Prisoner Ch. 01

"I am sure you are a great chef, honey," she said. "But I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite."

Disappointment seared through him. His eyebrows frowned. He couldn't move for a moment.

"Really?" he then said. "Not even a morsel, just to taste?" She smiled and shook her head. He dropped the knife in the dish, at a loss what to do. He'd spent hours deciding what dinner he'd cook for her. He'd gone to the farmers' market to handpick the best vegetables and fresh spices. He'd spent an hour preparing the dish, leaving it in the oven for another hour. And now she didn't even taste one bite.

"Another glass of wine would be fine, though," she said. Only after she raised her brows and shook the empty glass in her hand did he tear himself out of his stunned immobility. He took the bottle from its cooler and filled her glass.

"There still is dessert," he said.

"Maybe later," she answered. Her smile made him want to cry. He watched her pick up her fresh-baked roll, plucking at it with her fingers.

"Tell me, André," she said. "Are you disappointed?"

Out of nowhere, the question triggered his tears; he felt water run down his cheeks. She reached out to touch it. Her smile had gone; she seemed genuinely upset. He couldn't stop crying now. His body shook; a whole day's tension was pouring out.

He'd been brought up with the prejudice that real men don't cry, but nowadays that didn't bother him. Like so many other things he'd been taught it was bullshit, just another way to suppress him. He knew 'real men' didn't exist and if they did, that he'd never want to be one. What he did know was that sudden floods of tears liberated him; the sobbing and shuddering shook the knots from his muscles. They melted his rigid frame into relaxation, and cleared his mind.

"It is all right to cry, André," the woman said, bringing her wet fingertips to her mouth, tasting his eyes' salty moisture. He looked up at her through a veil of tears. "But when I say you should stop, you must stop. Do you hear, darling? There is no need to cultivate self-pity."

After a while his shoulders stopped shaking; the tears kept streaming, however. She handed him her napkin. He rubbed his face in it and blew his nose. A wonderful calmness descended on him.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. She smiled.

"No need to thank me, honey," she said. She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Walking over to him, she took his head and pulled it against her lap. He felt the warmth of her intimate flesh, and smelled her scent. The unexpected tenderness caused new tears.

"We have to talk, don't you think?" she said. He nodded.

"Where shall we sit?" she asked, picking up her glass and gazing around. He looked up at her, wondering if he'd dare. The mere thought caused his heart to rise in his chest, hammering against his rib cage. She'd ridicule him, he knew. By now he had come to expect her casual dismissal of anything he might want -- her derision, the mocking chuckles.

"Please, Miss," he suddenly stammered, his voice trembling with fear. "Please sit on me..."

He felt her hands squeeze his head. Screwing his eyes up he saw how hers widened. To his amazement it looked as if she was lost for words.

"Please," he repeated. "I've always dreamt of serving as a chair to a woman. Use me, Miss. Please, I'll be a very good chair." His eyes shifted away from hers, as his booming heartbeat filled the silence. He'd taken the plunge; he'd asked what he'd never dared ask before. He knew he'd die of embarrassment if she refused.

Then he saw her nodding towards the empty fireplace, where a low table stood and two overstuffed club chairs. She let go of his head and walked over.

"Please crawl to me, honey, and get this chair out of the way," she asked. He crept to her across the tiled floor. Then he rose and started pulling at the heavy piece until there was an empty space left, right under the standing lamp. The floor was gray with dust where the chair had been.

"Kneel, André," she said. "On hands and knees, please." He had trouble believing she really said it. Then he knelt down into the dust, sinking forward on his hands. He felt the palm of her hand on the bare skin of his back. It made him tremble.

"You are quite strong," she said. The warmth of her touch sank into his muscles. Then he felt her sitting down on him, her thinly clad ass molding itself against his back. The full weight of her body pressed down on him as she leant back, crossing her legs.

The intimacy overwhelmed him; it caused a mixture of feelings he wasn't able to sort out. There was humiliation, of course, degradation. But he also felt pride and, most confusingly, it was not at odds with the humiliation at all. There was gratefulness too, and mortification. Could he really be proud because he was humiliated? Did he feel grateful because she abased him? And did he care? He'd knelt and stretched his back to carry her. All he felt was profound satisfaction. He finally was at the right place at the right moment, being used by a woman he adored. A gush of wellbeing made him shudder.

"You are a chair now." Her voice came from way up. "You are my chair now." Her warm, round ass squirmed, instilling a sweet ache in the muscles of his back. New tears fell from his eyes.

***

They talked. Well, she talked; he listened. He felt no need to take part and maybe spoil this moment he had waited so long for. Her questions were never questions anyway. Why would she have need of his answers? He was a chair now, and chairs don't talk. They are just there to be sat on, to be used. This was maybe his only chance to be close to a creature he worshipped, and be of use. He could feel her weight, hear her voice, and smell her scent. She would never shut him out now. He was her chair ­-- an invisible but useful part of her precious world.

Being an object made him feel safe. Of course that was an insane thought. But who needed sanity if it might rob him of this moment? She turned him into what he craved to be; a mute servant of women. He knew she was cruel, yes, selfish too. She'd never consider his needs. But by doing so she'd give him what he really needed -- his own place in an uncomplicated world. She was Up, he was Down. Why confuse the issue?

"You are not much of a man, André," she said, sipping her wine as she ground her rump into his spine. "But I don't get the impression that bothers you much." She chuckled. "I don't care much either, honey. I despise manly men; they are so primitive." Her free hand caressed his shoulder and the arch of his ribcage. "Your body is impressive enough, though." She reached for his cock under the loose apron; it was swollen but soft, hanging down limply. She cupped his dangling balls. "Everything is there in abundance I'd say, but you don't seem to really want to use it, do you? Not that I mind, honey... not at all. You have so many other... qualities." Her chuckle became more of a giggle. "But," she went on, "I do wonder why..."

He didn't answer until she insisted, slapping his ass cheek to get his attention. "Why, chair?"

"I...," he said, waking up from being lost in thoughts. "I wouldn't know, truly. I don't think much about things like that anymore, Miss." She laughed.

"You really don't, do you? I love your honesty. No thumping of chest, no macho masquerade, no drunken bragging about monstrous ten-inchers." Her hand travelled down his soft cock, exploring its length. "Although you might get close to at least eight fat inches if you tried, darling. Hmm, you are remarkable." He didn't know what to make of this qualification; he decided to be thankful and let her know.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. She wriggled, increasing the strain in his upper arms. He ignored the pain, just like he ignored the heat her hand generated -- the harder she stroked the more his cock seemed to shrink

"Many girls might consider your lack of interest a pity," she went on. "Or an insult even. I'm sure Tasha felt it as a blow to her ego when you didn't respond to her hand in the restaurant -- and she is a stalwart lesbian, you know. But of course she is an incurable exhibitionist too; all models are." She laughed. "I bet she'd love to sashay down a catwalk under a triumphal arch of monster cocks, raised in tribute -- then dismiss them with a wave of her dainty hand -- just for the kick of it."

She squeezed him one last time. Then she wiped her fingers on his skin and sat straight, making her ass cheeks roll on his shoulder blades. He sank back into a sweet and satisfied nothingness. Her warmth and pressure was all he needed; her silence was a bonus; the growing strain in his muscles a welcome target to focus on. Then her cellphone chimed.

"Hello?" she said. And: "Yes." And a few more "yesses." Then she started squirming, making him sway on the pillars of his arms and legs.

"I'm right on top of him now," she said, ending with a soft chuckle. "No, I mean his back; I'm sitting on him. He is my chair."

Her voice was quite matter of fact, but still a wave of embarrassment overwhelmed him. It felt new and yet familiar to be talked about like he was an object; it was alien and yet sweetly intimate. He closed his eyes to savor the emotion. His ears burned.

"I'd say: try it, honey, before you laugh," she went on; she seemed deadly serious now. Then she burst into laughter before plunging into a series of unrelated business questions. They concerned anonymous Russians, deadlines, reams of precious materials and a stunning amount of money.

"Get the sluts over tomorrow, so I can measure their fake tits and overweight asses," she said, her voice dissolving in laughter again. Her hand returned to caress his face. The soft touch made him tremble. Her fingers entered his mouth. He sucked on them. Then she ended the call and jumped off of him. The spot she'd occupied turned cold; he felt weightless, abandoned.

"I really have to run, André," she said, her voice coming from across the room. He turned on his knees to spot her. She was at the door, clutching her pouch.

"Please be a sweetheart and call me a cab," she said. "We'll be in touch, I promise."

It took him a minute to shake the numb, fairytale-like mood off his mind. He just stared at this sleek, elegant creature -- so sweet and yet so cruel, so utterly out of his league.

He rose and called a cab.

***