Prisoner Ch. 02

He was sure though that she hadn't believed him; she was too clever for that -- too clever to not see right through him. But that didn't lessen his guilt, it just made it worse: she knew he had lied to her. He had torn up whatever trust he may have established -- and she knew. A sudden bout of crying sent tears down his face. Bottomless misery yawned; he had never felt so alone.

So where did this leave him? It left him nowhere. He had traded her precious attentions for a job he didn't even really like. He had dumped her for a boss he despised. Bravo André, he thought, for having your priorities straight. Okay, he loved writing. He loved cooking. And he'd always loved to combine the two for a living. But he knew it was a surrogate for what he really needed -- he needed to serve, to be used, to be the slave of women.

Was it the fever, or did he see clearly at last? Did it matter? Should he call her? Could he? What should he say? Should he say that the sun muddled his mind? Or was that just another lie? Yes, it was. He should tell her that he despised his actions and that he'd been a coward of the lying kind. He should apologize and promise her he'd do anything to regain her trust. He should beg that she'd take him back.

He sighed, convinced at last that he'd been honest with himself. He rose to get a bottle of chilled water from the fridge.

When he tasted the first cold mouthful he remembered the impact of the water she'd given him at the end of his ordeal. He knew then that every gulp of cold water he'd ever take would bring back that feeling -- and with it the bitter taste of his subsequent treason. The innocence of its purity would be gone and so would the simple joys of sunshine, summer afternoons and even the taste of well-prepared food. The thrill of spices and their exotic dreams would turn to shit and so would the satisfaction of serving well. He cried out at the realization of infinite loss, tears filling his eyes again. Maybe it was feverish hallucination, but he felt his world shrink. At every heartbeat it got smaller, giving up another joy, cutting off another vista. And it was all his fault. He fell to his knees, crying.

Then his cell phone rang.

"You're a liar," she said.

"Yes," he whispered, his throat thick with tears. "I'm so sorry."

"You're a coward and a liar."

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"A banal little traitor."

"I am sorry!"

"You keep saying that."

"That's because I am."

"Sorry is easy. It's just another lie."

"No, Miss. No! I mean it."

"You meant what you said on Saturday."

"Yes. But I lied."

He paused, considering what he'd just said. He knew she'd trapped him. He couldn't be trusted was what she told him.

"I admit I lied," he said. "I didn't hate what you did to me. Not at all! And I never hated you for doing it. Please believe me, Miss."

There was silence. Every second of it was torture. Would she hang up, disgusted? Would he lose her forever? He dared not break the silence. He just stood, the cell phone pressed to his head, knowing his life was in the balance.

"Tell me you loved it." Hearing her voice again was the sweetest thing. He sighed.

"I loved it."

"Liar."

"It's the truth. Please believe me. It's the truth."

He almost cried, his cheeks still feeling tight from the dried up tears.

"Prove it."

The change of tack surprised him.

"I'll do anything," he said.

She laughed.

"You won't," she said. "You'll only do what I tell you.

"I will. I promise I will!"

"Are you naked?"

"Almost." He reached for his boxer short and pulled it down, stepping out of it. He never looked if someone might see him. "Now I am," he said, turning his back to the street.

"It's a pity you left your pretty apron at the house," she said. "Do you have one there?"

"Just a big barbecue apron."

"That won't do. Get down to your car and drive to 'Molly's Kitchen' at the mall. I bet you know where it is. Get a nice small frilly apron there, just like the one at the mansion -- pink, flowery. Put it on at the shop; walk back to your car. Don't try to fool me, I'll know."

"But I'm naked."

"Yes, you told me."

"I can't go naked. I'll be arrested."

"Ah," she said. "You won't do it because you might end up in jail. Just like: I'll lose my job..."

"But... ," he said.

She hung up. He stared at the beeping little box, knowing he'd blown it again. He sagged down into his chair.

Half an hour went by. The breeze cooled his exposed body. His mind seemed to clear up, but his thoughts stayed in turmoil. Why had she called? What did she want -- destroy him? He knew very well that she was testing him, just as she had at the house -- wanting him to choose her over his job. She wanted him to fight his fear, to take chances and show her he was serious. What she told him was simple: dreams aren't worth a thing if you don't have to pay for them.

She also told him to remove every convention. To stop fearing bourgeois barriers like embarrassment, and lose this automatic reflex of putting social consequences first. 'Accept your impulses,' is what she said. 'Fuck the world, they are just holding you back.' She was right, of course. He'd never gotten one step closer to what he really wanted by clinging to what he had. But it was easy for her to say; it was his life he was giving up, wasn't it -- his career and his friends. Could he do it? He sighed, knowing it was the wrong question. The right question was: could he not do it?

That was when the truth struck.

He'd acted as if it was all her doing; that the woman made him do things to pleasure her. But she didn't. She'd even told him so. She didn't care about him one way or the other. She didn't even like men much; she'd said it herself. She'd done someone a favor, another woman no doubt. Maybe she'd even be relieved if she were absolved of the chore. If he'd grabbed the chance she offered, it would have been fine with her. If he didn't it was fine too. He had acted like a spoilt, ungrateful child, thinking the world turned around him. He should have known women aren't like that. They used him; he was a toy for them to play with.

He remembered now how he'd moaned one alcohol-soaked night to this gray-haired woman -- or was she blond? It was at a restaurant he'd written an article for. After a wine tasting session he had drunk way too much and gotten sentimental. As often with alcohol involved, his memories were spotty and blurred. He might have told her about his hang-ups with girls. He even might have trusted her with his general view of men and women. The only thing he clearly remembered was that she'd promised him something. Which he had promptly forgot.

The woman might not. Maybe she'd met with the black haired woman and they'd had their fun over his silly philosophies. He might even be the subject of a bet, just to see how far he'd be prepared to go. A delicious wave of humiliation washed over him. The sheer disinterest made him gasp. It also made him realize that he was on his own. His adoration for the woman was a one-way emotion -- she didn't care a fuck.

The realization curiously enough didn't make him feel hurt. To the contrary, there was comfort in it. As if he'd returned to familiar ground, to a place where he knew his way.

It made him know exactly what to do.

***

The mall wasn't overly busy. Many people were at work or must prefer the beach, he guessed, as he walked from his parked car to the second floor where the shop was. He'd decided to wear his boxer shorts. It was a compromise, he knew, but one he'd made with himself. Running naked through a mall, he'd bargained, would certainly have aborted his mission before he even reached the shop -- so what would have been the point? It was bad enough as it was, he thought. Even in the dark reflection of the shops' windows he could see the hot screaming pink of his skin. It caused mild embarrassment whenever people watched him -- the nudity and the sunburn. By now patches of skin hung in loose flaps from his shoulders. The pain had become an intense itching he had trouble not to scratch.

He knew the shop. It was large and packed with every kitchen item one could dream of -- utensils, cutlery, china, table clothes, and -- way in the back -- oven mittens, chefs' hats and aprons. He ran his hands through the collection. Most of them were either of the functional linen kind or of laminated canvas. The latter had funny cartoons, printed patterns and visual jokes. He knew they were too large and masculine for his purposes, so he started wondering why she had sent him here.

Finding nothing suitable he felt a curious mixture of relief and regret. He turned around to leave, but found his path blocked by a cute and very young Asian girl. She wore a pink 'Hello Kitty' sweater over a short mini skirt. Her bangs were cut straight over her black button eyes. Of course she sported white bobby socks in her pink Converse sneakers.

"I think this is what you are looking for," she said, holding up an apron that could have been a copy of the one he'd worn at the house. It was just as gauzy and frilly, and just as small.

He tried to convince the girl she must be mistaken but she giggled and said: "Miss A was very clear about her wishes, Sir." She pushed the scanty affair into his hands, but when he tried to get past her, she laid her dainty hand on his forearm.

"She was very specific that you put it on in here, Sir." Her constant giggle started to irritate him. But he knew the whole undertaking would have been useless if he balked now. He looked around the shop. They were in a pretty secluded part and there weren't many customers anyway. But there was the girl, of course. He shrugged and held up the apron. It was pink and yellow with frilled lacings along its edges and the wide straps. It also was as alarmingly small as he remembered.

He hung it in front of his boxer shorts, but when he started to tie the straps across his back, the girl clucked her tongue disapprovingly. She stepped forward and slid her tiny hand under the apron to find his buttons and open them before pulling the shorts down his legs. He felt them drop on his feet; then he felt her fingers around his cock.

"Better," she grinned, squeezing once before letting go. He hoped his sunburn camouflaged his blushing. Picking up his shorts he walked into the shop, murmuring unintelligible 'thanks' to the girl. At first he could hide his most embarrassing parts behind racks of merchandise, but the cash register was totally into the open. Even worse, there was a short queue of middle-aged women in front of it. They had a hard time concealing their amusement. He hid his crotch behind his shorts, but the abundant frills on his hairy chest and shoulders betrayed him. He became expert in looking away, just hoping no one saw his exposed behind.

When it was his turn at last, a new problem rose -- or new problems, rather. The first one was that a pimpled boy had replaced the aged female cashier right before he got to the desk. Showing oneself in nothing more than a flimsy female apron was hard enough if it were to a woman, but to expose oneself to a smirking male teenager was quite something else. The second problem arose when, after sufficient smirking, the boy asked him to hand over the apron, as it still had the little theft-device sealed to it -- a device that had to be removed with an ingenious-looking contraption built into the desk. He looked at the boy and back to the apron.

"I, eh," he said. "I can hardly take it off, can I?" The boy may not have minded. He just stood there, grinning.

Gathering the hem of the apron, André stretched the flimsy fabric over the desk top towards the thingy, very much aware of his genitals pressing into the desk's side. Pulling the apron forward he exposed his entire backside, mostly purplish pink ass flesh sticking out obscenely. He heard a murmur behind him and realized new people had queued up there. The theft-device popped, he ran his card through the machine and hurried out of the shop into the afternoon sunlight.

Of course people stared and nudged each other when he quick-marched to his car. There were catcalls and whistles. He felt the breeze playing with the frills and fought the urge to cover his crotch with his shorts. Miss A would surely frown on that. The car was parked way too far away, of course. When at last he sat behind the steering wheel, his heart was on its way out of his chest. He breathed deeply to regain some control, before turning the key and driving off.

Only then did he realize that all the way through his ordeal a singsong had repeated itself in his head, like a mantra. It was from The Doors, the slightly off voice of Jim Morrison: 'When you're strange, when you're strange.' He remembered. It had been the background score of quite a part of his school years. "People are strange when you're a stranger. Faces look ugly when you're alone. Women seem wicked when you're unwanted... no one remembers your name."

When he at last reached the sanctuary of his flat he drank two tall glasses of water before tumbling into his balcony chair, too exhausted to even change out of his ridiculous outfit. His cell phone rang immediately.

"You did it," her voice said. There was no triumph, just observation. He didn't answer.

"I thought I'd lost you, honey," she went on. He still didn't answer, wrestling with all kinds of contrary emotions. He felt angry, but proud too. Feelings of defeat mixed with senses of victory. He had done it, but that very act was curiously a source of shame as well as pride. He was a mess.

"Why did you do it?" the woman asked, never missing the hundred million dollar question.

"Because you told me to," he said, knowing it wasn't true. She laughed.

"I don't think so," she answered. There was a pause. She let it grow. Then she almost whispered: "Be honest with yourself, André." It brought a sudden shock of tears to his eyes. He looked at his burnt body, dressed in the silly frills of pink nylon. Then his gaze scanned the ceiling of the balcony.

"I... ," he started. "I did it because I had to."

The click of the phone was followed by a series of beeps. She'd hung up.

***