Prisoner Ch. 03

The girl was Licia. She knelt in the grit, naked. Closing his eyes he remembered how the sharp little stones bit into his flesh, just as they must bite into hers.

Miss A's voice was a low rumble; he couldn't understand a word she said. The soft flap at the tip of the riding crop muffled the girl's answer. She sucked on it, he saw, her hands crossed behind her arching back. His hand found the latch of the window; he opened it just a crack, trying to make no sound. The crop's tip had left the mouth, but was still connected to it by a glistening thread of saliva.

"You know why I have to do this, don't you, bitch?" the woman in black said. The girl nodded, breaking the thread.

"Yes, Mistress!" Her voice was clear; it bounced from the walls. She arched her back even more. "I'm sorry I make you do it."

Miss A rose higher on her heels. Her wrist twisted, making the riding crop swish through the air. The girl didn't wince.

"Don't give me your boring sorry's, slut," the woman said, never raising her voice. "Give me your tits."

The girl now laid her hands in her neck, pushing her arms backwards to present her breasts even more prominently. It made the jewel reflect the sunlight. The soaked flap cut through the air and hit the pierced nipple with great accuracy. There was a groan, not a scream.

"Thank you, Mistress," the girl said, pushing her right breast forward. Even from his distance he could see an angry pink spot spreading around the piercing. The second lashing was as precise as the first one -- a sigh was all it provoked.

"Thank you, Mistress." Her voice was steady.

Three more strokes followed, hitting each breast in turn. The 'thank you's' never lost their steadiness. Then the woman threw the crop to the girl, who caught it and hugged it to her chest, murmuring more thanks.

"Don't thank me, whore; thank him." The woman turned on her heels and walked to the gate. Following her with his eyes, he saw her driver waiting there, cap in hands. After they left the court, his gaze returned to Licia. He saw her kiss the crop and mumbling words to it -- kissing it again and mumbling some more. Then she fainted.

He left the window, running down the hallway naked. He grabbed a bathrobe and a huge towel at the master bedroom. He struggled into the robe while rushing down the stairs and through the wide-open garden doors. The girl's body lay at the center of the court, motionless. Her head was in the shadow; her back and legs gleamed in the afternoon sun. He knelt, draping the towel over her. Then he lifted her up, trying to avoid her bruised nipples, and carried her inside where he laid her on a sofa.

A damp cloth to her brow woke her. She groaned and looked away, curling her body around her painful chest. He cupped her head, turning it towards him. Tears shone in her eyes. He held a glass of water against her lips; she sipped.

"Are you all right?" he asked. He knew it was a stupid question, but the best he could come up with. It was obvious she was far from all right. She smiled weakly.

"I got some, eh, soothing cream," he said. "I'll run and get it." She shook her head no.

"Can't," she said, smiling again as a tear fell from her lashes. "Can't numb the pain. It would spoil it all." Her hands strangled the riding crop she still held tightly between her breasts. He now saw up close how ugly and swollen her nipples were. The wealds had turned purple; there even was a drop of blood where the piercing must have scratched her. She smiled again; it made him shiver. Her bruises shocked him, but her constant, tearful smiling was worse -- it made his stomach turn. He gave her more water, brushing strands of hair from her eyes.

"She... punished you," he said. She nodded; then she looked away.

He hated how his curiosity took over. Just as he hated himself for the voyeuristic detachment he'd felt while looking down from the window. Oh, he'd felt upset all right, maybe even appalled, but only because he knew he ought to feel it; it was the expected thing to do. Beneath all that correctness, however, he'd been... intrigued, tickled. It had reminded him of watching the girls at school when he was young -- peeking at their intricate rituals and little social dances; all the secret things he ached to be part of. The window's glass and the gauzy curtains had made him an outsider, just like then. And just like then it had made him feel... jealous. He envied the girl, not for her pain, but for the attention she got, the intimacy with her mistress -- the way they bonded. It had made him more excited than appalled; he felt more envy than empathy. Sure, it made him slightly sick of himself, but there it was.

"What did you do wrong?" he at last asked. Her eyes returned to him, puzzled. Her fingers flexed around the slick leather of her punisher.

"I don't understand, " she said.

"She disciplined you," he explained. "You obviously must have done something wrong -- been bad, made her angry?" The puzzlement didn't leave her eyes.

"Oh, but I didn't do anything wrong," she said. He missed the emphasis until she went on. "I am wrong. And until I am right, I need her to punish me."

Her explanation sent an icy sensation down his spine. What she said was just as simple as it was shattering. Once more he marveled at his naivety. Even after what happened to him in the courtyard and in the ice-cellar, he still believed that the game of domination was exactly that: a game between consenting adults. He supposed that it was a world in itself, with rules and regulations; a 'fantasy-come-true' separated from the practical world we have to live in.

When a submissive was punished, he'd always assumed there had to be a reason for it. A mistake must have been made, a rule broken or an offense committed. But this girl told him she accepted her punishment wholesale -- not because she did wrong, but because she was wrong, period. She suggested there was an existential flaw in her and that her mistress had the right to correct her whenever she liked -- it was the slave's condition. Licia had to believe that. She had to believe that her sentence was indefinite -- the power of her mistress absolute and totally arbitrary.

He sat there for a while, feeling silly. His mouth must have fallen open, as he had to close it. He focused on the girl again; she looked concerned. 'Fairness', he thought, 'rules', my God, he was a boy scout all over again.

"I see," he said, faking a lot more insight than he actually had.

"I'm glad you do," she said. "It's hard to explain. I doubt many people understand." He had to concur with that.

"But," he said, "but I suppose she accused you of something? There must be something?"

"Of course," she said. "There always has to be a reason when I offer her Angelthorn and beg her to punish me. But it's never a problem for me to find one." She smiled when she said that, and once more succeeded in unsettling him.

"I must have heard wrong," he said. "You begged her to punish you for a sin you confessed? You gave her the riding crop to beat you up?"

Her smile grew wider.

"You are pretty new to this, André, aren't you?"

He guessed he was. She sat up and reached for his hands, rubbing them gently. She'd pulled her legs under her, looking lovely. After minutes of mutual silence, he raised his head, focusing on her big chocolate eyes.

"How long," he started, clearing his throat, "how long have you been her slave?" She sighed, looking down -- embarrassed.

"Oh, I wish I were," she said. "I'd love to be her slave, but there is still such a long way to go... such a long way." Her eyes came back up. She smiled her slow, wistful smile again as she reached for his face, caressing his hair.

"I saw Arnold carrying you out of the cellar," she said. "He is the chauffeur, you know. I was very impressed to see how far you'd gone to obey my Mistress. You were exhausted and famished. Later I learned that your prison was never locked and that you drank your own piss rather than escape. I was honored to nurse you back."

Her hand felt warm and soothing. Her eyes never left him. Her smile was real now. He felt a tear leak from his eyes.

Finally she'd allowed him to get her the salve. She'd even let him rub it on her swollen bruises. He'd been very careful around the piercing; he saw it was an emerald French lily -- a Fleur de Lys. She'd also accepted a tall glass of juice and some jam-covered toast. But she'd refused the robe he got her.

Sitting across from her, he'd studied her body, eating an apple. She was petite indeed, maybe two inches over five feet, and slender. She wouldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds, he estimated. Her skin had an olive hue that brought the Mediterranean to mind -- maybe she was Latin? The lush blue-black hair, the dark eyes, long straight nose... Her voice had an American accent.

"Where are you from, Licia?" he asked. Her thoughts must have been far away. He repeated his question, adding how he wondered about her Latin background. She smiled and shook her head, making the black curls dance.

"I am from New Hampshire," she said. "But my parents were from Lebanon, you know? In the Middle East."

"Ah," he said. "Arab." A sudden cloud darkened her face.

"Yes, but Christian!" she insisted. "We are Christians. I hate Muslims."

He raised his hands in defense, pleading that he was sorry. She wasn't that easily placated.

"Muslims burnt my grandfather's house. My parents fled to America, you know, they had to flee, leaving everything behind. Everything!" She went on for a while; it took quite a batch of apologies to calm her down again. He sat beside her on the sofa, searching for ways to change the subject. Picking up the riding crop, rolling it left and right in his hands, he asked:

"This... crop seems to be special? It looks ancient and I heard it has a name." She nodded. He went on. "I, ehm, saw you talking to it, I mean before." She took it from his hand and kissed its floppy tip.

"Not 'it'," she said. "Him. His name is Angelthorn and he is my Master." She stopped, leaving him in shock.

"It, ehm," he said. "It is a thing, Licia..." She looked away; her lips twitching with irritation.

"I know it is," she said. "I am not stupid." She pressed the crop against her chest again, its handle between her breasts, the tip touching the top of her shaven vagina.

"Then why would you call it master?" he tried, hoping not to upset her. She looked back at him, obviously struggling if she'd tell him. Shrugging, she came to a conclusion.

"I am a rotten slave," she said, pushing her body back into the cushions. "Not even a slave, really. I... I try to become one, I really do. She tells me it is what I am deep down, and always have been. I guess she is right. I have always been a slut, driven by sex, really. But a slave...?" She gave off that little, hurt smile again, her hands strangling the crop.

"You see, I tend to run," she went on, lowering her voice into a whisper. "I panic and I run." Her bare buttocks squirmed into the leather. Her eyes were down. He suppressed a question, allowing a pause to stretch on.

"I am a coward," she suddenly admitted. "Whenever she pushes me to a new level, I fail her. I run and put the blame on her. I tell myself she is forcing me, bewitching me. I don't have to take what she deals me -- I am a grown woman and should be proud of my independence, my career and my accomplishments. So I flee back home to my little business and my sweet vanilla girlfriend. I am a lesbian, you know?"

She seemed out of breath. One word had been racing the other as if she was afraid not to find the courage to go on if she slowed down. But now she had to come up for air and the pause made her stop indeed, and look back at what she'd said. She blushed, smiling apologetically.

"You do run," he said, "but you return." She looked down on her hands holding the crop.

"Yes," she said, almost inaudible. "Yes, I do."

"And when you return, she punishes you."

"Yes."

"So why don't you just stay away?" The puzzled gaze was back; she didn't answer. So he repeated his question.

"I can't stay away," she said. "I am scared when I'm with her, but I'm very unhappy without her. Life is empty." She shrugged and winced from the pain it caused in her breasts.

"What about you?" she asked. "You could have run?" She was right, of course. Why try to lecture her if he didn't even understand himself?

"Will you run again?" he asked, ignoring her question. She blinked.

"Don't know." Another shrug. "I never know when the panic strikes. Aren't you hungry? I am a good cook." The sudden change of subject told him she didn't want to talk anymore -- not about this. He smiled.

"I love the Middle Eastern cuisine," he said.

***

Her beet salad with onions, spices, fruit and coriander was delicious; he relished the subtle differences from his own recipe. They'd found a can of chickpeas that she transformed into a lovely hummus to spread on freshly baked bread. While cooking she became another person -- self-assured and energetic, witty, and carelessly dancing around in the kitchen. The ever-present cloud over her head seemed to vaporize. They just had great fun exchanging tips and tasting food. When she finished her hummus, she grabbed his hand, dipped one of his fingers in it and made him taste. When he burst into exaggerated praise she laughed out loud, took his hand and kissed it, licking the spot where the hummus had been. The easy intimacy stunned him. Then she turned away as the oven beeped.

"So you love the Middle Eastern cuiiii-seeeene," she said when they cleaned up after their meal. She pulled a funny face when she stretched the last word. "Do you love the Middle Eastern cook too?" He looked up from drying a plate. The girl had struck a provocative pose, pushing one hip out.

"You are a flirt, Licia," he said. "Does your mistress know?" Her eyes darkened for a second; then her carefree demeanor took over again.

"Ah!" she chuckled. "She doesn't only know it, she encourages it!" Throwing a splash of soapy water in his direction, she squealed as he grabbed her and lifted her off her feet. Their eyes were close; he felt her quickening breath on his face, the nakedness of her body against his. Her wide smile had a devilish spark to it. Then her lean, body squirmed in his grip, she pushed herself free and ran into the house. He chased her for a bit. Her laughter echoed from the walls and high ceilings. She was as quick as mercury -- too fast for him he had to admit.

Finally, he sank down into an overstuffed club chair, breathing hard, his bathrobe half open. She approached his chair from behind, leaning over its back. She pushed herself up and placed her hands on the armrests. Her face hung upside down in front of him, her long hair tickling his belly, her tits resting on his head.

"Old man," she teased, still panting from the running. He blew her in the face with mock indignation, his hands trying to close his robe and tighten its sash. He wondered how old she was. She had what Thai women have: being over thirty, but still looking tight and girlish -- big eyes, lush hair, slender build.

"I'm not old!" he insisted, but she laughed and touched his nose with her finger.

"Shall I suck your cock?" she asked.

Her hand had slipped into the opening of the bathrobe, finding his flaccid penis. Chocolate eyes danced upside-down in front of him, a red mouth smiling. Her arms and the wings of the chair's back hemmed in his world, making it into a tiny cage filled with hot, electric air. Her question unsettled him -- the unashamed wording of course, but also the casual tone... and the suddenness of it all.

"But...," he said, not able to pick a response from the many that whirled through his head. His hand shot down to check hers, like a protective reflex.

"You have a lovely cock," she whispered. Her breath caressed his face. "I love cocks, you know? I'm very good with them." Under his grip her hand started moving up and down, like a small, slippery animal.

"But you are...," he tried again. She chuckled.

"...a lesbian?" She leant in closer, kissing his nose.

"Of course I am," she said. "But I am many things, André. Most of all I am a liar." She giggled and squeezed his cock. It responded with a twitch, sending flashes of shame up his throat. He couldn't... he'd promised... he would be...

He felt the back of the chair move; the girl must be leaning heavier on it, maybe climbing. Then her body slid forward, head down. Her skin was hot where it touched him. He felt her tits press into his chest, the piercing scraping. It must be painful for her, but she didn't seem to mind. Their mutual perspiration gave her an easy slide. Her smoothly shaven pussy was against his face now; she spread her thighs. He felt her hair pool in his crotch, tickling. Her hand had never left his penis; now he felt it being engulfed by the wet heat of her mouth.

"Please," he said, panting. "Please don't." His hands pushed her up and away from his body. She didn't let go. His foreskin slid down, allowing her tongue to dance around his glans. She was good, he realized, she was great. Given time she would break his resistance. He protested again, ignoring the wetness and the scent of her cunt lips pressing into his face again. She intensified her sucking.

With immense force he lifted himself off the chair and shoved the girl to the floor. She fell on her shoulder, rolled over like a cat and slid against the legs of the low table. He stood panting from the exertion; then he went down on his knees, his arms around the fallen girl.

"I'm so sorry," he said, brushing back her hair to see her face. "Are you all right? Please say something." The girl groaned. Her eyes flew open, dark with anger.

"Fuck you!" she hissed.

The sheer force of her aggression made him rock back on his knees. He watched her sitting up, rubbing her shoulder. Then she rose and fell into the sofa, legs spread, eyes down.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "But..."

"It's all right," she said, waving her hand as if throwing away something. The cold indifference got to him. He felt rejected, all familiar sensations of inferiority rushing in. He stepped forward, pleading.

"But you know I couldn't," he said. "You know how Miss A forbade me to..."

"She ordered me to make you come! She insisted!" the girl cried out, cutting him off. He stared at her, stunned into silence. Was this... could it? He nodded and knew. This was a set-up. The nursing, the joking, the flirting... nothing was real, nothing spontaneous. He was just part of a plan, pawn in a game. He frowned. His anger struggled itself free from layers of stunned disbelief. Of course it was a set-up, why shouldn't it? Who was he anyway but a pathetic plaything? Would he ever lose this childish trust of women, seeing them as benign goddesses just because they are soft, sweet and beautiful?

He stood, pulling his bathrobe tightly around him, turning to leave. Then he saw she didn't look angry at all; she was crying, big tears running down her cheeks. And he understood; she was as much a victim as he was. He watched her obvious misery. Then he knelt again, holding her hands. Her eyes were pools of liquid chocolate; her body shook, but there was no sound.

"You will be punished, won't you?" he asked. "She'll beat you for failing to make me come." She nodded.

"Or worse," she whispered.

"But she would have punished me if I'd let you make me come," he went on, amazed by the devilishly construed dilemma. "Both ways she would have had her entertainment guaranteed. And as a bonus she'd have us both feeling rotten about it. When I refuse to come, you'll be beaten and I'll feel guilty for causing you pain. When, on the other hand I let you suck me to completion, I'll be punished and it'll be you who'd suffer from..." He stopped, suddenly wondering. "You would, now wouldn't you? Feel guilty for making me suffer?" She stopped sobbing, rubbing her eyes angrily with the back of her hand.