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Prisoner Ch. 01

By: angiquesophie



Chapter One.

Let's call him André, though his name hardly matters. And while at it, let's call him a man, even if he wasn't much of one to begin with. Oh, he was tall and strong and hairy and all that, even nicely hung, but he was... let's call him one of a kind. He knew he was inferior to women. In fact he knew all men were -- and he'd always known that.

As a toddler he let little girls pummel him. They'd straddle his body and slap his face. He'd cry, but he'd never protect himself. As a boy girls took advantage of his inability to say no to whatever they asked him. It never dawned on them to be thankful; they took it for granted. Some even despised him for it. Later, as a teenager, he ran their errands and did their homework. He also allowed them to treat him like filth -- calling him names and laughing at him whenever they didn't just ignore him. He wasn't hurt or even surprised; he knew it was how things were meant to be.

Boys ridiculed him for it. They called him names like wimp and faggot. They also teased him, trying to lure him into fights. He never took their bait. Most of the time he just turned away. He wouldn't let them taunt him into a fight if he could prevent it. He was stronger and taller than most of them, but if he couldn't avoid them, he would just raise his arms to ward off their punches. He knew it cost him all respect, but that didn't bother him. Boys didn't count; they were nobodies, just like him. The only difference was that he knew it and they didn't -- yet.

Soon his lack of response discouraged his bullies.

As a teenager he'd adored girls from a distance. He'd envied them for their relaxed sensuality when he saw them walking hand in hand in the schoolyard. He admired their perfect, graceful bodies and the elegant way they moved. He saw how easy they touched and kissed without a trace of embarrassment. He noticed them sitting on benches braiding each other's hair, huddling together, kissing and sharing secrets, while around him the rowdy silliness of boys raged. He knew he was as male as any of them, but he'd never belong to their uncouth world of blustering violence and Neanderthal grunting. He also knew he would never be part of the girls' world. Of course he yearned to be with them, even be one of them. He'd tried, disastrously, only to find out it was impossible. He would never cross the fence between him and these superior creatures.

But he could dream, couldn't he?

***

So now he was a man, or to be more precise: he'd settled into the uncouth shape of one. While growing up he'd suffered all the scorches of adolescence that came with the job -- the raging hormones, the brainless response to tits and asses, the relentless erections and the blind urge to empty his balls. He knew women found him attractive -- his looks, his voice, his cock. And he knew that any normal, blustering male would take advantage of that, thinking it meant something -- or, more probably, not thinking at all.

He never stopped thinking. Even when he got to third base with girls -- as it is so crudely called in the adolescent lingo -- something kept nagging. He couldn't believe he really satisfied them -- or himself for that matter. Of course there was the messy spurting and the convincing spasms and moans of the girl he fucked, but there always, always was this certainty that he ought to know better. He was certain that women just toyed with him, as with all men. They saved their true orgasms for themselves, when they had sex with each other -- hot, gracious sex; a dizzying dance of tongues and fingers that made their gorgeous bodies arch and churn, their voices sing like angels.

With men they played a devious game, disguising the truth with layers of insincere adoration and mock compliments. All they were really after was prestige and money. He knew he meant nothing to them; it was lust that forced him to go along. But whenever he'd played the male ape to their soft sweet bodies, there would be shame afterwards. There would be this haunting feeling of having been the clumsy bull trampling its way through precious porcelain, leaving only shards and splinters of what might have been.

He tried dating less. He tried avoiding women, even if every fiber of his being screamed to be with them -- or at least be allowed around them in the silly hope to catch a glimpse of their eternal secret.

It became harder and harder to even look at girls, though watching them had always been his greatest desire. He started training his budding arousal to a point where it would morph into a wave of shame -- shame that would dilute his lust, spreading it through his bloodstream and turning it harmless. It worked, but it often left him with a blinding headache. Soon he lived in constant shame. He avoided girls and retired into an invisible shell made of work and boredom. It protected him, both against what he feared and what he craved, just to avoid his next disappointment.

And then he saw her.

***

She must have had an appointment with the editor-in-chief at the culinary magazine he worked for as a food journalist. He saw her walk through the maze of desks, cabinets and glass dividers that made up the office floor's landscape. Everything about her was amazing -- her bearing, her clothes, her eyes... Her business suit was black, as was her hair; even her lips were painted black. It was a blackness that contrasted sharply with the pallor of face, her throat and arms, hands and fingers.

It took her only seconds to pass him by -- float him by, rather. It was enough to block any attempt at finishing what he was working at. He wondered if he'd taken a breath from the moment he saw her to the moment she went into the editor's office. He didn't die; at least he didn't think so. But he distinctly felt his private universe shift. A myriad of tiny parts tumbled, reshaping his fate.

His head drifted in a halo of hot, humid air. He knew he'd seen more than just a stunning woman. What he'd seen was what he'd glimpsed fragments of all through his life -- as a boy when he watched the heavenly creatures in the schoolyard, as a teenager masturbating to the images of their superior presence, as a man cringing under their mocking scrutiny. What he'd seen just now was the final click of a huge, invisible machine that had started constructing his life from the moment of his birth. And now, with this final click, it had pulled him into focus -- each and every atom of his being.

He didn't think he'd moved his eyelids until she came out of the office again. When she re-appeared her body was framed by Jenner's three hundred pound ex-quarterback's mass. Jenner was the editor-in-chief. He also was a dog with women. Sniffing one -- anyone -- seemed to trip an invisible thread running from his nose to his underbelly. Not this time, though. His face wore an inane smile, like a hypnotized hick in a television show. He really seemed confused; his hammy hand shook hers with male awkwardness. She slid out of his grip like a drop of oil from a pail of water, her lips copying the smile of a painting by a long-dead Renaissance master. Then she turned and her eyes found his.

They slid by him at first. It felt as if the sun peeked through thunderclouds, washing his face with warmth for a second, only to plunge him into darkness again. Inexplicable tears pressed against his eyeballs. Then she stopped and looked at him again, doing the slowest double take ever. She walked towards him, her eyes slowly filling the frame of his vision. Each slow-motioned step was echoed by his heartbeat; the booming must have been heard throughout the office.

The eyes approaching were green like emeralds; he felt their blaze against his face -- like a summer's breeze in winter. It warmed the stiff coldness of his skin. All blood must have gone. She was the sun to his moon -- he could only absorb and reflect, basking in it, and knowing at once he might never be able to live without it again.

Then she was gone.

The office lights returned to their glaring selves. The room was empty again, but for the jumble of battered furniture and the shining linoleum. His colleagues crouched over their desks -- oblivious to what happened. Did anything happen? He sat and shook. His body shivered while cold sweat evaporated. He felt a growing tightness in his pants. He covered it, feeling the usual shame.

A small square of lilac paper stuck to his computer screen. Words were penned down in black, spidery writing. "Pick me up at the Memphis," it said. "Seven o'clock."

***

He'd been at the Memphis before. He knew the lobby -- the blond wood paneling, the gray stone floor, glass everywhere, a huge clock, and a bank of elevators. He was early, of course. His body felt uncomfortable inside his new white shirt and khaki slacks -- like a visiting stranger. He wore too much aftershave too. After checking the clock he walked over to a bench opposite the elevators, and sat down.

All afternoon he'd considered not going. It seemed easier not to; there sure would be embarrassment if he showed up, wouldn't there -- awkwardness, humiliation? Hadn't he sworn to avoid girls? Why would this time be different? He'd considered the consequences of going -- the confrontation, the conversation, the lack of conversation, the lulls in conversation, the banalities. There would be the sickening demands of convention, and of course, the unavoidable disappointment. He'd considered everything, and reconsidered, but the simple thing was: he couldn't stay away.

That afternoon, trying on his new slacks in the hot fitting cubicle of the department store, he was caught by the reflection of his face in the tall mirror. It was just another face, he thought, only special to him because it always had been his. Long nose, dark curly hair, black eyebrows... nervous eyes. Nothing new. So why did she pick him? What did she think? Had there been amusement in her gaze, irony or even sarcasm? He couldn't remember. He remembered nothing but this sea of emerald green, engulfing him.

Yes, he shouldn't have come. But yes, he couldn't stay away.

The clock's hand passed seven. Was he supposed to wait for her down here, or should he go up? The note had been vague on that. "Pick me up at the Memphis. Seven o'clock" was all it said. No room number, no specification. Women would be late, he knew, it was part of the game. So he waited for another quarter. At twenty past seven he rose and went to the desk. The girl behind it was blond. She wore a white starched blouse, pancake on her face and too much mascara. He opened his mouth and realized there was nothing he could say. He had no name, no room number, nothing. He felt the muscles of his face force themselves into a smile, his eyebrows rising. Then he turned on his heels and walked back to the bench.

Half past seven came and went. He considered leaving. He considered staying. He tried to look at himself through the eyes of the girl at the desk, seeing how pathetic he was. The green-eyed woman had played him. He had played along. And now she stood him up. Maybe she was watching him. Did he feel hurt, miserable? He didn't. There was this taste of 'just desserts,' a bittersweet taste that seemed to suit him. She had played the game and he had played along; she'd been in her regal position, he in... well, his. He started to rise when the doors of the left elevator opened.

She looked incredible. Her leather jacket was tight and deep dark green, as was her calf length skirt. The jacket's zipper stopped at the base of her breasts, displaying a lot of pale cleavage. She looked chic and elegant, but in a blatantly pornographic way. The skirt's front zipper was closed from her waist to half of her thighs, leaving the rest of her stocking clad legs free and visible until they disappeared in black high-heeled ankle boots.

She was not alone. Left and right of her were two intensely bluish-black women. They were tall and looked like fashion models in colorful outfits that hugged their bodies at chest and waist and hip, only to blossom out in other places. They looked like extravagant flowers, swaying on the stems of high-heeled sandals -- or rather they were a twittering flock of exotic birds invading the quiet lobby.

As they crossed the hall a cloud of sweet perfume spread.

None of them was aware of the world around them. They talked in high, exaggerated sentences, gesturing, smiling, giggling. And they passed him by without notice. He had risen, hands out, smile on his face. But the black-haired, pale woman didn't even see him. She didn't look. She didn't stop. All he could do was watch her slip through the revolving doors, smile at the doorman and disappear with her friends into a waiting taxi. Their giggles echoed in his head. His hand still reached out to get their attention. All he could do was stare at the spot where the cab had been, until the clearing of a throat woke him up to the present.

The girl in the starched blouse held out a scrap of paper -- lilac paper. He stared at it. Then he slowly took it from her hand. On it was the spidery writing he knew. "Something came up," it said. "Tomorrow same time, same place?"

***

The note hadn't been kind, really, or even an excuse, had it? Maybe not, but he was here again, wasn't he? Same time, same fucking place? Same damn bench, same clock, same dizzy schoolboy arousal? Sure, but it didn't feel like he'd accepted. It didn't even feel as if he'd had a say in the matter. It felt like coercion -- self-inflicted coercion if that was at all possible. He'd forced himself to be here. Or had he?

He hurt and he didn't know why. He'd been stood up before. He'd been ridiculed and let down by girls, and although it had made him feel embarrassed, he'd had no trouble accepting it : they were women, he was a man. But this time it seemed to cut deeper. The black haired, ghostly pale goddess had cut him off from a destiny she'd promised with her eyes. She'd promised and he'd believed. Losing her was like losing life. It made him a fish pulled from the water and left flapping around, gasping for air. It hurt.

It hurt so much that all he could do was come back here -- same time, same place, sitting on the same fucking bench, looking at the same fucking elevator-doors that didn't open to produce her. There was no reason to expect she'd keep her promise this time. There wasn't even reason for hope. And yet, here he was, waiting -- folding and refolding the scrap of lilac paper. He didn't know why. He just knew he couldn't be anywhere else right then.

The doors never opened. Well, of course they did, but never to produce her. Each time there was a bell and a light coming up. Then one of the three doors slid open, exposing the neon-lit interior and spreading a sigh of muzak. All kinds of people came out; overweight businessmen, old ladies with poodles, giggling girls, even an Arab with three heavily veiled women in tow.

The cruel 'ping' of the bell ate away at his nerves. It cranked up his expectations, only to crush him with another stab of disappointment. Half an hour went by until he finally rose and walked over to the desk. The white starched blouse held another woman's chest today, he saw -- an ampler one that tugged at its buttons. She smiled. He showed his lilac scrap of paper.

"Yesterday," he said, "I had an appointment with one of your guests here -- a black-haired, pale-skinned woman in her twenties. She handed your colleague this note and she then gave it to me. It is for another appointment -- now."

The girl studied the note. Then she looked up with a vacant smile. He felt the futility of his mission.

"Maybe, uhm..." he went on, "maybe you know who she is. She, ah, dresses quite, uhm, exotic. Yesterday she was in the company of two tall African women, fashion models I'd say..."

It was hopeless. The girl kept smiling, but her face was a solid question mark.

"Do you maybe have a name, sir?" she asked. "A room number?" Of course he hadn't. He imagined how this would come across. Man at five star hotel asks for woman he doesn't even know the name of.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, sir," she said, replacing the smile with a frown. "Even if I knew who she was, it would be against hotel policy to give you her room number. It's because of privacy, you see? I hope you understand."

He understood, he softly cursed and he walked back to the bench to once more sit down and wait. But now there wasn't just the frustration of the elevator doors, there was also the receptionist's gaze of pity each time he looked her way. The combination of the two became too much. He rose and walked to the exit's big revolving doors. On his way he noted the entrance to the hotel bar. A sudden, overwhelming urge made him turn towards it. It wasn't thirst, he knew -- it was an unbearable need to numb his brain with alcohol.

As he entered, he saw her.

She was the center of a small group of people sitting and standing at the bar, three men and a woman. They were talking and laughing. It was amazing how many details he noticed in what might only have been a few seconds. Her finger ran around the rim of her glass, making her silver bracelets jingle. Her lips were close to the ear of one of the men, whispering. Peals of laughter filled the room. Suddenly all eyes were on him. He took two steps back towards the bar's exit, as if pushed by invisible hands.

"My little journalist!" Her voice was sweet and warm, as was her smile. "So here you are at last. Why did you make me wait? Never make me wait, honey."

She had slid off her stool, the long, deeply slit skirt closing over her legs. Her hands turned the glass around in front of her lap. Ice cubes added their jingle to the jangle of her bracelets -- tiny sounds to fill the sudden silence. The faces of the others floated behind hers, their eyes fixed on him. He stood speechless, watching her walk over.

Her hand touched his cheek. The liquid emerald of her eyes rushed in like a tide. Without looking away she said:

"Guys, meet my little journalist. He's a sweetheart. He waited two days to be with me." Her mouth opened into a smile; her laugh was careless and silvery. Then she leant forward, pressing her lips hard on his. Her hand travelled to the back of his head, pulling him in while her tongue forced his lips to open.

She was greedy, he thought, she took what she wanted. And he gave, gagging from the sudden invasion. His arms hung uselessly down his sides while hers pulled him into a hug. The soft globes of her breasts flattened against his chest; her scent engulfed him like a cloud. He felt weak in her embrace. Her mouth gobbled him up -- the caterpillar lips, the dancing fish of her tongue. She made the world disappear around him -- the bar, the people. She killed him like a widow spider and yet she had the softness of its gossamer web. She was the proverbial praying mantis eating its lover -- yet she was tender like a child.

When she at last stopped, he felt dizzy; he wobbled on his knees. She licked her lips and smiled, turning to her friends at the bar.

"He kisses well!" she exclaimed. Then she turned back to him, her eyes sparkling as she said: "Do you love me?"

The question floored him. He knew it was preposterous and yet it felt perfectly natural. Did he love her? He'd only just met her, hadn't he? And all the time she'd kept him on the wrong foot -- confusing him with her capricious promises and her whimsical attitude. How could he even begin to love her? She'd hurt him and disappointed him; she'd ridiculed him in front of strangers. And yet she asked him if he loved her?

She held his gaze. He just stood there, utterly confused. Her hand reached out and her fingers cleaned traces of lipstick from his chin.

"Well, anyway," she said. "Now run and think about it." She pushed him, making him turn. He was at a loss. Did she dismiss him?


Prisoner Ch. 01



"Shooo," she said, laughing as her hands made waving movements from her wrists. The laughter of her companions made the hair in his neck rise. He stepped outside and was drowned by the pouring rain.

***

After coming home and peeling the drenched clothes off his limbs he took a shower. It soothed him. He loved to shower when he felt miserable -- letting the hot water soak his naked body through and through. The fragrant clouds of steam mercifully cut off the world. He closed his eyes, while his hands spread bathing oil over his slippery torso. He felt the hard nipples against his palms, hidden in their nests of hair. He also felt his rib cage and the hollow of his tightly muscled stomach. He avoided his cock, spreading the oil on his thighs and calves. Going up he kneaded his ass cheeks, pulling the muscles tight until they felt like well-polished wood.

Fuck, he thought. He had a man's well-trained body and he should be proud of it. It was hard and hairy in all the right places; a woman's dream and yet he cursed it. Standing under the cascading water he dreamt how his massaging fingers turned the skin and muscles into creamy softness -- slick and hairless, curvy and sweet. A wave of sensuality engulfed him. He cursed again as he felt his cock stiffen. His eyes opened; a trembling sigh left his mouth.

It was all so goddamned unfair. Here he was, prepared to put women, any woman, on a pedestal. He worshipped them, adored them, lay down his life for them. In return, all they did was refuse him, ridicule him -- making him feel like the vilest turd. And the most humiliating thing was: he loved them even more for doing it.

After turning the water off he stepped out of the cubicle. He grabbed a large white towel and rubbed himself dry. The steamed-up mirror showed glimpses of his body; it made him look like a ghost.

"You idiot," he said to his reflection. "What on earth did you think? Haven't you learned yet that peasants don't get into the castle?" He hated how even now he tried to use metaphors like the silly romantic fool he was.

All thoughts of drowning himself in alcohol were gone.

Drinking herbal tea from a huge glass at the counter of his kitchen, he decided to give up his preposterous ambitions to be with the black haired woman. He chuckled at the word "decided." As if there had been even one moment where it had been up to him to 'decide' anything. He was masterfully reeled in and dumped, humiliated, ground into the earth under the cruel but elegant heel of a woman. He should count his blessings -- he'd been worthy enough for her to crush him.

The bitterness of the tea suited him nicely.

The next days were awful, but they were heaven compared to the nights. At daytime he could work. He could drag himself out of bed and into the office. He could loose himself in writing articles, in doing research, making phone calls, listening without hearing to the innate chats and gossips at the coffee machine -- about sports, women, the sizes of tits, the firmness of asses.

While the days dragged on, he got better at forgetting. By day three an entire half hour could pass without him thinking of her. There was just this background ache left -- throbbing. But then there were the nights he spent in bed alone, staring into darkness, unable to sleep. Or waking up from dreams filled with seas of emerald, ghostly pale skin and fat, swollen lip flesh stretching into mocking smiles. He'd wake up sweating, flipping on the light to try and read a page or two in vain, scared to return to sleep -- his eyes hurting from the lack of sleep.

On day four there was a phone call.

He was at his desk, right in the middle of writing how torching an eggplant could improve the taste of baba ganoush. Her voice was a breeze -- a gush of hot air crawling into his ear. It felt intimate; too intimate. It licked at the ear's insides, swirling through its convoluted passage -- invading his brain. It felt like rape.

"Hi, honey," it breathed. "Did you miss me?" He didn't hear what she said; not the words as such. What he heard was 'open up, let me in.' Her words were almost like a physical force, pushing, penetrating. They made him feel dizzy. They also made him perfectly helpless.

When he failed to answer, she laughed. It was a throaty chuckle, merrily mocking him.

"It is all right, honey," she said. 'All right?' He couldn't agree less. His throat seemed strangled by a fist, his eyes burning. His brain was an empty, airy attic.

"Tonight around seven," she whispered. "At the Seventh Cloud. It is a cute Thai place. I love Thai. Make reservations, please, honey, and be on time."

A metallic click and a string of beeps told him she'd hung up. A gush of fresh air invaded his mind. His throat opened again. He coughed. Only then did he know what to say, or rather: found the power to say it.

"No!"

It took him all of the rest of the morning to consider if saying 'no' would be the right thing to do. It would be the wisest, no doubt, and the healthiest for sure. It was the thing a real man would do, wouldn't it? But he knew that for him it would also be the shortest road to misery, to lying awake at night, endlessly doubting his decision and ending up regretting it. A once-in-a-lifetime chance would have slipped away, although he had no idea what chance. He knew she would humiliate him again. She would play with him, and ridicule him without a doubt. But he felt he didn't care. Even the fear of being crushed tasted sweet.

It took him another hour to admit that his resistance was just make-belief. He craved to be with the woman at any prize. Amidst fear he found the courage to be honest. And when he did, a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

He took the phone and made the reservation.

The restaurant was already packed when he arrived, ten minutes early. He wore his one good suit over a white dress shirt. He'd polished his shoes. Their table was in the back, a small two-person affair tucked away in a corner. He smiled. There were candles and dark wood paneling all around.

He sat down at the table, facing the entrance. After fifteen minutes that felt like an hour the nagging feeling returned: she was late again. Would she come at all? At twenty minutes he shrugged. He'd been early. It meant she was only ten minutes late. Anything could make you ten minutes late. His throat was dry. He ordered a glass of mineral water. Another five minutes passed. The volume of the voices around him rose. He watched the smiling faces, the happy people. Detracted, he almost missed her entrance.

She was dressed in a simple black dress under a short black coat that she wore open. She showed some cleavage. Her black hair framed her pale face. It wore a blood red smear where her mouth was. She smiled seeing him. And she was not alone. Beside her was one of the tall African fashion models he'd seen at the hotel -- willowy thin and over six feet on heels. Her dress was made of salmon silk, tightly wrapped around her night-black body. Her glossed lips were painted salmon too. They stretched in a dazzling stage-smile.

When they arrived at his table, things got awkward. He rose, not quite knowing what to do. His hands swam useless in the space between them. He couldn't hug her, could he? He tried smiling. He tried faking a relaxed attitude -- failing.

"See, Tasha?" the pale woman said to her dark friend. "This is the one I told you about." Her green eyes sparkled. He reached for the African girl's hand, feeling it slip in and out of his like a limp fish. He murmured his name.

"Ah well, to each his own, I guess," Tasha said after looking him over. She sounded disinterested. Then she sat down on one of the two chairs. The pale woman (he still didn't know her name) took off her short jacket, handing it to him while her eyes stayed on her friend.

"Now watch how he takes this to the wardrobe," she said. Without looking she dropped the jacket; he could just about catch it. Then she slid past him, sitting down on the other chair, the one he'd occupied. He stood with the jacket in his hands, wondering why he didn't run.

"And you know, Tasha..." she said to her companion, ignoring him, "on his way back here he'll bring us each a nice dry white wine. I'm sure he knows what we like."

After he returned with the wine and a blush, he put the glasses in front of them. Only then did he realize his predicament. The women occupied both chairs at the small table and even if there had been a spare chair to borrow from other tables, he'd never find the space to put it down. He stood, awkwardly, and was ignored by the women who'd stuck their faces together in vivid talk.

After a minute he cleared his throat. He had to do it again before the white woman looked up. She smiled, pulling up her eyebrows. His hands tried to point out his predicament while he searched for words.

"I, eh, I thought," he said, staring into the emerald eyes; they looked at him in silent expectation.

"I assume," he tried again. "I assume that ehm, Tasha will..." His voice petered out. The green eyes were a sea now in which he swam around, kicking helplessly.

"Will she stay?" he blurted out.

Dark long lashes closed over the green expanse once, twice. Then she returned to her friend, ignoring him.

"Could you believe this?" she said to Tasha, her tone of voice a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I invite you. You are my best friend. And now he wants to send you packing. How rude can you get?" She laid her hand on Tasha's.

"But," he tried again, perplexed. "But where do I sit?"

His question seemed to honestly surprise her. She looked up to him and back to Tasha, laughing. Tasha seemed bored. When the white woman repeated: "Can you believe this?" the other just shrugged, muttering "men."

"You are so right," his date for the evening said to her friend. "Let him stand where he is now. And while he's at it, he might as well get the waiter's attention. I'm starving and so are you, no doubt."

He should have left; he knew he already should have left twice before. He felt a hot, bitter rage; it tasted of bile. But he didn't leave. What he did was raising his hand, signaling for the waiter. The man stared him into the face. Then he turned away, and started cleaning a table. He waved again. When the man at last arrived, he brought them two menus. After the women studied them, they ordered each a simple salad and water. The waiter collected the menus. Then he turned to him, leaning in and whispering: "I'm afraid you can't keep standing around like this, sir. Please sit down."

He looked at the waiter feeling beyond ridiculous.

"But there is no chair," he said, looking around.

More and more people turned and watched. The two women at his table never looked up; they kept gossiping intimately as they had done before. He shrugged, spreading his arms.

"Okay. I guess I'll leave," he said. When he turned to go, he felt a hand on his arm. Looking down he saw that it belonged to his date. He grimaced at the qualification. She waved him closer. He bent at his waist until his head was a few inches from hers. He smelled her perfume. Then he felt her breath on his ear.

"Don't leave, please," she whispered. "I know you can't keep standing around and you can't sit either. But you can kneel, can't you?" She turned her eyes to her African friend again.

"Tasha," she said, "would you very much mind if he knelt beside me?" Tasha shrugged. He groaned and started to rise, withdrawing his face. But the pale woman's hand stopped him again.

"See?" she went on addressing the other woman, while shoving her chair an inch to the left. "He can kneel here, beside me, so he won't stick out and get all this embarrassing attention. I bet the waiter won't mind."

His face was like a furnace. Her mouth smiled and she nodded in encouragement while moving another inch or two. He knew it was all a set-up. He knew he was being played and had been ever since he saw her at the editing room. Every step he had taken these last few days had been engineered by her. And yet he believed he had taken each decision by himself. How could she have known him so well? Was he that transparent?

Waves of disgust overwhelmed him as he stood there, half-bent, his eyes moving around the room. Then his knees gave. They touched the floor and the tabletop was just below his shoulders. He felt a hand against his back, nudging him to get even closer to the table. His chin was right above the top now, a whine glass and silver cutlery very close, as was a small vase with a sprite of orchids. He hated orchids. Looking up he saw the waiter had gone. People all around were watching though. Hot embarrassment made him sweat. A soft hand patted his head.

"Bravo," a voice -- her voice -- breathed. Then there was giggling.

When the food arrived, she started feeding him, picking up morsels with the tips of her chopsticks while talking to her friend.

"Can't have him starving, our big boy," she said, keeping a straight face. "He might need his strength later on." Both women chuckled. She let a small piece of chicken fall before it arrived at his mouth. He reached for it to pick it off the table, but the chopsticks landed hard on his fingers.

"Tssk," she said, pursing her mouth and shaking her head. "Such poor manners. I suppose he should keep his hands behind his back, don't you think, Tasha? Mommy will feed him. Can't have him messing up this fine restaurant!"

He felt awful. He also felt miserable, humiliated, embarrassed and very, very angry with himself. No one forced him to kneel at this table in a restaurant full of people, being fed like a nestling. His hands weren't tied; he could just rise and leave and never come back. But he didn't. He'd waited in the hotel lobby. He had let himself be ridiculed at the bar. Now here he was again, stripped of the last threads of dignity by a woman and her friend who didn't even bother to include him in their conversation.

Of course he knew why he'd stayed. He knew why he held his hands clasped on his back, shaking with tremor. He knew that, under all his rage, there was a deeper layer pulsing with the pace of his racing heart. It was a pulsing he also felt in his crotch, although he knew he wasn't hard at all. He didn't have to check; there was a warm, tingling sensation, but his cock felt soft, like a sponge. It might leak. It sometimes did when he suppressed his arousal. He wondered if maybe the front of his gray pants would be stained. Another wave of shame shook his body.

The African woman chuckled as she watched his flushing face.

"Regarde," she said in her contralto voice. "Il est si mignon. Je t'envie, chérie." His French was good enough to feel pissed off by her words. He was cute, she said? He looked at her, almost ready to spit out his anger. But it just as soon melted away. She was too damn beautiful and so very much aware of it -- the sheer elegance of her slender wrists; the self-evident haughtiness of her long, bare neck stunned him into silence. One of her fat-laced eyelids closed over her liquid eye. She winked at him, pouting generous lips. A squirt of liquid hit the crotch of his boxer short. He knew for sure they would smell it.

"Honey."

The word pulled him out of his trance. He turned his face in the direction of the pale woman he still didn't know the name of. Had she talked to him? His eyes searched for hers, but before he caught them, he felt a hand between his legs -- her hand, he supposed. It slowly rubbed the place where she might have expected an erection.

"Oh my," she said, her eyes widening. Her rubbing became more intense, but she might as well have massaged his shoulder or leg. His mind buzzed, taking him to the brink of fainting, but the soft cotton ball between his thighs stayed as numb as ever.

"My God!" she cried out. "He isn't even hard."

She said it loud enough for the closest people to hear. The shock of her words sent new pulses into his brain -- and a gush of piss from his bladder. The sheer humiliation forced tears from his eyes, running down his cheeks. He saw heads turn. If there was ever a perfect moment to die, it was now. But the woman wasn't yet done with him.

"Eeww!" she exclaimed, bringing her hand above board. She shook it theatrically. "He is soaked -- drenched like a slut." Bringing her fingertips to her nose she faked gagging.

"It is piss!" she cried out. Then she started laughing, pointing her finger. Between two fits she gasped and said to Tasha: "He is wetter than you and I ever were, honey."

He felt a second hand reach for his crotch. From the way Tasha leant in, he could tell it was hers. Long-nailed fingers scratched his bulge before closing around it. Her hand was quite a bit more vigorous than when she'd shaken his upon entering.  

She truly jerked him off.

He looked from the pale woman to the African one and back. He begged them mutely to stop. But they didn't see him; they just looked at each other eagerly, their mouths half open. Their chests heaved in obvious excitement. Tasha's shoulder and upper arm moved with her ministrations. He did know what she expected, but all she achieved was a wider-spreading numbness -- and a growing tightness in his throat. He gasped. His consciousness retired into a glowing pinpoint at the center of his head. Then he fainted. He sagged sideways against the woman's chair, only held up by the jerking hand of her friend. She tired of her pointless exercise and let him slide under the table.

His lights went out. He heard a voice murmuring: "He's worthless, but he's such a sweet boy. I guess I'll allow him to love me."

When he came to he felt a hand shaking his shoulder. Through a dark mist swam the face of the waiter. "Sir?" it said, or mimed, as he didn't hear him. He turned his head to find himself lying amidst a small forest of chair and table legs. As he tried to get up, a spell of dizziness attacked him. He closed his eyes again, but the hand kept shaking. There were audible words now.

"Sir? Are you all right?" He groaned and got halfway up, testing the floor beneath his elbows; it seemed solid enough. Then he saw the big dark stain at the crotch of his pants. New flashes of embarrassment shook him as he scurried up, trying to cover it.

"Where..?" he asked.

"I suppose you fainted, sir," the waiter said. "Should I get a doctor?"

He looked around.

"Where are the..?" he asked.

"Ah," the waiter said. "The ladies left, informing me where you, eh...were. They said not to worry, it happened often. Oh, and they said you'd pay the bill."

He looked at the waiter, hardly understanding what he meant.

"I, ehm...," he said. "Where are the washrooms?"

***

Next day he called in sick. That whole night he'd been unable to sleep. His head was a cinema with pictures projected on every wall. Pictures of him kneeling and being fed in public while shrill female voices cackled their delight and hundreds of people watched him. Then there were pictures of him running through a packed restaurant, clutching his crotch to keep people from seeing the very present blotch of piss on his pants. There was the waiter smiling condescendingly while his finger pointed at the sum total on a bill. It is hard to sign a check while trying to cover yourself. He saw people pointing and laughing before he could tear himself free and burst into the street -- where he found more people staring.

Why didn't he just take a pill and doze off? His nightmares surely couldn't be worse than the ones he had while awake? But he knew better from the one or two moments he'd nodded off. As soon as he closed his eyes, hers opened. A blast of emerald penetrated the crevices of his mind, mercilessly blowing away every cobweb or veil of gossamer that might flatter his self-image. Her gaze exposed each wrinkle and blemish, all of his failures and weaknesses. He stood naked; he was his own mirror, his own reflection. And he knew he could never escape this woman. He got stuck not because he couldn't leave, but because he didn't want to.




Prisoner Ch. 01



She'd covered him with shame and mortification and he'd lapped it all up. She'd exposed his spineless nature to her arrogant friend and they had laughed at his expense. She had effectively diminished him, taking away his manhood. He'd wanted to die, but at the same time he'd never felt more alive. He'd tasted the bile of his disgust while at the same time savoring every minute of being with her. Was this who he really was? Had she known all along and pushed him over an edge? Was there ever an edge? Was he going crazy?

Those were questions he ought to ask, no doubt. But, and this was the real nightmare, they weren't his foremost concerns. His biggest question -- elbowing out every other one -- was how he could meet her again.

That question was answered towards the end of the next morning. His phone woke him from a patch of exhausted sleep he'd found three hours earlier. His brain refused to notice the frantic ringtone for a while, but it never stopped. He picked up his phone, fumbling. His mouth had to open and close like a frog's before he could croak a "hello." There was a metallic giggle on the other end. It made him shiver. It also blew away all sleepiness.

"You were still asleep, you naughty boy," the voice said. It was hers, of course. The 'naughty boy' irritated him; so did the giggling. He tried to disconnect, but his thumb refused to obey.

"I hardly slept at all," he whispered, not knowing why he told her this.

"You couldn't sleep?" she asked, her breath quickening. "Because of me? How romantic!" He could almost taste her sarcasm. Or was it?

"Yesterday was a nightmare," he said. It scored him a moment of silence on the other side. He filled it at once. "You made me want to die. Your friend, the waiter, all those people... Why did you have to do that?"

"Silly question, honey," she answered, her voice back to normal. "I did it for you. I assumed you liked it. If you didn't agree, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you leave? I would have understood." Of course her finger had found the one sore spot -- unerringly. Why hadn't he left indeed?

This time it was he who let a pause go on. He wasn't surprised she did not fill it; pauses were her thing -- letting someone wait was her specialty.

At last she broke the impasse.

"Your silence tells me you don't know the answer to my question. Well, let me explain. You couldn't leave because you can't live without me. The thought abhors you, but you'd rather be tortured and humiliated by me than being left alone." Another pause fell until she broke it with a chuckle. "No need to tell me that I'm right, honey -- I know."

He did not protest. He wouldn't know how; she was right of course. What other reason could there be? When he at last took a breath to answer, she cut him off.

"Enough of this, honey. Why keep explaining when both of us already understand? I want you to cook for me tonight, at your place. Don't worry, it'll be just me. Let me know where to go and at what time. You have my number now." The connection went.

He saved her number and at last saw her name.

***

He loved cooking. No, it was more than that. He loved everything about food. From the sensual touch of a ripe tomato to the heady smell of freshly grated ginger, from the opulent displays at a fresh food market to the overwhelming rush of feelings when a complex sauce he made turned out perfect. The bright red juices squeezing out of a pomegranate aroused him as deeply as the cool salty flesh of an oyster sliding down his throat. He loved food and everything about it.

He never wondered where this fascination came from. It had been there since he was a child, watching his mother and aunts go through the age-old rituals of, say, baking a pie -- the nonchalant sprinkling of flower, followed by the strong, sensual kneading of the dough. He loved watching the simple act of breaking an egg -- the flow of the transparent white, the shiver of the golden yolk. Or hearing the thousand-and-one small fragments of cooking lore that had been handed down from mother to daughter, ever refining as the generations passed -- gaining the stature of unwritten law. He never thought, but maybe his fascination came from finding this to be the one gateway into womanhood that wasn't denied him.

The pale woman was on time and she looked like her younger sister. She also seemed to have shed her bitchy persona. Her face was hardly made up and her hair cut into a shorter style. She wore a flower-printed summer dress -- maize-yellow and blue. It buttoned down all the way from her throat to a hem that flared out a few inches shy of her knees. Her legs were bare, her feet in flip-flops. Every sign of broody femme-fatalism seemed to have been blown away by the summer breeze. She'd even brought a bunch of colorful lilies. He knew her name now, but it made no difference; he'd never dare using it.

He'd decided not to invite her to his bachelor's lair in town, but to a place friends had asked him to keep an eye on while they were abroad. It was a huge old place, situated amidst the remains of a wooded estate that dated back to the eighteenth century. It had formal gardens, a coach-house and stables that had been empty for a long time. It also had the most wonderful kitchen he'd ever seen.

After taking care of the flowers he took her on a tour of the premises. She seemed duly impressed by the elegant rooms and corridors, although most of the house was closed up. She admired the fragile antique furniture and the many paintings of long-gone thoroughbred horses. She laughed when they passed a rack of ancient whips and riding crops, picking one up. She expertly bent it until it creaked; then let it cleave the air with a whoosh.

"Wow," he said. "You ride horses? I'd never have thought." She'd turned around, dangling the crop before his eyes, a sparkle in her eyes.

"Moi?" she asked. "Horses? My God, no! I'm scared of the creatures. Too tall, too dangerous." And she'd laughed.

"Well," he'd gone on. "But you seem to have a way with the instruments," picking up another of the crops.

"Ah...," she said, standing closer and running the soft leather flap across his cheek. "But who needs horses to appreciate a well-worn crop?" There wasn't much left of the sweet new innocence on her face. A touch of frost had invaded summer. Then she danced away, laughing.

They had gone outside, walking across the court and through the geometric plan of the French gardens. She'd been her old new self again, taking in the scent of roses and picking up daisies. They'd looked into the stables, where she'd been disappointed that the smell of hay and horses was gone. She'd caressed the cracked leather of ancient saddles, letting the metal bits and chains rattle while she passed.

"Lovely!" she cried out. "So very rustic."

When they walked back to the house, they passed a low, squat building with a heavy, hatch-like door.

"What is this?" she asked when he'd already gone by. He turned back.

"Ehm," he said, trying to remember. "I guess it is the old ice-cellar. It is the place where they stored ice before refrigerators came by."

"Can I see it?"

"Don't know if I have a key."

"But it is open." She'd tried the handle and the hatch creaked open. A whiff of ancient air, moldy and earthlike, greeted them. They had to bend low to enter. The only light came from the open hatch.

"Creepy," she said, her breath quickening. Her hand found his as they walked in deeper -- he loved the way her fingers squeezed. There wasn't anything to be seen. Just a stone cubicle, empty but for curtains of cobwebs that attacked them with clammy fingers.

"Eww!" she cried out. "Let's get out of here."

He poured her a Chardonnay and himself a glass of Belgian ale before starting their meal. There was vegetarian lasagna already simmering in the oven; it filled the air with its aroma. He considered asking her to help chop vegetables for a salad, but she showed no inclination to help at all.

"I'm an awful cook," she admitted, smiling. "I love to watch, though." And watch she did, sipping her wine and re-crossing her legs while seated on her high stool. He took in the elegance of her movements before concentrating again on his work.

"You are very good," she said, after a while. He shrugged.

"I like cooking. It's part of my job, remember?" She smiled.

"It's more than a job to you," she observed. "How you touch those tomatoes. You love the way they feel, no?" He looked up, meeting her gaze. He'd expected her to be smiling, but she wasn't. Her eyes had recaptured the intensity that had kept him awake these last nights and visited him in his sleep. An icy finger touched his spine.

"Ah, well," he muttered.

"If not cooking, André, what is it you really love?" she asked. "Tell me." She leant forward, her bracelets tingling.

"Big question," he said, smiling, stalling. He scraped chopped sweet onions from the board, avoiding her eyes. Her hand touched his.

"I'm not very good at small questions," she said, her smile limited to the corners of her mouth. "I'm really bad at small talk too." He looked up, feeling lost; then her eyes caught his.

"Listen, André," she said. "I don't care much for men. I am a girl who loves girls. Oh, I do treat myself to a hard cock once in a while, but I usually don't care much for the guy attached." She smiled, squeezing his hand.

"But you seem different," she went on. "You aren't gay, are you?" Her eyes shifted with minute movements, observing him. Then she shook her head. "No, you are not. I know quite a few gay men, transvestites too, sissies. But you are not. And yet, you... you yield -- you always seem to give in. I was amazed at the shit you took from me, honey -- at the hotel bar and at the restaurant. You could have refused, you could have run, you could even have hit me for being the spoilt brat I am. But you didn't. Why?" She let go of his hand and sat back watching him. He was in turmoil.

He had never told a girl about his true feelings. And thank God they had never really asked. His dates had been superficial affairs, mostly, choreographed by convention -- drinking, talking, kissing, necking, grabbing tits, fingering pussy, having his cock sucked... It didn't matter how far a girl allowed him to proceed, he'd feel unsatisfied and frustrated afterwards -- ashamed by the shallowness of it all. Lately the sheer embarrassment caused his cock more often than not to refuse getting hard, even while sucked by enthusiastic mouths or eager hands. After that a girl wouldn't ask about his feelings; she'd just stop seeing him.

But this woman was different, he knew.

She was curious, not bound by any convention. She seemed to know instinctively where he lived. He wouldn't be at all surprised if she already knew his answers before he gave them. She always had been two steps ahead -- at the hotel, at the restaurant, and at the phone.

So he said, "You already know," after clearing his clogged throat. "You know who I am -- even better than I do." Her lashes fluttered.

"Do I?" she asked. She picked up her glass, taking a sip. "I only know that you are very, very submissive, honey. My true question again is: why?"

He picked up a large red pepper, just to have something else to focus on. He cut it lengthways and scraped out the seeds. Then he started chopping it, the knife dancing close to his fingers.

"I don't know why," he said, finding the courage to speak as long as he didn't look up. "I've always been like this -- submissive to girls, I mean." He stopped, shoving the minced pepper into the salad. Then he made quite a production of cleaning the board and the knife under the running tap. The girl kept quiet. He felt her gaze without looking.

"I don't usually talk about this," he went on, "but I have always found women superior to men." He suddenly looked her in the eyes. "The way they move and talk; the way they... do things." His voice seemed to start fading as his eyes wavered. Then he took hold of himself again. "Women own the world and they know it. We just live in it -- as long as we are tolerated... We are their... janitors at best."

He stopped and the girl let the silence stretch, saying nothing; she just held his gaze until he went on.

"The only reason I am telling you this," he said, "is because you don't leave me options to deny it. Ever since we met, you forced me to admit to who I really am. It is uncanny. You play me, making me wait and wait, humiliating me in the bar and in the restaurant; ignoring me with Tasha, making me wet myself and leaving me helpless and exposed. You never seem to doubt that I'll do what you expect; so why ask now?"

She didn't answer. She sipped her wine. Then she nodded.

"Get naked," she said.

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned away. The almost horizontal rays of the evening sun gave her body a one-sided halo. She looked achingly beautiful. She also seemed distant like a visiting angel perched on a pedestal. He opened the buttons of his shirt, letting it slide off his shoulders. He undid his belt and his pants fell to the floor. His boxers followed. He stepped out of them. Then he kicked off his boat shoes; he wore no socks.

Her eyes travelled down his naked body, noting the toned flesh, the broad shoulders and the narrow hips. His chest and arms were hairy, so were his legs. A well-sized cock hung limply down in a nest of pubic hair.

"There's an apron on the wall," she said after looking him up and down. "I think you should wear it and cover that... thing between your legs." He looked around, finding the piece of clothing. It was pink, small and obviously feminine, frilled around the edges and the wide straps. It just covered half his chest and his loins, the delicate fabric contrasting ridiculously with his hairy frame.

"Better, I guess," she said, smiling. "Now walk around the counter and come over to me."

He did. His head felt hot; it must have been beet red. He felt embarrassed and yet strangely honored. He knew the shame was just a remnant of convention; the honor was real. It was the honor of her noticing him. With each step, the burning shame faded, turning into a glow that flushed his entire body. Then he stood right in front of her, their eyes almost level.

She reached for his face, a finger tracing his jaw. Her eyes filled his vision.

"Now kneel," she said, "please." He knelt in front of her dangling legs. After a minute he looked up.

"Don't look up," she said. He looked away, his ears burning.

"Take off my flip flops." He did, lifting each foot tenderly before removing the flimsy footwear. Touching her skin sent a thrill down his body.

"Ah yes, right there," she sighed. "Rub my feet, honey, they are tired." He did. His big hands cupped her left foot and his fingers started to massage the arched sole, the instep and the toes. Then he changed to her right foot. Feeling the delicate bones shift under his fingertips made his mind buzz.

"I love you, Miss," he muttered into the flesh, pressing his cheek against her foot. To his relief she didn't seem to hear.

"Kiss them," she said from way over his head. "Lick my toes, around and between them, please." And he did.

When the oven's signal rang, her toes were deep in his mouth. His tongue swirled around them and in between, while his hands fondled her calf. The buzz in his head had turned into a dizzying rush of blood, pulsing with his heart. His world had shrunk to a pinpoint.

"The oven, darling." Her voice came from a distance. He didn't hear it until she repeated herself. "The oven. Something might burn, honey." Reluctantly he let go of the foot, rubbing his saliva all over it before lifting his knees off the floor. He had a hard time focusing; her face swam in and out.

"The oven...," he mumbled. "Yes." Her fingers caressed his face. He turned on wobbly legs and went back behind the counter. His pale naked ass cheeks moved under the crisscrossed frilly straps of the apron.

The table was dressed lovely with things he'd found in the mansion: white damask, china plates, crystal glasses and ancient silverware. He carried a white bowl of lentil soup to it; then he ignited the tall candles until their soft yellow flames danced in the gathering dusk. When he turned to walk over to where his clothes lay and started to take off his apron, he heard a disapproving sound. Looking up he saw her face move from left to right.

"Don't spoil it, honey," she said. "You look so cute." His hands fell to his sides. His mind went numb, as it tended to do whenever her instructions took an unexpected turn. She walked up to him, smiling. Her fingers pulled up the straps of the apron, making them fit more snuggly. Then she rose to tiptoes and kissed his brow.

"You've set a romantic table," she remarked as they walked to it, her arm through his. "But, honey, please explain: why two chairs, and two plates?"

Again the question was totally unexpected; he didn't know how to answer. She chuckled at his confusion.

"Now be a good boy and take away the second plate and glasses and cutlery -- the chair too. You know very well that we need only one. Or are you expecting a third party?"

Reality seeped in ever so slowly. He'd presumed. One doesn't presume with this woman; he should have known by now. How slow of him not to have understood. He hurried to take away the chair and all the rest, until the table was set for only one. Then he pulled out the one remaining chair, inviting her to sit in it. After she sat, he shoved the chair closer. Bending over her he poured another glass of wine and a glass of water. Then he lifted the lid from the soup bowl and ladled some into her plate. A delicious aroma spread through the room. She clapped her hands.

"Such a lovely meal, honey. Thank you!"

Her hand moved gracefully, fingers searching for the spoon. Then it stopped, hovering, and she looked up at him. She said nothing; just stared. Confusion crept into his mind yet again as he stood behind her, slightly to the left. His arms dangled from slumped shoulders.

"Are you spying on me, André?" she asked, keeping her eyes straight in front of her. His heart lost a beat. He knew he had gaffed again, but he had no idea what she might mean.

"No, Miss," he said, trying for the right title to give her. "Of course not." She didn't turn to address him.

"Then why are you standing over me?" she said, her voice sweet and friendly, as if she were truly puzzled. He felt the now familiar flush of embarrassment. Making a few uncoordinated moves, he at last sunk to his knees where he stood. She laughed softly.

"No, dummy," she said. "Not where I can't see you. Crawl to the side across from me. And please hurry, my soup is getting cold." He scrambled to the other side of the table, his knees slipping on the stone tiles. Seen through the haloes of the candles her face was hazy. Her hand still hung over the spoon. She touched it, lifted it; then she laid it down again.

"That looks like a very tasty soup, honey. Lentils, you said? Delicious. Now you may take it away."

His eyes went from the untouched plate to the white bowl and the unused spoon. Then he started rising, but her hand went up.

"Not on your feet of course, darling," she said. It took him a second to understand. Then he clumsily took the bowl and scurried on his knees to the kitchen. He repeated the journey with her plate, spilling some before he reached the kitchen. He cleaned up the mess, and picked up the lasagna in its white casserole. He sat it at the center of the table. Then he fetched a new plate before returning to his place across from her. The steam of the dish rose between them. She leant forward, inhaling the spicy aroma.

"A vegetarian lasagna, you said?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, proud to explain. "Courgettes and aubergines, tomatoes, olives, onions, all straight from the market. I also used Parmezan cheese and fresh garden spices; it is a Mediterranean recipe. Let me cut you a nice piece." He rose and picked up the knife. It cut into the still simmering lasagna when her hand touched his arm.




Prisoner Ch. 02



Chapter Two.

Of course she didn't call him -- not the next day or the next week. And of course he didn't dare call her; too many unspoken taboos surrounding their relationship (was it even that?) He tried to dial once or twice, but never got past moving his thumb over her name in the display -- a strange name, exotic. His lips formed the syllables, soundlessly, searching for the correct pronunciation. It would most probably be the French way, where you leave the last part mute, stress the middle, while giving the first part this slightly nasal quality.

When he added sound to his mimed efforts his voice echoed in the empty flat, sobering him up. What on earth was he doing, playing the moonstruck teenager mumbling his would be lover's name? She hadn't shown any signs of real affection on her side, had she -- let alone commitment. A sigh deflated his chest as he realized that playing the love struck teenager was exactly what he was doing; and it wasn't even playing.

Though he never missed a day at work, he started missing deadlines that week. He sleepwalked through meetings. He was perfectly able to stare at his laptop's screen for a full hour, believing minutes had passed. Phone calls went unnoticed; people had to repeat their questions. On Friday afternoon his boss called him into his office.

They had always had this rather impersonal relationship of two professionals who were too different to connect on a private level. André knew his boss thought him slightly weird; he might very well call him a faggot behind his back. He even seemed to dislike his name, calling him Andy. André, on the other hand, considered the man a boar, lacking in tolerance for tastes and inclinations other than his own. But, well, he was his boss and as long as the man respected his work, he didn't mind.

That Friday was different. Jenner closed the door behind them -- always a bad sign. He gestured towards a chair and placed his own huge rump on the edge of his desk; a casual touch he'd never shown before.

"André, what's wrong?" he said, trying to give his voice a fatherly quality. André had no idea what he meant. The almost intimate tone of voice worried him, though -- just as the correct use of his name.

"Wrong?" he echoed. His boss raised both hands, palms outward.

"You've been acting strange these days," he said. "As long as you've been working here, you never missed a deadline. This week you did so twice. Or even three times, maybe. What about the El Bulli article for Monday?"

"Almost ready," André muttered, knowing he had hardly begun.

"So," his boss said, rising to his feet. "To repeat myself: what's wrong? Are you ill, stressed out? Are you in love, Andy? Did you get an outside offer?"

What about all of the above, André wondered. But he said: "Nothing wrong, really, just rotten coincidences. On Monday you'll have it all -- first Monday morning, no worry." He could see the man didn't buy it; he had trouble believing it himself. Three big projects, two of them he'd hardly worked on, to be finished in two days?

His boss shrugged. The usual awkwardness crept back into their relationship. He started gathering folders and papers. André knew he was dismissed.

"Have a nice weekend," he said before leaving.

***

The confrontation somehow cleared his muddled mind. That same evening he finished the article that was already mostly done. He even started on the second one before dropping his face on his keyboard. He slept for a few hours. Then he woke up with his neck hurting from the awkward position. He rose and stretched his creaking body.

After showering and eating an old croissant he'd flushed down with a glass of juice, he returned to his laptop. First light crept through the blinds of his windows. The short nap and the shower had refreshed him, but what revived him most was the proud realization that he'd gotten some work done. He was halfway into reading a piece of research when his phone rang, shattering the silence. It was 5 a.m., who on earth would be calling him?

Her voice was chipper.

"Good morning, sweetie," she chirped. "Did I wake you?"

The crisis of the lost deadlines had truly wiped all thoughts of her from his mind. He hadn't thought of her ever since his boss had given him his ultimatum. He'd shielded himself with determination. And now her first words made it all flood back in -- the bittersweet helplessness, the humiliation, the thumping of his heart against his throat.

"N-no," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm working. Deadlines, you know. Missed two. Have to get three articles ready on Monday. My boss, he... my job..."

"Oh my, you're working!" she exclaimed, cutting through his rambling avalanche of babble. He almost heard her tongue click in mock disapproval. "At this hour, honey -- and in your weekend? Shouldn't you be partying? Or even sleeping?" Her laugh sounded metallic in his ear. He had to finish this call quickly before it all slipped out of his fingers again. But he knew the damage had been done. His hard-won new focus was shattered. Shapeless thoughts ran away from him like a herd of scared animals. Once more his world turned around this voice worming its way into his ear. He screamed on the inside, but he had no answer.

"Honey?" she went on, replacing the silence with her sweetest voice. "I loved it at your wonderful mansion. Let's go there again. Let's go now, I have so many plans."

He couldn't move; he couldn't think. He knew he could never drop his work and be with her, not now. His job would be shot, as would the last remnants of his confidence.

"No," he said, already regretting the bare rudeness of the word; but glad he'd dared say it. No, he'd said. No. But she didn't seem to have heard it.

"Okay," she said. "In an hour. You are sweet!" And the connection died with a click. He stared at his cell. Her name was still there. He erased it with a touch of his thumb.

In the next hour he tried to return to what he'd been doing. It was like reaching through veils of gauze -- touching and yet not touching. He reread whole paragraphs and still had no idea what he'd read. His mind was elsewhere. He imagined her getting out of her cab and walking up to the closed gate. He remembered the sway of her hips, the flow of her gestures and the confident smile on her face. She had no concept of a world where things didn't go her way. He smiled at the thought. Then he frowned. He imagined her pressing the bell with one long red-nailed finger -- and the surprise on her face when no one responded. Her thick black brows knitted, darkening her emerald eyes. He saw anger after her first surprise, a cold rage building.

He trembled, knowing he was the cause.

He'd said 'no,' but she hadn't even heard him. How could she have? In her world there was no such thing as a 'no' from someone like him. He'd knelt beside her in a restaurant, being fed by her. He'd allowed her friend to jack him off in a public place. She'd sat on his bare back, while he only wore a frilly apron. So how could there even have been a 'no' to overhear? And yet, here she'd be at a closed gate to an empty house -- her wishes denied.

His phone rang. He knew without looking it must be her. He tried to ignore the ringing, but as it went on it seemed to get angrier -- until it stopped. He found his hands clutching his ears and his thighs pressed together.

A minute later the phone rang again. He bent over in his chair, holding his ears and making his body as small as he could. He gently rocked. When the ringing stopped, his soft moaning went on.

The third time he picked up the call. He couldn't say a thing; he didn't have to.

"André?!" She sounded angry. Or was it something else -- surprise from the unexpected, maybe? Incredulity? No, it wasn't that...

"André, why aren't you here?" He knew now what it was in her voice. It was disappointment. She'd never expected him to deny her anything; never thought that he wouldn't be there.

"I'm here," he said at last. "I'm at my flat."

"But... but you promised...," she muttered, letting her voice peter out.

"I have to work; I told you," he said.

"But I need you here." She didn't say it as a command; she said it as a need. It came surprisingly close to begging and it shamed him that he was the cause of it. This incredible woman begged; this Goddess said she needed him?

"I am so sorry," he whispered.

"I don't need your sorry's, André," she answered, her voice back to her calm self. "I need you here."

He felt like a lab rat in a mace, running left and right in perplex nervousness. Hands seemed to pull and push him into every possible direction. Sweat trickled down his spine, his throat felt constricted.

"I... can't," he croaked. "I'll lose my job."

A profound silence went on for seconds.

"Your job?" she then asked. "Anyone can have a job, André. But you were allowed to love me. Remember?" He nodded.

"Remember?" she repeated. "I heard you say you loved me and now your job is more important? What kind of love is that?" He shook his head, too confused to realize that she couldn't see him shaking it.

"Am I mistaken?"

"No, Miss." His voice was almost a whisper. He wondered why he felt so... liquid, so spineless. "I do love you; I really do."

"If that were true, you'd have been here already."

His phone clicked. There were beeps.

***

The light traffic had him arrive at the estate within a quarter of an hour. He already saw her from a distance -- a black speck against the stone-and-iron gate. He pulled up and left his car. She looked paler than ever, he saw, the whiteness of her skin set off by her tight black outfit. Her legs seemed endless in her heeled boots; her eyes were huge and dark inside the square frame of her haircut. But to his surprise she didn't look angry; she seemed calm. It made him nervous; his heart pounded.

"You made me wait," she said, her voice soft, yet carrying. It seemed a statement, not a reproach. He kept his silence, not even looking for an excuse. He'd given her the reason; if she didn't think it valid there was no use to repeat his sorry's.

"Hand me the keys of the house," she said, putting out her hand, palm up. The question surprised him, but when he thought about it, it made sense. Handing her the keys of the house would be another step in accepting her dominance over him. Did he want to take that step? Oh yes, he did. But the house wasn't his. People who knew him had trusted him with the keys. They wouldn't agree at all that he'd give them to this woman.

Her fingers curled, moving in a gesture of impatience.

"Come on, give them to me," she insisted when he kept hesitating.

"But I can't," he said, noting the whine in his voice. "They are not mine."

"No," she said, smiling. She reached for the keys and grabbed them. "You are right. They are not yours; they are mine." She turned on her heels and opened the gate with the largest key. The iron scraped over the pebbles as she pushed it open. She never looked back, walking up to the house.

He stood, staring at her backside -- then he closed the gate and followed her along the short driveway and up the few steps to the front door. She found the right key after one try. The high hallway took them in with a cool sigh; her heels rang on the tiles.

"I love places like this," she said. Her voice echoed. "But they are so big; one really needs servants." Her laugh was short and silver. She looked over her shoulder; he was only a few steps behind. She stopped and turned around.

"But where does one get affordable servants nowadays?" she said. He stopped too, extending his hand.

"Please, Miss," he said. "Give me the keys. The owners really wouldn't want to..."

"But of course!" she cried out, cutting him off. "Why didn't I think of that? It would be perfect!" He fell silent. What did she mean?

"The keys, please," he repeated. She didn't hear him, spinning around on her heels, arms wide as if to encompass the hallway. Then she suddenly stopped, her back towards him.

"Get naked, honey," she said, looking up to the ceiling.

He froze, his jaws clenching.

"No," he said. The word squeezed past his teeth. "Please give me the keys. I have to go home and work or I'll lose my job." For a second nothing happened; then she whirled around and reached him with two steps. Her hands clenched his shoulders; her face was right into his.

"Home?" she hissed. "Job?" She pushed him away. Then she rose to her full height, folding her arms under her breasts. He could not look away from her face. Her eyes were like chunks of green ice on fire, yet her lips curled in a smile.

"André, André," she said as if tasting his name. She shook her head in mild disapproval. "You are such an indecisive little boy. What is it you want from life, honey? Work? Career? Money?" She once more shook her head, clicking her tongue. "I don't think so."

She shifted her weight from one heel to the other. Her hand left her folded arms, touching his face. Her fingertips were cool.

"We both know what you really want, André honey, don't we?" The fingers traveled down his jaw and rested on his lips. "Tell me."

The touch to his lips was maddening. The fingertips were like probes sending tingling sensation up his head. He felt as if his entire body hung from the anchor of her touch. Who could shape any coherent thought, captured like this?

"Please, Miss, have mercy," he mumbled.

"Mercy?" she echoed, smiling. Then she once more shook her head in denial. "You don't want mercy from me, boy, now do you? Think..." He couldn't think; he told her so.

"I... I can't think, Miss." She nodded.

"That's fine, honey," she whispered. To his amazement she leant in and pressed her lips on his. The kiss caused the last remnants of rigidity to leave his body. He closed his eyes and felt himself dissolve, disappear between her velvet lips -- ceasing to exist.

A voice penetrated the darkness surrounding him.

"André," it said. "It is about time you find the courage to be who you really are. Time to give up these silly tries at normalcy. Your clock is ticking away precious time. I could send you back to your empty flat so you can finish your silly projects and satisfy your fat little boss. You'd safe your puny career and drift on into your little life."

The soft mouth came back, her tongue probing. Hands cupped his face, holding it up. His jumbled thoughts dissolved into a perfumed buzz.

"André, sweet André." The voice proceeded as her lips left his. A cool breeze touched the emptiness of his abandoned mouth. He opened his eyes, finding hers.

"How could that be what you want, honey?" she asked. "You were born to serve women. You were born to serve me." She smiled, nodding, her face almost into his.

"You are precious, darling," she went on, her breath caressing his skin. "Who'd want to serve fat macho boss-men if they could serve me? Who'd want to waste their life not doing what they crave to do? That would be such a shame. Thousands of men could satisfy your boss, honey, but there is only one who'd be allowed to satisfy me..."

Her eyes shone. Her lisp returned for another kiss. Her soft breasts pressed into him as her tongue dashed around his teeth. He knew he was lost and yet he knew exactly where he was.

He was where he ought to be -- home.

A slight pressure lowered his shoulders. He gave in to it. His face slid down her chest and her belly until it rested against her crotch. She pushed it into him as his knees touched the floor.

"Satisfy me, André." Her voice drizzled down on him like a soft spring shower. The words thrilled him. His fingers opened the buttons of her tight trousers. He found her bare, shaven pussy; she wore no panties. He smelled her arousal; it caused a flush of pride -- she was aroused for him and wanted him to make her come.

He felt her hands at the back of his head, pulling his face into her furnace. Her bare cunt lips electrified his tongue. He started lapping, spreading her lips and finding the slick, musky flesh inside. His nose touched her clit. He rubbed it and felt her stiffen. Her hands closed his ears with a tighter grip. Now he couldn't see, couldn't hear -- just smell, and taste. He lapped and probed. He sucked and nibbled. He felt the vibrations of her moaning.

His world was perfect.

***

Nirwana lasted ten minutes. They felt like hours. Nothingness flooded his senses. He smelled her blood-hot cunt and tasted her squirting wetness. He felt her skin and heard the muffled sounds of her moaning. But there also was the unrelenting pressure of her hands and -- later on -- the strangling of her thighs that robbed him of his breath. He heard humiliating curses when her climax crested, and there was the pain of her raking nails. Finally a stream of piss gushed down his face and chest.

Now he lay face down on the drenched tiles. She'd pushed him away. The smell of her urine was overwhelming; its bitter flavor blended with the salt of his tears. He cried without knowing it; he just did. The water ran from his eyes, mixing with the juices and grime on his cheeks. It wasn't misery that caused it. It wasn't happiness either. It was just salt water escaping for lack of resistance. All his facial muscles hung loose; his limbs felt no tension. He just lay there, soaked and drained.

Then he felt a sudden pressure on his left shoulder blade, followed by a piercing jab. A heavy weight pushed his shoulder down. It lifted only to be replaced by a similar weight on the small of his back. The accompanying pain was worse -- like the stab of a knife, followed by blunt pressure and new sharp pain on his thigh. He groaned into the stinking tiles. A veil lifted from his mind and he knew: she was walking over him on her high-heeled boots. She used him as a rug. What he felt were her foot soles; the pain came from her stiletto heels. He screamed when she reached his calf. Then the pressure was gone.

Lying down, panting, he heard the click clack of her boots walking away from him. He was stunned and not just from the pain. She had used him as a doormat, just like she had used him as a chair. She had wiped her feet on him and stabbed her heels into his flesh. He could still feel the throbbing pain.

He knew he should be shocked by her indifference, and he was. He also knew he should be indignant, and hurt, but he wasn't. A soothing flush of warmth spread from where the heels had punched him. It blended with the cocktail of emotions simmering below his blanket of numbness -- there was excitement and a curiously sweet bitterness of loss. There also was a lingering soreness mixed with the unexplainable thrill of humiliation; it spread through the melting fibers of his resistance. Then it became a groundswell, flushing out the debris of whatever compromises he had made during his confusing life. Cleansing was the word, whatever that might be.

He sobbed, not able to lift a finger.

***

The rhythmic pounding of the pestle in the stone mortar caused exotic flavors to curl up and spread throughout the kitchen. The blend of roasted kummel, dried peppers and coriander took him back to the spice market in the hot and crowded souk of Marrakesh, as it always did. His nose had perfect memory, just like his tongue. Every scent and every taste, even the subtlest, brought associations of the first time he'd smelled or tasted them -- making him relive colors and sounds, pictures and adventures. Even now the memories flooded in, as he stood only dressed in a cheap gauzy apron, scrutinized by the woman who had walked over him.

He didn't look up; he didn't have to. He knew she was watching him like the feline predator she was. She'd told him to prepare lunch for her; she might even eat it. That was after she'd been soaking for an hour in the antique bathtub she'd had him prepare. He'd brought her tea, dressed like she told him to: stripped of all his clothing, only wearing the frilly apron. She'd been on the phone for most of the time, conducting business and sharing gossip in equal parts. When he entered with the tea, she'd abruptly stopped and giggled. Then she murmured something into the phone in a language he didn't understand, before turning her iPhone around and shooting a picture of him. She went back to her phone, informing her party that her naked servant served her tea, and that a picture was under way. Only a few moments later she dissolved into a bout of giggling.




Prisoner Ch. 02



He retired to a corner, feeling the heat of his blush.

The sore imprints of her feet could still be felt all over his backside, but maybe what he felt wasn't just physical pain anymore. Pain and humiliation seemed to be fighting for precedence by now, feeding on each other. It was easy to mix up his feelings and emotions. Was he humiliated by her act? Or did he feel humiliated because he'd let her do it? Had her stabbing heels only caused pain? Or had they also caused the delirious state of mind he felt right after? And why was he still here anyway?

He ought to be working on his projects. Each minute he stayed here brought his dismissal closer. And yet here he still was.

After he had picked himself up from the floor, he'd gone looking for a shower to get out of his soaked garb and clean off the stench. He'd found a robe to wear before looking for a pail of hot water and a rag to mop up the puddle in the hallway. The stench had gone stale, attacking his sensitive nose even stronger. After cleaning the floor he'd taken his soiled clothes to the laundry room, starting the machine to wash them. When he at last returned to the kitchen, she was there, asking him to make her a coffee.

"You are a splendid rug, honey," she said, sipping her cappuccino. "Please drop the robe and show me your backside."

He'd been resolved to tell her things would stop at this; he had to save his job and must leave for home -- no more toying.

"No need for that, Miss," he said, sipping his espresso. "There are no bruises at all, I'm fine."

She rose from her stool and walked over to him. Her hand was a sudden blur when she slapped him full in the face.

"You don't understand," she said, calmly. "Get rid of that robe and turn around. Please."

His head spun. The suddenness of her violence stunned him as much as the blow itself. Anger flashed, but just as soon dissolved, scattering like dead leaves in a storm. He stood frozen, not able to act. His hand touched the burning spot on his cheek.

"You... hit me," he said, too dazed to notice the lameness of his remark.

"Yes, honey, I did," she said, taking away his hand from his face, squeezing it. Then she leant forward and kissed the spot. "Now lose the robe and turn around."

He didn't know what his hands did, but soon the robe slid off his body, rustling around his feet. He slowly turned his back to her, hearing a sharp intake of breath. A fingertip touched the sore spot on his shoulder blade. Then it travelled to the spot on the small of his back. When it halfway passed his spine, he shivered.

"God, honey," she whispered, "you are so brave." Her finger found the bruise on his ass cheek. She rubbed his flesh with her open palm, making the warmth spread. Then he felt her body press into his back -- her breasts, her belly and thighs. She breathed on his neck, her lips touching his ear. Every fiber of his body trembled; he closed his eyes. The spot where she had hit his face burned like fire.

"You are incredible, honey," she breathed. Her arms closed around him, one hand rubbing his belly, the other tugging at the coarse hair around his left nipple. He wondered if he'd ever felt this low. He also wondered how he could feel so alive at the same time.

"This ugly hair has to go, darling," she said, pulling harder. "I hate hair on bodies." A blinding pain stabbed his chest when a few hairs came loose. He cried out, tears squeezing from his eyes. She chuckled softly.

"Don't worry," she said. "We'll shave you nice and baby bare." Her hand started a slow caress of the spot where she'd pulled the hair. "And maybe less painful."

"I...," he began as a teardrop slid across his cheek. "I really need to go home. You know that I have to." But he didn't shake free; he just stood there, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of her body wrapped around him.

She didn't answer. Her lower hand sank to his genitals. She cupped his balls, kneading them. Her other hand took his penis.

"Is it an act or do you never get hard, honey?" she asked, slowly rubbing the shaft. He kept silent. She squeezed his balls. "Is something wrong with it?" asked.

"I, ehm... No, nothing's wrong," he then said. "I just try not to." Both her hands were now holding his balls, fingers entwined to form a little basket. She pulled hard, making her embrace even tighter. Her tongue started licking the short hair of his neck.

"We'll see to that," she said at last, letting him go. "Now you draw me a bath."

He didn't move, still dazed. Then he picked up his robe and left the kitchen.

He could have easily run when she was taking her bath. Why hadn't he? And why would he use the word 'run?' He could have left for his apartment anytime -- even only wearing his robe. She didn't know where he lived, did she? Now why did he think that? He was free, wasn't he? She couldn't make him do things; she was just a woman he'd met. She wasn't even sexually attracted to him, was she? She was a lesbian as far as he knew.

But first he had to have the mansion's keys back. He couldn't let her have them; what would the owners think? Now where did she keep them? He couldn't very well ask her. Or could he? He wondered why he thought he couldn't. His hands strangled the pink gauze of the ridiculous apron she'd made him wear. Made him? Who was he kidding? He knew he was very good at finding excuses and explanations for his behavior, but he knew better than believe them. He just couldn't say no. That was all there was to it -- not to women in general and certainly not to this... witch.

Did he call her a witch? Why? Was it just another excuse to put the blame on others? Implying that she might have some kind of magical power over him so he was a poor victim, really? Oh come on, he mumbled, is this a fairy tale? Let me get those damn keys and I'm out of here.

Her things were on the bed in the en suite bedroom -- a black silk top, satin bra, black tight trousers. His fingers trembled when he lifted up her things. Her boots were there too; he touched the cruel stiletto heels, estimating their length at four inches. Why on earth would he do that? And where was her bag? That was when she called out to get her some tea.

The bag was in the bathroom -- a bulky black leather affair, no doubt filled with the thousand-and-one things a woman couldn't be without. He saw he'd never get into it without her noticing. It took him seconds to realize how stupid that thought was. What on earth would keep him from grabbing the bag and taking what was his? That was when she snapped the picture and shared it with her friend, giggling her head off. The humiliation devastated him. As usual it shut his mind down, pushing out whatever thought he might be having. It shrunk his world into a tiny, constricted place. He wondered who might be on the other side of the conversation -- Tasha? -- or more likely a total stranger, seeing him in his hairy nakedness sporting the ridiculous see-through apron.

The thought caused another hot flash of embarrassment. He crept out of the bathroom, his ears ringing with her giggles.

***

And now here he was, still naked but for the silly apron, preparing lunch for the bitch. Witch, bitch... he tried to focus his scattered anger by calling her names and ignoring her predator eyes. Making the Moroccan beet salad also helped. He concentrated all his frustration on squeezing the juices out of an innocent lemon.

"I'll eat it at the table, darling," she said, putting away her cell phone. "Make me a lovely plate and add a nice glass of chardonnay." He arranged the colorful salad on a white plate and placed it on the table with a freshly baked roll of white bread. Then he filled a glass of wine. Finally he stood straight, waiting for her to come over and sit down. His hand pulled out the chair to help her sit down, but she didn't. She just stood and stared, making him wonder what she wanted.

"This sure isn't the chair I had in mind," she then said, looking up and smiling. He understood; he should have known. But he resisted. Not again, he thought. Not this time.

She waited; so did he. Then she chuckled.

"Don't be like this, André," she said, touching the back of the chair with her fingertips. "It's not you. I know you want to be my chair. You enjoyed it so much last time. Why let your silly pride come between you and my delicious ass cheeks?"

His stare projected more stubbornness than he felt inside. His mind was in turmoil. She was right of course. He might not want to obey her now, but that wasn't because he hated being her chair. Remembering the sweet pressure of her body made his heart beat faster -- the soft and tender weight shifting; the radiating warmth, her perfume, even the growing pain in his muscles. Why did he resist? He loved to obey her, to be with her and be her toy. He'd never felt as alive as these last days.

But he knew why he couldn't obey her right now. It was his brain, his damned, rational, scared brain. It said he shouldn't be here. It said he should be at home, saving his job, his career, his livelihood. But when his eyes met hers, he saw how futile that really was. 'Anyone can have a job,' he remembered her saying. 'I allowed you to love me, remember?' she'd added, as if handing him the most fought-over prize in the world. And maybe it was; for him it might be. Then a stray thought tumbled into his mind.

"I'll be your chair if you give me back the keys," he said, already regretting what he said halfway through the sentence. Her face fell.

"I didn't know you were a cheap bargainer, André," she said with a flat voice. "If I had, I doubt I would be here." She turned and walked away. A flare of sheer panic hit him, making him raise his hands in protest. He called out her name, her true name. She stopped at once, turning around.

"Who told you it is all right to use my name?" Her eyes were on fire. "Who told you you are allowed to call me anything, you pathetic failure?" She threw the heavy ring of keys on the table, shattering the china plate and toppling the glass of wine.

"Now go and save your job. Have a wonderful bookkeeper's life!" Before he could move his stunned body, she'd reached the door.

"No!" he cried out, pressing the word through his constricted throat. "Please no, don't go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

The clicking of her unseen heels on the hallway's tiles stopped. His heart skipped a beat. He ran to the door, sliding to a halt. Then he sank to his knees at the center of the corridor, falling forward on his hands.

"Please sit on me, Miss," he said, talking to the tiles. "Please forgive me and use me again. I am a stupid idiot. Please teach me to be useful."

The words had slipped past the guards of his mind; so had his actions. When he looked up, he was certain of a quick smile passing over her stone face. It sent his heart up his throat.

"You can always sit on me, Miss," he cried out. "I'll always be your chair, but please don't leave me now." So he'd said it. He'd said 'always.' He'd also said: 'don't leave me.' It might be the truth; it obviously was. But he knew it was a truth that would cost him dearly.

He averted his eyes again, waiting on hands and knees -- the frilly apron falling away from his naked crotch.

The draft of the cool corridor raised goose bumps. Then he heard a tap, and another one... tap-tap. Was she moving his way? He noted the hesitance in her footsteps, but yes, they came closer... tap-tap-tap -- quicker and with growing confidence.

She was next to him now -- he felt her warmth, smelled her scent. Her hand was on his shoulder. Then he heard a rustle and a rattle. A cool, stiff band closed around his throat. There was a click and a tug, and he knew for certain -- he was collared and leashed. Tears pressed behind his eyes. Fear fought with delight, pride fought with humiliation. He groaned and turned on his knees, giving in to her tugging.

***

Crawling around on hands and knees, he had cleaned up the broken plate and the strewn remnants of his once delicious salad. Finally he had served her a new dish and filled another glass. She led him by the leash until he was in the right place; then she sat down on him, rubbing her cheeks into his sorest spots. He couldn't see if she ate; he kept his eyes down. He did hear a knife and fork scrape and clatter, only interrupted by the sound of her drinking and swallowing the wine.

After a while his upper arms started straining. He ever so carefully rolled his shoulders to relief his muscles, but she slapped his ass, scolding him for being a bad chair. He froze; she ate and drank in silence.

"Aren't you hungry?" she suddenly asked. He didn't respond. She chuckled.

"Good chair," she said. "Chairs don't talk and chairs are never hungry -- or thirsty, for that matter." He heard her take a gulp of wine, exaggerating her delight with a big sigh. It reminded him how dry his mouth was and how the drought spread. He visualized how his body turned into wood. First he felt the outer layers of skin stiffen into veneer. Then gradually his blood and juices turned into sawdust. He imagined his brain drying up until it was a crinkly walnut rattling inside his skull. The fibers of his muscles hardened, his bowels petrified. He wondered how long his heart would go on beating. His world came to a stand still, sweet numbness reached his mind... soon he'd be a chair -- her chair. Was that a bad thing? He didn't know. It wasn't good or bad he guessed... it just was. And then she started rocking.

After finishing her meal she'd picked up her indispensable cell phone, making the first of a number of calls. Were they to friends or for business? He had no idea. He didn't listen; chairs don't have ears, do they? She chatted animatedly, using her body to underscore her words and phrases. Her cheeks rolled over his spine, backwards and forwards, forcing him to counterpoint each move with his arms and legs so she wouldn't fall. He groaned as new bolts of pain shot through his limbs. Now he felt like an ancient tree being pummeled by autumn storms, its dry fibers creaking and tearing under their force.

The rocking went on for minutes. She increased her speed; he knew she was testing him and he refused to give in to his screaming muscles. He could do this, he thought. He could do this forever. After five more minutes he'd reached his limit. He knew he would collapse under her still increasing torture any moment now -- and then she abruptly stopped.

"You're a good little rocking chair," she said, laughing. "Sturdy, sturdy!" She slapped his bare ass cheeks twice, and hard. Then she jumped off his back and walked out of the kitchen talking to yet someone else on her phone. She never looked back.

After waiting a while for her possible return he rose from his smarting knees, stretching his body to smoothen out the kinks. He felt the chain of his leash slapping his crotch through the flimsy apron, its weight pulling at the collar around his neck. His throat was a desert, his stomach hurt from emptiness. Was he allowed to drink and eat? He knew the dizziness in his head was from famine. He felt weak all over.

"What the fuck," he muttered and grabbed a piece of bread she'd left on the table. Swallowing was hard, with his parched throat, so he went to the kitchen and guzzled down half a liter of bottled water. His diaphragm protested against the sudden onslaught and gave him a series of hiccups. He coughed and almost threw up. He felt tired and miserable and yet there was a new lightness in his head. No doubt it was caused by a combination of hardly sleeping and not eating -- it was the serene state of mind of a hermit, he supposed, in a far away desert cave. He chuckled and started eating the remains of the beet salad, scooping it up with his hands.

"Who told you it was all right to eat?"

She stood at the entrance, her heeled legs slightly spread, one hip higher, her right elbow resting in the cup of her left hand while the right one held her cell phone up against her chin. She softly tapped her lower lip with it. She didn't smile at all. The shock caused him to spray his last mouthful of salad over the kitchen counter.

"I bet you drank too."

"I was famished, Miss, I haven't eaten all day," he croaked after a bout of coughing. "And I was dehydrated. I'm sorry. I just had to..."

"Dee-hyyy-dray-ted," she mockingly interrupted. "Wow, are we the intellectual today." She abandoned her Vogue-like stance and walked up to him with a sway in her hips, one foot in front of the other -- her eyes never leaving his. When she was within inches from his face, she said:

"You are hopeless, André." She grabbed the dangling leash, winding it around her hand until she reached his collar. Then she pulled his face against hers -- their eyes only an inch apart.

"You need to be punished, honey," she whispered. "Tell me you understand."

The closeness of her eyes, her breath on his face and the tightness of the collar made it hard for him to think. The sheer violence shocked him. Punished for what? What had he done? He'd eaten when hungry. He'd drunk when thirsty -- food and water he'd bought himself. Should one be punished for that? Should he be punished anyway? What punishment?

He'd been born into a family where rational thinking had been handed down for generations. Being reasonable was considered the obvious fabric of society. His friends enjoyed intellectual conversation as much as a good glass of wine. Differing opinions should be discussed in peace, and tolerance. Agreeing to disagree was a cornerstone of civilization. He himself considered sanity the logical state of things. Any aggression or even breach of niceness upset him. It also disarmed him. Right now he was out of answers -- and out of breath. Her hand closed over his mouth; her fingers clawed into his face.

"Say it," she hissed. "Say you need to be punished."

He swallowed hard, but there were no words.

"All right," she said. She stepped back, unwinding the leash as she did so. "On your knees." She pulled the chain to force him down. He resisted. A sudden pain flashed up his groin from where her boot kicked him in the balls. He crumbled to the floor.

"Don't be clever with me," she said, turning around and dragging him along at the end of the leash.

***

The sun beat down on the dusty court. Grit was biting into his bare knees and shins. The pain in his groin had abated by now, clearing up his mind and opening it to sober thoughts. Why was he here, what was going on? They might be cliché questions, but to him they were totally original. How on earth had things gotten this far? Why was he crawling naked, but for a ludicrous piece of lace, behind a woman, a girl, really, who wasn't only younger, but also half his weight and strength -- wearing a leather collar around his neck? All day she'd made him do ridiculous things while he knew he had to be somewhere else to keep his job, his life, and his sanity. Here he was, a grown man kneeling in the dust in front of a girl who made him do whatever she wanted.

"Such a lovely day to be outside," she said.

Her head blocked the sun, making her face an undistinguishable blob in a halo of strewn light.

"I think you should be in the sun for a bit, honey," she went on. "All this nerdish writing inside isn't good for you. Now let me see..."

She made a production of looking around and overacting until she found what she needed. She even clapped her hands.

"Ah look! Just what we need." She dragged him by the leash to an iron fence. There she pulled it through a sturdy window grate, closing the loop with a padlock. He was still looking at the shining steel lock when he felt her hands pulling his wrists behind his back, snapping handcuffs around them. He was rendered helpless in a matter of seconds.

Still blotting out the sun, she stood over him, her hands on her hips. From his position her legs seemed even longer. He cursed under his breath; it made her chuckle.




Prisoner Ch. 02



"Angry with yourself, honey?" she asked. "You should be, you know. Being stubborn doesn't suit you at all, and I truly hate it."

She went down on her haunches. He now saw how she smiled. He felt her hand on his face, caressing.

"You know," she said. "You are a sweet boy really. You lack so many of the ugly traits men have. You are... considerate, always ready to pamper us... a real fan. You are sincerely curious of what we are, what we do... so touchingly in awe..." Her smile played with her lips. She leant in until she was unbearably close. Her hand cupped his chin, pulling him in. Then she kissed him the way he only knew from her -- endlessly tender, making him fall into a soft pool of flesh. He felt helpless like a drowning man, not thrashing, not panicking, just going down... until a sharp pain slashed through the softness.

Her teeth clamped down on his lower lip. The pain only increased when he pulled back in a reflex. He tasted the coppery flavor of blood. She let go of him.

"Oh, damn," he groaned, wanting to touch his mouth. "You bit me." She nodded, wide-eyed, smiling. Then she leant in again and licked his chin and mouth with a long, thorough stroke of her tongue. She smacked her lips.

"You taste sweet, just as I thought," she said.

"You are crazy," he whispered, his tongue touching the sore spot. She laughed, rising to her feet.

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. But now I have to go." She turned and walked off. Panic struck him. He tore at his handcuffs only to feel them bite his wrists. The leash was short; when he pulled it choked him. He screamed, hearing his voice bounce around the court's walls.

Nobody would see him; nobody would be close enough to hear. Would she really leave him here in this sun -- no water, no shelter? How could he have trusted her? She was a nut case, a psychopath. She'd let him die...

Right then she returned. She carried a wide bowl in both hands. It seemed heavy. When she put it down in front of him he saw it was filled with water. He felt a wave of gratitude wash through him. Gratitude? Fuck you! He once more tore at his bounds, wincing from the pain. He begged her to untie him. She went down again, touching his brow, wiping sweaty strands of hair from his eyes.

"Take care, sweetheart," she whispered. "Now go easy on the water; I may be gone for a while." She kissed his brow and patted the top of his head; then she rose and turned, but as she did, her foot struck the bowl, making a large splash of water spill on the ground.

"Oops!" she said, reaching down to steady the bowl. At least half of the water had gone; it left a dark spot in the dust.

"Ah, well," she said. "As I said before, honey, make it last." She winked and blew him a kiss. Then she sashayed to the big door in the enclosing wall. She slipped through it and moments later he heard the iron gate clang shut and her car start.

Screaming panic descended on him.

***

At first the sun didn't bother him. The sharp grit that ground into his knees and shins was a much more painful presence. He squirmed to slide his legs from under his body until he sat on his bare ass -- his bound wrists got caught between his back and the wall. He raised his knees, inspecting the scratches where the tiny stones had bitten the flesh. There were droplets of blood and gray dust caked to his skin. He swore and swore again, noticing how his curses fell like dead birds on the shimmering court.

Then he noticed how hot he was.

His exertions had flushed his body, making beads of sweat rise on his brow and the skin of his under arms. His head felt like a furnace; the heat sunk like a cloak over his body. He realized he shouldn't have moved. His maneuvers had put him out of reach of the water bowl. He'd have to repeat the whole struggle to reach it. He sighed, pushing the problem to the back of his mind. Maybe she'd be back before he really got thirsty. Then again, whom was he fooling? The woman was stark raving mad. She meant everything she said. But wasn't he as mad as her? What on earth had made him do what she wanted? Was it stupidity; was it love?

He groaned. It was hardly an answer to his own, unuttered questions, but it was most probably the only one he'd get.

Time is a funny substance; it has no shape of itself. We need a clock to tick it into being. The waxing and waning of the sun's shadows make us aware of its presence. Things have to happen for time to exist.

As he sat and studied the path of the sun, he realized yet again how devilish a mind the woman had. Instead of starting at his side, the shadows grew on the far side of the court. So for quite a while there would be increasing heat, amplified by the whitewashed wall behind him. He estimated that he'd be in the full sun for at least four more hours until the shadows would finally reach him.

Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes. The sun's heat radiated into the flesh of his legs, arms and shoulders -- he could almost feel his skin starting to burn. He imagined blisters growing; patches of skin turning purple. Maybe he should use a schedule of turning and exposing alternate parts of his body -- like a spit-roasted pig, he thought.

He squirmed and moved until his back was aimed at the sun. While turning he felt the nylon straps of his apron cut into his skin. He'd end up with a nice white cross on his back, he imagined, at once cursing the banality of his thoughts. Why didn't he think about important things, like his floundering career, the certainty of losing his job? Or, more to the point, why wasn't he panicking? He should fear for his life sitting here, slowly roasting without anyone but a maniac knowing it. But in truth he had to remind his numb self to be scared at all, and it didn't even shock him.

Afterwards all he remembered were moments -- separate and unstructured incidents. He remembered curling his legs under his body to reach the bowl. He didn't remember the new scrapes and scratches on his knees. The water had been lukewarm already. He couldn't use his hands, so he lapped it up with his tongue, like a cat -- his chin dipping into the water. He didn't think he ever tasted anything as good as the half-mouthful of moisture he allowed him self to swallow.

When he finally moved his body into the least uncomfortable position, leaning against the wall, exposing his back to the sun, he must have fallen asleep. Or he must have fainted, more probably. Waking up after an unknown period of time, his back was on fire. He shirked and twisted it out of the sun, only to feel a torturing pain when his back touched the wall.

He saw the shadows had passed the middle of the court. The sun stood much lower. He had no idea if its rays were less intense. He knew he must drink, but the thought wasn't urgent. It just swam around in his skull, emerging and disappearing amidst a sea of other shapeless questions. Each time it emerged, he knew he should act upon it. But, amazingly, the other thoughts pushed it away, quenching the urge. Was he lost -- or going crazy? Was this what dying was about?

Once in a while he thought he saw the crazy woman's face shifting into and out of his vision, but he wasn't sure she was really there. She didn't think she looked crazy. She smiled at him, sweetly. He could feel her cool fingertips on his face, her lips on his burning brow. There were words, but they didn't matter. Her smile faded and she was gone.

Was she ever there? Was he even here?

A wave of clarity engulfed him. He groaned and turned on his knees, crawling towards the bowl. The water was as warm as his blood. He drank; then stopped with a shock. He had no idea how much he'd drunk. There was maybe an inch of water left. Did he drink so much, or had most of it vaporized in the sun? He tried to care, but he didn't. The instance of clarity passed and he slumped back against the wall. The collar almost choked him.

When he next woke up, he was in the shadow. The last rays of the sun touched the rooftop. The air must have cooled down, but he didn't feel it. The heat he'd collected made him glow with feverish intensity. He turned and crawled until he could drink the last of the water, licking the final drops off the bottom. Then the shivers started, making the chain rattle against the iron grate. How could he feel this cold? It made his teeth chatter.

He didn't hear her coming. The first thing he noticed was her hand on his burning shoulder -- it spread a cold sensation all over it; was it cream? Yes, he guessed it was -- it felt incredibly good.

"Poor boy," she said, her voice as soothing as the cream. "I hope you learned your lesson; I'd hate to see you killed." She chuckled. Her hand travelled down his spine now. "Wow, you sure feel hot. Didn't Mommy tell you to stay out of the sun?" She laughed a silvery laugh -- there was no trace of sarcasm in it.

She emptied a bottle of water into the bowl. He plunged his face into it, trying to drink all of the glorious, ice-cold liquid with huge gulps. But soon hands pulled away the bowl.

"Tsk," she scolded. "You'll kill yourself this way. Drinking too fast will make you sick, and who'd want you sick?" She scooped a handful of water from the bowl and washed his glowing face with it. Then she scooped another handful to let him drink. He swallowed, but his eyes glazed over as he went on shivering.

He heard the chain rattle; it seemed she freed him from the leash, but not from the collar. Maybe she just gave him more slack. The hands on his back were freed as well. He slumped into the dust, working his wrists and fingers to lose their stiffness. She started rubbing cream into his back again, commenting on the ugly blisters.

"How on earth could you be so silly to want this, honey?" she asked, her breath short from exertion. Her fingers were kneading the skin of his ass cheeks, parts that had hardly ever seen the sun before. They were so tender that her touch made him groan.

"Don't talk," she said, although he'd made no effort to speak. "I know that you have this need to obey me, although I wonder if it gives you pleasure. It sure doesn't do much for me." She squeezed her slippery hand between his thighs to find his balls as she said this. "And if it does anything to you, you sure move in mysterious ways." She laughed. Her hand squeezed his balls. "Very mysterious." Her fingers found his soft penis. She turned him around with her other hand, making him cry out when his inflamed back hit the ground. Her cream-slicked hands kept massaging his shaft and scrotum. His eyes were closed; the muscles of his face contracted. She wasn't sure he was conscious.

She pulled at his greasy pubic hair.

"Good thing you still have this," she said. "It at least gave you some protection, together with your cute apron, of course." She let his limp cock fall and started creaming the rest of his body. Then she propped him up against the wall and slapped his face. She kept hitting him until his eyes opened. He groaned, raising his hands to ward off the slaps.

"Are you with me, André?" she asked, grabbing his hair and lifting his face. "Do you hear me?" He groaned again and nodded. She went down to her haunches, her face close to his.

"Okay," she said. "Listen carefully, I have a few questions. They are simple questions with simple answers; mostly yes or no, really." She bored her eyes into his. "Do you understand?" He just stared. "Do you understand me, André?" She slapped his face again. He nodded.

"Good." She smiled. "Now please accept that I am not a philosopher. I am not going to discuss things like freedom and free will with you. There is no use to argue about abstract concepts like that. That is why I bent you to my will today. Call it graphic education, giving you a taste of a possible life; maybe show you who you really are." She grinned, shrugging. "Or maybe to show you who you aren't. It's up to you, honey, I don't really care."

She caressed his face where she'd slapped him. He involuntarily pressed his burning cheek into the soft coolness of her palm. She looked as if she considered how to proceed.

"First question," she then said. "Did you hate what I made you do today?" He found her eyes; then closed his, leaning his head against the wall. Exhaustion pulled at every single inflamed muscle. He nodded. It took her by surprise.

"Really?" she said. "You hated it?" Her eyes searched for his. "Do you often lie?" she then asked. He shook his head 'no.' She sat up straighter.

"Okay," she went on. "Do you hate me?" He shook his head in denial again.

"Good." She smiled as if relieved. "Good boy. Now listen carefully. I am going to unlock your leash and take off your collar." She allowed a pause before going on. "If I do, will you run?" He didn't agree nor disagree. "Will you run when I set you free, André?" she insisted. "I need to know."

When he shrugged, she reached out, making him wince for fear of her intentions. But she just unlocked his collar. The leather slapped against the wall, making the chain rattle. She rose to her feet and took a step back.

"I have brought your things, André," she said, retreating further to reveal a pile of clothes. "They will hurt your skin, but I guess it beats leaving naked. I also brought your car keys." They fell on the pile with a puff.

He looked from her to the clothes and back up. He didn't move.

"Honey," she said with just a touch of impatience. "I never wanted you to do anything you don't want. Someone asked me to take care of you; begged me, really. She told me it hurt her to see you pining away, telling me you needed a life like this to be happy. She said she was too soft to do it herself."

She saw she had his attention now. She went down on her haunches again, touching his face. He didn't turn away.

"You see," she said, "I train girls. I love to see them struggle on their way to acceptance of who they really are. Seeing them submit to my plans arouses me. Accompanying them on their journey satisfies me greatly. And then of course there is the sex." She softly slapped his slack jaw.

"I've never trained a man," she went on. "Most men are just hard cocks to me anyway, attached to a disgusting pile of macho bullshit." She looked disgusted indeed. "But from the moment I tested you at the hotel and the bar, you got my attention. You were just scrumptious at the restaurant." She smiled at the memory, her mouth miming the word she'd used -- 'scrum-ppp-tiousss.' Then her face got serious again. "You are... a challenge, you know?" She rose, standing tall against the darkening sky.

"You puzzle me. You seem... reluctant and yet you do everything I ask. Oddly though, humiliation doesn't seem to arouse you; you suffer like a martyr, not a perverted lover." She laughed softly, her hands on her hips. The sweet elegance of her body confused him. He looked away.

"Okay," she said, tearing herself free from her thoughts. "It's decision time. Maybe you can still make your deadlines and safe your hide. Here are the house keys." She threw them in the dust. "The choice is yours. It always has been."

She turned on her heels and walked off the court. He watched her swaying backside disappear. Then he waited for the sound of a car starting, but it didn't. Wincing from the pain, he scrambled to his feet. He picked up his clothes and started dressing. The fabric hurt his skin. He collected the keys and walked out, closing the gate behind him. She hadn't left.

He saw her lean against a big black Mercedes. It wasn't a cab. One of the back doors was open; the engine idled. Behind the wheel he discerned the silhouette of a man -- did she have a driver? She didn't look at him, but stared in the distance. He hesitated. Then he walked over to his car.

Behind him he heard a door slam shut. The engine's humming got louder; the Mercedes took off. He turned to watch it go, seeing her head in the back. It didn't turn his way. The car disappeared in a cloud of dust.

He sat inside his car for a long while. Then he slammed his steering wheel and started the motor.

***

Although there was only Saturday night and Sunday left, he saved his ass -- as far as his job was concerned. He started working upon arrival at his flat. He ignored the nagging sunburn and even the excruciating events of the day, although they never stopped churning at the back of his mind.

At around 2 a.m. on Sunday he finished his second project, immediately digging into the third and last. But at 7 a.m. he woke up lying with his head on his desktop, drool seeping from his mouth. He must have fallen asleep. He didn't know when.

After a shower, breakfast and a gallon of coffee he resumed work, trying to squint his weary eyes enough to actually read what he was writing. He knew this article would end up worse than even his most mediocre work, but who cared as long as he finished it on time? Jabbing away at the keys he often had to retrace the words to find where one sentence ended and another began -- let alone finding logic in the way he'd put them together. And then there was the matter of content, of course.

At four that afternoon he finished what he considered his first draft. He ate some leftovers and set an alarm clock. At nine he ate more and started editing his draft. Around midnight he finished his second draft and immediately started hunting for mistakes. At 4 a.m. he sent it all to the office and fell asleep without setting the alarm. He was too tired to feel his burnt skin or heed the nagging voices in his head. At three minutes to eleven he was woken up by a phone call from the office. He told the department's secretary that he was on his way. When he arrived, he went straight to his boss's office. The man rose from behind his desk and hugged him, slamming his burnt shoulder into a screaming riot of pain.

"Now take the day off," the man boomed. "You look like burnt shit. Where did you write your stuff anyway? On the beach?"

He went home by way of the pharmacy, buying bags full of creams and oils to sooth his sunburn. While there he got himself a load of aspirin too. His head throbbed, he felt hot and his mind seemed to roll around in huge cotton balls -- sure signs of a blooming fever.

At his flat he took a long shower. He then lathered his body from head to toe and sat in the cool breeze of his balcony -- only wearing a boxer short. That was when the suppressed demons stormed his crumbling castle. They screamed 'liar, liar' at the top of their voices, flapping about on gushes of feverish winds.

He might have been dizzy from sunburn and exhaustion that afternoon, and he might be now, but he remembered he had lied and lied again. He'd lied that he hated what she did to him and he'd lied that he never lied. He had not dared lie that he hated her. He was certain he hadn't lied about that, even if most memories were still hazy.

Lying as such wasn't a big thing to him; as with most people his days were speckled with what he considered white lies -- like telling he didn't mind when someone stepped on his toes; or like telling he was in a traffic jam when late; or telling a woman her new hair color looked great. But Saturday he had lied about important things, maybe the one important thing in his life. He had lied about his true feelings to a woman he adored and whose attention he craved. He had lied to her just to save his job and ingratiate himself with a fat, crude bigot he despised. Why had he done that? Who was he? What was left of him?

The 'why' wasn't hard to answer. He'd always considered himself to be a spineless worm, avoiding risks, and scared of the unknown. But he'd thought he was at least loyal to the ones he adored; that he was reliable, especially to the very few people who took the time to notice him.

Now he had betrayed this one unique woman who'd allowed him to be around her, even to serve her, making a secret dream come true -- the woman who hadn't laughed at his idiosyncrasies. She had exposed him in public. She had used him as an object. She had tortured him into unconsciousness, and she had done it all because she thought it was what he wanted. And it was. He'd craved every second of it -- the cooking, the serving, even her capricious cruelty. He had shivered through pain and fear, he'd been scared shitless, but looking back he knew he'd thrived on even that. And then he had denied it all while looking her straight in the eyes. He'd lied and he'd betrayed her.




Prisoner Ch. 03



Chapter Three.

The next days were like rudderless ships. He went to work and did what was needed, but there was no passion, no interest. The comments on his peeling nose and burnt ear-rims died down and everything seemed back to normal -- ah well, except for him, of course. He knew he'd been changed and he didn't think he'd ever change back.

On the morning of one more day promising drudge and misery, he sat at his kitchen counter -- thinking. He should have been at the office for at least two hours by then, but wasn't able to move. The woman had forced him to confess out loud why he made his trip to the mall -- that he'd done it because he had to, not because she told him. Admitting something like that to yourself can be hard, but saying it out loud is something else altogether. It had taken a lot of courage to expose the truth; he'd had to dig it up from deep and scary places. Admitting it out loud had opened long-forgotten windows -- windows that had been locked shut with nails of shame for as long as he could remember. They'd been hammered close by the repeated violence and ridicule of his classmates, friends and family.

Through the years the hinges had rusted and the panes had blackened with dust and cobwebs, hiding a view he could hardly remember. Miss A had led him down to them -- ah, she'd pummeled and slapped him to return to this place of pain and humiliation. But, like in the saying of horses and water, she could lead him there, but she couldn't make him open the windows. No one can do that for you. You have to do it yourself. And he did.

He broke panes and hinges, disturbing dust and scurrying insects. But then, after letting the rush of fresh air in, he hadn't known how to go on. He'd stood in front of the open passage, still shuddering from the sheer audacity of his actions. He felt the long-forgotten wind blow, smelling a freedom that gave him goose bumps all over. He drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. But he dragged his feet, afraid to make the final step and climb through the inviting rectangles. He needed time, he thought. Ah, no -- he needed courage; he needed help.

Picking up his phone he called the office telling the editor's secretary that he wouldn't be in for the rest of the week. She protested that he should take it up with his boss. He just said she should do it and hung up.

A huge weight fell off his shoulders.

He went to his bedroom and packed a bag. On top of his clothes he put the pink apron. His fingers carefully straightened a few wrinkles. Then he filled a cool box with whatever he found in his fridge, closed his flat and went to his car. He drove to his favorite market, buying fresh fish, vegetables, meat and wine. Twenty minutes later he parked outside the ornate gate of the mansion. Walking through it and into the secluded court brought back a wave of memories.

It is true that locations burn themselves into the memories of painters and photographers after having worked there. They usually remember every detail, every wall and corner, the slant of light and every stone and crack in the pavement. André now knew that being forced to sit in the sun for hours had the same effect. Returning to the place was like meeting old acquaintances, intimate friends: a cracked flower pot, a garden hose, the gnarled skeleton of a dead vine hugging the top of a crumbling wall -- and the scents, of course, the acrid smell of dust, the subtle sweetness of sunbaked herbs. And he remembered sounds -- buzzing flies, far away birds, the lazy wind rustling through the leaves of an ancient oak. Everything came rushing back, overwhelming him until he sank to his knees. He knew this house would never be the same again, just as he wouldn't. It had swallowed him, making him part of it -- a room, a chair, a servant waiting for his mistress.

Neither he nor the house would ever be complete again unless his mistress came home. It was a truth that hit him like a hammer. His hands searched nervously for his phone. He pushed her number with shaking fingers. Waiting for her to pick up became agony. Her hello shook him. It sounded annoyed and was embedded in a background of blaring music.

"It is me, Miss -- André," he mumbled, wondering if his voice would be audible over the music and the beating of his racing heart. "I hope I don't disturb."

"Who?" Her voice was a razorblade.

"André..."

"Do I know an André?" she said as if asking someone she was with. "Are you the damned hairdresser who almost ruined my last show?"

He felt devastated. Had she already forgotten him? He stuttered things to re-introduce him, feeling perfectly ridiculous.

"Ah, that André!" she cried out, laughing merrily.

"Yes, Miss," he answered. "I just wanted..." She cut him off.

"André," she said in a warmer tone. "You are calling me..." He exhaled his pent-up breath. She sounded sympathetic.

"Yes, Miss, I'm at the house, the mansion, and I just..." She once more cut into his words.

"Didn't I tell you?" she said, some of the ice returning.

"Eh," he wondered. "Tell me what, Miss?"

"You never call me, you hear? Never." And she hung up.

With the background music still booming in his head, he scrambled to his feet, a lost child on the brink of tears.

The afternoon crept by like a snail. He tried to speed it up by keeping busy. He stored away all he'd brought. Then he cleaned an already clean kitchen, dusted spotless furniture and mopped a shining floor. Finally he sank to his knees and hands on the exact spot where he had been chair to the woman he adored, imagining her squirming bottom rubbing the burnt skin off his back.

The sun sunk behind the walls; it would be dark soon. He didn't feel hungry; he just felt miserable. Then a car's claxon blared into the quiet evening, repeating its rude sound twice more before he was at the gate. A convertible BMW stood askance on the driveway. From it poured three women, obviously tipsy and very loud. One of them was Miss A, the others he'd never seen. From their appearance he'd call them girls. They wore short, colored cocktail dresses, except for Miss A, who stuck to her favorite black.

Earlier that evening they might have looked impeccable, but by now their hair was mussed, their mascara smudged and their lipstick smeared. They giggled, tottering on high heels and bumping into each other. One of the women held an open bottle of champagne.

Miss A reached the gate first. She looked drunk, but her voice had no slur and her eyes were as intense as ever.

"André," she said. "My darling chair, please meet my friends Marijke and Gigi." The first girl she pointed at seemed a natural red head. Her almost translucent skin was dusted with freckles that spread from her face down her throat and all over her chest -- of which she showed enough to know she hardly had breasts. She was tall and gangly, thin as a model and swaying on endless legs. Gigi on the other hand was petite, five feet and maybe a few inches if he subtracted her breakneck heels. Even for a Latin girl she looked dark, wearing her black hair in a crown of curls, while her body sported the curves of long gone Italian movie stars. Her face had a round and open look with generous lips that betrayed African ancestry. Her dress was red and smoothly tight -- he suspected it was all she wore. Between the three of them they scared the shit out of him.

"Andrécito!" Miss A cried out, rattling the gate. "Don't be a gawking statue. Let us in!"

Mixing their drinks he watched them walk about. The skinny redhead had kicked off her heels. She admired the horse paintings, making lewd comments about the potential size of their penises. Gigi, the petite one, had dropped onto the overstuffed settee, drinking from the neck of the champagne bottle. She didn't seem to mind what vista her spread thighs offered. She burped, then asked Miss A: "Is he in any way close to them?" Her accent was foreign; it had a buzzing singsong quality -- Portuguese maybe? Brazilian?

At first he had no idea what she might mean, until the black haired woman answered with a chuckle: "We'll know, honey, when he at last succeeds in getting it up." The redhead guffawed, turning in surprise. "You mean..?" she said.

André pretended not to hear, as it obviously wasn't directed at him. It seemed as if he was supposed to be a household utility; he was talked about, never talked to, and it suited him. He filled a tall glass with ice cubes, pouring a white Sancerre over it. He silently condemned the poor taste of the redhead that made him kill such a fine wine. Damn, he should have bought cheaper stuff too.

Miss A asked him for a finger of malt whisky, no ice, and his heart once again warmed to her. Not because she had asked him; she hadn't. She'd just stated her desire, but the 'no ice' had shown her good taste. He knew it was just a detail, but wasn't this all about details?

After he had served them their drinks, the three women talked to each other, excluding him. At times they were loud and stunningly rude, sometimes they whispered, interrupting themselves with bouts of laughter. The curvy girl, Gigi, twice glanced over at him and he knew he was the subject of their amusement. It caused blood to rise to his cheeks.

Miss A hadn't bothered to introduce him to her friends by more than his name. He'd never expected she would. He was a servant, a chair, wasn't he? How does one introduce a chair? His mind wandered off to the evening when she'd sat on him.

Reliving it seemed to paralyze his thoughts; he still didn't quite understand why it had had such a profound impact. There hadn't been sexual arousal. Even the initial humiliation had only sent a passing wave of heat up his body before he took on his expected role -- freezing, petrifying.

"André?"

His absentmindedness caused him to miss his name.

"Ah, he is totally withdrawn into his weird little world," Miss A said with a mocking lilt. The girls tittered.

"You see, Gigi," she went on. "He's so overwhelmed by us that he sometimes forgets his manners. André?" Her voice turned sharp when she repeated his name. It sent a shiver up his spine, pulling him out of his reverie.

"Yes, Miss?" he said, hearing a tremor in his voice. He also noticed the annoyed sigh in hers. He must have missed something. She turned away from him.

"Does he disappoint you as much as he does me?" she asked her two companions. He lifted his hand in protest, trying to explain his lack of attention, but she ignored him. He felt dejected. The girl Marijke shook her head.

"Ah, well," she said, shrugging. "I told you not to believe him. He's like all the other arrogant bastards, trying to fool us." He saw the petite, curvy girl nod vigorously. Miss A returned her eyes to him, looking him up and down, before addressing her friends again.

"It is so predictable," she said and sighed. "He tries to ingratiate himself with women, making us believe he adores our superiority, prepared to do anything for us. Lovely stories, but he's a trickster. Under all this would-be submissiveness he is as terribly a macho as the next one. Ah, worse: he's a fake!"

He stood frozen. His eyes went from her stony stare to the freckled face of the redhead until they rested on the mocking eyes of the Latin girl. He grew smaller, more insignificant by the second. He knew not one word of what she said was true, but her contempt made the last remnants of his ego vaporize. How could she think of him like this? She knew it wasn't true; he'd proven it. He loved her; he adored her. He'd shown he was nothing and she was everything. She knew, so why was she lying? What had he done wrong?

"He doesn't even know what he did wrong, now does he?" Miss A asked, her face showing mock pity. She re-crossed her legs, leaning back as she studied his face. The whisky glass hung from the blood-red tips of her fingers. "But the asshole is too arrogant to see his mistake. All he has to do is look at himself."

Almost physically hit by the vehemence of her words he let his eyes go down over his body, inspecting his spotless white shirt and khaki slacks, his leather boat shoes.

"Turn," the woman said, addressing him directly. "Turn around. What do you see?" He turned, studying what was behind him -- confused. Then he saw, and he understood. A rush of embarrassment flushed his face. His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, exposing his blistered shoulders as he pulled it off. His hands were already at his belt when the shirt hit the floor. He kicked off his shoes; then he pushed his slacks and shorts down in one movement, stepping out of them. He was naked, his lower body still concealed by the counter. He grabbed the frilly apron from its peg, donned it and tied the straps behind his back. He felt the frills tickle the hair on his skin. It made him feel more naked.

"Better," Miss A said in a friendly voice. "Now come over here and give us a little fashion show, honey." He stepped around the counter until he was in front of them.

"Doesn't he look so much lovelier?" she asked her friends. He blushed fiercely, his fingers fidgeting with the hem. He knew he looked ridiculous and saw it confirmed by the girls' faces and their peals of laughter.

"Now, girls, behave," Miss A said, keeping her face straight. "He is so brave."

The girl Gigi slid off her chair and sashayed up to him, the champagne bottle dangling from her fingers. Her coffee-colored breasts moved freely in the low cut-out of her dress. She was at least a head shorter, even in heels, but she easily intimidated him. Smiling she reached out. Her fingers caressed the flimsy fabric of the apron, one hand sliding between his chest and a strap. He felt a sharp pinch as she tweaked his nipple. He kept looking past her, his eyes on Miss A's face. Her other hand slipped below the apron, cupping his balls. It startled him. His lashes fluttered, but he kept watching the woman whose green eyes caught his over the rim of her glass. He knew now that she owned him; there was no escape left because he had stopped looking for one. He would never be free of her again because he'd given up looking for freedom. Freedom abhorred him. It had become a dark and fearsome place, an abyss, an alien concept. But the thought of commitment still shocked him -- the absoluteness of it. His mind spun. The hand found the limp shaft of his cock, squeezing it.

"You are right," Gigi said, addressing her friends. "He is quite sufficiently hung." She started rubbing, making the foreskin slip up and down his cock's head. He never looked down, lost in the sweet horror of his newfound truth. His penis did grow hot from the rubbing, but it stayed soft. Her other hand made his balls roll inside their sack. He closed his eyes.

From beyond the blood-warm darkness came Miss A's voice. His breath caught; her words were directed straight at him.

"You have to know, Andrécito, that it is a first class hand you feel right now." She chuckled softly. "And a very, very expensive one too." More laughter mixed in; the hand's squeeze intensified.

"Gigi is a whore you know," Miss A went on. "A high class pros-ti-tute." She mockingly emphasized the syllables. The hand suddenly jerked and Gigi cried out:

"No, I'm not! I am a traveling PA!" The other women laughed out loud. The hand gave two more painful jerks.

"All right, all right!" Miss A admitted. He opened his eyes and saw the two women in front of him nudging each other as they made fun of the Latin girl kneeling before him. "Let's say you're a successful businesswoman, sweet Gigi, hired by serious businessmen when they have their dull meetings on tropical islands and in boring far away cities like Vegas. Okay, honey, you are a respected career-woman, known in the upper circles of Corporaria; we all envy you!" They laughed again. Gigi shrugged and muttered. Then she returned to his dangling cock, pulling aside his apron and licking him from his balls up to the head. He shuddered, closing his eyes again.

He knew Miss A was playing a game. He was sure that she'd bragged with the girls that they wouldn't be able to get him hard, let alone orgasm. Maybe she'd even placed a bet. However humiliating it might be, he knew he couldn't let her down. She would punish him for it, he was certain. But that was only part of why he strained to stay soft. He feared his failure would rob him of Miss A's interest. He was sure she would leave him if he got hard. It would prove to her that he was just like all other men after all -- only in for a quick fuck and a mindless orgasm; another walking hormone-gland. It would disgust her. He realized he didn't want that; he didn't want to lose her. Just the thought was enough to send a bolt of fear down his genitals, paralyzing them.

"God..." The petite girl's gasp and her squeezing hand brought him back to reality. "He really doesn't seem to..." She let go of his cock to grab the apron and tear it aside. Her curly head dove between his thighs. He felt her hot wet mouth closing over his flesh inside a halo of tickling hair. His cock twitched from biological necessity, but he fought to keep it down and limp. His eyes flew open, looking for help only to fall straight into Miss A's emerald trap. She smiled and nodded. The wet sounds of Gigi's sucking mouth filled the room.

Then a cloud of red hair eclipsed the green eyes. The girl called Marijke crawled all over Miss A. He heard muffled moans and wet kisses. He didn't see where their hands were, but hems of dresses shirked up to waists, bare legs rose and bodies moved.

It was very erotic.

He closed his eyes yet again, but his mind added imagination to reality -- as did the sounds he heard. He knew he was losing his battle. The expert mouth stretched around his swelling limb like a hot wet glove, massaging it, strangling it. His cock's head slid up to the entrance of her throat. In panic he opened his eyes again, only to be met by another nightmare.

Miss A lay back in her leather club chair, both legs lifted and spread wide over the arm rests. Her black dress was pulled up to her breasts, her pale belly obscured by a riot of red hair that bobbed and moved. Her eyes were closed, her mouth hung open as she moaned. Entwined fingers pulled her lover's head tightly against her.

That was the moment he felt a flash of intense jealousy, a wild envy to be the redhead; to be the one kneeling and sucking at his mistress's glorious cunt lips, feeling her claws in his scalp, her juices on his tongue. He cried out his frustrations, throwing back his head and surrendering. His cock hardened at once. The girl plunged forward, making his pulsing head pass the incredible tightness of her throat's entrance. He was lost. He sobbed. His hips jerked forward as molten lead rushed painfully through the tight, long-neglected passages of his penis. He heard the girl's throat swallow; he felt her muscles tighten as load after aching load rushed towards her stomach. He keened his misery, tears streaming down his face.

Through a mist he saw the woman in the chair. She leant forward over the crouching body of her redhead lover, spent and limp. Her body glistened with perspiration, but her intensely green eyes were alive and burning. Their gaze jumped across the distance, engulfing him. It radiated a bottomless sadness that instantly replaced his elation with doom. His short-lived bliss was tainted with misery. He felt lost.

Falling to his knees, he sobbed.

***

His entire life had been riddled with questions. Questions about who he was and why he was who he was. Questions about gender, questions about rejection and belonging. Questions about questions...

As the first raindrops hit his face, he wondered if he still had a right to question. Of course that was a question in itself, proving he still had them anyway. But was he allowed to have them? And was it wrong to still need answers?




Prisoner Ch. 03



Rain chilled his naked skin. The first drops had been huge -- splashes of lukewarm water, hurled down amidst lightning and thunder. A massive downpour followed, drenching him within seconds. It filled up his mouth, flogging his face, and turning the dust around him into a sea of mud. He saw it gleam whenever new forks of lightning struck. He couldn't move, but that was all right; it would only have hurt more. Ropes strangled his upper arms, binding them together behind his bloodied back. The women had been amazingly efficient when they tied him up. They'd connected his wrists to his ankles, forcing him into a painful arch that exposed his chest, belly and crotch to the elements. His throat was collared, its leash tied to a tree.

He had welcomed the first rain; it had ended the stifling heat of the night. It had also washed away the stench. He wondered why he called it stench; maybe calling it that way might help increase his punishment? Maybe he should call the discomfort of the ropes 'pain' for the same reason -- the fiery welds on his back, the chill of the rain. Maybe yes. Perhaps he needed to emphasize his bodily pain to flush out the even greater pain he felt inside -- the pain of failure and betrayal.

Kneeling in the downpour he thought back to what happened at the house after his shameful ejaculation down the Latin girl's gullet.

Gigi had hugged him while he lay crying out his remorse. His body still glowed from the cursed orgasm, but his soul felt cold. His skin seemed alive, but his spirit was dead. The girl's lilting voice whispered soothing words into his ear. He could smell his sperm on her breath. What she said came straight from her professional repertoire. It was no doubt meant to tickle his ego, but he refused to believe her; refused even to hear her. His eyes were wide-open, but all he saw was an unfocussed mist. Then he felt a welcome pain in his side, followed by more jabs in his ribs and chest. A shrill voice overrode the comforting lisps of the girl. It also cleared his muddled mind and stopped his sobbing. He crawled forward, embracing the heeled feet in front of him -- kissing them, drooling on them. He moaned inaudible 'sorry's.' His hands caressed slim ankles and calves while he squeezed his eyes shut, excluding the world in a childish attempt at invisibility.

"You damn piece of shit!" Miss A panted. "You were all bravado, big words and promises and now look! One trivial test and you make me the laughing stock of my friends, putting my trust to shame. But I won't have it. You'll pay for this, you hear? I'll make you wish you were never born!"

The words tumbled through his head, disjointed, but clear. They were meant to hurt him, and they did; they were salt in his self-inflicted wounds -- a pain he needed, and welcomed. They also were a last straw; a sign that she might not dump him like the betraying filth he was.

"Please hurt me, mistress," he mumbled. "Hurt me and take this pain away." A hand slapped his head. A foot wrenched itself free to kick his face. He rolled over like a dog, exposing his belly.

"Please, mistress," he repeated. "Please save me; don't abandon me."

"Mistress?" The anger had left the voice, replaced by ice-cold indifference. "Who is your mistress? I am not. I never was and never will be. I told you I don't do men; certainly not the blubbering caricature of a man that you are."

"Don't give up on me, Miss," he begged, curling his naked body like a fetus around the silly apron. "Please teach me; hurt me," he cried into the pink nylon. "Punish me, make me suffer, but don't send me away. Don't send me away."

He heard the girls' voices in the background. They sounded soft and friendly, as if pleading for him. To his surprise their sympathy irritated him; it felt as if they were out to rob him of his punishment. How could he prove his true sincerity if he were forgiven? How could he ever serve again if his betrayal wasn't taken seriously? Then he heard what they really said.

"Give him to me first, A," the redhead said," before you kick him out."

"Me! Me," Gigi's voice cried out like a little girl begging for attention. "Let me fuck him, please, before you kill him."

Kill him?

The word plunged his heart in ice water, chilling his body around it. She wouldn't, would she? But if so, would that be a bad thing, he wondered, to put an end to this excruciating misery? To be killed and done with. Really? He didn't know anymore; he was too confused. He should care, he knew, but did he? Did she?

A hand grabbed his chin, pulling his face up. Her eyes flashed from under ink-black bangs.

"Traitor," her blood-red lips said. He heard his breath turn into moaning. Then another hand yanked his head up by the hair. It pulled him up painfully and dragged his body across the tiled floor until his face bumped into an exposed, shaven cunt. He never resisted.

"Eat her out, you loser," Miss A's voice hissed, smashing his face into the bare, freckled flesh. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue over the damp slit, before dashing it inside.

The hole was tight and hot; strong muscles massaged his tongue as he tried to go in as deep as he could. He started to fuck the vagina, rubbing his nose over a swollen clitoris. He felt fingers claw into the skin of his skull, encouraging his movements. Soon the outer world was gone, images as well as sounds, to be replaced by moist heat and the labor of his breath. Thoughts departed; all he became was a tongue and sucking lips, nibbling teeth, nothing more. Female scent overwhelmed him; he drowned in it -- it was all he'd ever dreamt of.

Then he felt hands on his buttocks; soft, small hands. They grabbed his flesh, pulling his cheeks apart. Long nails scratched his skin. Instinctively he shied away, but the hands were stronger than they seemed. A fat, blunt object grazed the insides of his cheeks. It felt slippery, greasy. Its head bumped into the tender flesh until it rested against his anus. He tried to cry out and pull his face from its sweaty cradle, but the hands around his skull forced him back in. Thighs closed around his ears like a vice. All he could do was gasp for air, as the object entered his asshole.

It hurt. The thing was lubricated but thick. It stretched him; the pain got intense. The pressure didn't subside; it only grew. Would they tear him up, maim him for life? Should he protest -- could he? He tried to yield to the pressure, but the hands kept him in check. He knew he was strong enough to shake them both off; why didn't he?

"Relax," a voice breathed. "Push back; embrace the pain." It was Miss A's voice. There was warmth in it, sympathy. He sobbed as he felt his muscles relax. The dildo rushed in until the strap-on's harness pressed into him. He cried out in pain. His bowels were so full they might burst. Soft hands massaged his belly. Something even softer touched his spine -- lips?

"Good boy." Miss A's voice whispered, muffled by the clenching thighs; he felt her breath on his skin. The claws in his skull intensified their grip. His tongue cramped from keeping it stiff while fucking the humping vagina. Then the dildo moved again, making him feel even fuller.

"Push back, honey," the voice said, followed by another kiss. He tried to obey, pushing back when the dildo went up his bowels, lurching forward when the redhead bumped into his stiffened tongue. They slid into a hypnotizing rhythm. The hands on his belly started kneading. The pain inside was replaced by slow-spreading warmth.

He'd never considered himself bisexual; cocks, especially his own, had no great attraction. He'd been called a faggot, a homo and every other homosexually tinted term in the big Book of Puberty, but he'd always known he wasn't. He'd never even had a finger in there, let alone a brutally fat dildo.

The feeling was new; he had no notion at all about its origin or even its nature. The warmth spread to his balls and penis, but there was no arousal, no stiffening. There was excitement though -- an exhilarated feeling that didn't seem to be connected to any physical stimulation. He knew what it was; it was what it always had been -- the warm, sweet rush of belonging, of being accepted. Women were using him, mighty, distant, glorious women. He was serving two women at the instruction of a third. They turned him into a thing, an object. It made his heart race.

The first blow was like white-hot fire. It ran from his left sunburnt shoulder, over his spine to his right side. The second one was an inch lower and parallel to the first. The fucking never stopped while a rain of lashes landed on his still tender back, first in parallels, then crisscrossing. Strong white thighs plugged his ears, so he couldn't hear the swishing of the whip. Each strike came unexpected. He also couldn't cry out as his mouth was filled with humping flesh. The pain drowned out every other sensation, even the rape of his asshole. When the flogging finally stopped, his entire back was on fire.

Being hooked by the dildo might be the only reason he didn't crumble to the floor.

The fat intruder picked up its speed after the punishment was over. He tried to keep up with it, encouraged by the woman who'd whipped him. He felt himself being pummeled back and forth between the two girls, while cruel fingernails traced the rising welds on his back. A cloak of dizziness descended upon him, pushing back the pain. He lived in a hothouse of steamy flesh where the girls' excited cries became the twittering of exotic birds. As sweat poured from his skin and the redhead's vagina robbed him of his breath, his mind escaped to a tropical forest full of spotted predators and slithering snakes. When at last the pounding stopped, his female usurpers overwhelmed him -- crushing his ruined body under their spent flesh.

His spirit calmly slipped away into pinkish Nirwana.

There was no way to tell how long he'd stayed unconscious. When he came to, all three women were in robes, their hair wet and their skin pink from recent showering. He himself lay on his belly on a sofa, a large towel between him and the leather cushions.

"Welcome back, loser," Miss A said when she noticed his return. Her voice was friendly and she smiled. "Bring him some water will you please, Gigi? He must be parched."

The cool water was heaven; he sat up on an elbow and emptied the glass in one huge draught.

"Thank you, Miss," he murmured. She just shrugged. In the silence he heard far away thunder. The long-expected thunderstorm to end days of tropical heat must at last be brewing on the horizon.

"Hear that, loser?" Miss A asked. "There will be a lot of rain and thunder soon." He wondered why she told him; he'd never heard her use chitchat before. She rose, walking over to him and getting down on her haunches. She smelled sweet. He winced when her fingers touched his ruined back, but there was hardly pain. The skin felt cool and her fingertips seemed to slither in cream. They must have treated his wounds.

"Did it hurt?" she asked, her voice soft and close.

"Yes," he said.

"Good," she sighed. "You deserved it."

"Yes," he agreed. She smiled.

"I have a nice treat for you, André." He looked up. Nice?

"I bet you'd love to feel the rain on your poor burnt skin," she went on. What was she planning? She turned away from him and rose, clapping her hands.

"Marijke," she cried out, "the ropes, please. And Gigi, go find the collar."

She had closed the collar around his throat and clicked the leash to it. He'd risen from the couch and meekly followed her outside. He noticed that the silly apron was gone; he was naked. The grit of the court attacked his bare feet.

They had efficiently tied his body into an arch. He had an open view to the west, where ink-black clouds were gathering. Ghostly lightning danced on the horizon, followed by far away rumbling. It was still stiflingly hot, even this late in the evening.

Marijke took off her robe, the pale flesh of her thin body clear against the sky. Her face carried a smirk.

"I guess he'll be glad the rain will come soon," she said. Stepping forward, she spread her legs until she stood astride his straining body. She took two more steps until she was right over his face; then she let go of her bladder. A stream of hot piss landed on his face and throat, hitting his eyes and nose. The girl started moving her hips and the stream travelled across his chest, splashing and gurgling down his exposed belly. She must have drunk a lot, for when she returned from as far as his knees, she had enough left to splatter his face again.

When the last few drops had fallen from her pale vagina lips, she lifted her left leg and turned away, only to expose the smaller girl, Gigi. She stepped up like the redhead had done and opened her bladder to piss on his face. She didn't allow a stream to splash on him, though. Being much shorter, she was closer to his face. When the first stream hit, she lowered herself and started smearing her gushing vagina over his face, his throat and his chest. She sang a sweet little Brazilian song with it, spreading the moisture with her hands.

She smelled stronger than Marijke had. But her bladder must be smaller, as she had to stop after reaching his crotch. Leaning on his already straining thighs, she started massaging her urine into his genitals. Then she rose and walked away.

Had he expected Miss A to be the next? And was he relieved when she obviously declined -- or was he disappointed? She stood in front of him, looking down with an amused smile.

"Well, anyway," she said. "More refreshments on the way. Have a wonderful night, André. Come, girls, let's get in; it looks like rain."

The last thing he heard, against a background of rising wind and rumbling thunder, were their voices laughing.

***

He must have fallen asleep nevertheless. When he woke up he wasn't tied into an arch and on his knees anymore, nor was his throat collared and tied. He lay on his belly in a swamp of soft mud. His back hurt and so did his asshole. Ah, well, most every muscle in his body ached.

The newly risen sun turned puddles into blue mirrors and made dangling raindrops sparkle like crystal jewelry. He raised his head. The sky was of the cleanest blue. The morning breeze caused a million goose bumps to rise on his body. He tried to get to his feet, groaning at every inch he rose. At last he stood, stretching his cramped limbs. He was naked. His entire front was caked with mud. Stumbling to the entrance of the house he followed the wall to keep his balance.

The door hung open. He walked in, looking around but finding no one. The kitchen and the connected living room were a shambles, strewn with bottles, glasses, towels and robes. One of the bedrooms was a ruin. Sheets were crumpled into knots, pillows lay everywhere. The mirrors in the en suite bathroom still dripped with condense; the bathtub was filled with dirty water. He saw the toilet hadn't been flushed.

A few 'anybody here's?' assured him the women had left. He grabbed one of the used towels and tied it around his hips. Then he walked out to the gate to find it open and their car gone. He returned to where he kept the keys; they were absent too.  

He started cleaning up the bathroom before taking a shower himself. Standing under the hot water he avoided his still painful back as much as possible. He carefully touched his anus. It seemed a bit swollen and tender, but there was no pain. Squatting a bit to have better access, embarrassment overtook him. He had allowed them to not only play with him, but to do so in the most humiliating way. Not one single moment had they considered him a human being and he had let them. No, he had reveled in it. And even if he didn't understand, there was no excuse.

The black haired woman had frog-marched him into a life of degradation. She had guessed every single one of his shameful fetishes, never asking him anything; just pushing. She had ridiculed him and allowed the girls to fuck him up his ass. Then she had flogged him until she drew blood, tied him up in a thunderstorm and had her girls piss all over him. He had never resisted.

Was this what he wanted? And if it were, would he ever be able to turn back again? Turn back to what? He sank to his knees under the cooling water. His life -- what exactly was his life, really? It was easy to think that he had a life to return to, but who was he fooling? Could one call years of looking over a fence, yearning for the life of others, a life? Had he ever been happy with what he had, what he was?

He knew it would be easy for him to reason away why he'd done what he did and go on with his life -- as far as he still had one. He could easily blame her. Or he could turn around and call it all a disgusting but harmless game. Would that be true? No, it wouldn't. It had been much more than that and he himself had wanted it. He had asked for it -- he, not she. No one might know that he'd asked for it, but he knew, didn't he?

Then again, he thought, later that morning after putting away the last spotlessly cleaned glasses -- he could stop whenever he wanted. He could deny it all. Couldn't he? There was no proof it ever happened -- no pictures, no witnesses beside the girls themselves. He could pick up his life again and every trace of what happened would be gone when the last bruise healed. They didn't even know where he lived, did they? They might tell people what happened, but why would they? Miss A was a wealthy woman; she surely didn't need to blackmail him out of his meager savings. And the girls -- who would believe a whore? And why would the redhead, being Miss A's personal assistant, reveal what her boss wouldn't?

When the house was clean again, the linen drying, he sat down, no longer able to deny what he'd become. He remembered, while cleaning the bathroom, how he'd slipped his hand into the dirty bath water to find the stop. He'd always been obsessed with cleanliness. Tremors touched his stomach as he felt the still tepid liquid crawl up his searching arm. His throat spasmed, but he didn't pull back, keeping his eyes fixed on the ring of dirt left behind as the water gurgled down the drain. He imagined what might be in the greasy residue and how it had gotten there. At last his fingers touched the dirty ring and he smelled them -- inhaling the sickly-sweet mixture of soap, bodily fluids and imagination. He slowly rubbed the grease into his skin.

Later on he flushed the forgotten secretions he found in the toilet, and his stomach rose again.

While vacuuming the living room he'd stumbled upon the riding crop Miss A had used on him. It was one of the house's antiquities and there was blood on it. He'd bent it and made swishing arches before cleaning it with a damp cloth. Just touching it, wielding it and smelling it made every individual weld on his back twitch. His skin crawled, his mind turned dizzy.

As the day crept on, the night before turned more and more unreal. Had he let himself be fucked with a strap-on, whipped by a woman and pissed on by girls? He knew he loved to please people and pamper them. He also knew he had this weakness with women -- well, okay, this fetish with women. But yesterday had been so much more. It had felt like... like slithering helplessly down a greased slide, rushing forward with his eyes wide open, seeing it all coming but unable to stop... unwilling to stop. It had felt... irrevocable. He'd been lost, but he hadn't seemed to mind. He closed his eyes, thinking back; he squeezed them tightly, creating a galaxy of colored pinpoints behind his eyelids. His hands tightened into fists. He forced his racing heart to calm down. He had to think. Think about who he was, and who he wasn't; about what he wanted and what not; about free will and obsession; about things he had no answer to. Then his cell phone rang. His eyes flew open. His head spun from the squeezing.




Prisoner Ch. 03



Her name was on the display. He studied the exotic array of letters, his thumb hesitating over the green button. The ringing went on and on until it stopped. He slumped back into his chair, realizing that he trembled -- adrenaline, no doubt. What was it about that woman? He'd never felt this... fear -- turmoil, disorientation? -- after just seeing a name. He knew he should be irritated by his response, even feel angry, but he didn't.

On his display appeared the symbol for receiving a text. It sent a wave of shame over him. He knew he'd made a mistake by refusing to pick up her call. It felt like ignoring her demand. He had disobeyed her and that brought tears to his eyes -- inexplicable and irritating tears. Bewildering emotions hit him and he knew he'd found the answer to his fruitless brooding. There was no need to fool himself about last night anymore -- no lies, no cover-ups. Maybe he was truly lost, but if he was he didn't care. He might be scared and confused, ashamed and humiliated, but he'd found a place he'd been looking for all his life.

'Call me,' was all the text said. He phoned and got Marijke. She didn't giggle or mock him; she was all business, asking him to please stay at his phone. The waiting felt like a spring slowly wound up tighter.

"André." Her voice was soft, but his name exploded into a pool of silence.

"Miss...," he answered, having to clear his throat.

"You are still at the house." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Miss," he said.

"Why?" The word hung between them; he had no idea how to answer it.

"Because, ehm..," he stalled. "Because I haven't left yet."

"Don't be smart with me, boy." She wasn't amused. He cursed himself.

"I, eh, I had to clean things up," he then offered.

"Don't bore me with that," she said. "Get naked and get a bottle of water; make that two." He swallowed, hesitating.

"Go!" she urged. "But stay on the phone."

He rose and took two liter-bottles of mineral water from the fridge. On his way he shed his robe.

"Got them?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss..."

"Are you naked?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Good. Now walk out onto the court." He did. The heat of the sun attacked his naked skin. The mud had mostly dried.

"I am outside, Miss," he said, feeling the ice-cold bottles chilling his arm and ribcage.

"Walk over to the ice cellar." He did. When he arrived, he waited. There were far-away noises on the phone, but no voice. He waited some more until he got anxious.

"I'm there," he said, but there was no answer. He still heard all kinds of noises and muffled voices. She must be busy. He waited in silence before repeating that he was there. Another minute went by; then she said, slightly out of breath:

"Are you there?"

"Yes, Miss," he confirmed.

"Well, don't be daft. Get inside." She sounded irritated. He opened the hatch. A gush of cool, stale air welcomed him. He stepped inside.

"Close the hatch." He hesitated. The contrast with the court's glaring sunlight made the darkness inside absolute. He'd never been afraid of the dark, but he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable if he'd close the hatch -- it was the only source of light.

"Did you close it?" He let the hatch fall, and yes, the sudden darkness felt as tight as a blindfold. After the heat outside, the chilly air made him shiver. His eyes seemed to accommodate, helped by the bluish shimmer of his cell phone. He held it in front of him and walked to the back wall, stooping slightly under the low ceiling. Cold threads of cobwebs brushed against his face.

"Are you in?"

He lowered himself until he sat with his back against the wall.

"Are you?" she repeated, impatiently.

"Yes, Miss; I'm in," he answered, his voice muted by the dead air.

"Good," she said. "Now kill your phone and wait."

"Wait for what?" he asked, his voice rising with anguish. "For how long? What will..?"

"Don't be a sissy," she interrupted. He heard a click and the connection went. He stared into the pale light at the center of his palm. If he shut the cell off, the light would go too. He'd be in utter darkness. The prospect was scary. What if he didn't shut it off? She had no way to know, had she?

He made the light's ghostly cone wander over the walls and the floor. There lay a small lump in a corner, a dead animal, maybe? A rat? Or just a rag, a piece of paper, plastic? The floor was smooth, no doubt because of the age-old layer of dust. There still must be footprints of their recent visit, he thought. The walls had the typical irregularity of poured concrete. There was a little box with a switch right next to the hatch, he saw now. He followed the plastic pipe that ran from it to the ceiling and then to the ceiling's center, where two loose electrical wires dangled down, wrapped in cobwebs.

He suddenly pressed the off-button of his cell phone and ink-black darkness rushed in, wrapping itself around him. His throat tightened. Notions of claustrophobia circled the periphery of his consciousness -- like an invisible pack of silent wolves. He felt exposed and vulnerable, holding on to the bottles and the small rectangle of his phone. Then a narrow crack of light materialized where the hatch almost touched the floor. Its intensity grew with the sensitivity of his eyes -- from a grayish chalk line to a weak source of light against the absolute blackness surrounding him. Air escaped his chest. He realized he'd held it in ever since the light of his cell phone had died.

'Wait,' she'd said. When was that now; an hour ago; two hours? The thin line of light was as weak as before. He tried to remember the position of the cellar door relative to the sun. It gave out on the north he supposed, which was logical for an ice cellar. The sun would never shine on it when it was the hottest. So, if the crack got brighter it would be late afternoon. After that the sun would go behind the wall and the buildings. The light would get weak again before disappearing with nightfall.  

He could have switched on his phone to know the time, but he didn't. He could have just walked out for that matter, but he didn't. He could have cursed, cried out 'fuck you!' and gone home -- but he didn't. He just sat in darkness behind an unlocked door, naked, enduring the growing chill of his body. He was careful not to drink too much -- she'd never said how long the waiting might take.

Was he a fool? No doubt.

The line of light grew more intense for a while and then rapidly died down to a gray, shadowy presence. Once in a while he had risen to a stooping position and walked around, taking his bottles with him out of fear of losing them. His muscles hurt and his feet were numb from the rising cold. He had pissed in the far corner and found out that the 'dead rat' was an empty bottle in a paper bag -- legacy of an alcoholic hobo? Once he'd even touched the hatch, lifting it maybe half an inch before letting it go again. He'd returned to what he called 'his' place, feeling guilty and wondering why. Finally he'd lain down on his side; maybe he'd even slept. When he looked again, the crack was as dark as its surroundings.

He must have slept longer this time. When he woke up there was a ghostly pale fissure at the hatch's bottom again. Very early morning, maybe, he thought. He felt stiff and cold -- hungry too. He tried to stretch and went to take a piss; he took two long draughts of water. One of the bottles was still full, the other felt half-empty. He took a third swig.

'Wait,' she'd said -- for what? She couldn't reach him on the phone. To read texted messages he'd have to turn it on, which he wasn't allowed to, he supposed. The only other way was for her to come by. The thought made his heart race. But she could just as well send someone else -- her chauffeur, Marijke or even a cab driver. But maybe she had no intention to honor his waiting at all. Perhaps she'd just wait and watch what he would do in, say, three of four days when he'd be starving. He felt sure it was another game he couldn't win. If starvation forced him out, she would punish him and make him feel worthless. She'd told him to wait and he hadn't. The thought of hearing her say that filled his shivering body with unexpected warmth.

Was he a weirdo? No doubt -- and an idiot too.

When the first bottle ran out, the crack of the hatch glowed with what he called its 'daylight-strength.' He was weak; his sugar level must be low. His head felt light. He had to take a leak. Already on his way to the fragrant corner he stopped in his tracks. He'd read stories about shipwrecks -- about people handling lack of water. Returning to 'his' place, he picked up the empty bottle. He took off the cap and pressed the head of his cock against the opening. The stream of urine was thin and a bit painful; there wasn't much. He recapped the bottle and shook it. He heard it slosh. Maybe one-fifth of a liter, he supposed -- less, probably. He shrugged. Let's hope I don't need it. Only afterwards did he realize he'd spoken the words out loud.

Was he becoming pathetic? Was the pope catholic?

The water was gone. He now had one empty bottle and one half-full. He didn't want to think of that second, still lukewarm bottle. He'd put it away at more than arm's length -- a symbolic gesture, no doubt. His hand ran over his jaw, feeling the already softening stubbles. Two missed shaves, he supposed -- three? It must be morning soon, the crack was gray. He felt apathetic; his mind was as weak as his body. His brain slowed down by the hour, needing more and more time to grasp the simplest thoughts.

When you start accepting the reduction of your life to a few square feet, no light, no food and only drops of water, impulses for action seem to dwindle. It felt like sleepwalking without the walking. One moment you stare at the hatch's crack, the next moment you shake yourself 'awake,' having no idea how much time passed. Not that he cared. His mind was hardly able to draw memories into focus of times before his stay in the cellar. There were a few from the here and now, like the sound of scurrying animals that had woken him up, when -- last night? Or another memory of waking up with a raging erection. It felt like the burning center of his otherwise numb body, sucking away all energy he still possessed.

One hand had been around the shaft, the other cupping his balls, feeling them slowly churn inside their sack. There was steely hardness and a glowing heat, but there was no feeling. Disgusted he dropped his hands at his sides. The pulsing went on until it stopped. In the darkness he reached for his cock once again, only to feel it shrink and soften. Relief flushed his mind.

Was he turning crazy -- or just raving mad? Did it matter?

Do you know when you start dying? Do you feel its numbness creep into your veins, paralyzing your mind? Probably not. You might not even be able to answer questions like that, simply because you couldn't shape any questions at all anymore.

André had emptied the last bottle, never minding the foul stench or the bitter taste. To be honest, he had liked the soothing effect the liquid had on his parched throat. It even cleared his mind long enough to allow the raw horror to rush in. A last bolt of energy made him stumble to his knees and crawl to the hatch. When he reached out and touched it however, everything turned black -- blacker even than his tiny world had been.

***

He didn't know where he was. Well, to be more precise: he doubted if he was at all. There was light, lots of it -- brutal, omnipresent light that hurt and caused him to close his eyes again. When he re-opened them, all he saw was whiteness, and all he felt was soft, cloudy fluffiness. There was buzzing too. First it seemed to come from all-around; then it was just in his head -- fluctuating like the ocean's surf. Finally, soft, sweet music entered the buzzing. Mozart, he thought -- violins, clarinets. He'd never liked Mozart much, but this was lovely. It made him float with a feeling of suspended weight. Had he died -- was that it? Were the condescending churchgoers right after all? But if so, how on earth could he have succeeded in getting in?

His fingertips started to explore his immediate surroundings, feeling the very real and earthy crispiness of freshly laundered cotton sheets. He inhaled the scent, before letting out a long, deep sigh. His muscles relaxed, every single one of them. And then he saw her.

She was a tan blur at first, absorbed by the white light streaming in -- it was sunlight filtered by gauzy curtains, he now knew. It burst in through tall and familiar windows. Quickly his eyes focused, and he saw that the blur was a she: a petite, olive colored woman/girl with a generous shock of black, wavy hair. He also saw she was naked -- and smiling. Her eyes were big and dark.

"Who," he croaked, coughing to clear his throat. "Who are you and where..." He had to cough again. The girl stepped closer, shaking her head, a finger to her lips.

"Not important," she said, straightening the sheet over his chest. "I am here for you. You must get strong again. Did you drink?" She reached over to get something from beyond the circle of his sight. Her small, round tits moved right over him with her gesture; the left nipple was pierced and adorned with a dangling jewel. Her smile was warm and genuine when her face returned; being naked in front of him didn't seem to embarrass her. She pushed the straw of a special water bottle against his lips. He took it in and sucked.

"No need to get up," she said. "This is easier." The water was cool and tasted heavenly. Her fingers brushed his hair away from his brow. He sank back into his pillow and was asleep before the straw left his mouth.

The woman nodded and left the room.

The sound of the bedroom's door must have woken him up, for when he opened his eyes, the girl/woman walked in, still naked. She carried a tray. The glassware and china on it jingled; the tray seemed heavy. She playfully exaggerated a sigh when she put it down on the bed. He saw a steaming bowl and slices of French bread. There was fruit too, freshly cut in a glass cup. A china mug held what looked like hot green tea. His stomach growled. It made her smile.

"New strength for you, Sir," she said, sounding submissive and flirty at once. She was sweet, he thought, but there might be a naughty sting hidden in her honey too.

"Thank you," he rasped with his unused voice. "May I know who my beautiful saving angel is?"

He knew he laid it on, but she seemed to invite it. She just smiled some more, before walking over, pulling his pillows up and patting them with her hands.

"Please sit up, Sir," she said, rearranging his sheet and blanket after he did so. Then she picked up the tray and put it in front of him, like a tiny table. His head spun from changing his position.

"Have a lovely breakfast," the woman said. "But take it slow; your stomach must get used to it again." Then she turned to leave, but he grabbed her wrist. It felt fragile. Her eyes widened at the contact; he saw a quick cloud pass, but there was less protest than puzzlement in her gaze.

"Who are you?" he asked again. "Did Miss A send you? Is she here too?" She slowly tried to work her wrist out of his clutch. She smiled and blushed, clearly struggling with a dilemma. She was upset with his questions and his touching, but just as obviously bound to please him. Bound? What a suggestive word; why did it occur to him?

"Are you her slave?" The word was out before he could stop it. It tasted exciting; the concept had always intrigued him. He read a lot about it, harboring the obvious fantasies. But this was different. This was for real, wasn't it? The woman blushed. Her pulpy lips worked, but there was no sound. He let go of her wrist. She at once took it in her other hand, rubbing. Then she turned and fled. He cursed himself.

The first spoon of chicken soup burnt his tongue.

Strength returned and boredom set in. He had to smile at the irony of feeling bored, after spending days and nights in a dark hole where nothing happened; or did it? Curiously enough he had no recollection of boredom at all. It felt more like making a journey, he thought, like travelling through a dark, static space, but travelling nonetheless. Maybe it was his memory squeezing his time there together, sifting out the gulfs of nothingness and enhancing whatever small things did happen. But mostly he remembered the slow, meticulous way his thoughts were dragged to the surface and molded into shape. Not that he remembered many of those thoughts; maybe not even one. But he remembered the process, appreciating how loneliness, darkness and silence forced him to pick up every tiny seed of an idea and turn it this way and that way to find either meaning or toss it away.

Now, back in the daylight, rested and reinforced by good food and fresh water, he felt his thinking accelerate and with it his impatience. No longer was he satisfied with being the only possible source of things to happen, things had to happen around him. He slid his legs from under the sheets, confirming that he was as naked as the girl had been. Miss A doesn't like her minions dressed, he thought, rubbing his thighs and calves before trusting them with his weight. He stood on shaking legs, walking over to the windows. Through the gauzy curtains he saw the court below, cut in half by shadow. It must be around three p.m. he now knew. The thought sent a smile to his lips. When he pushed his face against the glass, looking as far left as he could, he saw the hatch of the ice cellar. It looked... innocent.

"You want back in?" a voice said behind him.

He bumped his face against the window. The voice was Miss A's. He started turning around to see her.

"Don't," she said. "Keep looking outside." He obeyed, feeling his ears burn.

"Your back looks... interesting," the woman went on. He heard her heels click on the wooden floor; then he felt a finger tracing the diagonal bruises that were obviously still visible on his backside. He winced when she pulled off a last remaining flap of dead, burnt skin. It hurt where it was still attached to live flesh.

"You did well, André," she said. Her breath grazed his skin. Then her wet tongue licked the stinging spot. He shivered. She chuckled. "Ah, I gave you a compliment! Tuck it away in a save place, honey. Compliments like this will be rare and far between." Her hand caressed his shoulder blade and spine. He could feel she was standing very close now. Weakness attacked his knees. He grabbed the window frame to keep his balance.

"Thank you, Miss," he murmured, expecting a punishing response to his audacity. The hand stopped; then went on caressing.

"You met Licia," she said, changing the subject.

"Yes, Miss," he answered. "If that is her name."

"It used to be Alicia, to be entirely correct," she said, lowering her hand to his right ass cheek. "Her name seems to..." She hesitated. "It seems to lose letters with her progress." She chuckled, slapping his buttock.

"You have a hard ass, André," she said, checking out her assessment by kneading the flesh. "Don't tell me you work out."

"I... run, Miss," he admitted. "And I use my bike a lot."

"Whatever," she said dismissively slapping him before walking away. He heard the sound of her heels diminish; then the door closed. Was it save to turn around? Was it a trick?

He peeked over his shoulder. She'd gone.

He wondered if he'd be allowed to leave the bedroom. He looked in the closet for clothes or a robe, but it was empty. The house seemed deserted, but he knew there were many yards and thick walls between him and the living quarters. Then he heard voices from outside.

He rushed to the window and looked down. What he saw caught his breath. Miss A stood at the center of the court, dressed more aggressively than he'd ever seen her. She rose on endless boots, made of skin-tight black leather all the way from her towering heels to halfway up her thighs. There was no skirt he could see; long garters attached the black stockings inside her boots to her black leather corset, leaving her crotch pale and bare. The corset looked severe, nipping in her waist, while making her hips flare. Her breasts were exposed, but wrapped in a film of see-through black lace, allowing their paleness and her dark nipples to shine through. The lacy film didn't stop at her throat, but covered her arms, and her face like a veil, only leaving her heavily made up eyes free. Her hair was tucked into a black leather skullcap; it made her look even more severe -- an angel of death. What got to him most, however, was what pointed away from her stretched hand, straight into the mouth of the naked girl in front of her.




Prisoner Ch. 04



Chapter Four.

She'd left a clean house -- bedrooms, kitchen, and living room. She'd put everything in its proper place, the dishwasher filled with clean glassware and cups and plates, the dryer with clean laundry. He had no memory of her doing this; he must have fallen asleep after gushing down her throat, right there on the sofa. Or he must have fainted from sheer exhaustion when she finally squeezed the seed from his balls.

She was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Giving in had been catharsis; letting go left him empty, body and mind. With his come she must have sucked all energy from his limbs. "Little vampire," he thought. "Little selfish bitch." But he felt no bitterness -- yet. If anything, he felt guilty.

After emptying a liter-bottle of water he took a shower, first standing, then sitting under its steaming downpour. His thoughts were all over the place. He wondered why he should fear punishment for what he'd allowed Licia to do. Wasn't giving in to her only natural? What on earth could be wrong with it? Why feel guilty; Miss A wasn't even there. And why worry at all? Were there really consequences? He'd just ignore the woman. He would not return to her or consider her wishes when she called. He'd just say 'no,' as easy as that. Or even better: bye-bye, darling, too-de-fucking-loo. It would be as easy as that, wouldn't it?

But if it was, how had he arrived where he was now? And where was that? Why had he always done what the woman wanted, even if she wasn't around? And why was she always at the front of his mind whenever he tried to plan his future? Did he plan at all, or was he planned? And did he mind?

Yes, he did mind -- at least he thought so. He should sober up and return to what he had been before the woman walked into that editing room -- and into his life. But what had he been? Free, he gathered. He'd been free to shape his own life -- an unhappy one, maybe, but he'd been his own master. He nodded slowly as the water drummed on his head. 'His own master.' He chuckled.

Scrambling to his feet he turned the water to as hot as he could bear. Reality nagged at the fringes of his awareness. Of course he'd never been his own master. And to be honest -- was there even a point to return to? Reclaiming a former life would presume he had a former life. Did he?

He sighed and admitted that any change he'd make would mean a fundamental change, not a simple return to whatever former life. And even then it would be more like trying to kick an addiction -- it would capture his mind 24/7; he wouldn't be able to think of anything else. The sheer effort of changing would take so much energy that he wouldn't have anything left to actually shape a new life with. Maybe you start being a true alcoholic the moment you try to stop, he wondered. He grinned, turning the water even hotter.

Why was it so much easier not to fight the damn woman?

That evening he packed his things and returned to his apartment. Tomorrow would be Monday and he'd decided to go back to work. He wondered if there would be work to go back to. He'd taken his days off right before the closing of a monthly magazine he was supposed to do the culinary segment for.

No, he thought, they wouldn't be happy at all.

He lay in bed, failing to read the book he held open in front of him. What if he was fired? He'd have to find another job. If there were other jobs in his field, he'd have to move. But if he stayed, unemployed, he'd lose his flat anyway. He might go freelance; many of his colleagues did. But wasn't that the exact problem: too many other freelancers?

Right then he was hit by... let's call it an insight -- a peculiar sensation that stirs your adrenalin and flushes out all nagging details. It gives you a much wider view of... of... everything. Later on it will make you say that you were lifted to a higher level -- a level where new and stimulating questions entered your mind.

Questions like: why do I need a job? What do I like about it anyway -- it only usurps all my time and makes me worry constantly. What do I care about this damn apartment? Does it make me feel less alone, less miserable? Why should I care when nobody does? Other questions followed -- questions that started to more and more look like answers. Why would he want to be this pitiful struggler? Why hold on to something he didn't even know he wanted? Why be his own master if the whole concept made him laugh -- or cry?

And right before his swirling mind fell prey to the blissful darkness of sleep, there was this last, almost shapeless question: why resist?

"You fucked up this time." The man's face was as pale as unbaked dough. André nodded.

"Why?" the editor-in-chief asked. "You knew about LifeStyle closing." It was the monthly he'd missed the deadline for. "You just gave a flippant phone call and let us down."

"Personal reasons," André said. Color touched his boss's face, but the man's voice kept calm.

"Could you be more specific, please?" he asked. "Mother died? Wife ran off? Ah yes, you don't have either, sorry." His try at sarcasm floundered.

"No," André said. "Now are you going to fire me?"

The huge man across the desk blinked. The sudden challenge made him hesitate long enough for André to know he wouldn't be fired. It also told him his professional life would be worse these coming months because of it, years maybe, and that there would be no significant raise in the foreseeable future.

"No," the man said. "I won't fire you this time. But you have to know..."

"Okay," André interrupted him. "In that case I quit." He rose. Consternation widened the man's eyes. He rose too, hands raised.

"Don't be rash," he said. "Jobs are scarce." André didn't respond. He turned and went for the door.

"Think about it," his boss called after him. He closed the door.

Sitting down behind his desk the delayed effect of his decision caught up with him, leaving him trembling. He had done it. He'd cut off the way back -- one bridge down, more to follow. He'd write his resignation, gather his stuff, take his last check and free days, and leave. But first he'd call.

"Hello?" Her voice was clear; no pounding music this time, no background voices.

"It's me, André," he said. There was silence.

"I am sorry," he added after a while. Hearing her voice had caused a tremor in his. Sweat coated his palms.

"Stuff your sorry's," she finally replied. "You disappointed me again, boy. You know that. Why couldn't you be stronger?" His shoulders sagged.

"I.., he said. "I pitied the girl." Another silence dragged on. It made him doubt his answer.

"Oh, honey," Miss A replied with a sigh. "Why should I even be talking to you? First you disappoint me and now you lie."

"But I really did!" he cried out, trying to drown his doubts in volume. "She begged me. She said you'd punish her if..."

"André!" Her voice cut through his like a knife. He fell silent.

"Don't try to shift the blame on the girl; it doesn't become you." Her voice's sadness hit him worse than her anger might have. "Admit it. You are like all men -- primitive apes led by primitive urges. Be honest, honey, you are just another animal that has to crush a girl with his pathetic ego, raping her, gagging her with your slimy pole. Oh, honey you so disappoint me."

He swallowed. Protest rose in his throat.

"No!" he insisted. "No. It wasn't like that at all!" Silence, then she said:

"Do you want me to hang up on you, boy? Is that what you want -- to lie to me and make me end this?"

"Oh, God, no Miss," he whispered, sudden fear robbing him of his voice. "No, no, please. I just quit my job..." He had no idea why he brought that up -- or how it connected to the subject; but he had to say it.

"You quit your job," she repeated. "And why would I need to know that?" She sounded utterly disinterested. Why had he told her indeed? To her it could mean anything. Maybe that he'd found a better job, or that he wanted to move, or... He had to be more specific.

"I want to be your slave," he blurted out. The deafening silence made him hold his breath. Then he heard a profound sigh.

"I told you before, André," she said. "I don't do men." He should have known she'd say that, and to be honest, he had. But to his amazement her refusal didn't matter.

"I know, Miss," he said, his voice steadier than it had ever been. "But I still want to."

"You are hopeless, honey."

"I know."

The silence didn't scare him. The longer it would last, the better it was. Miss A was a woman of quick and impulsive decisions; he knew that by now. The lengthening pause could only mean she was undecided, or even confused.

"Licia likes you," she finally said. "She agrees you are a weak nobody, but she likes you."

He let his pent-up breath go. He knew he'd won -- or at least that he hadn't lost. He'd succeeded in prying a minimal opening in her armor, a scratch on her steel.

"Maybe I could give you to her," she said, "as a pet."

He inhaled audibly. The woman chuckled. She must be amused by her solution.

"Be at this address," she went on, giving it to him. "Don't be later than seven o'clock."

Beeps signaled the end of the phone call.

***

It was a large neo-classical building. He'd seen it before, he'd even been inside a few times. It had quite a good restaurant and sometimes there were wine-tasting sessions, followed by visits to one of the several clubs inside. The ones he'd been to were pretty classy, but others, he'd heard, were more like strip-joints and brothels, catering to all tastes and persuasions. He could see how Miss A's business might connect to the place; he could also imagine how her hobbies did.

The entrance hall was large and finished with sumptuous slabs of marble. He walked over to the reception, 'manned' by a beautiful blonde.

"I have an appointment with Miss A," he said. "Where can I find her?" The girl hesitated.

"Just a moment," she said, picking up the phone. "Who can I say?" He gave her his first name. After a few whispered words she turned back to him.

"You may walk to the end of that corridor over there and take the staircase up. Then you walk down another corridor until you reach the elevator. Just push 'up' and it will take you there." He thanked and turned to follow her directions, when she said:

"Ehm, but I'm afraid you can't go like that, sir." Puzzled he turned back.

"But you said...," he began, lamely pointing to the advised corridor. She smiled.

"I mean, you can't go as you are, sir." He looked down his clothes. He did wear a jacket, but no tie.

"Uhm," he said helplessly. The smile of the girl got wider, almost embarrassing him.

"A tie?" he asked. She shook her head 'no.'

"Quite the opposite, I'm afraid," she said. He had the impression she chuckled. "Miss A likes her visitors to be as ehm, casual as possible."

He plucked at his jacket, raising his eyebrows. She nodded. He took it off, hesitating where to put it.

"At the wardrobe, sir," the blonde said, pointing out a counter at the other side of the hall. He walked over and handed his jacket to a redhead in a tight black uniform. She took his jacket, but didn't move to store it away. Instead she held out one hand, obviously waiting for more. When he didn't understand, her smile vanished.

"Your shirt, sir," she said, moving her fingers invitingly.

He turned around to look at the blonde. She stood smiling and nodding. There were two more people crossing the hall, a man and a woman.

"Oh, come on," he said, laughing incredulously. The girl handed him back his jacket.

"As you wish, sir," she said. "Have a nice evening." He stood with his jacket, not knowing what to do. Two women arrived at the counter to hand their coats to the redhead before walking to one of the corridors, one wearing a business suit, the other a flowery dress. What the fuck, he thought and followed them. A giant in uniform blocked his way.

"Sorry, sir," he rumbled. "I'm afraid you are not dressed properly.

"But I have an appointment," he objected. The man smiled patiently. They were all great at smiling, he thought.

"You can leave your clothes at the counter, sir. The girl will be happy to store them safely away for you until you leave."

He looked past the man into the corridor, then back to where he'd come from. It was obvious; he could only visit Miss A when he left his clothes at the wardrobe. He turned away, walking back to the exit. Standing outside he took a deep breath. He considered how far he'd come to end up where he was now -- the courtyard, the mall, the cellar, his job. He knew it would all have been for nothing if he gave up. Besides, why would he give up over this? He'd done worse, hadn't he? He remembered the silly apron in the mall -- the shop, the cash register, the street outside... Was this worse? This was a private club; to the girls it would be daily fare. He'd strip and run to the elevator, trusting things would be more private upstairs.

Clenching his jaws, he went back in. He ignored the smiling blonde who looked up from her desk, and walked strait to the wardrobe -- jacket in hand. After giving it to the redhead, he worked on the buttons of his shirt, pulling it from his pants. He kicked out his shoes before opening his belt and fly. He never looked around, afraid he might lose courage. Stepping out of his pants he became aware of a cool breeze caressing his bare legs. Bending, he pulled off his socks; then gave everything to the girl. She never moved, waiting and nodding with her enraging little smile.

He felt the heat rise as his fingers hooked into the band of his boxer shorts, pushing them down. He almost fell over when he pulled them off his feet. After throwing them on the counter he started to sprint away.

"Sir!" the girl called after him. "Your ticket, sir!" But he didn't stop. He kept running into the gloriously deserted corridor.

He'd never felt this exposed. As he ran he was aware of his penis and balls swinging freely. He just kept looking in front of him, watching out for the promised staircase. He took three steps at a time to reach the top as soon as possible. He passed two girls who looked at him, giggling. Then he reached the elevator, slamming the 'up' button. The waiting seemed endless. He didn't dare look back into the corridor, but he heard all kinds of giggles and chuckles -- then again, they might be figments of his imagination. He let go of a big sigh when the doors opened to an empty elevator. Inside, mirrors reflected his naked body from every perspective. Mercifully, the doors closed at once.

When they opened again he stepped into a smaller hallway. It had only one door that stood open with an inch-wide crack. It was a big door, set in a high, arched entrance. The rest of the wall had similarly arched reliefs, creating fake windows overgrown with stone ivy. He knew this style. It was Jugendstil, the highly decorative style of the early nineteen hundreds. He thought of Gustav Klimt, the Viennese painter who was tightly connected to the style. "Von Sacher-Masoch," he murmured, one of his favorite writers, also from the period, and also from Vienna. Masochism was named after him. How appropriate to think of him at this entrance -- and not at all accidentally.

He hesitated; then he raised his hand to knock on the wood panel. But before his knuckles landed the door opened wider.

"André!"

She was as naked as he, her darker skin sparkling with oil. Her black hair was a cascade of wavy curls. She smiled. He automatically mirrored it. Then she ran forward, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him open-mouthed. Her lithe frame curled against his in a full-body hug.

"Welcome," she gasped breathlessly when her mouth left his. "And thank you once more for what you did." She averted his eyes, blushing. He just stood, his arms dangling. After seconds of silence her enthusiasm turned into awkwardness.

"Please come in," she mumbled, stepping back. "Mistress awaits you." He stepped across the stone threshold onto a mosaic that covered the floor -- an intricate pattern of curly, dark green creepers around big black and white tiles. They felt cool under his bare feet. As he looked around, taking in the vaulted ceiling and the elegant columns, the girl cleared her throat. He turned towards her.

"I'm afraid you can't stay upright, André," she said.

She was still at the entrance, rising to tiptoes to lift a leather ring with a chain leash from a peg in the wall. A dog collar, he saw, feeling familiar sensations course through his veins. The girl held the collar in both hands, nodding. He understood and sank to his knees. The leather was thick but soft from use; it sported big steel studs. Stretching his neck to receive the collar made him shiver. Her nimble fingers closed the buckle. She pulled at the leash to make him fall to his hands. He was on all fours now.

"Mistress told me to call you Brynn," she said, her mouth close to his ear. "That is quite an honor, you know." He didn't know what to think. To be precise, he didn't know how to think. A dog? He was a dog now?

"Come, Brynn, darling," the girl said, pulling the leash. He crawled across the tiles, his knees and hands feeling their slick coolness. When they arrived at a second door she made him stop.

"One more thing," she said, getting a harness-like contraption from a lovely chiseled cupboard.

"Sit still, please," she murmured as she knelt in front of him. The jewel on her left nipple danced in front of his eyes. Then he saw a complex set of leather straps holding a large, black ball. As the straps went over his skull, he understood. He opened his mouth. She smiled.

"Good doggie," she said, pushing the leather ball between his jaws. They ached when she pulled at the straps until everything was tight. She patted his head. He didn't know whether to cry or laugh; he guessed wagging his non-existent tail might be appropriate.

He crawled past the threshold into the next room, following the girl. It was a large room, highly vaulted and with tall bay windows at one side, a huge fireplace on the other. Rays of the parting sun slanted through the glass, painting brass knobs and polished wood with warm orange hues. Miss A walked in from the huge glass door that led to what might be a terrace. She wore a dark red kimono-like robe -- silk he guessed. It was short and closed rather loosely.

"Ah," she said, clapping her hands. "You brought your new pet, Licia! You two make a great pair!"

He felt dizzy.

It was all so bizarre. He felt silly and yet shivered with anticipation. He was the pet of two women, dehumanized and voiceless. He saw Miss A walk over to him, crawling him behind his ear. He smelled her perfume.

"Did you already decide on a name, honey?" she asked. The girl went on her haunches next to him, wrapping both arms around his neck, kissing his cheek.

"Brynn of course, Mistress," she said. It seemed to have meaning for them as they both chuckled.

"Great name, darling," Miss A exclaimed. "I hope he can live up to it." They both laughed out loud. He felt ridiculous and left out. He was a dog now. It was one step up from being a chair, he supposed. He preferred being the chair, though.

As if on clue, Miss A told the girl to sit on him. He froze as he felt her naked flesh slide over his bare skin until she sat astride him. She felt moist and slippery, maybe the oil, maybe the arousal of her pussy. My God, was she light. The heat of her thighs and ass sank into his body, rendering his joints liquid. Her fingers clawed into his hair. Then he felt her heels slamming into his sides.

"Walk, doggie," she said. He walked, putting his right hand forward, followed by his left knee; then his left hand and his right knee. The floor felt pleasantly cool, the girl was a feather. She guided him with her hands and knees around the room, her heels prodding impatiently. "Go, doggie, go!" Bare ass cheeks humped, her crotch slid over his spine. Both women laughed, and Miss A clapped her hands to the rhythm of his progress.




Prisoner Ch. 04



When they arrived at the open door, Licia urged him to go outside. The terrace was large. Half of it lay in the sun. There were potted trees, a hammock and a set of rattan chairs around a low table. She made him circle the terrace twice. Then she slid off of him. He felt the evening breeze cool the wet spot she left. He just stood, not knowing what to do. His jaws started to hurt more intensely from the ball. Suddenly all went black. A velvet hood slid over his eyes; he was blindfolded -- standing on all fours he crouched in perfect darkness. Hands cupped his covered face.

"Now be my sweet doggie and wait," a soft voice whispered.

He waited in the evening sun, feeling its rays on his skin. He still waited when a cooler touch of shade replaced the sun's warm fingers. Then he waited some more as the fat red ball sank behind distant buildings. Not that he saw anything of that; he saw nothing, he could only hear. But hearing he did extremely well.

He heard the rustle of textiles, the plodding of naked feet and the screeching of moving furniture. Later on he heard the tingling of glasses and ice cubes. But above all he heard agitated whispers and fragments of conversation, laced with giggles and carefree laughter. He heard the wet sounds of kissing and licking; and finally there were gasps and moaning -- the high-pitched climax of female lovemaking.

He stood and listened, slowly turning into a statue -- a static receptacle of impressions. But inside his perfectly still frame a myriad of pent-up emotions boiled. All his life he had dreamt about being here, belonging to the secret inner circles of womanhood, listening in. By now his dream was close to becoming true, tantalizingly close. Being depraved of sight only enhanced the experience. Scents added to the sounds, building feverish images on the screen of his mind.

"Ah, look," Licia's voice said. "How touching -- he drools!"

Slightly moving a hand he felt a slick puddle on the tiles; saliva must be seeping from his helplessly stretched mouth.

"Bad boy! Don't touch!" He heard bare feet running towards him, and the quick breathing of the girl. Suddenly vision returned to him as she removed the hood. Her shaven pussy was right in front of him; it glistened and the lips seemed slightly swollen. Her fingers clawed into his hair and shook him violently.

"Bad, bad boy," she said. Her face replaced her crotch as she sank to her haunches. She frowned, studying him with her chocolate eyes. Then she suddenly smiled.

"Shall I remove his muzzle, Mistress?" she asked, calling out to be heard.

"Whatever you want, honey." Miss A's voice came from the inside. "He's your pet, isn't he?"

Busy fingers loosened the straps. She tried to pry the ball out, encouraging him to open his mouth wider, but he couldn't. Pain shot through the hinges of his jaws as she put pressure on it. He cried out when at last the dripping gag slipped past his teeth.

"Ah, poor boy," she crooned, kissing his brow as she pulled him against her soft chest. She massaged the sore joints. "Is this better?" She stepped back, her eyebrows raised with expectation. He worked his tortured jaw and nodded. Then he hung his head.

"Why don't you reward him, honey? Make him lick your cunt," the voice suggested from inside. "Dogs love pussies!"

The bout of laughter was loud and gleeful. The girl chuckled too. She pressed her face into his, holding his ears.

"Now would you like that, doggie?" she asked. "Lick the sweet pussy of your little mistress?" Without waiting for an answer she turned around in front of him and went down on all fours. Looking over her shoulder she smiled.

"Let's do it doggie style, doggie," she said as she sunk on her elbows, jutting out her tight ass. Her swollen pussy hung like a plum between her thighs.

"Come, doggie, doggie, lick, lick, lick," she chanted, sinking even further until she rested on the side of her head, her chest and shoulders. Her fingers grabbed her ass cheeks, spreading them. He came closer until his face was almost against her crotch. A pungent mixture of perfumed sweat and female come made his nostrils flare. "Lick me, Brynn," she coaxed, shoving her vagina backwards and into his face. "Make your little mistress happy." He heard the sound of heels approaching from behind. A hand rested on his bare ass cheek, rubbing in circles. He opened his mouth, bringing out his tongue. He shivered all over.

"He is so shy, honey cunt," Miss A's voice commented from right behind him. "Isn't that cute?" Suddenly a hand slapped his ass cheek hard, making his face bump into the girl. Licia giggled, gyrating her bare cunt lips over his tongue and nose. She started singing a vaguely familiar children's song. He started licking harder, his tongue dashing against her clitoris while his nose bumped into her anus. He groaned into the flesh when the invisible hand started raining slaps on his behind.

"Lick her, dog, lick her and make her come," Miss A told him over and over again.

The girl's singing voice became unsteady, breaking down in off key syllables as he licked on, now slipping a stiff tongue into her. She started fucking back until she came with a cry. The cunt lips squeezed around his tongue as the girl wildly humped his face. The slapping had stopped, but now a hand slipped between his legs, cupping his balls; then holding his penis.

"Limp, honey," Miss A informed. "It's amazing, but even licking your sweet little cunt doesn't arouse his gear. Isn't he just one ungrateful dog?" She slapped him again -- hard. "Bad, bad doggie!"

The pain and the overload of emotions made him crumble to the tiled floor -- exhausted by the relentless onslaught of slander and humiliation. It made him break down, sobbing so loud that he didn't hear the clucking of tongues or the chorus of mock compassion.

***

After leaving him on the terrace for maybe an hour, Licia came out, wearing a thin silvery shift. It streamed like liquid from her poking nipples to just below her crotch. She walked carefully on tall white whore-hooves, carrying two metal bowls.  

"Mistress takes me out tonight, doggie, so I have to leave you alone. Here," she said, bending low to put the bowl in front of him. "Food for my darling Brynn to keep him strong." She kissed his brow, chuckled and turned to leave, swaying her tight bum.

The food smelled delicious; there was beef teriyaki, stir-fried vegetables and rice in one bowl, fresh water in the other. He wondered what was expected of him. He decided they might not want him to use his hands. He also supposed they wouldn't return before the wee hours or even early morning. So after emptying the bowls, he took a blanket from the hammock, wrapped it around him and went to sleep on the bare floor in a corner of the terrace.

He assumed they wouldn't want him to sleep elsewhere.

The new sun didn't wake him, as the terrace was to the west and south. But the twittering birds did. He stretched the stiffness out of his joints, shivering from the cold that rose from below. First thing he noticed was the weight around his neck and the cold metal chain dangling down from it. The second thing he felt was an almost hurting fullness of his bladder.

He crawled towards the large doors, finding them closed. Looking around he saw the big tree pots. He pondered if they might be the next best solution. Was a dog allowed to piss against a tree? He groaned, not so much at the thought, but at having it at all. He played the dog to please the girl and her mistress -- that didn't make him one, did it? There was no reason to crawl around and act like a dog when they were not there -- so why did he?

He rose to his feet.

Shifting his center of gravity must have affected his bladder as he felt a sudden increase in pressure. A squirt of urine streaked his inner thigh before splashing on the tiles. It seemed to lessen the urgency for a minute, only to return with a vengeance. He cupped his genitals with both hands, pushing them against his crotch. It helped for another minute. He danced around with tightly closed thighs, looking hard at the closed door and the emptiness behind. The pauses between attacks became shorter and shorter, and when another squirt escaped, he ran to the first tree, releasing the stream of piss even before he arrived. It caused a dark line straight up the side of the terracotta pot. He didn't care. Pent-up air rushed from his lungs as the hot yellow liquid blasted into the dry earth. God, oh God, how incredibly good it felt.

"Wow," he heard from behind. "I thought we bought us a house-broken puppy, you dirty, dirty creature."

The voice was Miss A's. The words hit a nerve deep enough to trigger guilt and a strain of shame he hadn't felt since childhood. It was the shame of having been found out, and the guilt of being a bad, bad little boy. He didn't look back. Sinking to his knees, he slid forward in his own spilt piss. He covered both ears not to hear the accusing voice. It meant he also didn't hear the quick tattoo of heels approaching. He wasn't prepared for the hard push that forced his head forward into the soaked soil.

"That's what we do with bad puppies!" she cried out, rubbing his face in the stinking dirt. He gasped, inhaling a mixture of urine and dank, wet earth. It made him gag. It also broke him.

Crying like a baby he held on to the rim of the pot. Snot and tears mingled with the crust of wet earth on his face.

"I am sorry, Miss," he sobbed. "I am so sorry to have let you down." Miss A stood over him, arms folded under her breasts; the tip of one of her heeled mules tapped the floor.

"You are one sick puppy, you know, André?" she said, using his proper name in a soft and friendly voice. "You really have no self-respect. Look at you -- a grown man pissing on himself, wallowing in it and crying his eyes out. My God, I really don't know why I put up with you." Despite her harsh words, her tone was still gentle, like a mother, disappointed by her wayward son.

"Sit," she said. "Go down and don't move."

She went to a corner beside the potted plants and unrolled a coiled garden hose. After opening a faucet she aimed the wide nuzzle on the crouching man and watched the cold, hard stream hit him full on. He had to grab the big pot with both hands not to be blown away -- gasping from the cold and the sudden impact.

When she at last considered him clean, she watched him shiver for a while before throwing a blanket. He rubbed himself dry, then huddled in a corner of the terrace wall, staring at the floor. His mind was a shambles; there was no up or down anymore, no forward or backward. Wherever he went, doors seemed to slam shut, goading him towards the open windows he feared, but was unable to stay away from. He focused on the pattern of the tiled terrace-floor, amazed at how it resembled the maze of his mind. A mouse he was, running around -- a fumbling little creature being pushed and nudged towards its destiny.

Miss A walked over to one of the rattan chairs, sitting down and crossing her legs.

"Get over here, honey," she said, still friendly. "I guess we have to talk." He looked up; there was fear in his eyes. She smiled, nodding.

"Over here, darling," she said. "I hate having to shout."

He rose, clutching the wet blanket, and started walking over. She clucked her tongue and shook her head.

"No, no, noooo, darling. Who told you to walk?" He at once fell to his knees, crawling the last meters.

"Kneel with me, André," she said when he arrived. "Let's be all cozy and sweet on this lovely morning." He knelt, feeling aware of her closeness. Her hand rested on his head, fingers running through his wet hair. Then she pulled him closer and made him rest his chin on her knee. He groaned under his breath, eyes closed -- little mouse running.

"As far as I'm concerned, André," she started, "this might be the last time we have an adult conversation." He looked up at her. She smiled. It made him tremble.

"You see," she went on, "this thing we started went greatly out of hand. Its timing sucks and so does your gender." She stopped, but her nails kept scratching his skull. Her words gave him a sinking feeling.

"I...," he said, his voice croaking.

"No," she said. "Not yet, I haven't finished." Her hand left his hair to join the other in her lap. He suddenly felt alone.

"I told you at the start I don't do men," she resumed after a minute of silence that seemed like five. Birds had tried to fill the pause, and so had the city's awakening noises, but he hadn't noticed. He'd focused on her silence and waited for her voice.

"Now I don't think you are much of a man, thank God," she resumed. "But nevertheless you claim too much of my time, and at the moment I have none to spare." He swallowed, never letting go of her eyes -- he was a little bird blinded by the sun.

"You see, André," she said softly, her hand returning to caress his neck, "sweet little Licia is starting her Journey to become a slave. She has been begging me to make her my slave for months now. But, you see, a true slave girl must love me and I doubt if she does. I do, however, love her. I know that a mistress should never love her slave, and that it makes me weak where she's concerned. So I am not at all sure if I should take my chance with her." She smiled ruefully.

"But why am I telling you this?" She sat up straighter. "It is none of your business. Nothing concerning Licia and I really should be your business." Her hand was gone again; her eyes stared into the distance.

"But I need to be fair with you," she suddenly said, returning her focus on him. "At least this one last time." Last time? The phrasing chilled him. His skull echoed with the sound of slamming doors.

"Let me lay out your future for you, honey," she said. "At least, the future you'll have with me..." Her words stopped as her gaze drifted off to the house. Her eyes lighted up.

"Look who fell out of bed," she said. "Good morning, sleepy head." He turned his eyes to the house's entrance, seeing Licia in a white T-shirt wide enough to hang off her bare shoulder. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were sleepy. She stretched her body. It caused the shirt to expose her shaven crotch. He noticed that he felt annoyed with the girl for breaking up the moment alone he'd had with Miss A.

"Run over to me, honey," Miss A said, waving her closer. She pointed to the floor opposite from where he knelt. The girl ran to them on bare feet, her hair dancing as freely about her head as her titties did inside their loose cotton wrappings. She smiled, went to her knees and kissed Miss A's legs.

"Good morning, Mistress," she gushed, slightly panting. "I hope you slept well."

"I did, sweet honey cunt," the woman said, running her fingers through the unkempt riot of black hair. "But right now we have more important matters to discuss."

"Oh?" the girl said, looking up.

"For one thing: what on earth are we going to do with your naughty, incontinent puppy?" Miss A chuckled as Licia turned her eyes to the kneeling man, acknowledging him for the first time. He looked pale and nervous; the collar was like a black slash across his throat. Licia turned from him to her mistress and back.

"Today, honey tits, you start your Journey, remember?" Miss A went on. The girl nodded and smiled, embracing her mistress's legs tighter.

"I'm so excited," she said.

"So am I, darling," the woman agreed. "But it means we won't have much time for your new pet. I guess we'll have to get rid of him, but I'd hate to take him to the vet and have him put down." She chuckled at the girl's alarmed face.

"Don't worry, honey cunt, I'm not as cruel as that. Maybe we can tie him to a tree by the highway, what do you think?" She grinned while patting his head.

The girl pouted. She slid like a snake past the woman's legs and hugged his chilly body. Her warmth went straight to his core; her lips were soft and wet on his cheek's stubbles.

"Whatever you say, Mistress, but isn't there a way to keep him?" she begged. "He is soooo sweet." She hugged him tighter. Miss A seemed amused.

"Get on all fours, doggie," she said, clapping her hands. Licia let go of him and he got on hands and knees, trembling. The sun sent its first rays past the rooftops, but the terrace would still be in shadow for hours. It was really too cold to be naked.

"Do you see his cute, useless gear dangling, honey? Oooh, it's all shrunk and tiny; I bet he'll blame it on the cold," she said laughing. "Go and see if you can heat him up and get him going; seems you succeeded last time?" She chuckled, pushing the girl in his direction. She went down on her knees and crawled under him, reaching for his cock and balls. The fingers of her left hand disappeared in his thick bush of wiry hair, while the other hand closed around his limp shaft. She started squeezing and rubbing while uttering half-whispered encouragements:

"Mmmm, doggie... there's such a pitiful cock on my doggie... all shrunk and shriveled... will you grow for Licia? Mmmmm, yes... I know you can do it..." Miss A looked on, smiling.

"Use your mouth, honey cunt," she then said. "He'll grow in your lovely tight mouth, I'm sure."

André stood frozen, eyes closed. The warm hands and hotter mouth felt like heaven; they sent glorious ripples to every niche of his chilled body. Thoughts of fear and desire tumbled through his narrowing mind, bumping into walls and doors. What did she want, Miss A? What was he supposed to do? Get hard and come? Stay soft and be derided? Ah, God, little trapped mousey, where to go? What is up, what is down? Miss A had forbidden him to come and she'd never withdrawn that order. He'd disobeyed her last time; was this maybe his punishment? He moaned and sunk into madness -- running, running around in his shrinking world. Then his head was pulled up. Miss A's dark frown was right into his face.

"Don't you dare," she hissed, spitting a glob of saliva in his eyes. Her hand let go. He hung his head as relief washed through him -- word spoken, dilemma solved. All feeling left his genitals.

He heard heels click on the tiles, not daring to look. Miss A's legs moved along his side. He felt a warm hand on his left buttock.

"Maybe he needs more encouragement, honey tits," he heard her say. The sucking of his penis and the squeezing of his balls intensified, but even the slightest onset of arousal had gone completely by now. He groaned, knowing why. The mouse reached the end of the maze, its little heart pounding. It bathed in the glaring lights of the open window. Then he was torn back to reality, feeling a finger press against his tightly closed anus. His startled reaction caused the girl to stretch his scrotum painfully.

The finger was wet and slippery. There was no pain when it slid past his sphincter. Soon a second finger was added, stretching him further. A splash of hot saliva trickled down his crack. All his attention was by now focused on the prodding; he hardly felt the girl's mouth anymore.

"It seems your sucking is no good, honey," Miss A said. Licia responded with an annoyed sigh, letting go of his genitals. The cold morning breeze made them shrink even further.

"Bad doggie," the girl said, pummeling his ribs with her tiny fists. Miss A chuckled.

"Run inside," she said, "and get me number four, darling, if you please." He heard the bare feet run away. All the while the fingers prodded deeper, wriggling and spreading. A third one had been added. He felt incredibly full, but it wasn't hurtful like the dildo at the mansion had been. Once more he heard her mouth gather spittle, sending it down his crack. The fingers rubbed it in, smoothly. He moaned again. Then he leant into the intruders, making them go deeper.

"You like this, eh, doggie?" Miss A asked.

He didn't know, really. He didn't think anymore. Maybe he did like it, or maybe he just liked the illusion that she cared for him -- or at least that she gave him a bit of her attention. Was it an illusion? Of course it must be. He groaned louder, leaning in harder.




Prisoner Ch. 04



"You want me to fuck you, lil faggot?" Was he a faggot? No he thought not. Did he like being fucked down there? Yes, he guessed he did. But he'd just as soon have liked her to slap him or kiss him or use him for a chair. Maybe he'd prefer that -- being her chair, her servant to be used and ignored. All in all he didn't really care what she did to him as long as she allowed him to be around. He groaned yet again and started pushing back and forward. If she liked it, he'd provide. Tears leaked from his eyes, although he didn't feel miserable at all. New doors closed, but he never felt as free as he did right now. So many doors, and he didn't care; he retired inside, finding the light, the open window.

But once again reality plucked him away from its sill.

He heard the girl's rapid feet return. She was breathing hard.

"This one, Mistress?" she asked. The fingers left him. He felt empty, abandoned and wide open to the cold.

"Good girl," Miss A said. "Suck on it for a bit, will you?" He heard wet noises, the sounds of a mouth sucking hastily on a large object.

"Great," he heard. "Now look, honey." He felt a fat, blunt object push against his anus. He tried to turn his head and look, but a hand slapped his face away. Then it grabbed his hair and forced him to look forward. All he could do was wait, wonder, and fear. The object felt slick and slippery, but panic closed his sphincter.

"Push, doggie," Licia's mouth whispered in his ear. "Push like I did, the first time." Her arms were around his neck. The sweet softness of her embrace smothered him. "Push like you're on the toilet." He relaxed; then he pushed and the object slipped in. But the pressure didn't go, it only grew. The girth of the thing must be increasing.

"Push, doggie."

He moaned. The pain didn't relent. He pushed and there was even more stretching. Would she tear him? Did she care? Did he? Suddenly the pressure was gone; the thing was in. He felt his throbbing sphincter close around it. His arms gave; he fell forward into the girl's embrace. Two, three slaps stung his ass cheeks.

His world turned black.

Not much time seemed to have passed when he came to. He lay on his side, stretched out on soft cushions. He felt warm; he noticed a blanket around him. His ass felt heavy, filled to bursting. But there was no pain; there wasn't much of anything. He wondered if he'd dare to touch it.

He lifted his head and saw that he was in Miss A's apartment. Was he alone? There were no sounds, but he waited another minute before moving. His hand found a hard, round disc separating his ass cheeks right where his anus was. It was the flange of a plastic plug; he knew, having seen them on porn channels. He had been plugged. Why, he wondered. Was she preparing him? Or was it just another way to humiliate him? And did it matter?

Maybe it did; it might explain the future Miss A had in store for him -- if there was any future at all. He remembered what she'd said to the girl: having no more time for him; wanting to get rid of him.

He tried to sit up, wincing when his weight pressed on the blunt intruder. He rose to his feet, feeling weak. Huddling inside the blanket he crossed the floor in search of a bathroom. The blue-and-gold bedroom was breathtakingly beautiful with its floor-to-ceiling curtains, huge decorated mirrors and an endless expanse of soft carpeting. The bed was large, its coverings recently used, sheets lying in knots and whirls. There still hung a faint scent, a mixture of perfume and intimacy.

The bathroom was big too and done in cream and green colored marble. There was a large tub, sunk into the floor. The tiles were still wet and remains of condense tainted the mirrors. Towels and robes and lingerie lay everywhere; the air was humid, smelling of creams and lotions. He tiptoed his way through the debris, sighing gratefully when he could empty his bladder into the porcelain toilet. He made a point of doing it standing up, and when the first rush of urine missed the pot to splash on the floor, he shrugged. After finishing he just turned around and left.

The kitchen was small -- it was more of a pantry. He looked for coffee and found a good quality espresso machine with ready-to-use aluminum cups. He made himself a tall mug of very black coffee that he took to the room with the terrace-windows.

The sun had reached the outer edge by now, but he stayed inside, sitting in one of the bays, very aware of the plug. He hugged the hot mug in both hands. Should he leave? He mused on the stretches of corridors and stairs he'd have to brave again -- naked? Well, he had this blanket, but why brood on details? If he left, she'd never take him back. She had no time for him; she'd said so herself. She hates men -- ah, well, she doesn't like them. She gave him as a toy to the girl -- a doggie. Was this what he wanted? Did he want anything at all, really?

He blew on the coffee, relishing the aroma.

Yes, there were things he wanted; things he'd wanted all his life, even when he didn't find the words to express it. He wanted to belong. He wanted to get rid of his little-mouse life and get through the window into the light -- into the world of dominant women. They would use and abuse him, ridicule him. He would be their rug and their furniture, cleaning up behind them -- and just the thought of that made him tremble with... It was happiness, yes. Why deny it?

People wouldn't understand him. Friends would leave him. His family would turn their backs on him and he didn't care. The only thing he feared was Miss A sending him away. Too many doors had closed already, too many bridges burnt. Thinking he still had a choice was ridiculous. He belonged here, with the woman and the girl. And he would prove it.

He stood, feeling the heavy plug sink. He took the now empty mug to the pantry, rinsing it out and putting it into the dishwasher, together with the rest of the dirty breakfast things he found. Then he walked into the bedroom, taking off the used bedding, inhaling their scent deeply. There was a laundry room behind the pantry. He filled the machine and took fresh sheets and pillowcases from the shelves. Picking up the soiled nightgowns and lingerie from the bathroom's floor was like a small, exciting journey of the senses -- touching, smelling, tasting.

He cleaned the bathroom. Then he finally walked back to the terrace room. There was a heightened niche next to the fireplace. It was just big enough for him to fit in on all fours. He would show Miss A that he could be something she'd find nowhere else. He could be furniture for as long as she decided, standing around motionless -- always ready to be sat upon, always prepared to carry her body or anyone's body she chose. He'd be Chair even if she didn't order him to, and wait for her without moving -- without even the slightest move -- as long as it took.

When she returned she wouldn't know how long he'd waited. How slowly he'd turned into wood. It didn't matter that she wouldn't know: he'd know. It might take hours or even days, but he wouldn't move. He'd conquer famine and thirst; he'd conquer the urges of his bladder and bowels.

He'd turn into sturdy, grainy, bloodless wood for her.

***

The women returned around midnight. The tall chauffeur was with them, carrying the sleeping form of Licia. She was naked, her body smeared with dirt and crusting fluids. There were bruises everywhere and her hair hung down like a sticky rag.

When they passed the niche on their way to the bedroom -- and bathroom no doubt -- Miss A noticed the unfamiliar shape standing by the hearth. It was highlighted by a bluish full moon shining in through the tall windows. She did a double take and stopped. Approaching, she reached out. When she touched the shape, it crashed down, rolling on the floor until it came to a halt against her booted feet.

"André," she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. Lying on the floor he still held his stiff body as if on all fours. There was a faint smell of piss. She sank down on her haunches, her fingertips searching for a heartbeat at the side of his throat. She sighed with relief when a weak, deep throbbing told her he was alive.

"Silly boy," she muttered, rising and kicking him. "Stupid, crazy boy."

"Arnold!" she called out louder. The man returned at once.

"Pick him up, please and put him under a hot shower."

When he came to, he felt the hot water drum on his aching body. The water flogged him like fiery hailstones, bringing a pink blush to the skin. He was on all fours and when he tried to move, flashes of pain struck everywhere. He groaned, having to force the air through unused larynxes. He stretched, hearing his joints pop and creak. His back hurt like mad when he slowly, slowly started straightening it out. A familiar lump weighed down his anus.

How many hours had he been a chair? How late was it now? He had no idea. He only felt a numb satisfaction creep in, a crazy sense of fulfillment.

"You silly boy."

Miss A's voice came from behind clouds of steam. He saw her silhouette, and an even deeper sense of satisfaction flushed his mind -- he'd shown her what he was prepared to do for her. She had to know now; she'd understand.

"Get out and dry yourself," she said, holding up a huge towel. He took it from her and started rubbing his body, feeling a curious wave of prudish embarrassment.

When he was done, she handed him a big mug of steaming cocoa. He sipped and closed his eyes as the hot liquid seeped down his throat. There was a hint of rum.

"Sit down," she said, pointing at a low stool. He sat down, luxuriating in the glowing aftermath of his shower -- and of what he'd accomplished. After three or four more gulps of cocoa, she took the mug away from him, setting it on a counter. Then she turned suddenly and slapped his face hard, repeating the strike backhandedly. He almost fell off the stool, totally surprised by her violence.

"Who told you to almost die on me?" she asked, rubbing her hand. "Did I tell you to pull a stunt like that?"

"No, Miss," he mumbled, his fingertips touching the pink bruise on his right cheek. "I... I thought...," he went on, but she cut him off.

"Don't think," she said and sighed. "Just don't."

"No, Miss," he promised.

"Is he all right?"

It was Licia's voice from the tub. He only saw hints of her tanned body under a mountain of foam. She waved. Miss A ignored her question, keeping her eyes on him.

"So you tried to be cute," she went on. "You thought: I'll show her how great I am. I'll show her and she can't dump me. Was that what you thought?" He just sat, staring at the floor. She kicked him. She still wore her leather boots.

"Was that what you thought?" she repeated.

"Eh... I guess so," he said lamely. She grabbed his moist hair, pulling up his face.

"You tried to make me feel guilty about you, didn't you, boy? You wanted to blackmail me with guilt. Well, nobody makes me feel guilty!" She shook him by the hair. "Nobody!"

"No, Miss." His voice trembled with the shaking. She pushed his face down with disgust.

"Nobody," she once more repeated. She turned away and walked over to the girl. Then she stopped, looking back.

"Pick up your sore body and your cocoa and go sleep on the sofa. There will be blankets. Now go!"

He scurried away, wrapped in his towel. Last thing he heard was Licia's splashing.

***

"Wake up."

There was bright daylight; he must have slept late. She prodded through the blanket.

"Go piss and wash; then return here." He rose, at once aware of the plug and a new pressure behind it. "Leave the blanket," she added. He let it fall.

Licia was in the bathroom, brushing her hair in front of a mirror. She was stark naked as well. He hesitated, half-turning away. She giggled.

"Don't be shy," she said. "I've seen doggies piss before." Her big smile shone out of the mirror. He walked over to the toilet, directing the stream of his urine so it would make less sound. He closed his eyes. When he was finished, he opened them again, only to see the girl crouching next to the pot, looking up at his dripping penis.

"Do you shake it when you finish?" she asked. He felt a blush rise to his face. He'd involuntarily started the shaking.

"How often?" she asked, shamelessly reaching out to catch a drop. "Three times? More?"

He ignored her questions, walking over to the sink to wash his face and hands.

"Spoilsport," she said when he left.

"Sit." He sat down, opposite Miss A, very aware that he'd soon have to relieve the pressure in his bowels.

She wore a dark red robe; it fell open when she crossed her legs. A heeled slipper dangled from her foot. She sipped tea out of a glass, urging him with a shake of her head to take the second glass that stood on the low table. There were biscuits too. His stomach growled.

"Why didn't you just leave and go home, yesterday?" she asked. "I told you I don't have use for you, nor time or energy." He turned the hot glass in the palms of his hands.

"I have no home to go to anymore," he said and sipped.

"Bwwah!" she puffed, dismissingly. "Don't be a drama queen, you're too male for that. Go back to your flat and your job and your silly little life. Find a girl and fuck her with child. Be a daddy."

His tea was fresh mint tea. He looked down into the wad of soaking leaves, inhaling its aroma. Morocco. Then he raised his head, studying her face.

"You don't mean that," he said, surprised by his boldness. "You know me better than this."

To his relief she chuckled, then she laughed out loud.

"Now do I?" she asked, kicking her dangling foot. "Do I know you?"

"Yes," he said, emboldened by her lack of anger. "What you did to me these last weeks makes it impossible for me to return to my old life -- and you know it. You closed every door, burned every bridge behind me..." She frowned.

"I did?" she asked, putting more volume into her voice. "You say I did? Force you?" She rose and started walking. It stirred the air between them, sending a whiff of perfume his way.

"I did preciously little, honey," she said, walking over to the bay windows, looking out. "It was always you. You begged me. I warned you that we had no future, but you plodded on." She turned in his direction, her silhouette softened by the light behind her. He watched her breathlessly; then he cleared his throat.

"You are my destiny," he said. He knew it sounded pompous, but he also knew each syllable was the truth. Even Miss A's sarcastic laugh couldn't change that. She walked over to him and went down on her haunches, touching his knee.

"Sweet boy," she said, smiling, "you use such big, big words."

"They are the truth, Miss. And I have always known." He was amazed by his own calm. Miss A's smile died.

"You are serious, aren't you?" she said, caressing the hairy skin higher up his thigh now. He nodded. She sighed.

"Great; fucking great," she whispered. Then she rose again. "But I can't train you," she added. He looked up at her, totally relaxed. Even the pressure from the butt plug melted away.

She hadn't said 'no,' not really, had she?

"You don't have to train me," he said. "You don't have to do anything. You may ignore me and neglect me, as long as I'm allowed to be around you. I can be your servant, clean your house and make your food. I am a good cook and I can help you entertain your guests. I'll be your perfect eunuch -- more discreet than any deaf-and-dumb, blinder than the blindest bat. You may use me, abuse me and sit on me. You may lend me out to your friends to be used. You may kill me even, when you get tired of me. Let me stay, and I'll be anything you want me to be."

Starting out calm he noticed how his voice had gradually risen, and how his muscles had tightened. He imagined finally climbing on the narrow sill of his inner window, swaying on the balls of his feet. Behind him was nothing but darkness and closed doors. He had no idea what might be in front of him as the light dazzled his eyes. But he knew that he couldn't stay where he was, tottering between abysses. Miss A's response would decide which way he would go -- flying forward into the unknown, or falling backward into the quagmire of his miserable past.

(She didn't answer. She just stared, holding his eyes for minutes. He was wrong, she realized -- she had no idea where he was heading. She'd known Licia's destiny, even when the girl did everything to run away from it. With the boy she'd just stumbled forward -- or was it even forward? He was a man. He was foreign country. Obviously he had no clue that she'd never led him; she'd only followed, trusting whatever intuition she had. All she'd done was trying to get rid of him. She'd never thought he would return after being pissed on and left naked in a thunderstorm. She'd been genuinely amazed when the girl at the shop phoned her about his adventure at the mall. She'd felt undiluted horror when she found him unconscious in the ice cellar -- the hatch had been open all the time, for crying out loud. He could have left at any time. He also could have died. And now this latest stunt... no, she didn't know him at all. What the fuck did he want from her?

She certainly didn't want him.

She studied him closely, noticing the hope and the expectations building behind his eyes. She had to decide. Either way she'd be responsible. If she abandoned him, he'd fall to pieces, maybe kill him self. If she accepted him, she'd have to find time and energy to accompany him to his destiny. She wondered; did she care either way? Goddammit, she cursed under her breath, yes, she cared for the pathetic creature. At first she'd ventured into this awful mess just thinking it was drunken fun, but for him it never was. She'd been as responsible for what happened as he was, even if she'd had no clue and just wanted to shove the blame on him.

Oh, dammit, dammit.)

"So you apply for the job of eunuch in my harem?" she asked, making the sarcasm as clear as she could. He nodded. She sighed.

"Firstly," she said, "I don't have a harem. And secondly: you are no eunuch. Rise." He put down his tea and rose to his feet. She reached up for his balls, cupping them with her right hand, looking up.

"Eunuchs don't have these," she said, smiling. He nodded.

"Are you telling me that you want me to have you... castrated?" She hesitated at the last word. He nodded again.

"Say it," she said.

"If you want me castrated, it is all right with me." He was stunned by his own words, but he didn't waver. She squeezed her fingers tighter, feeling the balls roll inside their soft sack.

"No," she said. "No, that would be too easy." His eyes widened. Her other hand started caressing his limp penis.

"Too easy for you and me," she went on. "Anyone can buy a surgeon with a well-honed knife and a bottle of painkillers." She felt his flesh shrink in her hand. His balls retracted.

"You see, honey," she said, "I love to take risks with my girls. I like to dominate them totally, but they always must have a choice left. Knowing Licia might betray me again at any moment thrills me. It hurts me when she does, it breaks my heart, but I'd be bored to death if I brutally broke her spirit, just to be sure of her loyalty. Do you understand?" She looked up, searching for his eyes. He nodded.

"Having you... cut would also eliminate the risk, and the thrill. Your thrill mostly, of course, but I don't care very much about that. It would spoil the thrill for the girls and for me, and that would be unforgivable, wouldn't it?" She shrugged, once more squeezing his balls.

"I could have you locked in a chastity devise," she said, imitating a cage around his genitals with her fingers. "Less definite, less messy. But that would be too easy as well, wouldn't it?" He didn't respond. "Wouldn't it?" she repeated, waiting until he nodded.




Prisoner Ch. 05



Chapter Five.

For the next few days, life was a bowl of soup. It had no shape, no focus, and no target. He'd returned to his apartment, hardly recognizing it as the place where he'd lived before. At first he'd tried to sleep. Then he'd tried to read, watch television, sleep, eat a sandwich, hear music, drink beer, sleep, watch television, and drink booze. Then he passed out and slept for fourteen hours straight.

Waking up didn't bring clarity. It did bring a hangover and the mind-numbing return of despair. He'd been alone a lot, but never this lonely. He'd often felt desperate, but had always been able to drown it with work, cooking, talking about cooking, and friends. Friends. He used to have quite a few of them, all carefully parked outside his true self -- never allowed in. They may have known that; he surely knew it now. There wasn't one he could have discussed his actual predicament with. He cringed just imagining telling them. Friendship. Sometimes it's exactly that: a word.

After standing before his bathroom's mirror, brushing the same tooth for minutes, he realized he had two choices -- taking his life or slipping back into the life he'd had before all this. He picked up his phone and called his onetime editor-in-chief. The man didn't even try to be friendly. He'd been replaced, he said. He added 'by a woman.' He should try elsewhere.

He tried elsewhere, but there weren't many 'elsewheres' in his line of work. A few freelance gigs were offered. He took the most promising job; ah well, the least boring. When he finished it, three days had passed; three days he'd nibbled out of the mountain of pointless nothingness that loomed over his existence. Finally the sheer pathos of his self-pity disgusted him. Goddammit, he'd been someone until this woman cut the legs from under him. He'd led a life, made a living, got respect, even if only professionally -- and even if phony. He could do that again, couldn't he? Why not? He was the same man, wasn't he? He could live with phony.

He got his coat and took his bike into the city. Same building, same security, same reception. The editor was busy, his secretary said. Fuck busy. He knocked and let himself in. A pretty girl jumped off the editor's ample lap, fumbling at her blouse's buttons. He thought he knew her from somewhere.

"Goddamn it, Andy," his huge ex-boss bellowed. "Ever heard of knocking?" He ignored him, looking at the girl. Twenty-five, he'd guessed -- a bit older maybe.

"She your new star?" he asked. "I can see why you'd prefer her over me." He liked his sarcasm; he didn't give a shit.

"What do you want, Andy?"

"My job back."

"You quit."

"I un-quit."

"Sorry, too late."

André smashed both fists into the desktop. The girl left the room.

"Don't bullshit me, Jenner," he said. "She may be experienced in all kinds of things, but not in journalism!" His fist hit the desk again.

"Get out, Andy," Jenner said. "You're finished here."

"I won't."

"Don't make me call security."

Back at his flat he emptied the bottle of Glenlivet he'd bought on his way home. Admittedly, after the first two glasses he started taking smaller sips and after the fourth glass he added ice, but still, two in the afternoon is pretty early for a bottle of whisky, even a good one -- especially on an empty stomach.

Passing out has this ring of peacefulness to it, and of course it is. But one should never forget the gut-wrenching, brain-splitting hangovers that follow.

He woke up in a pool of vomit. And after a while he realized his cell phone had woken him up. By then the ringing had long stopped. He scurried to the bathroom and took a very long shower. Then he cleaned up the floor and made himself breakfast and coffee. Only after forcing some of it down, did he pick up the phone, finding a voicemail message.

"Get back," was all it said with the voice of Miss A. He stared at the phone. Then he punched buttons to hear it again -- and again. There was no reason for doubt, it was she and she said it, sending a flash of adrenalin up his sore body and his aching brain.

After some sorting out, he found one relevant question amongst the rubble of his mind: should he? He poured some more coffee and listened to the message once again. It was an order, no doubt about that. But her voice wasn't cold or businesslike. If it weren't totally silly, he'd say he heard traces of contriteness -- miniscule, microscopic traces, but nevertheless. He shrugged. The ear is a treacherous organ.

He could call her; ask her why, and what she meant. But by now he understood that wasn't an option, not with her. He could either obey or ignore her. Ignore her? Who was he kidding?

Walking into the reception was like coming home. The blonde smiled at him; the corridors echoed his footsteps. He felt the hidden thong cut into his genitals. Turning around, he took in the kaleidoscope of reflections the elevator's mirrors gave of him. The Villa's door stood ajar, he shed his clothes at the entrance, crawling naked past the threshold into the big, sunny room.

Miss A sat in one of the overstuffed club chairs, leaving through a pile of sketches in her lap. She must be preparing for work, as she wore one of her almost businesslike suits: a white, half-open blouse under a tightly laced black waist cincher of heavy silk, and a short leather jacket. Her charcoal pencil-skirt ended on her calves, which were sheathed in knee-high, well-heeled boots. Their laces ran up through rows of eyelets. The jacket was sharp, but showed just a bit too much of her pale cleavage to be entirely professional. Her heels were at least an inch taller than usual in a conference room.

She didn't look up.

For a few seconds he hesitated what to do. Then he bent forward until his nose touched the floor. He lifted his ass -- as he had seen Licia do. Silence ruled, only punctuated by the ticking of a clock and the rustling of paper. Distant noises came in through open windows. While waiting he felt the accumulated stress leave his muscles; there was no need whatsoever to get her attention. She was here and so was he. All was well.

"The girls seem to miss you."

Her voice was soft, casual. He knew that nothing more would be said. There would be no explanations, no excuses. That was all right; he didn't need any.

"Rise," she said. When he scrambled to his feet, he saw that she had already risen.

"Follow." 

She went into the bedroom, crossed it and opened one of the mirror-covered panels in the far corner. It was a door; he didn't know of its existence. Behind it was a corridor of unadorned concrete. The floor was rough and cold against his bare feet; he shivered when a chilly draft breathed on him.

Miss A's heels echoed on the stone, at times scratching in the sexy way high heels do. She walked the length of the corridor, not once looking back. There was a huge steel door at the end, but right before it she turned to the right and went into a gloomy room. There was only one naked light bulb, throwing a sphere of light about that exposed gray lumpy walls and a high vaulted ceiling. What it also revealed made him gasp sharply.

At he center of the room was a construction of brass pipes, supporting the naked body of a girl. She was folded over a lateral pipe, its height forcing her to stretch her spread legs to the maximum. High-heeled plastic platform shoes propped her up; her head dangled at the other side, between her knees, hair touching the floor. Miss A turned towards him, pressing a finger to her mouth, urging him to be quiet.

"Sorry, honey," she then said to the tied up girl, while getting a transparent latex apron form a peg in the wall. She donned it and walked over to the girl's ass. It rose high, sticking out obscenely.

"I promised you a monster ass-fuck last night, but alas..." she said, patting the bare flesh. "It has to wait for a bit, I'm afraid." He saw that, together with the apron she had slipped on latex gloves.

"Business raised its ugly head," she went on. "I have to leave you alone for a while." She fondled the ass cheeks for a minute. "Well, anyway," she went on, "it gives you more time to think about what you did to me." Her hand came down hard, twice, making the bare flesh shiver. Then she spat on the crack between the glowing cheeks and slipped a finger into the closed hole. The girls started, making the pipes rattle.

"Please, Mistress," she croaked. Her voice must not have been used for a while, but he recognized it immediately.

"Licia!" he said under his breath. Miss A looked angry at him, but the girl gave no sign of having noticed.

"Please what, honey?"

"Please, I need to pee."

Licia's voice was small, childlike. Miss A chuckled.

"No problem, darling," she said. "Do whatever you need to; there's nobody you might offend." He heard another groan, but the girl didn't relieve herself.

"Whatever suits you, honey cunt," Miss A said after a pause. Her fingers touched the girl's exposed cunt lips, rubbing them. She then turned towards a small table with a silver tray that held several objects. She picked up a plastic bag filled with a soapy liquid. A tube ran from it, ending in a nozzle. She pressed it against the girl's asshole, making Licia shudder.

"Open up, honey. As from today you'll be doing this first thing every morning until it becomes routine. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mistress." Her voice was almost a whisper. Miss A forced the nozzle in.

"Please relax some more and it won't hurt," she said.

The black tip of the nozzle slid past the tight sphincter. Miss A raised the bag, squeezing it to force the liquid into the girl's bowels. She hummed soothingly when Licia started to groan.

"I need my girls clean, honey. I bet you understand," she whispered. "Keep it inside you, please, for just a few more minutes."

Licia's ass churned around the nozzle, a movement that got more urgent when the obvious pressure in her belly intensified -- not to mention the increased pressure on her bladder. Five minutes went by before Miss A said, "good girl." She turned her eyes to the naked man, who'd watched in frozen terror. She pointed to a bucket and urged him with nods and gestures to pick it up and hold it under the girl's spread thighs.

"Let go, honey," she then said, pulling out the nozzle. A brownish, malodorous liquid gushed from the hole, accompanied by a long sigh from Licia. André felt it splatter over his arms and chest, causing him to almost drop the bucket.

"God, girl, you stink!" Miss A exclaimed, laughing out loud.

When the stream became a mere trickle, she pushed him and the bucket away, picking up another bag to repeat the process. After the bucket filled up with her second offering, Miss A made him take it to a corner of the room where he could dump its content into a hole in the floor and rinse it out. When he returned, he saw Miss A handling a large syringe. It had a long, fat nozzle that she pressed against the tight ring of the girl's sphincter.

"Relax, love. I promise this will be good," she muttered, pushing the nozzle completely in. Then she pressed the plunger. It caused a hissing noise, followed by some bubbling. A foamy substance backed up to gush past the nozzle and trickle down the ass crack before dripping on the floor.

She removed the syringe from the slippery hole, replacing it with a gloved finger she pushed in to the knuckle. After a little pause she started to turn and twist it, spreading the lubricant. Soon she added a second finger, humming softly to calm the girl. Licia danced on her plastic hooves, wriggling and churning as the fingers kept fucking her, putting extra pressure on her bladder.

"Good girl." Miss A complimented her again, taking out the shining fingers, dripping with oil.

She returned to the tray and picked up a black, cone-shaped object. André shuddered with recognition, watching how the thing swelled generously in the middle, before tapering off to a narrow waist at the bottom. There it flared out again into a round flange. He groaned with sympathy, his anus contracting. Miss A smiled a knowing smile at him. Then she reached down low between the girl's spread legs to find her dangling face.

"Open your mouth please, honey," she asked. "Wet this pretty object with your saliva and do yourself a favor -- don't be stingy."

Through the gap between her legs he saw how her mouth opened and how the cone went in. After it came out again, dripping with spittle, Licia begged:

"Not there, Mistress. Please not in there." Miss A held her inverted gaze for a moment. Then she shook her head.

"Can't do, honey. The Second Gate, remember?" she said. "The Second Gate is all about this; about openings and opening up. Openings of the mind; openings of the body..." She almost chanted the words as she touched the girl's mouth, pushing the two fingers in that still shone with lubricant.

"God knows you are open here, darling," she said. "And even during this nonsense time of being a lesbian, your pretty cunt has been well trained by all those naughty vibrators and dildos. But you have been way too selfish with your poor tight ass... Such a shame, as it really is a wonderful fuck hole."

She rose again and slapped the high ass cheeks repeatedly. Then she invited him closer by nodding her head, mimicking with her hands what she wanted him to do. After a few seconds he understood. With both hands he pulled her cheeks apart, allowing the woman to spit a drop of saliva onto the closed sphincter.

"Relax now, honey," she said softly. "Let go, so it wont hurt too much." She sank the plug past the greased muscle, into her hot, padded bowels. The pressure must be getting unbearable, considering the girl's increasing moans. The sphincter stretched thinner and thinner around the intruder, until, suddenly, it closed with a plop, gripping the plug's waist.

He let go of her cheeks, stepping back. Licia's screams became a long, low groan that suddenly twisted into a cry of dismay. The alien presence must have crowded her full bladder, for as soon as the thing was in, a gulp of golden urine gushed from between the girl's legs, splattering the floor.

Miss A jumped back with an exaggerated yelp.

"Oh my," she cried out. "Look what you did, pissing all over my new boots!" She stamped around with theatrical exaggeration. "What do we do now? I can't very well meet my clients dripping with the piss of an incontinent little slut whore, can I?"  

Licia sobbed quietly as she fought to stop the rivulets coming down her thighs. Miss A laid both hands on the bare high ass and lifted one boot, pushing it between the spread legs into the girl's face.

"I know what you can do, honey," she said. "You can clean them with your tongue."

From her awkward angle it took Licia a few minutes to clean every square inch of the boots' heels, tips, soles and the lower part of the shafts. She gulped as her pink tongue slid over the shining leather, her lips sucking up the stray drops. Miss A turned her feet this way and that until she was satisfied that no niche or corner had been overlooked.

At last she complimented the girl on a job well done. She picked up a bottle with a plastic straw that she fed to the girl's inverted mouth.

"Suck, darling. It'll have to keep you for a few hours, I'm afraid." After Licia drank half the bottle, Miss A rose again. She tapped the plug that sat securely wedged in the girl's ass crack -- peeping out like a black eye.

"Now be a good girl until I return, honey. Enjoy your new black lover and don't ridicule his modest size," she said. "We all have to start small, don't we?" She giggled. Then she kissed both cheeks beside the plug and whispered: "Good girl! Don't forget I love you."

She smiled, shedding the apron. Then she turned, gesturing him to follow, and walked away on her tall, thoroughly cleaned heels.

***

Staring out onto the terrace, he didn't know what to do. Well, he did know what he shouldn't do. Miss A had pushed him down into a chair after they returned to the terrace room, and she'd told him with unmistakable intensity not to go see the girl while she was away. Not to visit her; not to speak to her. Then she had picked up her papers and her laptop, and left.

What she could not do, though, was make him forget what he'd seen. He could not shake the images of callous abuse and off-handed humiliation. But most of all he could not shake the confusing feelings those images gave him. The girl had begged not to have her asshole violated. Miss A raped her anyway and he knew that should have offended him, even outraged him, but it hadn't. He'd liked the girl, he owed her for the way she nursed him back to health after the ice cellar horror. But even that didn't make him feel for her now. To the contrary: sitting here, watching the sun peep around the corner, he realized that he hated Licia.

He'd never hated anyone in his life, not even his boss. To be sure he didn't even know if the bitter, cold feelings he had were hatred at all. And if they were, shouldn't they be aimed at Miss A, the cruel torturer? Maybe, but they weren't; he loved her. She had treated him maybe even worse than she had the girl, but he hated the girl and loved Miss A. The feeling confused him no end.

Squirming his bare ass into the leather cushions of the chair, he was very aware of the absence of its black, fat intruder. He also was aware of the presence of the same plug between the girl's buttocks. It caused his mind to wander and as it did all kinds of half-forgotten sensations revisited him. At first there were reminders of physical pain: the burning of his skin, the violation of his asshole, and the fiery crisscrossing of his back with the riding crop. But more intensely he remembered the ridiculous apron, the being pissed on and laughed at.

The memories had always filled him with a thrilling, shivering sense of -- contentment, even gratitude: women had tortured and ridiculed him, but they had also tolerated his presence, kissed him and even fondled his body. He had belonged. But now those feelings were jaded with a sense of loss, a sense of resentment. Suddenly he knew why he despised Licia -- it wasn't hatred, it was jealousy.

He envied her for the attention she got -- attentions denied him. But most of all he envied her for the few simple words Miss A whispered in her ear right before leaving. 'Don't forget I love you,' she'd said.

She'd never said those words to him, and he knew she never would.

He shook with emotions he hadn't felt before. Slaves were supposed to love their masters as a matter of course. He knew he loved Miss A in the most helpless and pathetic way, but could a mistress be in love with her slave? Never. It would be a blatant weakness; it would turn the world upside down. It also was unfair to other slaves, unfair to him, wasn't it? He loved her like he was supposed to and there were no conditions to his love. He knew Miss A would never stoop to loving him back and that was how it should be. He was her servant, her chair; he'd be shocked and disappointed if she ever did.

Besides, Licia didn't love her mistress -- Miss A had told him so herself. One moment she would crawl and grovel for her, only to be found out cheating the next day. He thought her so-called panicking to be a highly suspicious excuse for running off, but time and again it moved Miss A into taking her back.

He had never been jealous. It had taken him time to even recognize the bitter hurt for what it was. He'd never envied others for having things he craved, or relations he coveted. He simply never thought he could claim anything as his -- anything at all.

But yes, he was desperately jealous of the girl.

He remembered liking Licia from the moment he met her. She was a sweet and playful girl, never bitchy. She was open and helpful. She was fun to be with. She'd never tried to come between him and Miss A, as far as he knew. But now he wondered. Hadn't she sacrificed him to avoid being punished by her mistress? He'd forgiven her because Miss A had put her in that position. But now he wondered. He also wondered if that was what jealousy did -- pushing a one-time friend into the ugly light of suspicion?




Prisoner Ch. 05



The new feeling was like a hot coal dropped into his hands. He had to juggle it around in order not to burn his skin. The feeling was vile and indeed alien to him. Twisting and turning it, he tried to figure it out, knowing instinctively that it was a dangerous sentiment -- an intruder. It might destroy him because he didn't know how to live with it. Should he confront it? Confess it? Or bury it in the graveyard of his mind? He felt the chill of moisture drying on his face. He'd cried without knowing.

Time passed; how much time he didn't know. His new thoughts made him restless. He looked around the apartment for things to clean up and tidy, but that hadn't calmed him down. What it did was lure him to the mirror-door in the corner of the master bedroom. There he caught himself listening to whatever sound might come through it. He knew that it only would make it harder to obey Miss A's order to forget the girl's predicament, but after his third visit he couldn't resist opening the door and listening at the crack.

At first he heard nothing. Maybe he was too far away. Then he heard a distant, forlorn little sound that he couldn't make out at first. It came in irregular patterns, interrupted by long stretches of silence. He'd closed the door and left, only to return within minutes, and open it wider before stepping inside. His bare feet made no sound on the cold concrete; the chilly draft gave him a shiver.

The sound he'd heard was sobbing. When he reached the room he knew for sure -- it was the girl sobbing. He peeked around the corner, but the room was in total darkness. Moans interspersed the sobbing. The girl must be stone cold and stiff from her static position. He could still smell the acrid urine, laced with the sickly-sweet stench of her enemas. He returned to the bedroom, closing the mirror-door silently. He rubbed the goose bumps on his arms, wondering why he didn't feel relieved. He should be thankful not to be in the girl's position. He wasn't supposed to envy her -- was he? Not to feel -- left out. So why did he?

He uttered a frustrated scream, slamming the kitchen's counter with his flat hand.

Five minutes later he found himself back at the entrance of the torture room, carrying a blanket. He'd love to think it was sympathy that fueled his actions -- the need to help the suffering girl. But he knew it wasn't. It was the need to steal the suffering away from her; robbing her of the means to please her mistress.

He strained his eyes to make out her silhouette in the room's darkness. When he at last did, he tiptoed closer, and threw the blanket over her folded form. He put both arms around her, feeling her shape against his naked body -- the spread legs, the raised ass, and the plug's flange at its center. He pressed his belly against the hard object, shivering with her. Then he whispered through chattering teeth: "For you, Licia. For you." She groaned, stiffening even more.

"Noooo," she hissed. "N-no need... please don't." He ignored her plea, rubbing her flanks through the fabric. She arched and humped to shake him off.

"Mistress will be mad," she panted, making the chains and brass pipes clang. "You shouldn't be here. Go!"

"You are a cheat and a whore," he said, not letting go of her body. "You are not worthy of her." The girl hung still again.

"I know!" she whined, the last word ending in a sob.

"You betray her," he went on, squeezing harder. She breathed quicker, shallower.

"I am weak," she admitted. He snorted.

"Too easy, girl," he said. "She should kick you out."

"I... know," she agreed, having difficulty breathing now.

"Beg her to dump you," he insisted. "Beg her!"

"I... did," she said, wrestling to get the words out.

"Liar," he spat out, hugging her even tighter.

The girl was silent. Realizing he was choking her, he relaxed his hold. She responded with a series of deep, coughing breaths. He let go of her, stepping back and taking away the blanket. He lowered his gaze to her inverted face. It looked up at him from between her knees.

"What is it to you?" she asked. The question put him back on his feet. What indeed? He knew it was jealousy. He envied her position. He wanted to be her, but he could never admit that, could he?

"I don't want Miss A to hurt," he said instead. "You've hurt her enough." The girl was silent again. Then she shrugged, making the metal rattle.

"I know, and I'm sorry," she then said. "But she always takes me back. She says she's in love with me." The answer sent a flash of indignation up his face. Before he knew it he'd slapped her. Then, realizing what he did, his hand reached for the place he'd hit, starting to caress it.

"You are bad, " he said. "You count on her forgiving your cheating, because you know she loves you."

"I know," she agreed. He went on.

"You are a selfish slut. You manipulate her love and take it for granted. It is you who should love her, but you don't." Another silence lingered. The draft made them both shiver.

"I try," she finally said. "I so much want to love her." New sobs wrecked her body. He felt shamed by them. He touched her ass cheeks, tentatively.

"I," he said, "I should not have judged you." Another silence was punctuated with sobs. He circled the plug's flange with his forefinger.

"Please don't tell Miss A I was here," he then said, letting go of her. He picked up the blanket and turned to leave.

"I'll have to when she asks," the girl said.

***

Of course she asked the girl as soon as she returned from work, late that night. And Licia told her. Of course she told her. She had no choice, had she?

Now, hours later, he was on the night-dark terrace, still hurting from the grizzliest experience of his life. Torches and candles were placed around him in a half-circle, sparsely lighting the place. The evening breeze felt balmy after another summer's day. He wondered how Licia's torture room could have been so cold. He also wondered why he had such trivial thoughts at a time like this and after what happened. He stood on tiptoes, strung up by chains to an iron hook set into a protruding beam. Sweat was drying on his skin. His shoulders ached, as did his whipped backside and his bruised crotch. He didn't mind the pain. It was proof of her anger. Anger equaled attention, didn't it? He'd gotten her attention all right. He grimaced.

"Why do you smile, dog?"

She sat in a rattan chair right on the edge of the half-circle. A riding crop lay in her lap, black leather on a pinstriped skirt. Her long legs were crossed, the skin of her throat and face shone pale in the yellow, dancing light. "You want me to whip you some more?"

"If you wish, Miss," he said, suppressing a wince. "But that wasn't why I had to smile." His answer made her stare in silence for a bit. Then she rose, climbing to the top of her high-heeled boots. She walked the few steps up to him and grabbed his jaw, turning his face towards hers.

"You are a worthless little shit," she said. "You keep proving you are hopeless and you know it, don't you?"

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes I do, Miss. But then again it is no wonder. I am male." She grinned, pushing away his face. She started to walk in front of him. He admired her feline movements and the delicacy of her cleavage, ever so slightly trembling with the impact of her heels. Would he ever understand how such a delicious package could hide such monstrous perversions?

"Don't use your stupid maleness as an excuse, though, dog." She had turned and stopped in front of him, caressing the palm of her gloved left hand with the tip of her crop. "Especially," she went on, "because you are not even male. You are nothing -- a slab of hairy meat with arms and legs and a cock that brings tears to my eyes."

His gaze never left hers. He felt the venom of her insults, even when they were delivered in a sweet, soft tone. But they didn't hurt, not really; they just were too damn accurate to hurt. None of what she said differed from how he saw himself. Hearing it from her mouth was like a seal of approval. He felt -- vindicated; it spread a perverted sense of pride through him. He grinned again. It made her eyes darken.

"Are you playing the Christ or something?" she asked, more curious than sarcastic. "I don't get you men," she went on. "You seem either macho or martyr. But even the martyrs usually get their pecker up from punishment and humiliation."

While saying that, she lifted his limp penis with the tip of the crop. They both looked down on it.

"You are a riddle, André, you know that?" she asked, letting go of the cock. He cleared his throat.

"I don't know, Miss," he began. "I really think I am a simple thinking guy. I admire women; I adore you. All I want is to serve you, to be with you, and to be tolerated." He paused, looking for words. "Even if you don't want me." She just stared at his penis, reaching for it with the crop again.

"In your eyes I must be worthless," he went on, careful not to respond to the crop as its soft flap started caressing his cock. "But that is exactly what I want to be -- worthless. I want to be your tool, even as broken as you may consider it. I want to be a doormat, punched by your cruel heels. Your chair, even your girl-fucking robot like tonight..."

Their eyes met again. Hers were wide now -- surprised? Of course she wasn't.

"I love to cook for you, and to serve you good food," he said. "Clean up after you and your friends, be the invisible, ignored faerie that looks after your wishes, even before you utter them. I don't need favors or gratitude, punishment will do fine -- and just your permission to be around. " His eyes started to shine as he went on, his face flushing.

"But," he proceeded, "I know my presence irritates you, even if I never question your most insane instructions -- or do you maybe hate me because of that?" He knew he was skating on very thin ice, but somehow he'd stopped caring. He smiled again.

"I know things have changed," he went on, almost whispering. "During the first few days you were amused by the novelty, I guess. After that, well, I suppose you got bored. That is why I disobeyed you, I think. Just to get your attention; just to be able to plead with you -- as I do now."

The tip of the crop was still circling his genitals. Suddenly it rose and crashed into his crotch with vehemence. He cried out, more from surprise than from the pain. With closed eyes he followed the track of wildfire running through his lower body.

"Thank you, Miss," he muttered with clenched teeth. She took a step back to study him.

"So you don't mind if we treat you like a, a thing -- a vacuum cleaner, a household machine -- or whatever machine needed?" She studied his response; he nodded.

"It excites me to be treated like an object," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Why sorry?" she asked.

"You may not like me to get excited."

She shook her head.

"You are amazing," she said. "My slave girls thrive on the arousal they get from serving me. They suffer for it, beg for it, and get off on it. However cruel I am, it is their only pleasure."

"I know," he answered. "But they are women. They are allowed to, I am not. It would be an act of machismo if I'd let my cock fill up with arrogance. It would seem like I wanted to challenge your dominance. I... learned not to do that."

Miss A had started to walk again, from left to right and back. She tapped her lower lip with the crop's flap in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. Then she turned back to him, slowly.

"I don't know what to do with you, André," she said in a friendly voice. "I really don't. I loved your cooking and cleaning, your clowning in the apron, your sweet embarrassment and the way you pampered me and my girls. And yes, you amused me those first few days." She paused, taking a breath that filled out her chest. Pale flesh pushed against the silk of her open blouse.

"But you don't amuse me anymore," she almost whispered, sighing. "You were very... useful tonight, but you disturb the delicate balance of power I have with my girls. You scared the shit out of Licia this morning, you know..."

"I'm sorry for that," he said, looking away.

Miss A stepped forward, tracing the bruises on his pubic bone with her crop. She smiled ruefully.

"You are such an uncouth, hairy ape," she said. The tip followed the muscles of his thigh. "In a way you are useful -- in a ridiculous sort of way. But why would I need that around?"

He felt tears press against the back of his eyes.

"Please, Miss," he begged, swallowing. "I'll die if you dump me."

The crop hit him across his belly, leaving a fiery track right over the black and blue bruises. A second blow turned the weld into a purple X. He sobbed, jerking at the chain that held him.

"Don't you ever blackmail me with your life, boy," she hissed. "Never!"

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"Yes," she said, rising to her full length. "You are a sorry, sorry creature." She turned her back on him and took a bottle of red wine from a low table, filling a glass. Sipping it she walked around him.

"Would you be my prisoner, André?" she asked. The word hit him like a third lashing to his belly. Prisoner?

"You know," she went on, "your stay at the ice cellar still impresses me. It sort of tickles my ego to know a man is prepared to go to such extremes for me." She smiled over the rim of her glass. "Even if you're not much of a man," she added. He looked down at his feet, trying to reduce the soreness of his shoulders by finding better footing. He also looked down so his eyes would not betray the silly pride he felt.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. "I'm glad you liked it."

Miss A chuckled.

"Well, yes," she went on. "But what I liked most about those days was not having you around. You see, honey, seeing you not only annoys me, I also know I can't trust you." Her words were like a bomb exploding right into his face. Images of the last few hours played through his mind. He fought not to feel bitter.

"But...," he tried, being cut off by her gloved hand slapping his cheek.

"No 'buts,'" she growled. "What you did, spying on Licia today is proof of your untrustworthy character. If you didn't have these pathetic balls I'd call you a jealous bitch." She gripped his testicles, squeezing them until tears leaked down his cheeks. She pushed her face into his.

"That was what it was, wasn't it? Jealousy?"

Her hot breath smelled of wine. "You were jealous of what I did to her, weren't you? You envied her for the attention she got, while you didn't." He squirmed and twisted, trying to avoid the pain.

"No, Miss," he whined. She increased the pain.

"No?" she asked. "So now you're a liar too? Do you deny being jealous of Licia?" He shook his head, clamping his jaws to avoid crying out. She suddenly let go of him. She held her gloved hand to her nose, looking disgusted. Then she cleaned it on his chest.

He panted, trying to find order in the chaos of his mind.

"I...," he tried. "I confess that I am jealous of Licia's bond with you. But I'm not jealous because you've chosen her to be trained as your slave -- not even because you spend more time with her than with me."

Miss A turned the glass round and round in her hands, waiting.

"Then what are you jealous of, boy?" she asked. He hesitated, stretching the silence until she got impatient. "Of what?" she repeated.

"You told her you love her."

The words hung in the balmy night air; he couldn't take them back, even if he wanted to, and he didn't want to. He knew the words had taken him past a crossroads. There was only one direction left.

Miss A's eyes widened at his statement, but she said nothing. Big chunks of her armor seemed to melt away. She looked -- vulnerable. Stepping back, she walked out of the circle of light, becoming a silhouette against the evening sky. He knew what she was thinking. Just like him she must be aware of the taboo of a mistress loving her slave. Her voice came from the far end of the terrace. It sounded -- shaky.

"My love-life is none of your business, dog."

Her words disappointed him. It seemed this was an evening of disappointments. He must indeed have touched at something lurking deep below her beautifully construed guard. Was this all she had to offer -- a bitchy non-answer?

"She doesn't love you, you know?" he said, adding acid to vinegar. "She wants to, but she can't." Now the crossroads were way behind him, past the horizon. Even the road itself was gone. It made him feel alone and fatalistic, but not afraid.

Through the circle of light a dark, shining creature leapt straight at him, roaring like a wounded animal. Hands closed around his throat; the added weight jerked painfully at his arms and shoulders. Her teeth snapped in front of his face.

"I said...," she growled. "This is... none of... your business!" Then she went limp and sagged on her knees in front of him. Was she crying? He felt embarrassed.

"Miss," he mumbled, but an angry growl cut him off.

My God, he thought, what have I done?

It took the woman minutes to gather her shattered thoughts. Then she rose, keeping her face away from him. She disappeared into the apartment, leaving him hanging from the chain.

***

Maybe an hour later she returned -- it had to be way past midnight. Her hair was wet and slicked back, her make-up gone. All she wore was her dark red kimono robe and no shoes.

His arms were numb by then. The cooling air became a discomfort. Most of the candles had died. The surrounding city seemed to have lost its voice.

As he watched her replacing candles and lighting them, he once more wondered who she really was. He'd fallen for her ironclad confidence and her intelligence. He'd also succumbed to her forceful eyes and her cruel imagination. And now he'd seen the absolute opposite of all that -- a vulnerability that confused him, and a weakness he could only despise.

Watching her, his thoughts took him back to what happened before, that evening, and it made him doubt if she had the license to do what she did.

When she came in from work earlier on, she'd rushed past him -- totally ignoring his presence. He'd been at the pantry preparing a small supper -- some lentil soup and sandwiches -- never knowing if she or Licia would eat any of it.

After waiting for about five minutes he'd drifted to the mirrored door, pushing it open. The sounds he heard were muted by distance. He could pick up Miss A's voice, interrupted by an occasional moan and the rattling of metal. He crept closer, stopping at the corner and resting his back against the cold concrete wall. He was afraid to look and maybe get caught. But he listened. There was a lot of rustling and clanging of brass. Then, clearly, "Open your mouth, honey," followed by wet sucking noises, culminating in the gagging sound of a deep-throated face fuck.

"Relax, honey cunt," the voice went on in a gentle and soothing way, followed by more gagging. The harsh, clucking noises gained in speed and intensity. They were mingled with smothered whimpers and scared, high-pitched gasping. Miss A's voice cooed and encouraged, using words like 'slut' and 'bitch' as if they were endearments. Finally the wet, gagging rhythm stopped. There was coughing, and the splattering of fluids; then he heard nothing for a while, but the rustle of clothes -- the creaking of leather.

Soon the girl's panting increased again, interspersed with small, whining moans. "Mmmmm," the soothing voice said, "my sweet slut is so tight... so very tight."

He heard the wet slapping of flesh on flesh. It increased, as did the encouraging 'yes's' and 'ooh's.' He realized that both his hands had gone to his crotch, cupping his balls as if to protect them. After a few minutes Miss A's voice returned, now panting from exertion.

"You have a lovely cunt, honey," she said. "But today we ought to try yet another of your promising holes."




Prisoner Ch. 05



He heard a soft 'plop' and a forlorn moan from the girl. He imagined the fat plug leaving her asshole. His anus tightened in sympathy as memories of his own rape returned. He felt his cock shrink inside the cup of his hands.

Things turned very quiet, and just as he wondered why, a strong hand gripped his throat. He froze, his heart skipping several beats. A voice hissed into his ear:

"Peeping fucking Tom, eh?" The hand was joined by a second, really strangling him. He gasped for air.

"I always knew you were a worthless, impotent little bag of shit, honey," the voice breathed on. "But now I see you can't even follow simple directions, can you?"

He didn't know what to say. It was impossible to say anything anyway. His brain buzzed from the lack of oxygen. His fingers rose to find her squeezing hands. Then her grip relaxed. He sank to his knees, coughing.

"Get on your worthless feet, dog," she said, kicking him. Finding guidance from the concrete wall, he scrambled to his feet. A familiar, cold band closed around his hurting throat. A chain lease jangled. He was collared and pulled into the room.

First thing he saw was the red-rimmed hole at the center of the girl's ass -- and her swollen cunt lips below. Oil and juices sparkled on the exposed flesh, brilliantly lit by a spotlight. Her spread legs were like a big letter A framing her inverted face, which was a mere blur in inky shadows. The leash pulled him towards the girl and down until his face was right above her shining cheeks. A hand pushed him even closer.

"Lick." He hesitated, staring straight into the hole. It opened and closed like a mouth, in time with the whimpering gasps that came from below. "Lick!"

His tongue touched the greasy rim of the hole, tasting the rich flavor of virgin olive oil. The hand against the back of his head was relentless. As his tongue sank in, his face pressed into the girl's flesh. God, how cold it felt.

"Fuck her." The hand started a rhythm of pushing. He speared his tongue and gave in to it. The wet sounds of his face against the girl's ass filled the room until he was yanked back.

"Step back, dog." His heart raced. He obeyed, not daring to look up. He saw two hands coming from behind, holding a black leather harness they draped over his shrunk genitals. It sported the most incredible black dildo he'd ever seen. The monster was made of slick black leather, smooth and shining from use and a liberal coating of oil and spittle. He didn't even try to estimate its measures. The shaft must have been as big around as his wrist -- and as long as his forearm. The head reminded him of a black, gleaming billiard ball. He shuddered, imagining what the dildo must feel like while being forced down that hole and into the waiting bowels.

The hands started tightening the straps of the harness, making the monster rise from his crotch. A round, smooth knob pressed into his pubic bone, already hurting him as the hands jerked the straps in place.

"Go." He looked up, facing the girl's ass again before turning back to the obscenity between his loins. He looked past it to focus on Licia's face. Even in the dark shadows between her legs he saw how wide her eyes were -- circles of white around the black irises. Her mouth gaped, producing faster and faster gasps. The brass pipes rattled from her trembling.

"Fuck her ass." The voice was close behind him. Hands rested on his shoulders, pushing him closer. Then they slid past him to the ass cheeks, spreading them. He felt Miss A's soft breasts press against his back -- and the stiffness of her corset. When the monster rested its head between her cheeks, the girl shuddered like a thoroughbred horse. A very tiny voice breathed high-pitched 'no's' in quick repetition. He knew he should feel something, anything, but he diddn't -- no sympathy or jealousy, not even excitement. Just the stubborn will to obey and fuck the girl's ass.

The black ball kissed the oiled sphincter. He rose to tiptoes for better purchase. Where the muscle started to yield, a mist of condense spread on the shiny head. He realized the girl must be hot inside -- and the cock's head cold.

"Push harder." The breathy voice behind him was relentless. The hands had gone; he replaced them with his own. Suddenly a white-hot pain seared across his back.

"Harder, dog!" Urged by the impact of the whip's lashes, he forced the black ball past the struggling muscle and into her dark bowels. A piercing sound rang through the room, but he had no idea about its origin. Was it the girl screaming, or was it the whip cracking -- or was it even his own voice?

He didn't know, he just pushed, making the dead, unfeeling object disappear into the girl's flesh.

"Fuck her!" He started pulling and pushing, kneading her ass cheeks with his hands. The knob slammed into his pubic bone with every forward move -- hurting. There was no arousal, no eroticism, nothing but a sweaty, panting exercise. It was punctuated with the cracks of the whip, the forlorn moaning of the girl and the increasing filth of their mistress's cheers, delivered in agitated gusts of breath.

"Grab her cunt, dog."

He was shocked how wet the girl was. She must have come already, maybe even more than once. Her juices seeped through his fingers as he started rubbing her slit.

"Her clit, you fool!"

Trying not to break the rhythm of his fucking, he slid his fingers forward to find her nub past the dripping and extremely loose folds of her vagina.

"Yes," he heard, "yes-yes-yes!" It was the same voice that had accompanied his intrusion with a litany of 'no's' only minutes before, but now it wasn't very little anymore; it was hoarse, needy and increasingly loud. He felt her body stiffen the moment he touched what might be her clit. A hot rush of juices drowned his hand.

"Fuck her harder, lazy bastard!" He did, humping his lower body into the girl's ass, ignoring the painful squashing of his pubic bone and the growing forest of welds on his back.

He slowly turned into an insensitive, fucking robot.

***

Back on the terrace, way past midnight, he watched the crazy woman light the last of the new candles. She was crazy, wasn't she? She must be. Hadn't she turned him into a punishing machine to destroy a girl just for failing to love her?

And now here she was, disrobed and showered, ready no doubt to join her little ruined lover in bed. Would she leave him hanging? Why rekindle the candles? He looked on, swaying from his numb arms.

She rose, looking him over.

"Yes," she said. He wondered to what question the 'yes' might be an answer. To his accusation that she loved Licia? Or to his other accusation -- that the girl didn't love her? Both, maybe?

"Yes, I love her," she then added. "And yes, I know she doesn't love me back." Her eyes were steady; there was no hesitation in her voice. Then she smiled just a tiny bit.

"But also yes," she went on, "to my statement that it's none of your business." She sat down on a big flat pillow, pulling both legs under her. He looked down on her, deciding it was his business.

"It must be hard for you to punish her," he said. She looked up, annoyance washing over her face. Then she shrugged, exposing most of her left breast when the robe slid off her shoulder.

"No," she said, automatically tugging at the fallen fabric. "No, at times I even have to check myself. She can make me really furious. Frustration, you know. She is a compulsive cheater."

In the subsequent silence he waited if she might have something to add, but she just sat there, sunken in thoughts.

"Why am I still here, Miss?" he asked. "You said you don't really care for me, so why am I still hanging here?" She looked up again and smiled.

"Because you are easy, honey," she said. "Compared to Licia you are an oasis of easiness. I forget you for days in a row. Even when you are around it's easy to look right through you." She still smiled, straightening the robe where it had slid off her thigh now.

"Always remember, André," she went on, "that I don't care what you do, one way or the other -- it is you who decides your future. You can leave whenever you want. Should I lower the chain and open your cuffs? You tell me..." Her words caused a flash of fear to constrict his throat.

"No, no!" he called out. "I don't want to leave. I promise I'll be nobody. I'll be invisible, but let me stay." She chuckled.

"See? You spoil me, boy, and why on earth?" she asked. "I almost let you die in that cellar. I had girls rape your ass and piss on you. At best I ignore you and take you for granted... Why stay?" He felt himself sway gently left and right on the tips of his toes. Half his body hurt, while the other half was dead.

"Because I love you," he said.

***

They passed the torture room, reaching the big metal door. It looked rusty. Dust and cobwebs indicated it hadn't been used for a while.

"Open it," she said, stepping aside. The door was heavy and it scraped the floor. Behind it was a corridor running into darkness to the right. There also was a set of concrete stairs, wide and dusty and going straight on down. Standing at the top they were met by a cold and clammy draft. Miss A took the lead again, choosing her steps carefully. The electric torch in her hand painted swashes of light on the gray walls. Her footsteps echoed slightly.

A row of heavy metal bars divided the room at the bottom of the stairs. It ran from floor to ceiling and from one wall to the other. The space between each bar was maybe four inches. At the center there was a door made of similar bars. It sported a big lock.

Miss A let the torch sway through corners and over the ceiling. Quick shadows scurried away. He saw a wooden stool and a bucket. Chained to the back wall hung a slab of wood -- the bed.

"Welcome to your prison," she said.

The echo of her voice died quickly. She went to the wall and pressed the tumbler of an ancient light switch. A naked bulb at the center of the ceiling spread a ghostly light. From a peg on the wall she took a key and opened the metal door. It squeaked. She nodded for him to enter. His heart raced when his feet passed the threshold. On the bed he found a moldy blanket and some dark blue clothes. There also was a bottle of water and a days-old loaf of brown bread.

"Put on the clothes," she said, watching him from the other side of the bars. He did. The shirt was old and often repaired; the pants tended to sag off his hips. There was no belt; there were no shoes either.

"You look ridiculous," she commented, smiling. He smiled back, his hands holding up his pants. She closed the door, grabbing the bars as she looked at him.

"This will be your home for as long as you wish, André," she said. She let her eyes roam through the shabby room. Goose bumps rose on her bare arms. "Are you really sure this is what you want?"

He nodded, touching the stool before sitting down on it.

"Yes, Miss," he said. "This is more than I ever hoped for. Being your prisoner makes me incredible happy." She shook her head in disbelief. Then she shrugged. She stuck the key into the keyhole and turned it. Its sound was like scratching a black board with your nails. Pulling the heavy key out again, she held it up for him to see. Then she walked over to a peg in the wall and hung it up for him to see.

"You are crazy," she said and turned towards the stairs. There she stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot." She turned to him again.

"Show me the bread, please." He reached down to pick up the dark, hard loaf.

"I think it's way too old and hard to eat," she said, stepping closer to the bars again.

"It is all right, Miss," he said, turning the bread in his hands.

"No, it isn't," she disagreed. "Piss on it."

His head turned up sharply, his eyes flying to hers.

"Piss on it, honey," she repeated, smiling. "Best way to make it softer."

Slowly, very slowly he rose from the stool. The pants sank to his feet. He once more looked at her. She nodded encouragingly. He shrugged. Then he took his penis in one hand and the bread in the other. A narrow, hesitant trickle of urine escaped, sinking into the dry bread and coloring it darkly. A pungent smell filled the room.

"Don't you have more?" she asked, her eyes glued to the dripping cock. It spasmed twice to add two modest splashes before closing down.

"God, you keep disappointing me, André," she said, turning again. "Have a lovely stay."

He watched her climb the stairs, her silk clad ass cheeks swaying, her merry laughter bouncing from the walls. The penis in his hand slowly shrunk; his piss leaked from the bread, seeping through his fingers.

He wondered if he was insane, or just crazy.

***

In his prison there was no day or night, just ghostly-lit eternity. Hunger and thirst were his trustworthy companions. Once every few days the girl Licia would visit with fresh water and a loaf of bread she pissed on before leaving. She didn't say a word. He tried in vain to get her talking about Upstairs, as he'd started naming the apartment. She just shook her head.

Downstairs of course was what he considered his world. It had four chilly and poorly lit walls and a high ceiling. But it wasn't a totally isolated world; there always were the myriads of sounds from upstairs -- running pipes and creaking floors, footsteps, slamming doors, almost intelligible words and exclamations. Sometimes there was music and the noise of a party in progress.

At first, the parties had kindled a sense of yearning inside him. They brought back memories of serving and pleasing, of being sat upon. He remembered preparing dinners and snacks, and dressing up in Miss A's latest humiliating fantasy-silks. He'd been ridiculed, but he'd belonged and he craved to belong again, instead of sitting here, imagining and hoping for the occasional crumbs that fell off the queen's table. But he'd chosen this. He couldn't complain, could he?

No, he couldn't.

Miss A hardly ever visited him those first weeks. She sent Licia, but there was never any regularity to the girl's visits. Either Miss A forgot to send her, or she was away on business and the girl forgot, but he never went without water for more than three days. He'd learnt to ration the soaked, stinking bread, keeping his hunger at a manageable level.

He remembered the first time Miss A came down to him. It still felt as if it happened yesterday. Every detail of it was branded into his memory -- how she looked, what she did and said, and how sweetly miserable it had made him feel. Compared to her perfect beauty he must have looked like the dirtiest extra of Les Misérables -- unwashed, emaciated and overgrown with straggly hair.

The familiar scraping of the metal door had alerted him, but only when he saw Miss A's delicate feet searching for a save route down the stairs did he realize this wasn't just another visit of Licia. It was the real thing -- the thing he'd dreamt of during endless nights, and yearned for on the never-ending days in between.

Maybe it was the contrast to his ugly world, or maybe the long time of not seeing her, but she looked even more eerily beautiful than his dreams had made her. Her legs were sheathed in sheer black stockings. She showed them off by gathering her long skirt in one hand, the other holding on to the stairs' rusty rail. Her waist and ribs were laced in leather, leaving most of her chest and shoulders free. Her skin gleamed marble-like in the hesitant light. A black bob framed her face, drawing attention to dark eyes and a blood-red mouth. It didn't smile -- she might as well have been a mobile mannequin. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she walked towards the bars of his prison. Blood pumped through his temples like increasing thunder. He might have fainted, he might have died, but in the end he lived, staring numbly.

"You look awful, honey." Her voice was soft and friendly.

He nodded. His face felt tight from smiling -- from grinning, rather. He must have looked as foolishly as he felt.

"Miss," he croaked, imagining the dust of endless silence smoking off his lips.

She studied him, letting her green eyes pass over the wreck in front of her.

"You really should take better care of yourself," she said.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry, ma'am," he answered, wondering why he knew nothing better to say after dreaming of this moment for weeks. His fingers tugged at the hem of his dirty shirt. He was suddenly aware of the stale air rising up from his body. He worried about his breath. Shame overwhelmed him.

Miss A went over to the one chair available to visitors. She dusted its seat with a tip of her skirt and sat down, crossing her legs. The skirt opened to display a thigh. A garter-clip held the lace top of her stocking in its silver jaws. Two triangles of pale flesh were exposed on each side of the garter. The sight mesmerized him until she snapped her fingers.

"Don't stare," she said. He apologized. It brought annoyance to her eyes.

"Don't apologize," she said. He stifled another sorry. There was an uneasy silence.

"Did you miss me, honey?" she then asked, while inspecting the nails of her right hand. He hesitated. She looked up, her eyebrows rising.

"Yes," he hastened, "yes, of course. I was very lonely." The hand of the inspected fingernails made a throwaway gesture.

"What is this? Are you complaining now?" she asked.

"No," he cried out. "No, no, no, of course not, Miss."

"You better not, honey," she said, rising. "You got everything you asked for." The skirt rustled as its hem fell down to her ankles. She watched it fall before looking at him again.

"I didn't miss you one bit," she said with a pensive look in her eyes. "Isn't that amazing?" He didn't know how to answer. She smiled.

"Remember that this is all your doing, boy," she then said. "Always remember." He hastened to agree, making one word of gratitude tumble over the other. It only made her look more annoyed.

"Licia!" she exclaimed.

From upstairs the naked girl came rushing down the steps, carrying two bottles of water and a loaf of bread. She knelt at the woman's feet. Miss A took the loaf from her. She sniffed at it and pinched it with her fingers.

"Maybe too fresh," she muttered. "Shouldn't spoil the brat." She urged the girl with her toes to rise.

"Give him the water, honey," she said. Then she turned away to the stairs, holding the loaf. The girl shoved the bottles through the bars; then she hurried to join her mistress.

"Tomorrow, boy," Miss A said, turning her head back to him, one foot on the first step. "Tomorrow this bread will be in a more appropriate condition. Bye."

The last he saw of her was the slender heel of her left foot balancing on a stiletto stilt. It took the girl not one but two days to bring back the hard, moldy bread. She told him to piss on it himself, as she'd just been to the toilet.

***

When time drags on in limbo, it tends to lose its shape, and with its shape its meaning. Nothing around him had enough rhythm to create a believable sequence of hours and days. There was no day or night to begin with. There also were no fixed meals or regular visits. There was just he, his heartbeat and the sounds around him. He loved listening to those sounds -- well, it often was the only thing to do at all, wasn't it? He'd lay down with closed eyes and hear the ticking and gurgling of pipes, the distinct flushing of a toilet. There was the slamming of doors, the occasional sub-sonic throb of heavy traffic, but most of all he loved to hear voices. Voices were rare and usually unintelligible. He always tried to guess whom they belonged to. Yes, indeed, there wasn't much to do in his empty, shabby prison.

One day there were screams and they weren't far away -- they sounded as close as maybe next door, right at the other side of his prison. He'd never heard sounds from there, so he crawled to the wall and pressed his ear against it.




Prisoner Ch. 05



The voice was female, sharp and piercing. It could be Licia's, but then again it was so tainted with primal fear that it could be any woman's. When he listened closer he heard all kinds of sounds surrounding the voice's outcries -- noises like metal scraping or rattling, clanging sounds and maybe the muffled version of a second voice. His imagination raced. Someone was being punished in there; tortured, maybe killed. Licia? What should he do? Could he do anything?

The screaming turned into bouts of crying -- a wailing, lamenting sound. It had such a forlorn quality that it made a chill crawl all over him. Then it stopped completely. He pressed harder into the concrete wall, closing his other ear, but all sounds seemed to have gone. He wondered why. He also wondered if the silence might be worse than the screaming. What had happened to the girl? Was she alive?

He walked the length and breadth of his cell, muttering under his breath. Then he lay down on his bed, stretching out on the hard surface. At first he stared at the light bulb as he had done so often before -- he didn't even see it anymore. Then his eyes wandered to the peg in the wall, just beyond the bars. The key was large and old-fashioned. He'd never wondered if he might be able to reach it. Now he did, although he asked himself why. What would be the point of leaving? Where would he go? Being here had been his own choice, hadn't it? Why would he wish to leave now and break another promise to Miss A and himself?

Of course he didn't want to escape; he just wanted to know what had happened behind his wall and maybe help -- or did he? He tried to convince himself it was probably nothing anyway. He also told himself it was none of his business -- he was a prisoner, cut off from the world. It wasn't his responsibility; he was just another powerless victim. But the voice still echoed in his skull -- repeating its panic, and its despair.

He started walking again, skirting the rusty bars. It brought images to mind of big sullen beasts in a zoo, a tiger moving back and forth. He looked up at the key, judging the distance. Then he picked up the stool, putting it as close to the bars as possible. He climbed on it, grabbing a bar for balance. His long, unclipped nails scratched the wall about an inch shy of the peg. He tried his other arm and a different angle, now grazing the peg. He had to be careful not to cause the key to fall; it might drop entirely out of reach.

Thinking of other ways to get closer, he got rid of his shirt. Now he was able to press his shoulder farther between the bar and the wall, taking advantage of his weight loss. He felt the key and was able to get a finger around it. He lifted it off the peg and felt it slip from his tentative grasp, clanging loudly when it hit the floor. It rolled at least two feet further away from the bars. He cursed.

***

The girl looked boyish. Her breasts were tiny, her hips slender. She might even be shorter than Licia, wearing her ash white hair in a short, bristling crown of waxed peaks. She was petite, but well toned, moving like an athlete. Like Licia she didn't wear a stitch as she danced down the stairs, carrying a jug of water and a loaf of bread.

"Hi," she said, her ice-blue eyes sparkling. "I'm Bobbi. Miss A sends me with your...." She lifted the bread and the water as an illustration of her mission.

He rose from his bed and walked to the bars. His head buzzed form lack of sleep.

"Where is Licia?" he asked. "Is she all right?" The girl's smile vanished. She shrugged.

"Don't know," she said. "You mean the Lebanese slut?" He nodded, wondering at her choice of words.

"Was she tortured, ehm, yesterday?" he asked, not sure about the exact time. The tiny blonde seemed puzzled.

"We are all tortured," she then said. She turned, showing faint bruises on her back.

"Are you a slave of Miss A's too?" he asked. She turned back.

"I wish," she answered, pouting. "She only asks for me when the slut runs off, and then uses me to get rid of her frustrations. I know she'll never accept me for real, but I can't refuse her. I love her, you see?" She once more pulled up her shoulders, smiling apologetically.

"Who are you?" she went on. He ignored her question.

"I could hear her right here, next to my, eh, cell," he said. "I suppose it was her. She screamed terribly; then she stopped."

"I have water and bread for you," the girl said, ignoring him as he'd done her. She offered him the bottle through the bars, but he didn't take it.

"Have you ever been down there?" he asked, pointing to the wall where he'd heard the screaming. She didn't answer, going down on her haunches to push both bread and water across the floor into his cell.

He picked up the bottle, taking a swig. The freshness made him sigh, remembering the last of the tepid dribble he'd drunk hours ago.

"Will you do me a favor, girl?" he asked. She looked up before rising to her feet and standing with her hands folded on her back.

"Depends," she said. "Miss A told me not to talk to you at all. I guess she'd be furious hearing me. I am a blabbermouth." She smiled nervously.

"Will you get that key for me and open the door?" He pointed at the spot where the key had fallen. She turned to look at it.

"Oh, but I can't," she said, looking sorry. "I bet Miss A locked you in for a reason. She surely wouldn't want me to open it and set you free."

"No, no, not free," he hastened. "I don't want to escape. I just want to see if Licia is all right. I need to go to the other room, the one where I heard the screaming."

The girl was obviously torn by her dilemma. She walked to the key, picking it up. It looked huge in her tiny hands. She turned it around and around.

"I won't tell," he offered. She looked up, catching his eyes.

"But I'll have to," she answered.

"I promise to return," he said, knowing how empty he must sound. "I won't run."

"I don't know," she said. "I'll go and ask Miss A."

"No!" he cried out and plunged both hands through the bars to grab the key. He succeeded, but the girl was much stronger than he'd thought -- or he was much weaker. She held on to the thing, but even as strong as she was, she was light as a feather. So he could pull her closer, even if she didn't let go. He jerked one more time, making her jam into the iron bars. She cried out and the key slipped from her fingers. He held it up and turned to the door, only to freeze in surprise.

The door had slid open from the girl's impact; it hadn't been closed at all.

"It's open," she gasped, following his gaze. "It wasn't locked."

He stepped back, dropping the key. The shock of reality purged him of any urge to open the door wider and step out. His thoughts shut down. He'd been here for months, maybe, and never doubted that the door was locked. He was a prisoner, wasn't he? This was his prison, and prisons are locked. He remembered Miss A turning the key. He remembered hearing the telltale click, or did he? Did he? He picked up the key and walked to the door. He pulled it open wider; then he inserted the key, turning it. There was no resistance at all. The key's bit swam freely in the opening; the lock didn't even have a lip to slide in or out. It was a fake; he'd never been locked up.

In a daze he walked over to his bed, sitting down.

"You... you are free," the girl said. She'd followed him into his cell. "You've always been free."

He didn't look up, just shook his head left and right.

"No," he muttered. "I'm not. I'm her prisoner. I can't be free. It's impossible." The girl went down on her knees in front of him. Her fingers pushed back the strands of long hair from his dirty, bearded face. Her ice-blue eyes searched for his.

"You, eh," she said. "You are disappointed, aren't you? You don't want to be free?" He jerked his head away as if annoyed by her hand.

"Get out," he said. "Get out of my cell and lock the door."

She recoiled from his violence, scrambling to her feet. She looked hurt. He raised his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, his throat thick with emotion. "But you must leave my cell. It is mine; it is all I have. It is my prison and it is locked."

"But... ," the girl tried, looking from him to the wide open door and back.

"It is locked," he repeated. "You can't be in here. Please leave and take the key."

Obviously convinced now that he was insane, she turned and walked outside, closing the door behind her.

"Lock it," he insisted. Fear made her move quicker, less accurate. The key rattled uselessly in the empty space of the lock while she turned it. She hesitated about what to do with the thing.

"Hang it on the peg," he said. She rose to tiptoes to reach it. Then she turned to leave.

"Stop!" he hissed after her. She froze.

"Turn around." She did.

He pushed the stale bread with his foot through the bars.

"You forgot to piss on it," he said.

***

He had no idea how much time had passed since the incident with the key. Several weeks, he supposed, making the sum that there would be about two or three days between every visit of a naked girl and her meager supplies. Licia hadn't shown up again; most of the time there had been the petite white-haired girl, who delivered her goods hastily, obviously eager to get away from the madman. Twice a blonde with an easy smile and ample curves had seen to the task. She'd taken her time, asking for his health in an English touched by a French accent. Even her piss had tasted sweeter.

Miss A visited him once in that period, right after the incident with the key. He'd been asleep when she arrived. Later he'd cursed himself for that, having no idea how much of her precious visit he'd missed. He woke up from the sound of her hands' clapping and fell off his bed. Without looking, he scurried to the bars, kneeling and pushing his face into the dusty floor. Her laughter washed over him.

"Sleepy head," she said. "I bet that is about all you do nowadays, sleeping. Aren't you quite the lazy bum?" She came closer, sniffing.

"My God, you do stink, though, honey," she said, waving her hand before her nose. "You're getting worse, if that is at all possible. Do you ever wash?" He didn't look up, knowing better than to point out the obvious irrelevance of her question.

"I'm sorry," was all he mumbled.

"I'm sorry," she imitated, adding a whine. She stepped closer to the bars. "Look at me, boy!"

He looked up from the floor, noticing she was dressed in a dark fur cape; it hung ankle-long over a short lace negligee. She'd slicked her oiled hair back from her forehead. Her eyes were dark pools in the spooky light of the overhead bulb.

"Bobbi told me you are crazy," she went on. "The girl has a knack for stating the obvious." She chuckled. He just looked at her, accepting the insult -- waiting.

"I hear you insisted this door is locked," she said, pushing it open, and closing it again. "It obviously isn't." He waited in case she might want to add something.

"You locked it," he then said. "So it's locked."

She gasped. He saw the shadows of her nipples push against the lace of her negligee.

"You are amazing," she said, almost whispering.

"I am your prisoner," he said.

She turned and left.

Three more weeks, maybe a month passed. He'd become an expert in sensing the Signs of her sporadic Arrivals even before he heard them. It was a subtle shift of air -- an ever so tiny stir of the dank syrup surrounding him. Whenever it caressed the hair on his cheeks his ears would start probing the silence. They sifted out the small everyday creaks and grunts and sighs of the ancient building to find the one exhilarating Scrape of heavy metal on concrete. It announced the opening of the Door that separated her Upstairs from his downstairs. And he knew his endless waiting might be rewarded, if only for a precious handful of minutes. He also knew from experience that he should wait for the telltale Taps of her Heels before allowing his heart to race. For more often than not the Scraping would be followed by the faint plodding of naked feet -- the feet of one of her minions, completing their chore of feeding him.

Of late Licia was the one again to bring him his meager supplies. He'd asked her at once if she was all right, and if it might have been her he'd heard screaming. As usual she ignored him. When she squatted to piss on his bread, he noticed the still fresh brand high on the back of her right hip. It was an elegant French lily, corresponding with the jewel dangling from her nipple. He tried to imagine the pain and cruelty involved. He also tried to suppress his envy. As he reached out to touch the emblem through the bars, she swatted his hand away.

"Fuck off, moron," she hissed, lowering herself to rub the final drops off her shaven vagina into the bread. Welcome, little bitch, he thought. What happened to the sweet girl that nursed me back to health, eons ago? He guessed she'd learned to echo her mistress's disdain.

Sitting on his hard wooden bed, bony hands hugging his bonier shoulders, he wondered at the perfectly trained antenna he'd become. He remembered how in the early days he'd often mistakenly looked up the dusty stairs. He knew that back then his yearning must have outvoted his senses. He'd heard things that weren't there, just because he needed to hear them.

There were all kinds of sounds. Most of them he should ignore, like overhead footsteps, muted voices, sudden thumps, music and far away laughter. They were the Sounds of the Upperworld: her world, not his. At times his conceited mind wanted him to believe that she caused those Sounds on purpose, just to make him feel excluded. By now he knew that was ridiculous -- he'd never be important enough for her to even think of that.

Then there were the underworld sounds: the scurrying of creatures -- rats, mice, and all kinds of invisible insects. They were totally irrelevant, distracting him from what really mattered. His ears shut them out by now, like the ticking of a clock in the house you grew up in. His ears were always straining to hear past the irrelevant to hear the important -- the sounds that mattered, the Sounds of her Arrival.

They always happened in the same order, starting with the Sigh -- how appropriate -- and followed up by the Scraping. He imagined her pale Hand pushing the Door aside, her purple, black or blood red Nails scratching its surface.

After the Sigh and the Scraping there was the holding of breath; the fractions of seconds needed to probe for the one Sound his ears thirsted for -- the Tapping of her Heels to herald it was really she. The heavenly tick-tock would be accompanied by a whiff of her Scent -- oh God, her Scent. Of late his nostrils already started flaring the moment he heard the Scraping, not because he could already smell her, but because he knew he soon might. Pavlov, he mused, and he wondered if one day he would be able to smell her with his ears.

He remembered how -- long ago, when everything was still clumsy and new -- his damn cock would stir the moment he saw her Foot touch the upper step, balancing on the Heel of her Sandal. Even in the half-darkness of his prison his hungry eyes would see the fragile Bones move in her Instep. Left Foot, right Foot, left...with every step down the stairs his unruly cock twitched, making his face burn with shame. Groaning while he shook the feeling off, his gaze would climb the infinite length of her Leg. One special time he remembered a flash of Skin peeping from the slit in her dark silk evening Dress. It was a Dress he could still describe in detail -- how it clung and flowed, alive with slithering highlights. The liquid fabric touched and swayed in a million places -- caressing a Hip, hugging a Curve, kissing a Nipple.

One Hand held up the silk with the gracious tips of her burgundy-lacquered Fingers; the other Hand clung to her pale Throat, playing with a strand of pearls. How he envied those pearls as they bounced softly on the ivory expanse of her Chest.

He remembered raising his gaze to her Face and Eyes, recollecting the generous Lips, painted in the burgundy of her Fingernails. And most of all he was struck by the incredible emerald of her Irises, sparkling with the light of the one bulb that hung from the ceiling. As her Eyes caught his, they as always seemed to suck the power from his knees and legs, the energy from his heart -- and the life from his genitals. He'd sighed when the sinful swelling subsided.

Watching her at last reach his prison, he felt totally vulnerable. His hands dangled beside him, his big, male hands felt just as clumsy as the shapeless sack of bones and junctures his body had become. It seemed he only was held up by the piercing intensity of her Eyes.

One time -- later -- she'd entered through the iron-barred door. She'd just stood silently in front of him -- her Breath touching his face. He'd known his eyes shouldn't be where they were looking, but he was unable to turn them away until her Hand slapped him with amazing force. His cheek burned. He lowered his eyes, his gaze blurring from a sudden gush of tears. She said nothing for a while.

Then he felt her Hand on his cock. Her Fingers curled around its covered stem, making him startle. He felt the tugging and heard the sound of a metal zipper opening. The soft, spongy penis fell out, caught in the cage of her Fingers. He looked and saw how she squeezed the dirty, dough-like flesh. Her polished Nails dug into it, causing pain. He remembered the wave of satisfaction it caused -- and the consequent embarrassment.

"You stink, you know?"

Her Voice wasn't harsh at all, even if her Words might be. They flowed like sweet honey, ending in a silvery Chuckle. He closed his eyes, feeling her Fingers rub over the coarse hair on his chest, no doubt to get rid of his penis's greasy dirt. He wasn't at all prepared for he sudden blast of blinding pain that hit his cock.

In a reflex he grabbed his crotch. He crumbled to his knees -- bellowing without control. Through his tears he saw the tip of a leather riding crop; it dangled in front of him. Her Voice came from the hazy world beyond.

"Just so you remember, honey," she said. There was no anger, no glee -- just her Voice, uttering friendly advice.

***

He coughed. He did that, lately. It was a nervous, shallow cough that crept into his steadily increasing array of tics and gestures. It was as mindless as the way he blinked his eyes or plucked his bushy eyebrows. Looking back he had to agree that by then many idiosyncrasies had entered his dull, monotonous life. Sometimes he found his bony fingers run along the iron bars while his lips moved to count them -- not knowing how long he'd been doing it.

He also realized he had to strain his mind to remember times and places other than the ones he was in -- there was no past or future. He knew every crack and irregularity in the three walls of his cell, not just from seeing them, but also from running his fingertips over them. He knew where he was and what he was, but he had trouble, for instance, to remember where he'd met this naked, black haired girl that pissed on his bread.

He coughed, not realizing he did it more often than he used to. He also didn't notice that it had become more than just a ripple of his lungs against the cage of his ribs. He coughed, and it started hurting and disturbing his sleep. He slept a lot, he guessed, involuntarily tossing on the hard wooden planks of his bed to avoid the soreness of his bony hips and shoulders.

One morning he rose and fell when his legs refused to support him. He hadn't eaten for two days. That wasn't extraordinary, but this time it left him weak and dizzy. He crawled to his bottle, finishing its last tepid drops. Maybe he passed out after that, maybe he slept again, stretched out on the cold concrete floor. When he woke, it was from a sharp pain in his side.




Prisoner Ch. 05



"Do you ever not sleep, lately?"

He heard the Voice and smelled the Scent. Both were still strong enough to make him scramble to his knees and boldly embrace the sandaled feet in front of him. Feverish lips rubbed on sheer nylon.

"Miss," he groaned, but the word was cut off by a devastating cough. The woman uttered a cry of dismay and tore her feet out of his embrace, cursing as she stepped back.

"Don't!" she yelled. "Don't you cough your slimy germs all over my feet. Get back!" He crawled back until his feet touched the wall of his cell.

"I'm sorry," he gasped.

"Are you ill?" she asked.

"No, Miss," he said. "I'm fine, real fine." And he coughed, before falling over.

***



Prisoner Ch. 06



White mist. He tried to focus. A wall. 'Hospital,' the wall said, as did the metal bed-frame and the ceiling modules with their cold neon lights. There were beeps and when he turned his head he saw tubes and a plastic bag hanging from a rack. He closed his eyes.

Things were wrong. Where were his sounds? Why was he warm? Where were the iron bars and the pathetic light bulb? Where was his world? Opening his eyes, he saw a dark blur against the whiteness. A black face, a nurse he found out when things pulled into focus. She looked healthy and fleshy in her starched outfit. She called his name. How could she know? She did things -- then she did more things in her creaking, rustling uniform, smiling all the time. When she left she said the doctor would be coming soon.

The doctor was pink, clean and gray. He said things about undernourishment and neglect, weight loss and weakness. He smelled of aftershave. He also said things would be fine. It just needed time, he said. Then he left.

Later he felt stronger. Was it the next day? His hair had been cut, his face shaved. There was liquid food. He asked the nurse how he got there. She didn't know but would ask. When she brought tea, she said a man had delivered him at the ER after finding you in an alley, unconscious. He signed for your papers.

He thought hard, trying to hammer sense into his chaos. It must have been her driver -- 'chauffeur' she said; what was his name? She must have worried about his health. He guessed she didn't want a dead body in her cellar. Or did she care? Did he care if she did? Deep down he despised her good Samaritanism. All he felt was being disposed of. He'd become a burden.

The thought ashamed him. Maybe she was right, he wasn't worthy to even be her cellar rat. Tears welled up from his eyes.

"Are you all right, sweetie?" the nurse asked. He nodded. He was right where he belonged.

The strict rhythm of the hospital caused the return of order in his life -- a sense of cause and consequence, and a sense of time. There was morning, afternoon and evening again -- and with it a succession of days and nights. He was tested, run through scans and found weak but healthy. They made him do exercises. He started eating real food again, though he missed the special flavor he'd gotten used to. He also missed the sounds and the scents, the subtle excitement that always lurked under a layer of numb patience.

Most of all, he missed her.

Missing her wasn't a 'hollow feeling where his heart had been,' as so many romantics try to explain it. It wasn't anything physical at all -- just a constant lack of purpose, a not knowing what to do next, or why. He missed her presence, but most of all he missed waiting for her. He'd never known when she would come down to see him, but he'd always known she would, one day. And when she did, she brought her Presence, which was his anchor. And most of all: she brought her Eyes -- the two magical buoys that kept his spirit from drowning. Was he drowning now? Was he still alive?

A ringing sound pulled him out of his funk. It took him seconds to realize it was a phone -- his phone. He never knew he still had it. The ringing stopped by the time he'd turned his body enough to grab the cell. There was a voice mail message, her Voice. "Still sleeping?" it said. Excitement kicked his guts. It felt unusual to smile. He pushed her speed-button before getting afraid enough to do it. Her Voice was breathy; it invaded his ear.

"Hello?"

"Miss?" he answered. "André here."

"I see that," she said. "Why did you threaten to die on me, dumbo?"

"I'm sorry." He knew it would enrage her, but he could think of nothing else to say. He did feel sorry for letting her down.

"It won't happen again," he added. She chuckled.

"I'm sure it won't," she said. "Because I won't take you back."

Ice-cold disappointment invaded him.

"But, Miss..." he started. He couldn't find words in the chasm that opened before him.

"Forget it," she said, her Voice sweet. "You obviously aren't strong enough, honey." It was the truth, and it was as simple as overwhelming. He'd blown it. He'd broken his promise by failing her. Why take him back?

The silence dragged on while he tried to think.

"Still there?" she said. "I haven't got all day."

"Still here, Miss," he whispered. "You are right, of course. I am sorry for not being strong enough to serve you." Now her side was silent for a bit.

"It's as much my fault as yours," she then said. "I should never have encouraged you." He protested, trying to claim the blame exclusively, but she loudly spoke his name to cut him short.

"Go back to your life, please, André," she said, returning to her low, breathy voice. "Pick up where you left off."

He protested, but the line died. He cried for minutes, hiding his face in his pillow.

Two days later the doctor told him he could go home. He decided against discussing whether he had one. The nurse brought him the suitcase that was supposedly his, so he might find some clothes to wear. He found silk camisoles and satin panties, bras, garter belts and pairs of stockings. On top of them was a pink nylon apron with frilly straps.

Half an hour later the nurse asked him why he wasn't dressed and ready. He blushed deeply and shrugged, kicking the open suitcase with a dangling foot. She looked down. Then she looked up at him.

"Wrong suitcase, I guess," she said, turning. "Let me go look who mixed it up." He called her back.

"No need," he said. "It's the right suitcase. Wrong place, though." He smiled weakly. The nurse looked down and up, confused.

"But how... what will you wear?" she asked. He shrugged again.

"You keep the robe for now," she said, meaning the fluffy thing he'd been walking around in these last days. "And the slippers too, so you can walk to the cab."

He'd been at the apartment for maybe an hour when she called. He tried to sound pissed off.

"So you're home?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "You know very well this isn't home anymore." He assumed she was as surprised by his tone as he was.

"You are hurt," she said. "Damn, I should never have started this." She seemed upset, and even as pseudo-pissed off as he was, he felt ashamed.

"I wanted it myself, Miss," he said after a pause. "I loved every second."

"But I didn't!" she retorted, emotions coloring her Voice. "You upset me. You make me feel guilty, you fool. Goddammit, me guilty; I'll be the laughing stock."

"I'm sorry," he said. It earned him a frustrated Cry. He stifled another automatic apology.

"I won't take you back, André," she said, sounding exhausted. "Your slimy submissiveness sticks to my skin, making me want to vomit." He wondered why she'd called him at all.

"I understand," he said. She sighed deeply.

"You don't," she decided. "You'll never understand." He didn't know what to say. She obviously didn't either.

"André?" she asked.

"Miss?"

"You do realize that you are torturing me." She heard him gasp.

"Never, Miss! I would never do that!"

"I know that you wouldn't. But you do," she went on. "You keep forcing yourself onto me, even after I told you time and again that I don't want you around. You disgust me." Misery flowed from the cell's speaker, engulfing him.

"Miss," he said. "Please, I... please, I know. But I can't live without you."

He'd said it. He'd said the ultimate selfish thing. He'd taken his life and laid it down at her Feet -- her lovely Feet -- to be kicked about and trampled upon. He knew she didn't want it; didn't want him. He almost added an apology.

The beeps of disconnection wormed into his ear.

***

It was two months later, and he was still alive. He even worked at his old office again, be it as a freelancer. The girl that had replaced him had been speedily promoted to editor. Now she was too busy to write articles, he supposed -- too busy fucking her boss, that is -- so he wrote them for her at roughly half of what he earned before. He knew what he did was debasing and humiliating. He also knew that people despised him for it, or at the very least pitied him -- colleagues, friends, everybody. The fact that he didn't care was proof of who he'd become, and the lessons he'd learned.

It had been the girl who had called him and given him the job, but she seemed to do everything to make his life miserable. She often deliberately held off assignments, just to make their deadline more urgent. She also turned down perfectly good articles, making him do them again over the weekend. She put constant pressure on his fees and urged account to delay payment.

Colleagues wondered why he went for it. Friends said they were disgusted. Truth was, he quietly admired the girl for the way she manipulated males in a male world, always making them think they were in control. Jenner, his old boss, was literally her lap dog. Her male colleagues bent over backwards to please her, even if they called her insufferable behind her back and derided her quick promotion. And he? He saw it all. He was in awe and did his utmost to help her. Wasn't she proof again of the easy superiority of the female race?

One night he'd stayed late to finish a piece on South-African cooking. She'd turned it down twice that day without explanation, although it had to be finished before the next morning. He knew for sure there was nothing wrong with the content of the article, but hardly changing anything would be unacceptable. He'd once tried that and earned a harsh and very public dressing down by her.

It was past eight and the office started turning dark. His desk lamp and computer screen were the only light sources. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, not counting a donut during lunchtime. He didn't notice her approach until her hands closed over his eyes.

"Boo," she said, hissing in his ear. He just sat, his fingers still hovering over his keyboard.

"I, eh... ," he said, "I really..." She laughed, letting go of his eyes and folding her arms around his neck. Her soft chest pressed into the back of his head as she leant over him, reading his screen.

"You are such a diligent little boy," she said. "Miss A often mentions you."

He froze. Miss A? They knew each other?

"Miss A?" he asked. She chuckled, letting go of his neck. She walked around and sat down on the edge of his desk, right next to his computer.

She wore a tight skirt over dark sheer nylons. Her off-white cashmere sweater clung to her breasts in a fifties kind of way. Her wide, red mouth smiled. She leant forward, invading his personal space again. She smelled of Eau d'Issey.

"You remember when she visited Jenner?" she asked, removing stray hair from his forehead. How could he ever forget? He nodded.

"Well," she said, sitting straight again, squirming her ass cheeks into his desk, "she told him to replace you with me."

He blinked -- fast. He tried to understand, ducking answers he didn't want to know. She smiled widely, stretching her arm and spreading her fingers to admire her nails -- or was it the rings circling them?

"But she didn't even know me then; we never met," he gasped. She shrugged, bouncing her heeled foot by flexing a calf.

"Why would she have to know you, honey?" she asked. "She knew me."

His mind was a carrousel. It spun and spun around, taking him past faces -- past laughing eyes, and sneering mouths. He clung to his colorful little horse, feeling the nausea hit the pit of his stomach. It was all so banal, looking back -- her singling him out, making a date. It had never been about him, had it? Never even close.

He was going to be sick. He should be sick all over this smirking creature in front of him, shouldn't he? Cover her in the bitter gall of his defeat as the hysterical laughter of rows and rows of women washed over him. Cold sweat ran off his brow as he swayed back and forth in his chair, eyes closed, lips shaping unheard words.

After a century his ears popped open again.

"Are you all right, boy?" Her voice was soft and sweet, concerned. She'd had a great teacher, he thought. He just groaned.

"So," he tried, coughing to open his throat. "So that was all it was? A set-up to give you a shot at Jenner and this job?" She chuckled and patted his shoulder.

"I guess I have to thank you," she said. "I owe you a lot. But be honest, love... ," she went on. "It wasn't really all bad for you either, was it?"

He had no answer. A world of planned deceit and cold, cold deliberation unfolded before him. The word 'set-up' didn't even begin to explain what had happened. The girl read his emotions intently as they slowly paraded across his face. Her hand caressed his cheek. She looked concerned, eyebrows rising.

"You don't expect me to be sorry for you, honey?" she asked. "Because I won't be. You loved every minute of it. Miss A is right -- it is who you are. It is what you were born for. Now don't spoil it by denying. That would be so dishonest."

Her hand was soft; it radiated warmth into his bloodless face.

"The gray woman," he croaked. She nodded, her smiling eyes close to his.

"Sarah," she said. "You were very... revealing with her." He just stared at her, too stunned to shape a sentence.

"How?" he asked. He didn't really know why he said anything at all anymore. The earth had started swallowing him; he'd be gone soon enough. He might as well sit back and enjoy the ride -- hearing how he'd been prepped, served and eaten.

"Miss Sarah is a friend," the girl said. "Ah well, aren't we all friends?" She laughed a sweet soft laugh. He could see how she'd seduced Jenner -- stupid, fat, married, divorced and married again Jenner. He saw the works, the easy, breathtaking manipulation. Had Machiavelli really been a man?

"Sarah is a long time friend of Miss A's. She also has been my mistress for a while." Her eyes turned soft, remembering. Then she hardened them again, realizing he might have seen. She sat straighter, pulling at her skirt's hem.

"But Miss Sarah is way too sweet to break a girl," she went on. "She is too... involved, I guess." The girl had taken a pause before emphasizing the word. Then she shrugged.

"Anyway, knowing I was an ambitious girl, she wanted for me to get a crack at being successful. The internship at The Globe was a hoax, of course, courtesy to another good friend. And the portfolio? Well... Let's say: once in, I knew I'd make it." She giggled.

"So, after hearing your drunken lament, Sarah had this notion of catching two flies in one swap, if you know what I mean: for me a career and for you, ah, let's call it a life-long dream coming true." She spread her hands in a 'voilà' gesture, the corners of her lips almost reaching her ears.

He admired her perfect teeth.

"Now what?" he asked, after a protracted silence in which he struggled to get past her story, past her mocking tone and the all-encompassing completeness of his humiliation. She just sat there quietly, hands folded in her lap, eyes probing his from under raised brows. Why didn't he jump to his feet, curse her and leave the office? He knew very well why. She knew it too. He shrugged. "What plans do you have with me, you and your friends?"

She clucked her tongue, shaking her head.

"Why on earth would you think I have plans with you?" she said. "I've got what I wanted, haven't I? I don't really need you; I can find other freelancers to help me out, but okay, you'll do. I may keep you for a while."

He knew he should be boiling with indignation, hearing a glaringly under-qualified girl casually dissing a seasoned professional. But he wasn't offended; he was in awe, spellbound by her eyes, her mouth, her easy confidence. He almost nodded his consent, feeling all the well-known responses rushing back. Questions about age, experience and hierarchy became utterly ridiculous. She'd crushed him like the bug he was; then provided the skeleton to prop up his weak and insignificant existence.

"Please," he muttered. "Please take me." Her eyes lit up, but her face was set in stone.

"Speak up, boy," she said, "I can't hear you." He shook the dizziness from his mind, swallowing the bile at the pit of his throat.

"Please take me, Miss," he repeated, louder. She chuckled. Then she lifted a foot and planted it in his crotch.

"What is there to take, honey?" she asked, grinding his genitals with the sole of her heeled sandal. He closed his eyes, feeling the leather maul his soft, spongy flesh.

"I can serve, Miss," he offered. "I serve well."

The foot hesitated, only to be replaced by the sharper edge of her heel. He groaned, but didn't move.

"I hear you make an excellent cook and waiter," she said. "I also hear you are a chair to be sat on, and a horsey to ride."

He nodded, tears leaking from his closed eyelids. The pain in his crotch became insufferable. Then he felt fingers opening the buttons of his shirt. A warm hand caressed the haired skin below until it found a nipple, pinching it hard.

"Way too much hair for my taste, honey," she said, plucking at the wiry growth around the nipple. He winced. Then all sensations were gone, as was the foot. The pain subsided, but he felt abandoned. Opening his eyes he saw she'd slid off the desk and was standing next to it. She clapped her hands.

"Rise, boy," she said with an up-beat voice. "We got places to go." She turned her back on him, walking off to her office. He assumed she wanted him to follow. His crotch ached when he took his first steps.

Her office was another statement of her ambitions. They had been two offices before she had them combined and redecorated. It was bigger than Jenner's. The former two windows were now one big panoramic expanse of glass that yielded a breathtaking view of the surrounding cityscape -- velvet blackness strewn with countless lights. Her furniture was new and deceptively simple, including a desk, a conference table and a huge leather sofa. Table and desk were intimidatingly empty, but for a sleek silver laptop. The floor was a stretch of blond wood. Along the edge of the ceiling hidden fixtures spread a warm, indirect light. Every detail whispered taste and sophistication; and a stunning budget.

He watched her watch him for his response. He just numbly wondered how she'd got Jenner to cough the money up, but it wasn't the most important question on his mind.

She'd dropped herself on the sofa, leaving him standing at the center of the room.

"Undress," she said, crossing her legs. "I need to see what I've taken." He hesitated, thoroughly aware of the big window and the possibility of a security guard doing his rounds. There was another window next to the door, looking out on the offices.

He'd obviously waited to long. She pushed herself out of the leather cushions and walked over to a cupboard that hid a bar.

"You've second thoughts, I see," she said, taking a glass and pouring a drink. "Aren't you men all the same -- big talk and no deliverance?"

He mumbled an apology and started undoing the rest of his buttons, letting the shirt slide to the floor. His pants and shorts followed quickly and soon he was naked, standing next to the desk.

The girl sipped from her glass.

"Not bad at all," she said. "Let me have a better look." She turned to the wall and twisted a dimmer switch. The soft light changed into a glaring brilliance, making him feel very self- conscious.

She walked over, reaching out to touch his chest.

"Hairy as an ape," she said, disapprovingly. "But that can be easily dealt with." Her hand went down, stroking his belly.

"Good," she said. "I hate fat guts on a man. Like Jenner's." She theatrically shuddered. "What a girl does for her career." Her hand reached his genitals. They were still red from her mauling. She cupped his balls.

"I hear you never get hard," she said, her eyes leaving his crotch to find his. "Isn't that an awful pity?" He knew he didn't have to answer. Her hand was on his ass cheek now, pinching it, then sliding down his thigh. He flexed a muscle.




Prisoner Ch. 06



"You'll do," she concluded, emptying her glass and turning away. He let out a sigh. Then she said:

"Walk over to the window, boy. Let's not be selfish and keep you all to ourselves."

He knew he should have died of embarrassment as he walked around the desk and into the spotlights. They shone from the ceiling right over the panoramic window. He was on the tenth floor, but all around him rose equally high buildings, many of them with brightly lit windows that showed rooms full of late workers and cleaning crews. Numerous sets of eyes would be able to see him, but curiously enough he cared less than he'd feared. He felt protected by a shield of indifference. Had these last months of exposure and debasement numbed him down? Or was it just his general state of depression? Whatever it might be, it kept him standing on his wide open stage, feeling the limelight flush over his body -- outlining his nakedness, exposing each and every square inch of skin to whomever took the trouble to watch.

"Lovely. Stay there," the girl said from the darkened room behind him. "Just like that." He heard her heels cross the wooden floor, getting away from him. A door opened and closed. He waited, scanning the décor of windows all around him.

The waiting, the exposure and the almost casual humiliation started spreading a familiar feeling of defeat. The girl surely was a graduate of Miss A's academy and a good one -- her devices were as simple as they were effective. She made him wait, so he had time to think. She got him naked and exposed, so he'd feel vulnerable. And she took his suffering for granted in the most arrogant way, making him know he was less than nothing to her.

He saw two Hispanic-looking cleaning ladies stop and look twice when they spotted him from an office window across the street. They pointed at him and from their movements he knew the sight excited them. A third woman and an old black man were alerted and now all four of them pressed their faces against the glass. He certainly was a welcome divertimento from the boring chores of their jobs.

He let his eyes wander, meeting two women in business suits, obviously delaying their intention to go home because of him. Two windows down a fat woman started making lewd gestures, pouting her lips and gyrating her well-padded hips. Then she opened her blouse, showing him a huge white bra. He closed his eyes, praying she would leave it at that. And to be certain he didn't have to see more, he looked away to the right only to find two guys in shirtsleeves. They started doing gay impersonations -- limp wrists, swaying hips and all. It seemed to amuse them no end.

Things were getting old quickly. He wondered when the girl would be back. What if one of them started calling the police? Looking away from the impersonators he saw two huge sagging breasts where the white bra had been. Damn. His eyes fled to a point beyond the building.

"You may turn around now, honey. You've been stroking your vanity quite enough."

She looked intimidatingly elegant. The coat she wore had a black-and white jungle print. It was short and wide, cut like the ones women wore in the late fifties -- three quarter sleeves over black kidskin gloves. Her tight pencil skirt was black too, reaching down to her knees. He saw she had changed into white stiletto pumps with pointy toes. Supposing she was ready to leave, he walked over to the pile of clothes and picked up his boxer shorts. A clucking sound stopped him.

"You are sweet, but really kind of stupid, aren't you, André?" she said, shaking her head, smiling. He looked up and understood. His fingers let go of the shorts.

"But you are right," she went on. "You can't just leave that mess on the floor of my office. Pick it all up and fold it as neatly as you can."

He reached down again, picking up one item after another, folding them and placing them on the corner of the desk. When he was done the girl came forward, looked at the immaculately folded pile and scattered it all over the floor again with a casual swipe of her gloved hand.

"You call that folding neatly," she observed. "And yet you beg to serve me?" She stepped back, looking at him expectantly.

He stared at her. He knew that she was playing him, just like she'd done these past weeks, turning down perfectly good articles. Her unreasonableness was exactly her point. In the end anyone could learn to obey a mature, reasonable woman. But who could swallow the arbitrary petulance of a spoilt child? He checked himself and started picking up and folding his clothes again. He heard her chuckle. He laid them on the desk.

She didn't even look.

"Before you waste more of my time, boy, grab your things and follow me." She turned and walked to the door, heels clicking. He carefully took the neat pile of clothes and, carrying them on the open palms of his hands, followed her. Outside the room he stopped, waiting for her to lock up her office. When she turned back to him he saw she carried something familiar. It was the leather collar he'd worn at the Villa, or a collar just like it. From it dangled a chain.

"Come here," she said. He stepped up to her.

"Say woof," she said.

"Woof."

"Louder."

"Woof!"

"Good doggie. Now stretch your neck." He did and she closed the heavy, smooth leather around his throat, buckling it tightly. It made him cough. She smiled, turned and left for the elevators.

The chain jerked at his neck. He started walking, naked, carrying the neat pile of his clothes before him, like an offering.

To his relief the elevator took them straight down to the parking deck. She didn't say a word to him, but she did talk into her white cell phone. He forced himself not to listen. There were words like "he" and "him" and "piece of cake," followed by laughter.

Her car was a white vintage convertible Mercedes sports car. He automatically walked to the passenger side, but the chain yanked him back, hurting his throat.

The tiny trunk opened.

"Don't want my dog to stink up my leather upholstery," she said. "Get in."

He climbed into the trunk and had to fold his body tightly to fit. The lid slammed down, making his ears ring. Darkness surrounded him. The car jumped into movement, tires screeching on the concrete.

She wasn't a sensible driver.

***

He knew the gate. After he'd scrambled out of the car's trunk and his eyes had adjusted to the glaring lights that bathed the stone-and-iron construction, he saw they were at the mansion -- the one he'd taken care of while his friends were abroad. The owners had returned even before Miss A imprisoned him, so why did the girl bring him here? A jumble of thoughts entered his mind while he stood there naked, his bare soles arching to avoid the bite of the driveway's grit. Were the owners in and would they see him like this? And if they weren't, why would the girl be here, phoning to have the gate opened? Did she know them too -- or did her friends, maybe the gray haired woman, or even Miss A? Had they always known them? Had they maybe...?

A new sense of paranoia entered his thoughts, making his mind spin. He'd learned what had really happened to him and why -- the orchestrated loss of his job, his enslavement, everything. It felt like a whirlwind raging through his skull, upsetting his last feeble securities -- and blowing them away.

He should be screaming, but he felt a crazy kind of calm fatalism. Nothing he'd ever done these last months had really mattered. Women had played him like a puppet. Invisible strings had been connected to his limbs, to his thoughts, and his soul. Capricious goddesses had pulled them nimbly to make him dance and hope and puke and despair. Knowing that now flooded his mind with crazy reassurance; it set him free in the most unexpected way. He realized that his resistance had always been pointless. He saw how he'd still clung to abstract male notions society had drilled into him; notions of independence, pride and strength. They had only robbed him of true happiness ever since he was a little boy. Free or imprisoned, independent or enslaved, it had never truly mattered. He'd always been the prisoner of this gentle, superior race of women with their elegant, superior cruelty and their casual, superior indifference.

There, standing naked and exposed in the circle of light at the gate of the mansion, in the complete power of a capricious, silly girl, he knew he'd come to the end of a tortuous, twisted and totally unnecessary journey. He'd arrived at a point where he'd always been. There was no way back -- because there was no need for one.

He sank to his knees and wept.

The kick in his side sent a wakening flash of pain into his body. He raised his head, directing his tear-stained face at the girl standing over him.

"Thank you," he mumbled. Her expression was inscrutable. She dropped her phone in her clutch and rearranged a sleeve of her coat with unthinking elegance.

"Don't be daft," she said. The gate opened behind her, grating over the pebbles. "Dump your rags and follow me."

He left his clothes beside the gate and went after her, carrying the chain that dangled from his collar. In semi-darkness they passed the ice-cellar. Memories flooded him, like the exact grayness the crack at the bottom of the hatch would have at this hour of the day. He looked for the place where the thunderstorm had washed the girls' piss off his exposed body -- and the spot where the sun had scorched his skin. So many memories, and they all filled him with a dizzy, sweet-tasting rush of contentment.

"Wait in there."

The gesture of her gloved hand was indifferent as well as imperative. He knew what 'in there' was -- a mudroom that had its own door right next to the main entrance. "Wait," she'd said. He knew waiting would shape his future. He tasted the word on the tip of his tongue before stepping into a small and musty room. It smelled of generations of muddy boots, wet clothes and garden tools. He knelt on the floor, sitting back on his heels. He held the coil of his chain on his open palms. He'd wait. He'd wait better than anyone had waited before. This time, though, it wouldn't be for long.

A door opened and the room flooded with light from inside the house. It also brought in a distant cacophony of female voices.

"Up, boy."

The girl looked amazingly young. There was no hair on her head, or anywhere else on her naked body -- she even lacked eyebrows. The halo of light diffused her body, turning her into an immaterial creature -- a seraph, maybe, an angel sent down from unreachable places. But her voice was quite prosaic.

"We haven't got all day."

He followed her plodding footsteps to what he knew was one of the mansion's bathrooms. There was another bald girl, shrouded by clouds of fragrant steam.

"This way," the first girl said, leading him to a toilet.

"Sit down and piss," she said. From her mouth the rude word sounded perfectly functional. He sat down and emptied his bladder. It wasn't much. When he looked up, the other girl held a rubber sack with a dangling tube. He understood and lifted his ass. The nozzle was warm and slippery. He held the content of the sack for a few minutes before letting go. The girl repeated the procedure.

When he thought they were done, the first girl walked up to him, carrying a well-known object.

"Bend over the stool. Spread," she said with the efficiency of an experienced nurse. He obeyed, feeling hands spread his cheeks and a big, sleek object enter his sphincter. There was pain, but not for long. He heard a distinct, wet sigh when the stretched muscle slipped over the plug's widest point and closed over its slender waist.

"Up and into the tub," the first girl then said. He rose and felt the new weight pulling him down. Walking was awkward, scaling the tub's side even more so. "Keep standing," the girl said, reaching out to help him. He did. The second girl appeared from his other side, carrying a jug filled with a pungent cream. She poured some of it on his chest and both girls started to spread it over his body. It stank. They wore latex gloves.

"Yegggh," the first girl said, pulling a face. "I hate this part." The other one laughed. Their hairless faces and wraithlike bodies, floated in and out of the clouds. It gave the experience an unreal quality, like having been beamed up to an alien spaceship. They worked silently and with calm efficiency.

"Now wait," the second girl said, rinsing the jug in the water of the bath that sloshed around his feet. 'Wait,' she repeated, lifting a finger in caution. He smiled. He'd wait.

He was left alone for maybe ten minutes. Both girls returned and started rinsing him down, one wielding a showerhead, the other rubbing his skin with a rough wet cloth. The water around his feet turned dark, his skin gained a pink hue. Clumps of hair stuck to his toes. He understood. Did he care? He wondered why he even asked.

"Legs wide," the girl he still called 'first' said. She pushed to spread his thighs. The warm stream of water hit his privates and the crack of his ass. It felt comforting. The girl's nimble fingers touched the plug in his anus, aiming the water around it.

At last the girls seemed satisfied.

"Wait," they said. He smiled. He waited.

He must have dreamed away, even closing his eyes until he felt a subtle scratching around his scrotum. He looked down on the bald skull of one of the girls. Then he saw her hand maneuvering a razor blade. He winced. The girl laughed.

"No worry," she said.

Finally he was allowed to leave the tub. Both girls dried his body with big fluffy towels, talking to each other as if he weren't there. What they said was utterly banal. He heard things about nails, and cosmetics, clothes and ways to remove nasty stains from spoilt blouses. But being at least close to their conversations gave him a sense of comfort -- even if the subject was as mundane as this.

When one of the girls rubbed his hair, she had to reach up, so she leaned her lithe body into his front. The intimacy felt good. Her tiny breasts rubbed up and down his shaven chest, making him aware how slick and sensitive his skin had become. There was no sexual tension, just another lovely promise that one day he might belong.

Fingers busied themselves with his genitals. He looked down and saw the 'first' girl pull a black, shining sleeve over his cock and balls. Then she stretched two narrow, elastic straps up and over his hips to hook tightly into eyelets on the upper edge of the butt plug. At the same time the 'second' girl pulled a strap that went from his balls up through the crack of his ass to a third eyelet at the bottom of the flange. She pulled it tighter, asking the other girl to press his bulge until she was 'there.' The other girl cupped his package. She pushed while softly encouraging her friend to pull harder... more... yes, just a bit more... okay.

There was unbelievable pressure, but no pain. In the end the contraption hugged him impossibly tight. It squashed his genitals, maybe even pushing his balls back into the cavities of his body. At the same time it pulled the plug deeper into his bowels. Looking down he saw a flat, black triangle, made of a shining, vinyl-like substance. There was hardly a hint of a bulge left. He let his breath out with a sigh.

"Good boy," the 'second' girl said, slapping his ass cheek.

"Thank you, Miss," he whispered. It made them giggle.

"We aren't Misses," the 'first' girl laughed.

"Now bow," she instructed. "There's still a lot to do." He bowed and the smooth leather collar enclosed his throat again.

The girl led him out of the warm, steamy bathroom.

He stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. What he saw was a total stranger in a pink, hairless body, naked feet on a large rubber mat. He felt a cold, soft substance hit his back. Hindered by the stiff collar, he could just about make out a cloud of white powder landing on his shoulder -- then another. He sneezed.

"Stand still," one of the girls warned him. He felt the powder slowly cover his entire body. Was it talcum, maybe? Or was it a disinfectant? And if so, why?

"Raise a leg." He obeyed. "Point your toes." He did. A thin, elastic stocking wormed its way up his foot, wrapping his ankle and reaching his knee. He looked over into the mirror. Both naked girls were on their knees, pulling up a thin, black and shining material -- a kind of latex, no doubt, hugging his smoothly shaved and powdered leg. Their pale little asses contrasted with the black rubber.

"Put the leg down and raise the other."

He did, feeling their hands repeat the action on the second leg. He tried to keep his balance.

"Now stand on both." He stood and saw how the girls pulled the latex suit up to his hips, jerking and yanking until it strangled his legs without a wrinkle. His neatly packed crotch soon disappeared, as did his belly and chest. The 'first' girl removed his collar, while the other bunched the sleeve of the suit and pushed it over his hand.

There were no fingers, just a square ending that forced his hands into fists.

It didn't take the girls long to wrap his entire body in latex -- including his skull and face. His mouth was covered tightly and completely, making it impossible to do more than just mumble or moan. There were only two slits for his nose and two more holes for his eyes. He already felt the temperature go up.

The mirror showed an alien, rubbery creature, smooth all over and shining at every angle and curve. The tightness of his chest forced him to breathe superficially; the closed mouth at first caused waves of claustrophobia, but soon he found a new rhythm that calmed him down. He touched his latex body with his covered fist. It felt like touching a wooden object.

His heart raced.

"Yes, yes, you look lovely," the 'first' girl said with some friendly irony. "Now come on, there's not much time left." In his limited field of vision he saw himself being pushed to a low plastic basin. He stepped inside it. Four gloved hands started to rub a fragrant, thick liquid onto the latex. His packed flesh hardly felt the stroking and kneading. His mind wondered what the sticky stuff might be for.

"Turn around." He turned -- and his breath caught.

Right in front of him stood a man. He was big and dressed in blue overalls. A flare of almost forgotten embarrassment hit André at being seen the way he was, and by a guy. But the man didn't even look at him. All his attention was focused on two objects that stood between them. Their material was probably plastic, as black and shining as his new suit. One object looked like a very low table, having four half-hollow legs that were open to the outside. But it was an impractical table -- its top wasn't really flat. It had a scooped surface that rose at one side, where a half-round, padded opening was cut out. The other side had a smooth, sliding downward edge. The legs formed more of an A at that side, while the other legs were straight down.

The second object was taller. It also had four hollow legs, but these were open to he inside. And, just like the first 'table' it lacked a flat top. The central part was scooped out and hemmed in by two rising sides left and right. It had an even higher, half round piece at the back. If one wouldn't know better, they looked like... arm rests and... and... the back of a... seat?

But why two pieces, and why the strangely placed, hollow legs? Why indeed.

"Out, boy. On the mat."

The first girl's voice was only a notch above a whisper, muted by the latex that plugged his ears. He stepped out of the basin onto the edge of a big rubber mat. The thick oil dripped off the latex. The man picked up the lower object, placing it before him. He saw the cut out half-opening was at the far side. At last he understood.

"On it, boy. Lay on it." His heart sped, his throat clenched.




Prisoner Ch. 06



"Do it." He knelt, pushing his upper legs into the hollows. A hand pushed against his back and he sank onto the sculpted top, feeling the sticky oil squish and slither. The surface hugged his belly and chest perfectly. As his arms slid down the plastic front legs, he discovered how his throat fit into the well-padded hollow.

"Good boy," he heard, far away. A hand patted his latex covered skull. He tried to retract his right arm and couldn't. Neither would his leg. He understood. The sticky stuff wasn't oil after all. Tears leaked from the slits in his mask. Then he felt a smooth construction lower over his back, and his arms and legs. The fit was tight. Padded plastic encircled his neck now. He heard loud snapping sounds as the two parts closed around his torso, his arms and legs. He was imprisoned in plastic. Then a tight helmet sank over his eyes. His darkness was complete. He could breath and he could just about hear. He was completely immobile now. Finally he understood.

He was a chair. He was Chair.

He felt himself being lifted and put down again. There was a tug and there was movement, but he didn't move himself. He couldn't, could he? They had given him wheels. He swayed gently inside his rigid plastic second skin, his head immobilized by the helmet. He wondered what he might look like. Then he heard voices, many voices. There was laughter and applause. He was pushed and tugged. Hands pounded on his hull.

He was lifted again and put down. A sudden weight made him sway. He discovered that the plastic legs carried most of the weight. He wondered why that made him feel disappointed. He remembered almost fondly the pain in his arms and legs; his special gift to the women he carried. Ah, well, this way he would be tireless, wouldn't he? He'd last longer. He'd be their chair forever.

New tears burned his eyes. The weight on his back shifted. A Voice he thought he'd never hear again came from far, far away.

"Good chair," it said. He sobbed.

The End.