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From: "Joanna De Brito" <joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com>
Subject: {Joanna} The Code Of Tawr ( 3/10 MF rape, caution)
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Standard Disclaimer: Over 18s Only.

This is part three of a serialized story. If you haven't yet
read parts one and two, 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 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...



Part Three


The next day I had to work. I work a four-day on, three-day
off pattern in the sales department of a major telecom
company. There, I spend much of the day ringing prospects,
touting for their business; and just a little time I spend trying
to close deals at customer sites. It is a high-pressure
environment in which you're only as good as the last month's
figures. And right now I was struggling, perhaps it was the
turmoil in my private life that was affecting my work, but I
was well down this month.

In an effort to claw back some of the deficit I stayed late,
trying to pin down some people that were proving elusive.

So by the time I got home I was well whacked, Paul had been
home for a couple of hours, but of course hadn't fixed us
anything to eat. I shoved a couple of quick meals in the
microwave thinking to myself that all I wanted to do was
shower and get to bed: to sleep.

He was very quiet as we ate; I was too tired to really take
much notice, maybe I thought he was embarrassed because of
not having prepared something himself. Anyhow, what was on
his mind only became apparent after my shower as I pottered
about in my dressing gown. Paul said, "Haven't you forgotten
something?"

Of course he meant the story. I was becoming increasingly
unsettled and unhappy with the direction of the story line.
I was concerned about what I might unknowingly be unleashing
by pandering to the demons in Paul's head: if these were his
fantasies, where did that leave me? The next part, the end
of chapter one was particularly making me uneasy and right
then I just didn't want to deal with it. "I'm just too
tired," I said, by way of excuse.

"You haven't written anything, then?" he asked, obviously
disappointed.

I couldn't lie. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do have
something." I admitted with a sigh.

We have a bedroom that has been converted into a study. It's
mainly me that uses it, though Paul has been known to write
the odd letter and pay the occasional bill. I went in and
turned on the computer. While it was booting Paul came in
and watched as I found the remains of the chapter I had
written the previous day. A couple of clicks and it began
printing.

"There you are," I said, lifting the pages from out of the
printer tray, and giving them to him. "Now you'll have to
read it on your own, I'm tired and I need to sleep. I've got
an early start tomorrow."

I returned to the bedroom next door and got into bed. Paul
followed me, sitting on what had been his side of the bed
before I had chucked him out.

As he started to read, I complained. "Do you have to do that
here? Can't you go downstairs?"

"It won't take long," he muttered, and not wanting to create
a scene, I sighed and gave way.

Turning my back on him I tried to sleep.

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


The Code Of Tawr

Final Paragraphs Of The Last Section...

Paul waited. Joanna was squirming in undisguised
humiliation, arms drawn tight across her chest, hands
cupping her breasts, swaying nervously, but otherwise
unreactive to his obvious expectancy.

Eventually, he prompted,  "Take off your knickers, Joanna.
This changes nothing."

"But you've got your message," she wailed. "What more do you
want?"

"I promised not to touch you. But that was conditional on
our not finding this" And he gestured to the paper. "But we
have found it. You failed the Trial by Divestment. So, all
bets are off. You know jolly well what I want now. So let's
start by seeing you pull those knickers down those nice long
sexy legs of yours."

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

The Code Of Tawr

Chapter One, Part Three



"No!" she cried. "I'm not doing it. You can't make me!"

He knew he didn't need to. Surrounded as she was by eleven
lusty men, it would be so simple for them just to pluck her
knickers from her body; she was in no position to resist.
But that was not the way he wanted it. He wanted her to pull
them down herself, as he had said she would.

So, bluffing, he said, "Then I guess four of us will have to
hold you down, while the others do it for you." He turned as
if to delegate.

"No!" she cried again. Her spirit immediately broken. "No.
I'll do it."

He had indeed been right. There was nothing worse than what
she was being forced to do right now. She held her left arm
tight across her bust, her left hand clasping tightly her
right breast as with her other hand she hooked the waist
band of her knickers. She felt as if the ground would open
up and swallow her whole as she pulled her knickers down.
She just didn't have a spare hand with which to protect
herself. She felt the eyes penetrating, all concentrating on
the same region, what she had successfully hidden from all
men for so long.

Someone wolf whistled behind her. She could say nothing. If
only they weren't so obviously enjoying it. But wasn't that
the point? Wasn't that why they were humiliating her in this
way? So that they could enjoy themselves? Get their kicks
out of her? And she hated them all the more. "I've often
wondered whether it was possible for someone as cold to have
the same apparatus as normal women," Paul teased cruelly. "I
rather thought it wasn't. Obviously I was mistaken."

She kicked her pants off her feet and let them lie, holding
her right hand protectively across her pubic region. He
couldn't expect her to pick them up. Surely he wouldn't
embarrass her that far.

"Pick them up." He would.

"She might have the apparatus, but can she use it?" someone
giggled. Joanna bent down to pick them up, keeping hand in
place until her crouched body afforded some natural
concealment before quickly grabbing the discarded garment.
She tried to ignore their remarks, but couldn't help from
reddening from head to toe as she heard another wolf whistle
from behind and knew that from the rear she was totally
exposed, that every eye was penetrating, boring into her
exposed flesh.

She held the crumpled nylon in her hand, her hand
instinctively reverting to its role of shielding her nudity
as she rose.

"Give", he said, forcing her to lift the arm slightly away
from her body. She stood upright, proffering her precious
knickers. Bradley didn't move, which compelled her to
lengthen her gesture of donation. The gesture allowed them
to see her pubic area clearly for the first time. The dark
triangle of soft hair contrasted so perfectly the pure white
of the surrounding skin. Slowly, he sauntered up to her, but
rather than take the garment he circled to her side. She
shuddered as he reached forward and allowed his hand to
brush gently down her back, her muscles tensing at his
touch.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, at that touch her body  spasmed
with uncontrolled emotion. "Please," she sobbed. "Please
leave me. Don't destroy me totally."

He took the briefs from her, not giving them a glance, not
saying a word. He couldn't take his eyes from her nude body.
He cast his admiring eye over her buttocks, and then her
front, peeking a glance at that magic triangle. She was so
available. What he had always wanted. He desired, and knew
the others did too. It was now time to execute punishment on
sentence already passed.

Casually he let the briefs fall to the ground. "So sorry,"
he said with sugary sweetness. "If you would be so kind as
to pick them up again. I seem to have dropped them."

She threw a vicious glance, and tearfully bent down to
retrieve the pants once more. Bradley glanced at the
proffered backside. "Hold it a moment," he ordered without
bothering to provide a reason.

She held the pose. Her hanging labial purse neatly and
explicitly framed by her tautly stretched buttocks.

"Excellent," he murmured. "I'm sure you are able to imagine
the kind of explicit view we have of your naughty bits as
well as the kind of reaction that is having on our naughty
bits. They're getting hard and insistent."

He took a bag from his pocket, and carefully placed all her
clothes in it, watching for her humiliation as she realized
he was not going to let her dress.

"Please let me have something to cover myself."

"Cover yourself? Do you think us mad? Having at last got a
La cepern virgin naked and cowering before us, whatever
would inspire us to free her from the hook? Or, perhaps you
had something in mind? Perhaps you were thinking of
performing for us so that we would give you your clothes?"

"Perform?"

"Yes. Perform. Will you do a dance? And excite us? And tease
us?"

She shook her head slowly, her brows furrowed in a
concentrated look of consternation.

"When will you let me dress?" she persisted.

"When will you dance?" he countered.

"If I do what you want, then you'll let me dress?"

"When you've done all I want." There was an unmistakable
emphasis on the word 'all'.

She hesitated. "What kind of dance do you want. Exactly."

"A peach of a dance." He smiled. "In which you writhe around
in your nakedness with a plug containing a tail stuck up
your bum".

It took a moment for the verbal picture to translate itself
in Joanna's brain into an actual picture of herself doing
what Bradley had suggested. Her mind in its sheltered
existence had never had to bring itself to consider the
possibility of such a perverse act. In all the horror
stories she had been fed of the excesses of what men did to
women this had not featured. Such was her shock that she did
not respond. However awful the alternative, she would not
humiliate herself to such an extent.

However, perhaps even now at this late hour she had a
savior. A small gruff voice from behind her said, "Sir, this
isn't right. We're going too far."

Bradley glared at the intruder. "In what way have we gone
too far, Simmons?"

Simmons, a tall, lanky teenager stepped forwards self-
consciously.

"It's not right, sir. What we're doing."

Paul rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness, but within him
a sudden temper was brewing. This upstart was assuming to be
his conscience, and at this moment the last thing Paul
desired was a conscience.

"So perhaps you can explain to your superior officer why his
actions are not right, Simmons." The words were icy cold.

"Because, well, she's La cepern."

"And?"

"And La cepern are, well, special. To Tawr they're special.
He wouldn't like it."

"Listen, Simmons," Bradley said, anger erupting. "La cepern
is what La cepern does. And this," he pointed at the
cowering Joanna, has by actions relinquished all claim to be
treated with honor and known as a La cepern. She has acted
as a spy. She is being treated as a spy, and will be treated
as a spy. Understand?"

"No, sir," the youth contradicted. "That is not for us to
decide. That is for Tawr."

"Tawr!" Bradley exploded. "This spy will be punished, I will
see her punished, and as a Guard you will do your duty by
acting as I command. I have one prisoner at present. I could
cope equally with two. Don't force me, soldier. Do I make
myself clear?"

Simmons decided that his bottle was not up to taking this
principle any further. "Yes sir," he said sheepishly.

Bradley continued to glare at him. "Since you are so
concerned about the welfare of our guest," he added
sarcastically, handing Simmons the bag of her clothes.
"Perhaps you would be so kind as to look after these until
she should have need of them."

Joanna anxiously followed the movement of the bag as it
passed between them. Simmons clutched it to his chest. He
looked through her; full of emotion; upset, Joanna guessed,
more at being dressed down in front of his mates than for
her. Still, despite her own troubles, she felt sympathy for
him. He had stuck up for her, and she knew what it was like
to be dressed down.

Bradley had been whispering furiously to a couple of the
others; two who had shown greater bravado. Now he spoke to
Joanna, his voice full of emotion. "Now as I was saying,
you're having an unhealthy affect on our naughty bits. An
affect I think we're all," he glared at Simmons. "Going to
have to do something about. I was going to exercise some
self control for old time's sake, and stick to that dance.
You wiggling your ass in our faces seemed like a good deal.
But now for some reason my ire is hot. I've changed my mind.
Now we're going to be more adventurous."

And as he spoke, he looked with such undisguised venom, not
lust, but hatred at where she was most naked that she knew
in that moment he was going to do it. That whatever else he
had planned, at that instant he decided irrevocably to go
through with it. "No, please, anything. I'll dance if you
want. Not that: it will be the end of me."

"Rubbish. It's been happening for millennia. And it's never
been the end of anyone yet. Don't worry. You'll enjoy it."

"You don't understand." She paused, anguished. "If I'm
touched they will kill me."

Bradley agreed. "That's right. They will. Sex is a capital
code violation."

She was horror struck. "You know?"

"Of course." The anger had become cold and cruel. "That is
what makes the torment so unendurable. I know as well as you
the awfulness of what they will eventually do; the shame
involved; and that the verdict of the trial they will
inevitably give you will have been determined before it ever
begins. They're going to burn your lovely body and that's so
certain even you don't doubt it. Today is only the beginning
of your nightmare. But the nightmare has certainly begun."

There had been movement behind her; she now looked round,
and her jaw dropped in horror. A Guard was pulling down his
underpants; he was erect and waiting, and it was obvious for
what he was waiting. Mesmerized, she stared in morbid horror
at his tool, purple and bulbous. The man smiled at her
attention, taking hold of the object with his left hand
towards its base and he gently started rubbing.

"That's right, take a good look, baby," he teased. "It likes
you."

She knew she should look away, she must look away, but she
could not. She was in a trance. The purple eye seemed to
open and shut hypnotically to the rough strokes of his hand.
Every nuance of her body, every turn, every ripple of the
smallest muscle, every inflection of her being was
incitement to this beast. She was the red rag; it was the
bull.

In her trance she could no more take her eyes from its
rhythmic pulse than the prey can turn from the stare of its
predator a moment before its pounce. She was vaguely aware
that about her all were undressing: that the red uniforms
were making way for a red uniformity of a more sinister
kind. The army had now definitely become a mob, an
uncontrollable, faceless, anarchic mass with only one
thought on its mind: the violation of Tawr, the desecration
of her virginity.

She turned to run, left hand still across her chest to
prevent the violent and painful swinging of her breasts; her
right hand still instinctively covering below; but she was
far too late. A man, naked and erect, grabbed hold of her
arms and pulled her to him, trying to kiss her, holding her
tight with one powerful limb. She turned her head from his
searching lips. She could feel his free hand crawling down
her back, down the crease of her backside, and his penis
pushing hard into her stomach, and she struggled to get
away.

In the distance the faraway mockery continued with laughing
and giggling.

The hand between her legs moved relentlessly forward, and
she could feel a finger invading. She struggled some more
and almost escaped him, because she was strong. But the man
had reinforcements. There were people everywhere, crowding
round her, naked people, men, throbbing penises swinging
awkwardly from side to side. The excited mob was bearing
down on her, pinning her arms to her sides, rough hands had
hold of her ankles, were lifting her bodily from the ground.
They had hold of both her arms and legs, and inevitably her
legs were being pulled apart. She tried to pull them close,
to remove her genitalia from display, but made no impression
on the immovable constraint.

Above her, around her, everywhere were the ugly phalluses,
longer and thicker than she could have imagined in her
sheltered existence, contracting and pulsating in worship of
her open sex.

She felt a rope around each of her wrists and then it
tighten. She felt her arms being drawn inextricably away
from her body, above her head, until they were taut, held by
the ropes. She looked up and saw what had happened. The rope
stretched from her wrists to the trunks of two adjacent
trees, where it was being secured in place. She struggled
further, but knew that it was in vain; that there was
nothing she could do; that the writhing of her body,
unobstructed due to the ropes, was inciting them further,
was sending all the wrong signals. But what else could she
do?

Someone was forcing her legs further apart, she screamed for
them to stop, but that was even funnier to them, there were
hands forcing her open, exposing her, feeling and caressing.
Other hands were mauling her breasts, pummeling and kneading
them, squeezing her nipples.

Suddenly, the crowd about her parted to the sides, and there
was Paul, naked, his face hard. She had never seen him so
determined.

Neither had she seen him naked. He looked so different
without his clothes. She moaned as her gaze lowered and
fixed on his bulbous penis, massive and stiff, its tip
glistening. Her eyes focused on it in horror, for she knew
that not only was its anger for her, but its objective was
her violation, and she was not sure that her virginal vagina
could hold such a beast.

She had never seen him like this, uncontrolled, animal, as
he dropped down between her legs, his torso moving into the
gap. His expressionless eyes were meeting hers, ignoring the
nakedness of her body, the openness of her legs, the rise of
her breasts and the hollow of their cleavage, the soft down
of her mound in its pubic plateau, his eyes were raising the
challenge of her spirit.

She struggled like a demented brute, wriggling and arching
her back and limbs, desperately attempting to clamp her
legs. She had to get away from him. She couldn't bear the
humiliation of him touching her, of stealing from her
something as precious and unique as her virginity. He was
stealing her soul, her life, and what made the blow so
unbearable was that he knew it and was gloating in it.

But her struggles were useless. Her legs were effortlessly
forced even wider apart by the teasing guards holding her
ankles. It was as though her inwards were splitting. Her
grimaced and agonized face attracted ridicule rather than
sympathy. And still the lethal weapon closed on its target,
guided by the hand - gripping its base so firmly - that she
knew so well. And the gates of her own sex, she knew, were
gaping a welcome that she could not prevent. For she was
powerless to close her legs, to lock them shut as she so
desperately needed. He allowed its tip to stroke her slit,
dry, tight and inviolate, savoring the sensation, teasing
and tormenting, its eye eyeing up its conquest, licking at
the roughness of her puffy flesh.

She screamed for him to stop, to cease this torture, but he
was breathing deeply, catching his breath at the warm
sensations stemming from his tool, and he was oblivious to
her anguish. There was no holding him back now. It was
sensing her furry mat, probing and tickling, as it searched
for the opening, preparing for its big assault.

Paul's eyes greedily were roving across what he could still
see of her spread-eagled body, devouring the sight of her
soft breasts that bobbled uncontrollably to her struggles,
her nipples hard and bulletlike from the probing and
squeezing. His foreskin had an air of transparency as it
stretched ever tighter across a penis now at straining
point: caused by the sensations of her closeness and her
nakedness feeding into his brain.

And then it came. He plunged into her, his penis ripping her
virginity apart as a knife: a virginity that would never
heal. Penetrating deep inside. She screamed in pain, yet
still the alien dug deeper, deeper, until it had utterly
punctured her womanhood: fractured her femininity. Yet still
the hands groped about her flesh, exploring and groping. His
tool was pummeling her insides, rubbing abrasively as if it
were coated with sandpaper. His breath came in short pants
as he lunged time after time into her.

He was crazed, bent on taking out ancient frustrations, like
a psychopath repeatedly striking his victim with a knife
long after death, thus was the frenzy in his assault. And
she could feel his intent to hurt, to rip and tear her
genitals. He didn't want sex; he wanted rape, to savage her.
It was the one way to hurt her more than anything else, far
beyond a physical pain that was only incidental. More
important to him was the breaking of her vows of chastity,
her humiliation, her shame, her embarrassment, her
submission, her fear; these were what was driving him on,
what had engorged his penis, was turning him into the
demented tortured animal that was repeatedly battering
against her bruised labial lips.

His hands clawed at her breasts, roughly mauling and
kneading her flesh as a baker would knead his dough. Without
gentility, kneading into submission. His breaths came in
short heavy pants, he was proving his dominance, and he was
grinding her down. She could sense his excitement, his
elation, and the pleasure he was taking from his cruelty in
every blow he thrust into her womb.

She was unaware of herself and her own actions. Of how she
was crying repeatedly out loud, "No,no no...". Not to him,
or to them, for that would have implied that she knew what
she was crying, and she did not. Perhaps it was to the
heavens she appealed, to Tawr, that he forgive this
betrayal, or maybe the words were an appeasement of her own
conscience. For how she had brought this onto herself by her
unwise actions in acting as go-between.

Again, if this was so, it was not consciously done. For she
knew not what she said or what she did. She knew not how she
struggled against the ropes; struggled against Bradley,
against them all; of the frenzy that such struggles were
inciting in her audience.

But deep inside, her body was beginning to betray her.
Despite her certainty of the depravity, of complete
wickedness of their actions, there was an instant of utmost
horror, worse than any experience of that day of horrors, at
the realization that her body was turning traitor. From deep
inside there was an agony that was not pain. And the dryness
and the abrasion was lessening. She wailed, this time at
herself, because she knew that her body was adapting to the
experience, was protecting her, but that Bradley would
misinterpret.

He was slowing; the pace of his strokes had slackened. He
had noticed. She could see it in his eyes. She could not
look. The others did not yet know, but he knew, and this
would be a torture greater even the rape she was enduring.
He was enticing her towards this final humiliation. This
would be his greatest victory. For this would be the one she
could not excuse herself, the one for which Tawr would not
only have her cremated alive, and have her ashes scattered
to the winds, and she would have no dispute over his
actions.

His slow strokes were deliberately drawing lubrication, were
making her body react in the way it had been designed to
react. She tried to resist, but this was as much in her
control as the beat of her heart. Her body was pouring its
secretions upon his invading tool, and she could not
prevent. She tried to breathe slower, why was her breathing
so heavy? Paul's hands stopped mauling her breasts. Instead
his fingers worked their way gently to her nipples and began
to softly tease, gently stroking and sensitizing.

She knew what he was doing: that his movements, now gentle,
had intent every bit as cruel and malevolent as the
rupturing of her virginity moments ago. That he was
attempting rape in different guise. But she was despite this
knowledge, as helpless in preventing its completion as she
was in preventing the physical act itself.

Her eyes were still closed. She could not look at them.
Could not look at Paul and see his delight in the effect he
was having on her. She gasped as he tweaked her nipples, she
was a bitch in heat and they all now knew it. It was written
in her face, the concentration and the desire. She was
moving in synchronization with his movements; grinding her
pelvis into his penis as he drove it into her, groaning and
panting at each sensation induced.

It was forbidden; it was what she had always believed she
could never have; what she had never had; yet she was past
control. With eyes closed, the engorged penises around her
became even longer to her imagination, and thicker and
harder. Blind, she became all the more sensitized to their
chants and catcalls, but now these were inflaming her even
further. And all the while that penis ramming into her
insides.

She could feel it begin to pulsate, and pump, and as she
began to receive its load, she finally also began to spasm.
She gasped, her body stiffened, her fists clenched tight and
she pulled on the ropes holding her limbs in place. She rode
with him, squeezing the invading penis, strangling and
constricting, milking its dying thrusts. Her face was a
perfect reflection of her mingled inner agony and ecstasy:
intense and impassioned, pained and anguished. Her eyes had
opened, concentrated and unseeing, disconnected from a mind
with thoughts elsewhere.

Each labored breath came at the expense of an audible grunt:
animal and earthy; gone any mask of femininity, daintiness
or La cepern heritage. She was blowing and puffing,
thrusting her tensed body against the man atop her, faster
and faster, the circles ever decreasing in the whirlpool of
desire. She was orgasmic; for the first time experiencing
emotions and desires that her whole life she had spent
suppressing. A Pandora's box had been released, and she was
no longer in control, either of Bradley, herself or the
repercussions of it all. She was orgasmic and all around her
knew it.

Suddenly Paul pulled himself from upon her. He had finished;
she tried to prevent his penis from withdrawing from her by
gripping it as tight as she could with her vaginal muscles,
because she had not yet finished, but it was a Punic action,
she had no more control over his withdrawal than over its
original entry. She gazed at it longingly, now looking tired
and deflated and sticky. Climax had become anti-climax. Her
breathing began to slow, her eyes to focus. He was getting
to his feet, solemn now, not triumphant. He withdrew to the
outside of the group of hysterical Galsips, looking away.
Not looking at her.

The reason for the hysterics now became clear. They were
pushing someone forward: a reluctant punter. She recognized
it to be Simmons, her erstwhile protector. As they pushed
him on top of her their faces came level and his face looked
into hers. She could hear him apologizing profusely for his
erection, but 'this is my first time' she heard him mumbling
as the others positioned that erection between her legs.

She smiled weakly; she could not help it. It was a thank you
for trying to save her. But that smile was a mistake; it
encouraged him. He thrust his member into her.

"No!"

She screamed at him, but he ignored her. He rammed himself
home and she grimaced again because it hurt, another thrust
and then he came. There was a loud jeer from the soldiers
around her at the speed of his bout before they roughly
pulled him off in their eagerness to take their own turn.

It was a production line, nothing more. She satisfied them
all; was used by them all; successively; without break,
letup or pause. She had looked into their faces as each of
the young guards came and was satisfied. She had almost come
too, but had been refused satisfaction: the final
humiliation.


END OF CHAPTER ONE

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


Paul was in the bed, attacking me. "What are you doing?" I
cried furiously, forcibly woken from the doze into which I
had fallen.

He was under the covers and his sweaty hands were pulling at
my nightie. "Get off," I yelled. "That's the last thing I
want."

"But look what you've done," he accused, taking my hand and
placing it on his raging hard on. For a moment I wasn't sure
what he was referring to, what I could have done, then with
a feeling of dread I thought, "Oh, no, the story."

We still hadn't had sex since his affair with Rebecca; he
was still sleeping in the spare room. I certainly didn't
want him now. He had pulled my nightie up to my waist and
was pulling my knickers down my legs. "Stop it," I ordered
him, to which his only answer was "I need you."

He had never been demanding like this. I wasn't sure whether
to be angry or frightened. He rolled over on top of me,
trying to find my lips, his hands grabbing my tits. I could
feel his erection pressing against my pussy.

Desperately, I twisted my face away from his searching
tongue, trying to roll out from under him, but he was
pressing with his arms, his weight heavy upon me. With every
sinew within me screaming against him, I summoned all my
energy and assertiveness and commanded him with aggression
and force. "Get off me! Get off me right now! If you don't
stop now I'm leaving here tonight!"

He seemed stunned and for several seconds just looked into
my eyes as he tried to work out how serious I was. I stared
back defiantly and I guess he must have got the message,
because he rolled off, again becoming very sulky, as if I
had done something to offend him.

I took several deep breaths: I felt confused, I felt used.
But could I complain? After all, I was the one that had
deliberately set out to turn him on. I had accomplished what
I had set out to do. Was it now fair to blame Paul that he
wanted to release some of that libido on me? I would
certainly have been upset if he'd turned to Rebecca. But
then I was close by and she wasn't. Wasn't it a case that he
simply wanted a woman, any woman?

"I'm sorry," I said, putting my hand on his arm. He moved
the arm away at once. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just
that I'm not quite ready yet."

Despite my apology, he left in a huff and when he had gone I
groaned inwardly. What had I done? But I knew that at that
moment I didn't want it; I didn't want him.


The Code Of Tawr
End Of Part Three


Part Four  ....Coming Next Week!





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