Prisoner Ch. 03

Her name was on the display. He studied the exotic array of letters, his thumb hesitating over the green button. The ringing went on and on until it stopped. He slumped back into his chair, realizing that he trembled -- adrenaline, no doubt. What was it about that woman? He'd never felt this... fear -- turmoil, disorientation? -- after just seeing a name. He knew he should be irritated by his response, even feel angry, but he didn't.

On his display appeared the symbol for receiving a text. It sent a wave of shame over him. He knew he'd made a mistake by refusing to pick up her call. It felt like ignoring her demand. He had disobeyed her and that brought tears to his eyes -- inexplicable and irritating tears. Bewildering emotions hit him and he knew he'd found the answer to his fruitless brooding. There was no need to fool himself about last night anymore -- no lies, no cover-ups. Maybe he was truly lost, but if he was he didn't care. He might be scared and confused, ashamed and humiliated, but he'd found a place he'd been looking for all his life.

'Call me,' was all the text said. He phoned and got Marijke. She didn't giggle or mock him; she was all business, asking him to please stay at his phone. The waiting felt like a spring slowly wound up tighter.

"André." Her voice was soft, but his name exploded into a pool of silence.

"Miss...," he answered, having to clear his throat.

"You are still at the house." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Miss," he said.

"Why?" The word hung between them; he had no idea how to answer it.

"Because, ehm..," he stalled. "Because I haven't left yet."

"Don't be smart with me, boy." She wasn't amused. He cursed himself.

"I, eh, I had to clean things up," he then offered.

"Don't bore me with that," she said. "Get naked and get a bottle of water; make that two." He swallowed, hesitating.

"Go!" she urged. "But stay on the phone."

He rose and took two liter-bottles of mineral water from the fridge. On his way he shed his robe.

"Got them?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss..."

"Are you naked?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Good. Now walk out onto the court." He did. The heat of the sun attacked his naked skin. The mud had mostly dried.

"I am outside, Miss," he said, feeling the ice-cold bottles chilling his arm and ribcage.

"Walk over to the ice cellar." He did. When he arrived, he waited. There were far-away noises on the phone, but no voice. He waited some more until he got anxious.

"I'm there," he said, but there was no answer. He still heard all kinds of noises and muffled voices. She must be busy. He waited in silence before repeating that he was there. Another minute went by; then she said, slightly out of breath:

"Are you there?"

"Yes, Miss," he confirmed.

"Well, don't be daft. Get inside." She sounded irritated. He opened the hatch. A gush of cool, stale air welcomed him. He stepped inside.

"Close the hatch." He hesitated. The contrast with the court's glaring sunlight made the darkness inside absolute. He'd never been afraid of the dark, but he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable if he'd close the hatch -- it was the only source of light.

"Did you close it?" He let the hatch fall, and yes, the sudden darkness felt as tight as a blindfold. After the heat outside, the chilly air made him shiver. His eyes seemed to accommodate, helped by the bluish shimmer of his cell phone. He held it in front of him and walked to the back wall, stooping slightly under the low ceiling. Cold threads of cobwebs brushed against his face.

"Are you in?"

He lowered himself until he sat with his back against the wall.

"Are you?" she repeated, impatiently.

"Yes, Miss; I'm in," he answered, his voice muted by the dead air.

"Good," she said. "Now kill your phone and wait."

"Wait for what?" he asked, his voice rising with anguish. "For how long? What will..?"

"Don't be a sissy," she interrupted. He heard a click and the connection went. He stared into the pale light at the center of his palm. If he shut the cell off, the light would go too. He'd be in utter darkness. The prospect was scary. What if he didn't shut it off? She had no way to know, had she?

He made the light's ghostly cone wander over the walls and the floor. There lay a small lump in a corner, a dead animal, maybe? A rat? Or just a rag, a piece of paper, plastic? The floor was smooth, no doubt because of the age-old layer of dust. There still must be footprints of their recent visit, he thought. The walls had the typical irregularity of poured concrete. There was a little box with a switch right next to the hatch, he saw now. He followed the plastic pipe that ran from it to the ceiling and then to the ceiling's center, where two loose electrical wires dangled down, wrapped in cobwebs.

He suddenly pressed the off-button of his cell phone and ink-black darkness rushed in, wrapping itself around him. His throat tightened. Notions of claustrophobia circled the periphery of his consciousness -- like an invisible pack of silent wolves. He felt exposed and vulnerable, holding on to the bottles and the small rectangle of his phone. Then a narrow crack of light materialized where the hatch almost touched the floor. Its intensity grew with the sensitivity of his eyes -- from a grayish chalk line to a weak source of light against the absolute blackness surrounding him. Air escaped his chest. He realized he'd held it in ever since the light of his cell phone had died.

'Wait,' she'd said. When was that now; an hour ago; two hours? The thin line of light was as weak as before. He tried to remember the position of the cellar door relative to the sun. It gave out on the north he supposed, which was logical for an ice cellar. The sun would never shine on it when it was the hottest. So, if the crack got brighter it would be late afternoon. After that the sun would go behind the wall and the buildings. The light would get weak again before disappearing with nightfall.

He could have switched on his phone to know the time, but he didn't. He could have just walked out for that matter, but he didn't. He could have cursed, cried out 'fuck you!' and gone home -- but he didn't. He just sat in darkness behind an unlocked door, naked, enduring the growing chill of his body. He was careful not to drink too much -- she'd never said how long the waiting might take.

Was he a fool? No doubt.

The line of light grew more intense for a while and then rapidly died down to a gray, shadowy presence. Once in a while he had risen to a stooping position and walked around, taking his bottles with him out of fear of losing them. His muscles hurt and his feet were numb from the rising cold. He had pissed in the far corner and found out that the 'dead rat' was an empty bottle in a paper bag -- legacy of an alcoholic hobo? Once he'd even touched the hatch, lifting it maybe half an inch before letting it go again. He'd returned to what he called 'his' place, feeling guilty and wondering why. Finally he'd lain down on his side; maybe he'd even slept. When he looked again, the crack was as dark as its surroundings.

He must have slept longer this time. When he woke up there was a ghostly pale fissure at the hatch's bottom again. Very early morning, maybe, he thought. He felt stiff and cold -- hungry too. He tried to stretch and went to take a piss; he took two long draughts of water. One of the bottles was still full, the other felt half-empty. He took a third swig.

'Wait,' she'd said -- for what? She couldn't reach him on the phone. To read texted messages he'd have to turn it on, which he wasn't allowed to, he supposed. The only other way was for her to come by. The thought made his heart race. But she could just as well send someone else -- her chauffeur, Marijke or even a cab driver. But maybe she had no intention to honor his waiting at all. Perhaps she'd just wait and watch what he would do in, say, three of four days when he'd be starving. He felt sure it was another game he couldn't win. If starvation forced him out, she would punish him and make him feel worthless. She'd told him to wait and he hadn't. The thought of hearing her say that filled his shivering body with unexpected warmth.

Was he a weirdo? No doubt -- and an idiot too.

When the first bottle ran out, the crack of the hatch glowed with what he called its 'daylight-strength.' He was weak; his sugar level must be low. His head felt light. He had to take a leak. Already on his way to the fragrant corner he stopped in his tracks. He'd read stories about shipwrecks -- about people handling lack of water. Returning to 'his' place, he picked up the empty bottle. He took off the cap and pressed the head of his cock against the opening. The stream of urine was thin and a bit painful; there wasn't much. He recapped the bottle and shook it. He heard it slosh. Maybe one-fifth of a liter, he supposed -- less, probably. He shrugged. Let's hope I don't need it. Only afterwards did he realize he'd spoken the words out loud.

Was he becoming pathetic? Was the pope catholic?

The water was gone. He now had one empty bottle and one half-full. He didn't want to think of that second, still lukewarm bottle. He'd put it away at more than arm's length -- a symbolic gesture, no doubt. His hand ran over his jaw, feeling the already softening stubbles. Two missed shaves, he supposed -- three? It must be morning soon, the crack was gray. He felt apathetic; his mind was as weak as his body. His brain slowed down by the hour, needing more and more time to grasp the simplest thoughts.

When you start accepting the reduction of your life to a few square feet, no light, no food and only drops of water, impulses for action seem to dwindle. It felt like sleepwalking without the walking. One moment you stare at the hatch's crack, the next moment you shake yourself 'awake,' having no idea how much time passed. Not that he cared. His mind was hardly able to draw memories into focus of times before his stay in the cellar. There were a few from the here and now, like the sound of scurrying animals that had woken him up, when -- last night? Or another memory of waking up with a raging erection. It felt like the burning center of his otherwise numb body, sucking away all energy he still possessed.

One hand had been around the shaft, the other cupping his balls, feeling them slowly churn inside their sack. There was steely hardness and a glowing heat, but there was no feeling. Disgusted he dropped his hands at his sides. The pulsing went on until it stopped. In the darkness he reached for his cock once again, only to feel it shrink and soften. Relief flushed his mind.

Was he turning crazy -- or just raving mad? Did it matter?

Do you know when you start dying? Do you feel its numbness creep into your veins, paralyzing your mind? Probably not. You might not even be able to answer questions like that, simply because you couldn't shape any questions at all anymore.

André had emptied the last bottle, never minding the foul stench or the bitter taste. To be honest, he had liked the soothing effect the liquid had on his parched throat. It even cleared his mind long enough to allow the raw horror to rush in. A last bolt of energy made him stumble to his knees and crawl to the hatch. When he reached out and touched it however, everything turned black -- blacker even than his tiny world had been.

***

He didn't know where he was. Well, to be more precise: he doubted if he was at all. There was light, lots of it -- brutal, omnipresent light that hurt and caused him to close his eyes again. When he re-opened them, all he saw was whiteness, and all he felt was soft, cloudy fluffiness. There was buzzing too. First it seemed to come from all-around; then it was just in his head -- fluctuating like the ocean's surf. Finally, soft, sweet music entered the buzzing. Mozart, he thought -- violins, clarinets. He'd never liked Mozart much, but this was lovely. It made him float with a feeling of suspended weight. Had he died -- was that it? Were the condescending churchgoers right after all? But if so, how on earth could he have succeeded in getting in?

His fingertips started to explore his immediate surroundings, feeling the very real and earthy crispiness of freshly laundered cotton sheets. He inhaled the scent, before letting out a long, deep sigh. His muscles relaxed, every single one of them. And then he saw her.

She was a tan blur at first, absorbed by the white light streaming in -- it was sunlight filtered by gauzy curtains, he now knew. It burst in through tall and familiar windows. Quickly his eyes focused, and he saw that the blur was a she: a petite, olive colored woman/girl with a generous shock of black, wavy hair. He also saw she was naked -- and smiling. Her eyes were big and dark.

"Who," he croaked, coughing to clear his throat. "Who are you and where..." He had to cough again. The girl stepped closer, shaking her head, a finger to her lips.

"Not important," she said, straightening the sheet over his chest. "I am here for you. You must get strong again. Did you drink?" She reached over to get something from beyond the circle of his sight. Her small, round tits moved right over him with her gesture; the left nipple was pierced and adorned with a dangling jewel. Her smile was warm and genuine when her face returned; being naked in front of him didn't seem to embarrass her. She pushed the straw of a special water bottle against his lips. He took it in and sucked.

"No need to get up," she said. "This is easier." The water was cool and tasted heavenly. Her fingers brushed his hair away from his brow. He sank back into his pillow and was asleep before the straw left his mouth.

The woman nodded and left the room.

The sound of the bedroom's door must have woken him up, for when he opened his eyes, the girl/woman walked in, still naked. She carried a tray. The glassware and china on it jingled; the tray seemed heavy. She playfully exaggerated a sigh when she put it down on the bed. He saw a steaming bowl and slices of French bread. There was fruit too, freshly cut in a glass cup. A china mug held what looked like hot green tea. His stomach growled. It made her smile.

"New strength for you, Sir," she said, sounding submissive and flirty at once. She was sweet, he thought, but there might be a naughty sting hidden in her honey too.

"Thank you," he rasped with his unused voice. "May I know who my beautiful saving angel is?"

He knew he laid it on, but she seemed to invite it. She just smiled some more, before walking over, pulling his pillows up and patting them with her hands.

"Please sit up, Sir," she said, rearranging his sheet and blanket after he did so. Then she picked up the tray and put it in front of him, like a tiny table. His head spun from changing his position.

"Have a lovely breakfast," the woman said. "But take it slow; your stomach must get used to it again." Then she turned to leave, but he grabbed her wrist. It felt fragile. Her eyes widened at the contact; he saw a quick cloud pass, but there was less protest than puzzlement in her gaze.

"Who are you?" he asked again. "Did Miss A send you? Is she here too?" She slowly tried to work her wrist out of his clutch. She smiled and blushed, clearly struggling with a dilemma. She was upset with his questions and his touching, but just as obviously bound to please him. Bound? What a suggestive word; why did it occur to him?

"Are you her slave?" The word was out before he could stop it. It tasted exciting; the concept had always intrigued him. He read a lot about it, harboring the obvious fantasies. But this was different. This was for real, wasn't it? The woman blushed. Her pulpy lips worked, but there was no sound. He let go of her wrist. She at once took it in her other hand, rubbing. Then she turned and fled. He cursed himself.

The first spoon of chicken soup burnt his tongue.

Strength returned and boredom set in. He had to smile at the irony of feeling bored, after spending days and nights in a dark hole where nothing happened; or did it? Curiously enough he had no recollection of boredom at all. It felt more like making a journey, he thought, like travelling through a dark, static space, but travelling nonetheless. Maybe it was his memory squeezing his time there together, sifting out the gulfs of nothingness and enhancing whatever small things did happen. But mostly he remembered the slow, meticulous way his thoughts were dragged to the surface and molded into shape. Not that he remembered many of those thoughts; maybe not even one. But he remembered the process, appreciating how loneliness, darkness and silence forced him to pick up every tiny seed of an idea and turn it this way and that way to find either meaning or toss it away.

Now, back in the daylight, rested and reinforced by good food and fresh water, he felt his thinking accelerate and with it his impatience. No longer was he satisfied with being the only possible source of things to happen, things had to happen around him. He slid his legs from under the sheets, confirming that he was as naked as the girl had been. Miss A doesn't like her minions dressed, he thought, rubbing his thighs and calves before trusting them with his weight. He stood on shaking legs, walking over to the windows. Through the gauzy curtains he saw the court below, cut in half by shadow. It must be around three p.m. he now knew. The thought sent a smile to his lips. When he pushed his face against the glass, looking as far left as he could, he saw the hatch of the ice cellar. It looked... innocent.

"You want back in?" a voice said behind him.

He bumped his face against the window. The voice was Miss A's. He started turning around to see her.

"Don't," she said. "Keep looking outside." He obeyed, feeling his ears burn.

"Your back looks... interesting," the woman went on. He heard her heels click on the wooden floor; then he felt a finger tracing the diagonal bruises that were obviously still visible on his backside. He winced when she pulled off a last remaining flap of dead, burnt skin. It hurt where it was still attached to live flesh.

"You did well, André," she said. Her breath grazed his skin. Then her wet tongue licked the stinging spot. He shivered. She chuckled. "Ah, I gave you a compliment! Tuck it away in a save place, honey. Compliments like this will be rare and far between." Her hand caressed his shoulder blade and spine. He could feel she was standing very close now. Weakness attacked his knees. He grabbed the window frame to keep his balance.

"Thank you, Miss," he murmured, expecting a punishing response to his audacity. The hand stopped; then went on caressing.

"You met Licia," she said, changing the subject.

"Yes, Miss," he answered. "If that is her name."

"It used to be Alicia, to be entirely correct," she said, lowering her hand to his right ass cheek. "Her name seems to..." She hesitated. "It seems to lose letters with her progress." She chuckled, slapping his buttock.

"You have a hard ass, André," she said, checking out her assessment by kneading the flesh. "Don't tell me you work out."

"I... run, Miss," he admitted. "And I use my bike a lot."

"Whatever," she said dismissively slapping him before walking away. He heard the sound of her heels diminish; then the door closed. Was it save to turn around? Was it a trick?

He peeked over his shoulder. She'd gone.

He wondered if he'd be allowed to leave the bedroom. He looked in the closet for clothes or a robe, but it was empty. The house seemed deserted, but he knew there were many yards and thick walls between him and the living quarters. Then he heard voices from outside.

He rushed to the window and looked down. What he saw caught his breath. Miss A stood at the center of the court, dressed more aggressively than he'd ever seen her. She rose on endless boots, made of skin-tight black leather all the way from her towering heels to halfway up her thighs. There was no skirt he could see; long garters attached the black stockings inside her boots to her black leather corset, leaving her crotch pale and bare. The corset looked severe, nipping in her waist, while making her hips flare. Her breasts were exposed, but wrapped in a film of see-through black lace, allowing their paleness and her dark nipples to shine through. The lacy film didn't stop at her throat, but covered her arms, and her face like a veil, only leaving her heavily made up eyes free. Her hair was tucked into a black leather skullcap; it made her look even more severe -- an angel of death. What got to him most, however, was what pointed away from her stretched hand, straight into the mouth of the naked girl in front of her.