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From: "Joanna De Brito" <joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com>
Subject: {Joanna} The Code Of Tawr (9/10 MF  caution)
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Standard Disclaimer: Over 18s Only.

This is part nine of a serialized story. If you haven't yet
read the earlier parts, I strongly suggest you go back and
start there.

As this is a serial 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 are 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)
Copyright 1999
All rights reserved


February 1999

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



Part Nine

"How did you know I had it?" Sharon asked, as Paul stepped
passed her and into her apartment.

"Joanna was trying to tease me about the story," he
explained. "But she let slip that you had read it," he
explained walking into the sitting room. "I didn't know for
sure, but I took a chance that you might still have it here.
Do you?"

"I have the first nine parts," Sharon conceded.

Paul was visibly uncomfortable as he anxiously asked, "And
can I take a look?"

"Of course," Sharon said. "But why didn't you just ask
Joanna for a copy. It would have been much simpler. You had
only to ask."

"Yes, well, I guess so. But she's waiting for me to
apologise because we had this disagreement. I guess she has
told you what happened? Yes? What I said about her story?
Yes, I thought so. Anyway, during the last few days
something has been bothering her, something else, that is;
something new: and I rather thought I might find a clue in
the story. She told me that she's still writing."

Sharon nodded thoughtfully. "Yes she is still writing, and
yes there is something bothering her. But it's nothing new.
It's been there for the past month or so."

"You mean Rebecca?"

"No, not Rebecca. I'm not trying in any way to minimise the
hurt Joanna felt over Rebecca, but Rebecca is just a
symptom: by far the biggest symptom, but a symptom
nevertheless. She is not the problem. You still don't see
what's wrong?"

He looked back at her blankly. "No."

"OK. Maybe I'm being a little unfair. I forget that you
haven't read as far as I have. Let me get you part eight. It
contains the biggest clue. I think you might understand
then."

She reached over and opened a drawer. Her ass pulled tight
across her jeans as she stretched, and Paul couldn't help
thinking that in other circumstances...

>From the drawer Sharon took a folder containing the first
nine parts of "The Code of Tawr". She ruffled through it
until she found part eight and then unclipped the sheets
from her folder. "Here, when you've read this, tell me what
you think."

He took the sheets and sat there silently absorbing what I
had written. Sharon watched him for a while, but then picked
up a magazine and began to read herself.

They sat, with Sharon waiting for what she described to me
as being an eternity. She had visions of him being there the
whole day, but, at last, finally he turned to the last
sheet.

"OK," he said, reaching the end. "What am I supposed to
see?"

Sharon sighed. "You still can't see? Joanna is telling you
through the story that she doesn't see a future for herself.
Does that help you?"

He looked back equally blankly. "You mean she's depressed?"

"Yes. She's depressed. But why is she depressed?"

"Rebecca?" he guessed vaguely, clutching at straws.

"No, not Rebecca. I told you, she's only the symptom. Can't
you see it? It's staring you in the face."

He shook his head. He couldn't see.

"When was the last time Joanna had a period?"

"I don't know, we haven't... My God, you mean... My God!"

Sharon looked at him gravely. She handed him the sheets for
part nine from the folder. "Now I think you'd better look at
this."

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

The Code Of Tawr

Chapter Four        Burned To Ashes


The sun was shining, the birds were singing and Lahf Tawreos
was awash with color. It was the beginning of a pleasant
summer's day, but a day that Joanna faced with turmoil, with
anger, with terror; for today was the day that she was to be
executed.

It was terrifying: to know that never again would she
witness the sun rising or the birds chattering; such simple
things, but how important each one of them seemed now that
they were her last. Her mind could not fully grasp the idea
that tonight she would be no more, and somehow, because of
that inability to comprehend, her brain tried to cocoon that
thought in order to avoid it.

However, what filled her with the greatest foreboding was
the apprehension of those awful moments prior to
annihilation: the horror and pain that awaited her on the
stake and the fear that she would not have the strength to
hold herself with dignity during those final minutes.

Burdened with such anxiety, she had not slept at all. It had
been a long night of arduous meditation. At times she had
been self-pitying, damning Bradley, damning the Inquistador,
damning the system. Then her mood would abruptly swing and
she might be reflective, remembering past achievements,
people she had known. Later her mood would change again,
this time she might be tearful, wallowing in emotion and the
unfairness of it all, allowing her feelings to vent.
Throughout it all, though, the ominous image of the phallus
in the square, now standing erect and waiting, was always at
the forefront of her consciousness.

>From the first faint distant echoes, she caught the tread of
their approaching footsteps, heard them as they got closer
and louder, and then the door opened and two soldiers
entered. They saw her but their eyes were carefully averted.
They moved to the side to allow others, the Chief Keeper and
two La cepern to enter. The Chief Keeper held some folded
cotton in front of her. Joanna had no need to wonder about
it. She knew this to be her final adornment during her final
moments. And then the Inquistador entered, cocksure and
condescending. He didn't speak; he stood back and allowed
the others to bustle. Someone closed the door and he stood
against it, watching from the rear as the Chief Keeper
directed her contingent.

Joanna knew her. She knew them all. She was a small middle
aged woman with wizened features. As Chief Keeper, she was
responsible for all female prisoners, whether they were of
an Order or otherwise. Joanna had in the past viewed her as
witch-like both because of her peculiar physical appearance
as well as her authoritarian manner. As she busied and
bullied, neither was now any less pronounced.

The others had been drafted for this one event. The girls
were first La cepern who would enter through the Portal
later this year. They were at the end of their training, but
today would be a special test for them. The Guards, however,
appeared entirely typical; Joanna could determine nothing
unusual or unique about them. She had no idea why they had
been selected for this unique 'privilege'.

She was disturbed out of her distraction because the Chief
Keeper was speaking to her. "It is time," was what she said.
"We must dress you in this robe and cut your hair. Would you
like a moment first?"

"No. Do it." Joanna murmured, tears silently streaming down
her face. It was pointless delaying the inevitable; it would
only prolong the mental agony. What was to be done, should
be done quickly.

"Please," the Chief Keeper said, gesturing vaguely in
Joanna's direction. "The dress."

Joanna automatically put her hand to the top button, then
hesitated, looking anxiously at the Guards and the
Inquistador standing by the door. "Do they have to stay?"
she asked the Chief Keeper nervously. "Whatever I have done,
I am still La cepern."

The keeper looked questioningly to the Inquistador. He was
her superior; he would determine.

"We stay," he said at once in answer to the unspoken
question. "She may feign to be La cepern," he heavily
emphasized the word 'feign'. "But this woman lost any claim
to be known as a member of that Order when she fornicated on
the mountain. She will be treated as what she is, a common
harlot."

"You are a monster," Joanna spat at him, her emotions in
flux and free flowing. "A corrupt inhuman monster! You know
that to be a lie!"

The Inquistador cast a sigh in the direction of the Chief
Keeper. "It begins," he said. "You see how it begins. Why do
they never die with dignity? Their last hours are consumed
with bitterness against the system that served them so
well."

He approached Joanna and walked round her, a cruel gleam
never for a moment leaving his eye. He slowly looked her up
and down, then, as he stood behind her, just out of her
sight, he whispered quietly in her ear, softly so that the
others could not hear. "So you don't want me here while you
undress. I'm pleased to hear it. Your discomfort will make
the experience for me so much more enjoyable. But I'm not
intending simply to watch. I'm intending to help you."

"No, please," she begged, still facing the audience of the
Guards, the Chief Keeper and her helpers, not daring to turn
and confront him.

"But how can you deny me," he whispered. "When I've
fantasized about this for so long. To tear away your
clothes, just the words give me the hots. Do you realize
that unlike Mister Paul Bradley and his Guard, unlike most
of Lahf Tawreos, I have never seen you without them? So I'm
going to unbutton your dress and pull it from you. And after
I remove your petticoat, it all starts getting so
interesting. Because I don't know what comes next. It
depends what you have on underneath. That's why I accorded
you the privilege of wearing your own clothes for your final
night. So that I could have the pleasure of surprise. What
are you wearing? Whatever it might be, it shall be gently
undone and removed. All of it. And I imagine you naked, tied
to that stake, about to be roasted alive, and it's enough to
make me cum."

As he spoke she lost her composure. She broke down in a
series of sobs. "Please," she cried. "Please leave me alone.
Let me be! Please! For Tawr's sake!"

"Tawr will forgive me," he murmured. "After all I've done
for him through the years, how can he accuse me for this one
peccadillo?"

"Please stop him," Joanna begged the Chief Keeper. But her
expression was unflinching and without sympathy. She simply
looked to the Inquistador for direction.

"Excuse me," he said to his underling by way of answer to
her unspoken request, while reaching over Joanna's shoulders
to the top button of her dress. "I'm sure you won't object
to my taking a personal interest in this being done
correctly." He slipped the top button undone.

His lips were to her ear. "Since your demise will bring to
an end all of my wet aspirations," he whispered, his hands
crawling across her dress to the next button. "It is time to
reward myself for years of self control."

She was in anguish; she was in tears. She could feel him
standing against her, the rush of his breath loud in her ear
and his stale aroma invading her air. She could feel his
encircling arms enfolding her body and his fingers slipping
open the second button of her dress, then descending over it
from her neck onto her breasts. It was awful; it was
unbearable, how could she endure it?

"Time to unwrap dear Joanna," he murmured into her ear, the
sweaty palms of his hands covering her breasts as he slipped
the next button undone. "Your tits do feel very nice; very,
very nice."

His hands began to wander across her belly; he sensed her
body tense and repulse at his touch: such ecstasy!
"Expectation makes the pleasure so much sweeter, when it's
finally experienced," he whispered, opening another button.
"Night after night I've imagined this; pined for this. To be
undressing you, to be touching you, feeling the warmth of
your body."

His hands were over her crotch, flicking the button there,
lingering, fingering, sensing with his touch her shape and
texture beneath the bikini line. Eventually, his hands moved
on, descending across the skirt of her dress, his arms
wrapping her legs as he unfastened the final buttons.

With them all undone he slowly rose from his crouching
position, his arms still enveloping her, feeling her, gently
pulling open the sides of her dress as he stood. It was an
action without benefit to himself for he stood where he
could not see, but he watched and delighted in the thrill of
her audience: those soldiers, so intent, so entranced. When
he was done, he tenderly pulled Joanna's blonde hair back
from her left ear and gently caressed the skin of her neck
with his lips. Joanna stared lividly at the chief keeper in
furious protest, but still seeing that one's disinterest,
she kept her own counsel.

The Inquistador took hold of Joanna's unfastened dress and
pulled it off her shoulders, down her arms and over her
hips. He then allowed it to drop to the floor. The Chief
Keeper stepped forward and took it from between Joanna's
feet, handing it to one of the two La cepern ladies who were
demurely waiting close by. As she did so, the Inquistador
stepped back to observe the result of his labor. Underneath,
Joanna wore a thin pastel slip of similar length to her
dress. He walked round enjoying the sight of her discomfort
and distress before eventually returning to his position
behind her.

"So many layers," the Inquistador whispered in Joanna's ear.
"But, as I say, expectation delayed makes the pleasure so
sweet." He brought his arms round her again, allowing the
tips of his fingers to graze across the material of her
slip, across her breasts and the nipples beneath. She gasped
in stoic wretchedness. "Please," she thought. "Please make
him stop. Please make him go away."

His fingers had returned to the thin straps of her slip. He
took hold of them and slowly lowered them from her
shoulders, kissing her upon the bare skin of her shoulder.

She squirmed at his touch. Desperately she tried not to, for
she knew that this was what he wanted, but she was fast
approaching her emotional breaking point.

"So sad," he sighed. "So soon no more." Letting go of the
straps, he gently took hold of the slip just below her hips
and began pulling it upwards, over her bust, over her arms,
over her head. As it came off he folded it slowly before
handing it to the Chief Keeper, who again gave it to the
same waiting La cepern who patiently accepted it.

He circled round and stood in front of Joanna for the first
time. She wore a breath white chemise buttoned down the
front. Reaching forward, the Inquistador began to unfasten
it. They both knew she wore nothing beneath. "Shall we see
what a pretty girl you are?" he said reaching the bottom of
the buttons. He paused a moment and then delicately drew
first one side, then the other from off her breasts. For
some moments he stood and admired the display of her tits,
making her wait, making her think.

He then reached forward and took hold of one of her nipples,
standing proud on her breast and gently squeezed it. His
eyes were no longer on her bust, but on her face, watching
her close her eyes and grimace as he increased the pressure
upon that captive nipple, whether she did so in pain or
humiliation, was to him irrelevant.

"Your tits are everything I imagined," he whispered. "You
could have saved them for me. You could have had me on a
piece of string. You could have had whatever you wanted; I
would have given it you. Why did you devalue yourself? Now
you are worth nothing. By the end of the day there won't be
a man in Lahf Tawreos that will not have seen these tits."
He moved forward, standing almost on her toes. "Or will not
have masturbated at the sight of your pussy."

She only had a simple white pair of panties left. The
Inquistador dropped to his knees before her, his face level
with her pubis, this still invisible behind the briefs. He
looked up, past her naked breasts to her tearful face.
"Excuse me," he said with fake apology, taking hold of the
cotton waistband. He held it still for a moment, savoring
the anticipation before pulling it down over her hips and
letting her pants drop to the floor.

Her secret triangle lay exposed before him, his face only
inches from her pussy. She could almost feel his breath upon
it as he gazed upon its nakedness. "Please," she silently
made petition of Tawr. "Please give me the strength to
endure this." He would be able to smell her, she thought, he
was so close. Never had she felt so naked, so humiliated as
she did right now, as she awaited destruction at his hand.

Finally he rose to his feet. But he remained so very close.
She could feel the touch of his tunic against the ends of
her breasts; the waft of his breath touching her cheek. His
face pressed forward. For a moment she imagined that he
intended to kiss her, but he whispered into her ear, so
softly did he speak; so cold was his tone.

"You are so very attractive," he hissed, almost inaudibly,
his tunic definitely brushing against the bareness of her
skin. "Without your clothes. But I guess you must know
that."

He remained static; she too held her breath. She could not
breathe: she stood terrified. The closeness of his presence
intimidated, controlled and dominated her. She was under his
spell, the fly to his spider, the prey to his cobra.
Paralyzed, she stared into those cruel, menacing eyes, those
dark malignant darts that bore into her soul, into the very
depths of her being. His piercing eyes stripped her bare,
revealed that hidden essence, that secret inner self that
none of us ever makes known to another. Oh what did he see?
What did he discover?

He blinked, and the moment passed, the spell was broken. He
stepped away, turned his back upon her, his frame expanding
as resumed his role of Inquistador. "Cut her hair," he
commanded, to no one in particular, but with an authority
that now expected to be obeyed. As if by magic, scissors
appeared in the Chief Keeper's hands and the La cepern
stepped forward and took hold of Joanna's arms. The Chief
keeper grabbed a handful of her beautiful hair and closing
the scissors scythed through it.

"Keep still," she ordered, tossing the tresses away. "I
don't intend to cut you, but if you move then it won't be me
that cries."

She held more of Joanna's locks and again sliced them away.
Again and again she cut, carving and shearing, destroying
Joanna's womanly glory as she worked. Only when Joanna was
shorn, when there was no more to cut, did she stop to admire
the results of her handiwork. She nodded to the La cepern
holding Joanna's arms that she had finished. As they let go,
Joanna brought her hands to her head, feeling the mangled
stubble that was all that remained.

She was still running her hands, feeling what they had done
when she realized that one of the La cepern had approached
and was handing her a white dress. "Put this on," she said,
her voice low and indistinct, her head bowed.

Joanna took it and pulled it over her shorn head, her mind
and thoughts still with the hair that littered the floor. As
she pulled her arms through the armholes and straightened
the shift, the soldiers advanced upon her, rope in their
hands. Unlike the La cepern, they said nothing: they didn't
ask; they didn't demand. They used their strength to achieve
their end: to force Joanna's arms behind her back and to tie
her at the wrists. Instinctively, she pulled at the rope,
testing its strength: it was unyielding and secure.

The Inquistador had been watching with interest and
increasing enthusiasm. Now that she was ready, he advanced
gleefully. "You have danced the tune of Mister Bradley, now
you will dance to my tune," he hissed at her.

"It's not your tune," she protested tearfully. "It's the
tune of Tawr."

"Yet you must beg to me for clemency."

She took a deep breath. "Clemency is not yours to give, it
is mine to choose. You granted me the right to judge, I have
the right to pardon."

He laughed meanly. "So naive! So misguided! What is mine to
give with one hand is mine to take back with the other.
Listen! I revoke that authority I gave you. You have it no
longer. Now where does that leave you? What do you say? Let
me tell you. Now you must burn."

He looked over to the soldiers. "Take her," he ordered.

She struggled against them as they took her by her arms.
"You gave me the right," she cried. "This isn't the
judgement of Tawr. This is the revenge of a man."

"Maybe so," he agreed. "But Tawr is forgiving."

"This is murder," she screamed at the soldiers. "Can't you
hear what he's saying to me? This is not Tawr, this is him!"
she pleaded with the La cepern. "Don't you see, today it is
me, tomorrow it may be you. You must stop him. Please, do
something."

"Quite finished?" asked the Inquistador after her pleas had
again fallen on minds of stone. "You see it is quite
hopeless. You are condemned, and we all expect and
understand a little hysteria in such circumstances. But I
have to warn you; hysteria is easily confused with
cowardice. I would hate the La cepern to gain that
reputation."

"You pig!" she yelled at him.

He spoke again to the soldiers. "Didn't I tell you to take
her away? What is preventing you?"

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

Paul sat in somber silence when he had reached the end.
Sharon sat waiting for him to speak. Eventually he did.

"What happens next? How does it end?"

"I don't know," Sharon said, shrugging her shoulders. "I
don't have any more. There is one more part. Isn't the
outcome still in the balance? Isn't it now in your hands?
How do you want it to end? You know, this is your story."


The Code Of Tawr
End Of Part Nine


Part Ten  ....Coming Soon!





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