<strong>MS. EZAB,</strong>the appearance of the lieutenant wrought painful memories from your mental strongbox.  He was a military man, obviously, with a gaunt face and the eyes of a killer, and though he was not the man who killed your father, the lieutenant did resemble him and that frightened you.<br/><br/>The assassin had emerged from behind a curtain in your father's drawing room.  You were arguing with your father, as you often did.  This time it was about you attending an English university.  Your father did not approve of that for various reasons.  You were a beautiful woman.  You could have any husband, he said.  Why did you want to waste your time with school?  He had just shut you down when the assassin appeared.<br/><br/>Had he been lying in wait?  Had he just come in?  You do not know.  But you knew that in his hand, he held an automatic pistol.  Your father was startled by the man's intrusion, and yelled at him to leave.  You screamed.  Your lungs hurt.  Your throat hurt.  Then you were deafened when the assassin fired the pistol.  Stunned, you felt your face.  Something had been spattered on it.  There was blood on it.  Not yours.  But your father's blood.  You heard your father fall down to the ground in a slump.  The assassin approached him and fired another shot.  You watched as the shot blew his temple open.<br/><br/>You screamed.<br/><br/>The assassin turned to you slowly, lifted his pistol to his face, lining the barrel perpendicularly across his lips, and whispered "shhhhhh."  He came closer to you, and as he did, you cried because you could not move from your spot.  He pressed a gloved hand on your lips, and then inserted his fingers into your gorgeous mouth, cramming his fingers forcefully so that you could not even bite down.  He pressed his body against yours.  You could feel his erection between your legs, through his long tunic and through your stylish dress.  He would have you.  And then he would kill you.<br/><br/>"Be still, love of my heart," the assassin whispered as he lay the gun down beside you so that he could lift up his tunic to reveal his tanned, uncircumcised dick.  He then tore your dress off and ripped your panties down to your thighs before inserting himself inside of you without ceremony and without lubrication.  He wanted this to hurt.  He developed a slow thrusting rhythm between your legs before he reached for his pistol.<br/><br/>But it wasn't there.  It was not where he had left it.  You had stolen it when he had worked himself inside of you.  He became angry then.  But you were angry, too.<br/><br/>You shot him.  You shot him so many times.  When did he die?  You don't know.  But he did.