! Do we have to tell you everything? Make your sexy breasts wriggle. Pinch them. Wriggle them. Come on, prove to us what a slut you are." She threw him an anguished glance, but then obediently began swaying her hips in time to an inaudible melody. She began slowly, awkwardly, but then warmed to the task, her torso undulating convolutedly in long smooth movements. As she rocked from side to side her breasts bobbed up and down, shimmering and shaking. Occasionally she would touch them, squeeze them, while Christ on his crucifix bounced in agony in their midst and small hard nipples swayed hypnotically in jerky figures of eight. She was steaming, roasting in the clumsy exotic pressure cooker of that room, and she was despairing of every moment of it. "Pull down your panties," I stammered mechanically, drinking her breasts, yearning to squeeze them and hurt them. The air was red hot and melting the lining of her throat. Her lungs were burning and a tight knot pulled at her stomach. She tried to fight my command, to fight, to resist. Her panties: she couldn't, wouldn't pull them down. But her hands wouldn't listen: they offered no debate, no argument. Her hands moved despite her inner scream of denial into the waistband of her panties, pushing them down. My spirits leaped. She was bending, bending to my will. "God," Pedro growled, the grin finally frozen and the glint in his eyes sparking a deeper, darker reaction. Instinctively he lowered the zip of his trousers and pulled out his swollen dick, stroking it fiercely. "God," Francesca repeated, staring at him in fear, at his angry throbbing cock aimed directed at her, thick, pulsating. Her arms froze at the sight of it. "The panties, Francesca," I insisted. "No one told you to stop. Take them off. Come on. Do it. Do it now, Francesca." "No! Please!" Choking, she pushed down with her hands, sliding her panties sinuously across her hips, shyly lowering the thin blue cotton down her legs to her ankles and stepping out of them. "Keep going, Francesca. Open your legs. Keep dancing. There's no need to stop." "She's very pretty," Juan whispered, rising rhythmically as a snake towards its prey, gazing hungrily at the trimmed neat pussy dancing for his birthday. "Dance with me," he hissed, advancing quickly upon her. Francesca tried to retreat, but despite the desperate screams of her mind, her legs wouldn't listen. She stopped dancing and stood, terrified, transfixed to the spot as he approached, staring up at him, starry-eyed, the heavy mounds on her chest swelling with agitation. My own cock was also uncomfortably hard. It makes me irrational, when it gets like that. It makes me want to do things I wouldn't otherwise do. I now had an uncontrollable urge to twist her arms behind her back, and then hang her by these from the iron pipes above us. I wanted to hear my beauty scream, to watch her naked body writhe and twist at my orchestration. I had never been so aroused by her body. Pedro had plucked her panties from off the bare concrete. "They're wet!" he burst out, sniffing into the cotton gusset. "They're not!" Francesca contradicted at once in acute embarrassment, a bright crimson glow extending down her neck and across the upper part of her chest. "Here, let me see!" I ordered, snatching the garment from out of Pedro's grasp. I stared down at the fragile gossamer, a broad hard smile creeping across my face. "You've become excited, Francesca," I exclaimed. "You're just a bitch in heat, raring to use your charms to incite every male that you meet." "I'm not," she denied adamantly, feeling for her crucifix. "I don't know what happened. But it can't be that! I don't believe it. It can't! It must be perspiration. Sweat. What do you expect when you make me dance like that?" "Sweat!" I roared, advancing upon her. "Perspiration? I don't think that I can believe this bitch. Let's prove it, shall we boys!" I grabbed hold of her, one hand falling into the small of her back and the other clutching at her right buttock. I could feel her breasts squashed hard against my chest, as with her legs and arms she fought and struggled. "Tie her," I ordered, my voice catching in my throat from the excitement of it all. She kicked at my legs and pushed hard into my face, and all the while her naked flesh jerked and slithered against my clothes, rubbed against my throbbing erection. I almost came. "God!" Juan fetched a number of lengths of quarter inch hemp rope from out of the cupboard. He handed several to Pedro and the two of them converged upon Francesca simultaneously. Juan grabbed hold of one of Francesca's wrists, while Pedro looped a length of rope round her left ankle. And all the time I hugged her naked jousting body to my own, carrying her towards the heavy metal bed, holding her tight. She fought like a banshee, biting and kicking, yet knowing that whatever she did, they would still get their way. Juan knotted the rope to Francesca's wrist, and then, as I lowered her onto the bed, he pulled it round one of the metal bars at its head. She knew exactly what they were doing, and her cries became more vocal. "Please. Don't tie me. Not like this. Please. I'll let you feel. Down there. If you must." I pushed her butt down onto the rusty springs, forcing her back, holding her steady while Pedro fastened her first ankle to the corner of the bed. He then began tying one end of a new rope to her other ankle, the right one. Meanwhile Juan was tying Francesca's second wrist. She had drawn her hands into tight fists, and as I looked at them, I noticed a belt of red nail gloss digging into the palms of each hand. I smiled. She hated this. Maybe I'd been wrong before, maybe this was her Achilles heel. Her body was heaving from emotion and from her wrestling. As I held her down, forcing her to lie with her back and head against the springs, both Pedro and Juan fastened their second ropes to the bed. They drew them tight, stretching her, pulling her, applying their considerable weight to the job and maneuvering Francesca into a fixed spread-eagled position in the center of the bed, with her legs drawn firmly apart. Now that she couldn't move, now that she was captive, I let go of her, standing up, towering above her and straightening my clothes. I waited while Juan and Pedro finished their tasks, grinning down at her, staring in anticipation at her open legs and the blonde down that grew there. She watched me in horror, knowing exactly what I was planning to do. "Please, sir," she begged. "Please don't do that. Hurt me if you must, but don't, please don't touch me there." "You've forgotten, Francesca," I reminded her, sitting at her side, on the rust of the bed, from where, beginning at her knee, I slid my hand along the smooth fair skin of her inner thigh, up towards that special area where ladies' legs meet. "You're not in a position to bargain," I continued. "Not any more. I can hurt you if I wish, and I can touch you too, your breasts and your pussy. I can do anything that I choose." "I know, sir. You can, sir. But I beg you..." My fingers slid between her puffy pussy lips, and moved inside, feeling for myself just how dry and parched it was. "No!" She groaned, arching her back, trying to expel my fingers with her aching cunt muscles, trying to push them away from her most sensitive spots. I resisted the urge to continue, pulled out my fingers, looking down at them and finding that the cupboard was bare. "Well," I exclaimed in assumed surprise. "So Francesca enjoyed stripping for Juan." "I didn't," she moaned, pulling at the ropes holding her hands, her body bouncing gently on the old metal springs. "It's not true. How can it be? How can you think that? How can you? You don't understand!" "Oh, I think I understand," I contradicted. "I think I understand very well. There are some things that can't be feigned." I held up my dry fingers for her to inspect, knowing that at the distance there was no way that she could, lifting them to my nose, smelling. She shuddered, closing her eyes to shut out the embarrassment. "God! I didn't know. I'm sorry. I don't understand... How could I? I couldn't help it. Please. Can you forgive me?" "Who am I to forgive," I replied offhandedly. "Am I your boyfriend? Your husband? What am I? More to the point, Francesca: you lied to me. You denied that you were excited, remember? You told me it was perspiration on your panties. That was a lie. This isn't perspiration." "I'm sorry!" "You will be. Oh, you will be. You see, I can't stand lies. My wife and I, we have a contract, never to tell each other a lie. That's how much I hate lies. How I wish everyone were like us! I'm disappointed in you, Francesca. I'm sad that you don't feel so strongly about telling the truth. So now, let's think. I wonder how we should punish you?" End of Part Three AUTHOR'S NOTE Thank you to everyone who so kindly responded to part one by encouraging me to write more. Thank you to my proofreaders for their invaluable assistance and suggestions. Please feel free to write with your suggestions. I'll use them if I can. Grim Williams grim_williams@my-deja.com