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From: "Joanna De Brito" <joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com>
Subject: {Joanna} The Code Of Tawr ( 1/? MF rape, caution)
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Standard Disclaimer: Over 18s Only.


WARNING:
This is a serial, so I don't want to give too much away in
the story codes. What I am prepared to say is that the story
will be (almost) entirely MF, and that there will be n/c,
rape, and what are to me, macabre themes developed. Do not
read if such things squick you. However, no pedo; no incest.

On the other hand, if this kind of stuff turns you on:
enjoy!

Joanna









The Code Of Tawr
by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com)
February 1999



Perhaps you may yet find me: I am so close; just the other
side of the Portal...



The Code Of Tawr

Introduction

"All men are unfaithful," I said ruefully. "It's in their
genes."

"They're certainly two faced," Sharon agreed. "But just
because Paul was lured by a dolly bird with huge tits and a
dress up to her ass doesn't mean that all men are the same,
or that he isn't sorry."

"Sorry!" I spat the word. "What makes you think I want him 
to be sorry? I'll never forgive him. Have you seen that 
bimbo in his office? She's the archetypal dumb blonde! It's so
humiliating! She can't string two words into a sentence!"

"I don't suppose she ever claimed that she could. She knows 
where her assets lie and she knows how to use them."

"So what are you saying?"

"That you need to use your assets. You're the 'archetypal'
smart blonde. You can string together words I've never heard
before. Use your smartness to win him back!"

"Big deal! So if it comes to a competition between a long
word or a big tit you think there's any doubt about which
Paul is going to choose?"

"Ah, so you do want him back?"

"I didn't say that. Anyhow, he hasn't gone yet."

"But he will do if you stay as mad as you are. Use your
savvy. Paul didn't screw his secretary simply because of the
shape of her body, it was because she knew what to do with
it. That dress up to her ass wasn't an accident was it? She
was flaunting herself."

"And you think I should do the same?"

"Yes. If that's what Paul likes, give it to him."

"But I'm scared that he's bored with me."

"Then don't be boring. Fascinate him. Tap into his
fantasies. Spin him a yarn."

"Paul doesn't have any fantasies," I replied.

"What?" she ridiculed. "You are joking! All men have
fantasies. What you're admitting is that you don't know what
they are. No wonder he was tempted."

"Well, I can't just go up to him and say, 'Paul, what
fantasies do you have, what turns you on?' Especially when
we're not even sleeping in the same bed at the moment."

"You're not? I'm sure that secretary is willing to share his
bed. Are you determined to lose him?"

"OK, so you tell me. How do I find out about his fantasies?"

She giggled. "I always find the cockometer test works well.
You suggest one or two things and see how his cock reacts."

"But I'm not sleeping with him at the moment," I repeated.

"OK, so you'll need to think of something else," she
replied. "After all, you're supposed to be the smart one.
He's your man. For the moment at least."

I thought about that, and carried on thinking even after
she'd gone. I knew I didn't want to lose Paul. I think 
the reason, though, was because I wanted to prove to 
myself that I could take him back from that bimbo; perhaps 
as much as it was anything deeper.

Sharon's advice to spin Paul a yarn kept recurring. That was
something I could do. I can tell a tall tale. But the
problem was, what kind of yarn?

I started my perusing the stories on the alt.sex.stories
news groups. What kind of things are men into? There were
some things there that I found a real eye-opener, but would
they interest Paul? Then I got my idea. What if I began a
story and let him read what I'd written and then asked him
what he thought of it, surely that would give me some clues
as to what he liked or didn't like?

But how should it begin? I let my mind wander: somewhere
distant, and somewhere timeless, I needed a world that I
could manipulate to the shape I desired.

I sat at the word processor and imagined such a world, and
as a picture began to form, I typed my first sentence:

"An eagle circled overhead, gliding effortlessly in the
rising thermals."

I felt I was the predator, trying to captivate him with my
story, and yet I was also his prey, after the way he had
betrayed me.

"Suddenly it swooped, dropping out of the sky; unseen;
silent; and in an instant its talons closed upon an
unsuspecting prey, tightening into a death grip."

Right, now to introduce some characters.

I continued plotting and writing for the rest of the
afternoon. It was therapeutic, allowing me to work out some
of my aggression and the feeling of having been victimized.
It was only when I heard Paul's car in the drive that I
realized how much time had passed. Quickly, I printed out
what I had written and hid the pages in a drawer.

"Well," I thought. "Let's see how he reacts to this."

Later that evening I got out my text and contemplated what I
should do. Sharon had suggested dressing sexy, but I wasn't
ready just yet to give myself to him: mainly because of his
affair, but it didn't help to know that he was downstairs
doing his imitation of a couch potato.

I went to the living room and handed him the pristine pages
of text. "Can you look this over for me?" was all I said.

He grunted. What else could I expect? He was watching
soccer! He placed my precious story on the arm of his chair
and ignored both it and me. I waited patiently, determined
that eventually he should read it.

Half time came, and with it the adverts. Now was the time. I
reminded him of the story. "What's this then?" he asked with
measured curiosity.

"Read it. Tell me what you think," I said to him.

And so he took what I had written and began reading the
first part of "The Code Of Tawr".


*******************************************************


The Code Of Tawr

Chapter One        The Final Humiliation


An eagle circled overhead, gliding effortlessly in the
rising thermals. Suddenly it swooped, dropping out of the
sky; unseen; silent; and in an instant its talons closed
upon an unsuspecting prey, tightening into a death grip. A
single soldier, bored, restless, watched listlessly as the
eagle climbed back into the sky and disappeared. Once again
silence reigned and tedium beckoned. Hidden in the high
mountain crevices he sat, watching, one of a small band that
waited impatiently with resolved purpose.

The air was hot and dry, baked by a midday sun shining
relentlessly. The only relief was a refreshing breeze that
occasionally rustled leaves and cooled stretched nerves as
it swept up the gorge from the valley floor far below them.

Suddenly, a young adolescent sergeant whistled softly, his
eyes distinguishing for the first time a distant figure
slowly treading the tenuous path below.

He pointed his finding to an older soldier crouching just
behind. "That's her. You were right, Bradley, She is coming
this way." The other older man, Bradley, perhaps in his
thirties, nodded absently, apparently unsurprised by the
emergence of this woman.

Sheer rock rose on either side of the path she was climbing
forming a natural funnel. Eventually the climber must come
to where they were waiting. They had only to be patient, to
remain quiet and out of sight. There was no where else for
her to go, apart from back down the mountain from where she
had come. They were perfectly placed for ambush.

Paul Bradley took a pair of binoculars from his equipment
bag, and trained them down the steep rocky escarpment
hunting around until he found the approaching figure. He
recognized the young woman instantly; by her gait, by that
long blonde hair blowing in the wind, by the distinctive
style of blouse she always wore. As he stared Bradley found
his thoughts filling with lust. But this too didn't surprise
him. For he had lusted for Joanna de Brito since the first
time he had laid eyes upon her and been told that she was
forbidden.

Something about the word 'forbidden' had always attracted
him. Since childhood he had been unable to resist the
unobtainable. He savored the thought that this was a moment
for such thoughts to be nurtured and not resisted.

He handed the glasses to the adolescent sergeant who had
first spotted the approaching girl. "Take a look."

The sergeant took a moment to find and focus. He looked
through the lens as instructed, a look that became a
voyeuristic stare as the seconds passed and his focus
remained fixed.

"Do you fancy her?" Bradley asked the young soldier with a
cold casualness. The man instantly lowered the glasses, but
continued looking wistfully down the valley. He obviously
did, but was unprepared to admit the wicked thoughts he had
permitted of a Forbidden, a La cepern. Bradley noticed, and
his amusement widened into a crooked smile.

"Keep your fingers crossed then," he said, reluctantly
looking away himself from the ascending young woman, and
glancing over to where a party of soldiers awaited, silent
and hidden, "Today's pay day."

The young man twisted his gaze from the girl, and regarded
his retreating superior fiercely. "How do you mean?" he
hissed. "She's second La cepern."

"Patience," remarked Bradley evasively, clambering to his
feet and grasping his gun securely. "Stay where you are till
I signal," were his final words, and then he was gone.

>From the position of strength they continued to watch in
silence as Joanna de Brito struggled up the pass towards
him, past rubble and debris that marked the sites of old
land slips, past trees that were dwarfs in their panoramic
setting. Her face was pretty and ruddy from long exertion,
her long blonde hair blown back. The soft creases of her
loose silk blouse and black trousers were caught by the
breeze and signified the perfect body that Bradley knew they
must conceal. A body that no man had seen. He relished the
thought. Well, today all that would change. He would have
her, he would see, he would touch those breasts, the
contours of which he had so often admired through the
impenetrable blouse: that he had been yearning for from the
beginning; that he had been told, warned, he must never
contemplate. For she was La cepern, and thus according to
the Galsip creed, "Born to blossom, for Tawr to pluck before
her bloom."

But Paul had not been born Galsip, and their ways were not
inbred. When he saw her he did not see his sister, his
mother, his daughter, as she must always be according to the
Galsip doctrine, he saw waste, and felt lust.

A select group of virgins; the La cepern were trustees of
right and wrong; virtuous and revered. A holy order of
priestesses reared by the Inquistadorial Guard in the
mystical code of Tawr, the Man God, as his property: for the
purpose of an offering for his gratification. Between the
blossom and the bloom of their womanhood they would become
his sacrifice. They would pass through the Portal; alone,
unseen by the world; draped in the ceremonial gown given as
the reward for a brief life of chasteness; to take their
place as hand maidens in the Sanctuary of Tawr, never again
to reappear.

Until then they must prepare; there was endless preparation;
and they must be prepared, by observing the code. Always the
code. A code that centered on modesty and chastity. That
placed such above life in the Order of Deity. They taught
the children for the future and demanded respect. And the
Inquistadorial Guard enforced that respect. To speak against
a La cepern was heresy.  To raise a finger against a La
cepern was death. They were virgins of necessity and had
grown accustomed to wander the land unmolested. For Tawr was
feared. If the threat of incurring the displeasure of the
all powerful Man God was not enough to instill that fear,
then the wrath of the Inquistadorial Guard would certainly
fill the vacuum.

Well today, all that would change.

She was almost upon them now, it was almost the moment, and
Bradley couldn't resist a smile of satisfaction that somehow
managed to infiltrate the fear and trepidation that engulfed
him at the enormity of what he was to do. His hands gripped
and ungripped the rifle as he waited excitedly for the right
moment.

She seemed to move more and more slowly the nearer she got
to the place he had invisibly marked. Perhaps it was just
tiredness.  But at last she was there.

He stepped out into her path, rifle swinging up to point at
her bust, index finger making contact with the trigger. He
was silent.

Her features registered surprise first, then recognition.

"Paul?" she asked, relaxing. "Why are you dressed like that,
like an Inquistadorial Guardian? You gave me a shock."

She was relaxed. Still she saw no danger.

"I received a conversion," he countered. "On my road to
Damascus. And so now as you see me, I am."

She was astounded. "What? A Guardian? An Inquistadorial
Guardian? Don't joke!"

She saw by his expression that he was not. "But why?"

He avoided her question. "I'm sorry about this, for old
times sake. But I have to arrest you, Joanna. I have
received official orders."

"You! Arrest me? Now you are in jest! I'm La cepern!"

A moment later she knew there was no joke. Paul gestured,
lifting his free hand sharply skywards and instantly, it
seemed, they were surrounded by Guards. Her attention had
been diverted, and the trap had been sprung.

There had been no time for her to move, to try and escape.

"But why?" she pleaded, repeating herself. "What have I ever
done to trouble the Galsips?"

But still she was not overly troubled. For La cepern did not
need to fear. There was always a bribe, a threat, a promise
that could spring any situation.

"And why?" Bradley asked, adding flesh to her question,
"When the Galsips will have to free you as soon as we reach
the fort, Lahf Tawreos, or risk offending Tawr. And return you 
with many valuable gifts they can little afford to compensate 
for the offense. Why ever would they order that?"

She said nothing, but it was obvious by her expectancy that
she agreed with the sentiment of the question and desired an
answer.

Bradley let her wait awhile before continuing. "My orders
accuse you of various crimes, and state that you should be
tried for those crimes here. Yes, right here, and now. So 
that there will be no white wash, no cover up." He stopped 
again, as if amused at some private joke.

"What crimes?" she gasped.

Bradley was deliberate, sensing that the pieces were all
falling into their correct slots and savoring the moment of
his approaching victory and her doom. "I have reason to
believe that about your person you are carrying a message to
the Cnofne."

She was rattled. Paul could sense that at last the aura of
confidence had cracked. "What do you mean, a message? How
ridiculous! Why would I take a message through Galsip
country, and what's more a written message? If I were fool
enough even to want to do that, and I'm not, then
I would memorize it!"

"Not this one, you wouldn't," Paul countered. "With the
current cease fire holding so well, the Cnofne would never
countenance attacking the Galsips without written evidence
of Galsip treachery. I have gleaned that much from my time
here. That evidence would have to be smuggled through Galsip
lines somehow. But how would this be done? No one knew,
until a little bird squeaked. But what it said was
unbelievable. It spoke of corruption within the cloisters of
the La cepern: that these holy paragons could be bought if
the price was right. Who could believe such things? This
bird also mentioned how the message would be smuggled, and
this was even more unbelievable. And yet it made a perverse
sense. What better way to smuggle it than in a woman's
clothing? The Inquistadorial Guard would never think,
suspect, would they? And even if they should, how would they
prove it? Would they dare strip a La cepern priestess, let
alone the daughter of Jean de Brito? It would be political
suicide.

The General heard what the little bird told him, but he was
stuck. How could the charge ever be proved? But then he
remembered there was one man who had dared to show lust for
this same La cepern suspected of carrying the message. An
outsider who had not had the code bred into him. If only he
could somehow persuade this man to cooperate. Or might the
assignment itself be the inducement, would not the idea of
inflicting impromptu justice beyond the reach and notice of
Galsip establishment be his reward?"

"You said it, didn't you, Joanna. You couldn't believe me to
be a Guard. You can't imagine me worrying about all the
stuffy conventions, can you, Joanna? I would dare, I can see
it in your eyes. You know, I would dare. That's why I'm here
Joanna, and no one else. The Guard knew you couldn't
threaten me, wrap me up in all your sweet conventions and
superstitions. They knew that I wouldn't be bought, and that
I would see to it that what needed to be done, got done. You
know all that as well, don't you, Joanna? So this is the
score. What this is all about. We're going to expose you:
literally. I spent a long time thinking about how to punish
a traitor. I received lots of suggestions, some gruesome.
You wouldn't like to hear what some of the Guard suggested.
It would have made your pretty La cepern ears red to
contemplate such torture. But I decided that there was one
punishment that would be much worse, that would be entirely
unbearable for a La cepern. How can I tell you, Joanna? For
this too will make your sensitive La cepern ears blush so
prettily. But, on the other side, as this is what I have
concluded must be inflicted, how can I not tell you either?

"So I must warn you that you are going to cringe in fright
at the unspeakable acts that we have in store for you. Where
do I start? At the beginning? We decided that there was one
torture that was worse than all others. Do you know what
that was, Joanna? That for a La cepern there could be
nothing worse than being forced to stand in front of a group
of young men and have to take off her clothes: all of them;
one by one; in front of total strangers. We felt that that
would be total humiliation: a betrayal of Tawr; to have to
do so because of not being impartial, because of having
betrayed us; to be shown as nothing but a cheap traitor. You
are that traitor. I'm afraid that I am going to have to ask
you to take your clothes off, Joanna. That's why these men
have been hand picked. Youngsters with an aberrant interest
in things carnal; with no girlfriends to appease their
sexual urges; that can be counted on to think with their
groins. These are the men I've brought to be your audience."

A couple of Guards shifted themselves uncomfortably, as
though trying to relieve themselves of sudden pressure in
their trousers. Another blew his nose loudly; embarrassment
perhaps.

Joanna turned nervously in a tight circle, looking for
escape. But the guards were everywhere. It was like she was
in a dream. It was all unreal. They were standing,
slouching, chewing gum, an undisciplined mob, aggressively
tense. Everything was a whirl.

"No, Paul. You know me. I wouldn't lie to you." She was
afraid. A frightened cornered animal. "I swear there's no
message. Please you mustn't, you can't do this thing." She
continued circling, looking in desperation, searching for a
way out, for a friendly face, but the Guards were
everywhere, and they were lascivious.

"I'm sorry, Joanna. But you would say anything at the moment
if you thought it would let you off the hook. I know your
guilt. Let's prove it, shall we. You people go in for trial
by ordeal, don't you? That's what this is. Trial by Ordeal.
The Ordeal of betraying all that is La cepern, all that is
modest. If you wear nothing but your clothes, you prove your
innocence. And you have my word that things go no further.
But if there is paper in the folds of your raiment, and we
both know that somewhere tucked in that luscious raiment is
the paper, then it will damn you, figuratively and
literally. Very apt: trial by Ordeal, trial by Divestment.
Take your clothes off."

Her words ignored all that he was saying. "They're getting
through with the message down the other pass, if..."

"Pretty and sexy, you may be: but no liar. Really Joanna,
that's real desperation stuff. Take off your clothes."

She was crying. A sorrowful sight, sad for one so proud. She
was distraught and frightened: no longer ignoring his words.

"Trust me!" she said.

A disturbing sight, no longer commanding fear and obedience:
an arousing sight, frail and defenseless. The balance of
power had shifted.

"The last time a Galsip trusted a La cepern he got a knife
in his back for his foolishness, I'm surprised you could
have forgotten that. You have one more chance, either you
undress yourself, or my men will have to do it for you. And
while they've never attempted it before, from their
flustered appearance I don't imagine they'd be too delicate
when it comes to undressing La cepern ladies."

She cast the young Galsip soldiers a nervous glance, not
daring to catch their eyes. That glance was enough. They
were aroused; Paul's talk was turning them on. She knew that
he was right. She had to act quickly to take some heat from
what was developing into a nasty situation. Whatever the
consequences, she couldn't let herself be violated by their
touch.

"I'll give you the message," she conceded.

Bradley laughed. "Is that a confession? It sounded like a
confession to me. Did it sound like a confession to you?" he
said, addressing the Guards. They nodded. But they would nod
to anything.

"So why should we honor a traitor? A self-confessed traitor
trying to save her ass. Well we're going to have your ass
before we take you in, every last inch of your pretty young
ass. You remember I spoke about the Guard allowing us to
impose impromptu justice out here, beyond the reach of the
Galsip establishment. They said a blind eye would be turned
to whatever happened out here. That if we found you guilty
we should set and execute the sentence we felt appropriate.
I asked them about limits, and they said there were no
limits. For instance, they said, they imagined, given my
reputation, that I'd want to begin by taking an interest in
your pretty pert ass. Your ass, they said, no questions
asked. We traded your ass, Joanna. My reward was your guilty
ass. I've long had a fancy to see what Miss Fancy-Pants
looks like in the nude. That's right, in the nude. There's
no need to let the word shake your delicate sensibilities.
It's a word you're going to have to think about. You might
as well get used to the idea: totally nude. Or do you prefer
us to talk about your being naked, or starkers, or in your
birthday suit. We don't mind. If you want to scratch about
in your thesaurus of La cepern inexactitudes. But I like the
word, nude. It's got a ring about it, don't you think? In a
few minutes we're going to be watching and cheering and
leering as you lower your knickers down those lovely legs of
yours. But by then we'll be au fait with your legs. We'll
know how deliciously long they are. We'll be more interested
in what was under your knickers. That's another of those
words, isn't it, Joanna. Knickers. There's something about
it isn't there? Something deliciously wicked: to be talking
about knickers. Not just any knickers, but your knickers,
Joanna. Something terribly disgusting and degrading."

Her embarrassment was more visible than ever he could have
planned.

"Exactly," he exclaimed. "I see from the way you turn from
me that I'm beginning to touch a raw nerve. We'll be seeing
what they are like. And notice the use of past tense. What
was under your knickers: no more. What sort of knickers are
you wearing, Joanna? Lacy briefs or sturdy bloomers? What
does it say in the code, Joanna? They never tell us that
much, do they? Why not? Would it arouse our pricks more than
our curiosities? We'll soon know, won't we, Joanna? We'll be
watching them drop down naked legs. Seeing what they hide.
And what do they hide, dear Joanna? A triangle of dark hair?
Or has it been trimmed away to afford a better view of your
pussy. Can you imagine it, Joanna. Dare you imagine it? This
is not imagination. Some test the Inquistadorial Guard have
devised to test your devotion to chastity. This is reality.
You are in the middle of nowhere with ten lecherous virgins
who have been given license to do with you as they will.
Don't you think you ought to start cooperating? Before we
get nasty? Come on; strip. Take your clothes off."

He almost spat the words out, but she was still trying. She
had to protect herself.

"All right, then, I'll strip. But, please, not here, not in
front of all these men. Alone; just you and me." She was
laying it on thick, making her invitation clear. "No one to
see what's going on... or coming off. Just us... Please!"

She wasn't sure what she was going to do if he agreed, but
she had to lessen the odds, had to get him away from the
soldiers. One on one she had a chance; amidst this mob she
had no chance.


*******************************************************


Paul turned the final sheet. He had come to the end. "So
what happens next?" he asked. "There must be more."

"There might be," I said. "But it's still up here at the
moment." I tapped my head with the fingers of my left hand.

"So tell me what happens," Paul begged.

"What would you like to happen?" I retorted. "Let me give
you a question, just like in one of those television phone
votes. Does Paul take her somewhere quiet where he can do
with Joanna whatever he chooses? Or does he make her undress
in front of the Guards? After all, the direction of the
story depends upon his decision, your decision. What does he
do?"

When Paul had answered, I smiled. It was working. The soccer
was back on and Paul hadn't noticed.

I said. "Then tomorrow I will write the next part, and
Mister Paul Bradley will do as you suggest."

The Code Of Tawr
End Of Part One

by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com)

Part Two  ....Coming Soon!




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