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.