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.