Prisoner Ch. 03

Rain chilled his naked skin. The first drops had been huge -- splashes of lukewarm water, hurled down amidst lightning and thunder. A massive downpour followed, drenching him within seconds. It filled up his mouth, flogging his face, and turning the dust around him into a sea of mud. He saw it gleam whenever new forks of lightning struck. He couldn't move, but that was all right; it would only have hurt more. Ropes strangled his upper arms, binding them together behind his bloodied back. The women had been amazingly efficient when they tied him up. They'd connected his wrists to his ankles, forcing him into a painful arch that exposed his chest, belly and crotch to the elements. His throat was collared, its leash tied to a tree.

He had welcomed the first rain; it had ended the stifling heat of the night. It had also washed away the stench. He wondered why he called it stench; maybe calling it that way might help increase his punishment? Maybe he should call the discomfort of the ropes 'pain' for the same reason -- the fiery welds on his back, the chill of the rain. Maybe yes. Perhaps he needed to emphasize his bodily pain to flush out the even greater pain he felt inside -- the pain of failure and betrayal.

Kneeling in the downpour he thought back to what happened at the house after his shameful ejaculation down the Latin girl's gullet.

Gigi had hugged him while he lay crying out his remorse. His body still glowed from the cursed orgasm, but his soul felt cold. His skin seemed alive, but his spirit was dead. The girl's lilting voice whispered soothing words into his ear. He could smell his sperm on her breath. What she said came straight from her professional repertoire. It was no doubt meant to tickle his ego, but he refused to believe her; refused even to hear her. His eyes were wide-open, but all he saw was an unfocussed mist. Then he felt a welcome pain in his side, followed by more jabs in his ribs and chest. A shrill voice overrode the comforting lisps of the girl. It also cleared his muddled mind and stopped his sobbing. He crawled forward, embracing the heeled feet in front of him -- kissing them, drooling on them. He moaned inaudible 'sorry's.' His hands caressed slim ankles and calves while he squeezed his eyes shut, excluding the world in a childish attempt at invisibility.

"You damn piece of shit!" Miss A panted. "You were all bravado, big words and promises and now look! One trivial test and you make me the laughing stock of my friends, putting my trust to shame. But I won't have it. You'll pay for this, you hear? I'll make you wish you were never born!"

The words tumbled through his head, disjointed, but clear. They were meant to hurt him, and they did; they were salt in his self-inflicted wounds -- a pain he needed, and welcomed. They also were a last straw; a sign that she might not dump him like the betraying filth he was.

"Please hurt me, mistress," he mumbled. "Hurt me and take this pain away." A hand slapped his head. A foot wrenched itself free to kick his face. He rolled over like a dog, exposing his belly.

"Please, mistress," he repeated. "Please save me; don't abandon me."

"Mistress?" The anger had left the voice, replaced by ice-cold indifference. "Who is your mistress? I am not. I never was and never will be. I told you I don't do men; certainly not the blubbering caricature of a man that you are."

"Don't give up on me, Miss," he begged, curling his naked body like a fetus around the silly apron. "Please teach me; hurt me," he cried into the pink nylon. "Punish me, make me suffer, but don't send me away. Don't send me away."

He heard the girls' voices in the background. They sounded soft and friendly, as if pleading for him. To his surprise their sympathy irritated him; it felt as if they were out to rob him of his punishment. How could he prove his true sincerity if he were forgiven? How could he ever serve again if his betrayal wasn't taken seriously? Then he heard what they really said.

"Give him to me first, A," the redhead said," before you kick him out."

"Me! Me," Gigi's voice cried out like a little girl begging for attention. "Let me fuck him, please, before you kill him."

Kill him?

The word plunged his heart in ice water, chilling his body around it. She wouldn't, would she? But if so, would that be a bad thing, he wondered, to put an end to this excruciating misery? To be killed and done with. Really? He didn't know anymore; he was too confused. He should care, he knew, but did he? Did she?

A hand grabbed his chin, pulling his face up. Her eyes flashed from under ink-black bangs.

"Traitor," her blood-red lips said. He heard his breath turn into moaning. Then another hand yanked his head up by the hair. It pulled him up painfully and dragged his body across the tiled floor until his face bumped into an exposed, shaven cunt. He never resisted.

"Eat her out, you loser," Miss A's voice hissed, smashing his face into the bare, freckled flesh. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue over the damp slit, before dashing it inside.

The hole was tight and hot; strong muscles massaged his tongue as he tried to go in as deep as he could. He started to fuck the vagina, rubbing his nose over a swollen clitoris. He felt fingers claw into the skin of his skull, encouraging his movements. Soon the outer world was gone, images as well as sounds, to be replaced by moist heat and the labor of his breath. Thoughts departed; all he became was a tongue and sucking lips, nibbling teeth, nothing more. Female scent overwhelmed him; he drowned in it -- it was all he'd ever dreamt of.

Then he felt hands on his buttocks; soft, small hands. They grabbed his flesh, pulling his cheeks apart. Long nails scratched his skin. Instinctively he shied away, but the hands were stronger than they seemed. A fat, blunt object grazed the insides of his cheeks. It felt slippery, greasy. Its head bumped into the tender flesh until it rested against his anus. He tried to cry out and pull his face from its sweaty cradle, but the hands around his skull forced him back in. Thighs closed around his ears like a vice. All he could do was gasp for air, as the object entered his asshole.

It hurt. The thing was lubricated but thick. It stretched him; the pain got intense. The pressure didn't subside; it only grew. Would they tear him up, maim him for life? Should he protest -- could he? He tried to yield to the pressure, but the hands kept him in check. He knew he was strong enough to shake them both off; why didn't he?

"Relax," a voice breathed. "Push back; embrace the pain." It was Miss A's voice. There was warmth in it, sympathy. He sobbed as he felt his muscles relax. The dildo rushed in until the strap-on's harness pressed into him. He cried out in pain. His bowels were so full they might burst. Soft hands massaged his belly. Something even softer touched his spine -- lips?

"Good boy." Miss A's voice whispered, muffled by the clenching thighs; he felt her breath on his skin. The claws in his skull intensified their grip. His tongue cramped from keeping it stiff while fucking the humping vagina. Then the dildo moved again, making him feel even fuller.

"Push back, honey," the voice said, followed by another kiss. He tried to obey, pushing back when the dildo went up his bowels, lurching forward when the redhead bumped into his stiffened tongue. They slid into a hypnotizing rhythm. The hands on his belly started kneading. The pain inside was replaced by slow-spreading warmth.

He'd never considered himself bisexual; cocks, especially his own, had no great attraction. He'd been called a faggot, a homo and every other homosexually tinted term in the big Book of Puberty, but he'd always known he wasn't. He'd never even had a finger in there, let alone a brutally fat dildo.

The feeling was new; he had no notion at all about its origin or even its nature. The warmth spread to his balls and penis, but there was no arousal, no stiffening. There was excitement though -- an exhilarated feeling that didn't seem to be connected to any physical stimulation. He knew what it was; it was what it always had been -- the warm, sweet rush of belonging, of being accepted. Women were using him, mighty, distant, glorious women. He was serving two women at the instruction of a third. They turned him into a thing, an object. It made his heart race.

The first blow was like white-hot fire. It ran from his left sunburnt shoulder, over his spine to his right side. The second one was an inch lower and parallel to the first. The fucking never stopped while a rain of lashes landed on his still tender back, first in parallels, then crisscrossing. Strong white thighs plugged his ears, so he couldn't hear the swishing of the whip. Each strike came unexpected. He also couldn't cry out as his mouth was filled with humping flesh. The pain drowned out every other sensation, even the rape of his asshole. When the flogging finally stopped, his entire back was on fire.

Being hooked by the dildo might be the only reason he didn't crumble to the floor.

The fat intruder picked up its speed after the punishment was over. He tried to keep up with it, encouraged by the woman who'd whipped him. He felt himself being pummeled back and forth between the two girls, while cruel fingernails traced the rising welds on his back. A cloak of dizziness descended upon him, pushing back the pain. He lived in a hothouse of steamy flesh where the girls' excited cries became the twittering of exotic birds. As sweat poured from his skin and the redhead's vagina robbed him of his breath, his mind escaped to a tropical forest full of spotted predators and slithering snakes. When at last the pounding stopped, his female usurpers overwhelmed him -- crushing his ruined body under their spent flesh.

His spirit calmly slipped away into pinkish Nirwana.

There was no way to tell how long he'd stayed unconscious. When he came to, all three women were in robes, their hair wet and their skin pink from recent showering. He himself lay on his belly on a sofa, a large towel between him and the leather cushions.

"Welcome back, loser," Miss A said when she noticed his return. Her voice was friendly and she smiled. "Bring him some water will you please, Gigi? He must be parched."

The cool water was heaven; he sat up on an elbow and emptied the glass in one huge draught.

"Thank you, Miss," he murmured. She just shrugged. In the silence he heard far away thunder. The long-expected thunderstorm to end days of tropical heat must at last be brewing on the horizon.

"Hear that, loser?" Miss A asked. "There will be a lot of rain and thunder soon." He wondered why she told him; he'd never heard her use chitchat before. She rose, walking over to him and getting down on her haunches. She smelled sweet. He winced when her fingers touched his ruined back, but there was hardly pain. The skin felt cool and her fingertips seemed to slither in cream. They must have treated his wounds.

"Did it hurt?" she asked, her voice soft and close.

"Yes," he said.

"Good," she sighed. "You deserved it."

"Yes," he agreed. She smiled.

"I have a nice treat for you, André." He looked up. Nice?

"I bet you'd love to feel the rain on your poor burnt skin," she went on. What was she planning? She turned away from him and rose, clapping her hands.

"Marijke," she cried out, "the ropes, please. And Gigi, go find the collar."

She had closed the collar around his throat and clicked the leash to it. He'd risen from the couch and meekly followed her outside. He noticed that the silly apron was gone; he was naked. The grit of the court attacked his bare feet.

They had efficiently tied his body into an arch. He had an open view to the west, where ink-black clouds were gathering. Ghostly lightning danced on the horizon, followed by far away rumbling. It was still stiflingly hot, even this late in the evening.

Marijke took off her robe, the pale flesh of her thin body clear against the sky. Her face carried a smirk.

"I guess he'll be glad the rain will come soon," she said. Stepping forward, she spread her legs until she stood astride his straining body. She took two more steps until she was right over his face; then she let go of her bladder. A stream of hot piss landed on his face and throat, hitting his eyes and nose. The girl started moving her hips and the stream travelled across his chest, splashing and gurgling down his exposed belly. She must have drunk a lot, for when she returned from as far as his knees, she had enough left to splatter his face again.

When the last few drops had fallen from her pale vagina lips, she lifted her left leg and turned away, only to expose the smaller girl, Gigi. She stepped up like the redhead had done and opened her bladder to piss on his face. She didn't allow a stream to splash on him, though. Being much shorter, she was closer to his face. When the first stream hit, she lowered herself and started smearing her gushing vagina over his face, his throat and his chest. She sang a sweet little Brazilian song with it, spreading the moisture with her hands.

She smelled stronger than Marijke had. But her bladder must be smaller, as she had to stop after reaching his crotch. Leaning on his already straining thighs, she started massaging her urine into his genitals. Then she rose and walked away.

Had he expected Miss A to be the next? And was he relieved when she obviously declined -- or was he disappointed? She stood in front of him, looking down with an amused smile.

"Well, anyway," she said. "More refreshments on the way. Have a wonderful night, André. Come, girls, let's get in; it looks like rain."

The last thing he heard, against a background of rising wind and rumbling thunder, were their voices laughing.

***

He must have fallen asleep nevertheless. When he woke up he wasn't tied into an arch and on his knees anymore, nor was his throat collared and tied. He lay on his belly in a swamp of soft mud. His back hurt and so did his asshole. Ah, well, most every muscle in his body ached.

The newly risen sun turned puddles into blue mirrors and made dangling raindrops sparkle like crystal jewelry. He raised his head. The sky was of the cleanest blue. The morning breeze caused a million goose bumps to rise on his body. He tried to get to his feet, groaning at every inch he rose. At last he stood, stretching his cramped limbs. He was naked. His entire front was caked with mud. Stumbling to the entrance of the house he followed the wall to keep his balance.

The door hung open. He walked in, looking around but finding no one. The kitchen and the connected living room were a shambles, strewn with bottles, glasses, towels and robes. One of the bedrooms was a ruin. Sheets were crumpled into knots, pillows lay everywhere. The mirrors in the en suite bathroom still dripped with condense; the bathtub was filled with dirty water. He saw the toilet hadn't been flushed.

A few 'anybody here's?' assured him the women had left. He grabbed one of the used towels and tied it around his hips. Then he walked out to the gate to find it open and their car gone. He returned to where he kept the keys; they were absent too.

He started cleaning up the bathroom before taking a shower himself. Standing under the hot water he avoided his still painful back as much as possible. He carefully touched his anus. It seemed a bit swollen and tender, but there was no pain. Squatting a bit to have better access, embarrassment overtook him. He had allowed them to not only play with him, but to do so in the most humiliating way. Not one single moment had they considered him a human being and he had let them. No, he had reveled in it. And even if he didn't understand, there was no excuse.

The black haired woman had frog-marched him into a life of degradation. She had guessed every single one of his shameful fetishes, never asking him anything; just pushing. She had ridiculed him and allowed the girls to fuck him up his ass. Then she had flogged him until she drew blood, tied him up in a thunderstorm and had her girls piss all over him. He had never resisted.

Was this what he wanted? And if it were, would he ever be able to turn back again? Turn back to what? He sank to his knees under the cooling water. His life -- what exactly was his life, really? It was easy to think that he had a life to return to, but who was he fooling? Could one call years of looking over a fence, yearning for the life of others, a life? Had he ever been happy with what he had, what he was?

He knew it would be easy for him to reason away why he'd done what he did and go on with his life -- as far as he still had one. He could easily blame her. Or he could turn around and call it all a disgusting but harmless game. Would that be true? No, it wouldn't. It had been much more than that and he himself had wanted it. He had asked for it -- he, not she. No one might know that he'd asked for it, but he knew, didn't he?

Then again, he thought, later that morning after putting away the last spotlessly cleaned glasses -- he could stop whenever he wanted. He could deny it all. Couldn't he? There was no proof it ever happened -- no pictures, no witnesses beside the girls themselves. He could pick up his life again and every trace of what happened would be gone when the last bruise healed. They didn't even know where he lived, did they? They might tell people what happened, but why would they? Miss A was a wealthy woman; she surely didn't need to blackmail him out of his meager savings. And the girls -- who would believe a whore? And why would the redhead, being Miss A's personal assistant, reveal what her boss wouldn't?

When the house was clean again, the linen drying, he sat down, no longer able to deny what he'd become. He remembered, while cleaning the bathroom, how he'd slipped his hand into the dirty bath water to find the stop. He'd always been obsessed with cleanliness. Tremors touched his stomach as he felt the still tepid liquid crawl up his searching arm. His throat spasmed, but he didn't pull back, keeping his eyes fixed on the ring of dirt left behind as the water gurgled down the drain. He imagined what might be in the greasy residue and how it had gotten there. At last his fingers touched the dirty ring and he smelled them -- inhaling the sickly-sweet mixture of soap, bodily fluids and imagination. He slowly rubbed the grease into his skin.

Later on he flushed the forgotten secretions he found in the toilet, and his stomach rose again.

While vacuuming the living room he'd stumbled upon the riding crop Miss A had used on him. It was one of the house's antiquities and there was blood on it. He'd bent it and made swishing arches before cleaning it with a damp cloth. Just touching it, wielding it and smelling it made every individual weld on his back twitch. His skin crawled, his mind turned dizzy.

As the day crept on, the night before turned more and more unreal. Had he let himself be fucked with a strap-on, whipped by a woman and pissed on by girls? He knew he loved to please people and pamper them. He also knew he had this weakness with women -- well, okay, this fetish with women. But yesterday had been so much more. It had felt like... like slithering helplessly down a greased slide, rushing forward with his eyes wide open, seeing it all coming but unable to stop... unwilling to stop. It had felt... irrevocable. He'd been lost, but he hadn't seemed to mind. He closed his eyes, thinking back; he squeezed them tightly, creating a galaxy of colored pinpoints behind his eyelids. His hands tightened into fists. He forced his racing heart to calm down. He had to think. Think about who he was, and who he wasn't; about what he wanted and what not; about free will and obsession; about things he had no answer to. Then his cell phone rang. His eyes flew open. His head spun from the squeezing.