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.