Prisoner Ch. 04

"You want me to fuck you, lil faggot?" Was he a faggot? No he thought not. Did he like being fucked down there? Yes, he guessed he did. But he'd just as soon have liked her to slap him or kiss him or use him for a chair. Maybe he'd prefer that -- being her chair, her servant to be used and ignored. All in all he didn't really care what she did to him as long as she allowed him to be around. He groaned yet again and started pushing back and forward. If she liked it, he'd provide. Tears leaked from his eyes, although he didn't feel miserable at all. New doors closed, but he never felt as free as he did right now. So many doors, and he didn't care; he retired inside, finding the light, the open window.

But once again reality plucked him away from its sill.

He heard the girl's rapid feet return. She was breathing hard.

"This one, Mistress?" she asked. The fingers left him. He felt empty, abandoned and wide open to the cold.

"Good girl," Miss A said. "Suck on it for a bit, will you?" He heard wet noises, the sounds of a mouth sucking hastily on a large object.

"Great," he heard. "Now look, honey." He felt a fat, blunt object push against his anus. He tried to turn his head and look, but a hand slapped his face away. Then it grabbed his hair and forced him to look forward. All he could do was wait, wonder, and fear. The object felt slick and slippery, but panic closed his sphincter.

"Push, doggie," Licia's mouth whispered in his ear. "Push like I did, the first time." Her arms were around his neck. The sweet softness of her embrace smothered him. "Push like you're on the toilet." He relaxed; then he pushed and the object slipped in. But the pressure didn't go, it only grew. The girth of the thing must be increasing.

"Push, doggie."

He moaned. The pain didn't relent. He pushed and there was even more stretching. Would she tear him? Did she care? Did he? Suddenly the pressure was gone; the thing was in. He felt his throbbing sphincter close around it. His arms gave; he fell forward into the girl's embrace. Two, three slaps stung his ass cheeks.

His world turned black.

Not much time seemed to have passed when he came to. He lay on his side, stretched out on soft cushions. He felt warm; he noticed a blanket around him. His ass felt heavy, filled to bursting. But there was no pain; there wasn't much of anything. He wondered if he'd dare to touch it.

He lifted his head and saw that he was in Miss A's apartment. Was he alone? There were no sounds, but he waited another minute before moving. His hand found a hard, round disc separating his ass cheeks right where his anus was. It was the flange of a plastic plug; he knew, having seen them on porn channels. He had been plugged. Why, he wondered. Was she preparing him? Or was it just another way to humiliate him? And did it matter?

Maybe it did; it might explain the future Miss A had in store for him -- if there was any future at all. He remembered what she'd said to the girl: having no more time for him; wanting to get rid of him.

He tried to sit up, wincing when his weight pressed on the blunt intruder. He rose to his feet, feeling weak. Huddling inside the blanket he crossed the floor in search of a bathroom. The blue-and-gold bedroom was breathtakingly beautiful with its floor-to-ceiling curtains, huge decorated mirrors and an endless expanse of soft carpeting. The bed was large, its coverings recently used, sheets lying in knots and whirls. There still hung a faint scent, a mixture of perfume and intimacy.

The bathroom was big too and done in cream and green colored marble. There was a large tub, sunk into the floor. The tiles were still wet and remains of condense tainted the mirrors. Towels and robes and lingerie lay everywhere; the air was humid, smelling of creams and lotions. He tiptoed his way through the debris, sighing gratefully when he could empty his bladder into the porcelain toilet. He made a point of doing it standing up, and when the first rush of urine missed the pot to splash on the floor, he shrugged. After finishing he just turned around and left.

The kitchen was small -- it was more of a pantry. He looked for coffee and found a good quality espresso machine with ready-to-use aluminum cups. He made himself a tall mug of very black coffee that he took to the room with the terrace-windows.

The sun had reached the outer edge by now, but he stayed inside, sitting in one of the bays, very aware of the plug. He hugged the hot mug in both hands. Should he leave? He mused on the stretches of corridors and stairs he'd have to brave again -- naked? Well, he had this blanket, but why brood on details? If he left, she'd never take him back. She had no time for him; she'd said so herself. She hates men -- ah, well, she doesn't like them. She gave him as a toy to the girl -- a doggie. Was this what he wanted? Did he want anything at all, really?

He blew on the coffee, relishing the aroma.

Yes, there were things he wanted; things he'd wanted all his life, even when he didn't find the words to express it. He wanted to belong. He wanted to get rid of his little-mouse life and get through the window into the light -- into the world of dominant women. They would use and abuse him, ridicule him. He would be their rug and their furniture, cleaning up behind them -- and just the thought of that made him tremble with... It was happiness, yes. Why deny it?

People wouldn't understand him. Friends would leave him. His family would turn their backs on him and he didn't care. The only thing he feared was Miss A sending him away. Too many doors had closed already, too many bridges burnt. Thinking he still had a choice was ridiculous. He belonged here, with the woman and the girl. And he would prove it.

He stood, feeling the heavy plug sink. He took the now empty mug to the pantry, rinsing it out and putting it into the dishwasher, together with the rest of the dirty breakfast things he found. Then he walked into the bedroom, taking off the used bedding, inhaling their scent deeply. There was a laundry room behind the pantry. He filled the machine and took fresh sheets and pillowcases from the shelves. Picking up the soiled nightgowns and lingerie from the bathroom's floor was like a small, exciting journey of the senses -- touching, smelling, tasting.

He cleaned the bathroom. Then he finally walked back to the terrace room. There was a heightened niche next to the fireplace. It was just big enough for him to fit in on all fours. He would show Miss A that he could be something she'd find nowhere else. He could be furniture for as long as she decided, standing around motionless -- always ready to be sat upon, always prepared to carry her body or anyone's body she chose. He'd be Chair even if she didn't order him to, and wait for her without moving -- without even the slightest move -- as long as it took.

When she returned she wouldn't know how long he'd waited. How slowly he'd turned into wood. It didn't matter that she wouldn't know: he'd know. It might take hours or even days, but he wouldn't move. He'd conquer famine and thirst; he'd conquer the urges of his bladder and bowels.

He'd turn into sturdy, grainy, bloodless wood for her.

***

The women returned around midnight. The tall chauffeur was with them, carrying the sleeping form of Licia. She was naked, her body smeared with dirt and crusting fluids. There were bruises everywhere and her hair hung down like a sticky rag.

When they passed the niche on their way to the bedroom -- and bathroom no doubt -- Miss A noticed the unfamiliar shape standing by the hearth. It was highlighted by a bluish full moon shining in through the tall windows. She did a double take and stopped. Approaching, she reached out. When she touched the shape, it crashed down, rolling on the floor until it came to a halt against her booted feet.

"André," she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. Lying on the floor he still held his stiff body as if on all fours. There was a faint smell of piss. She sank down on her haunches, her fingertips searching for a heartbeat at the side of his throat. She sighed with relief when a weak, deep throbbing told her he was alive.

"Silly boy," she muttered, rising and kicking him. "Stupid, crazy boy."

"Arnold!" she called out louder. The man returned at once.

"Pick him up, please and put him under a hot shower."

When he came to, he felt the hot water drum on his aching body. The water flogged him like fiery hailstones, bringing a pink blush to the skin. He was on all fours and when he tried to move, flashes of pain struck everywhere. He groaned, having to force the air through unused larynxes. He stretched, hearing his joints pop and creak. His back hurt like mad when he slowly, slowly started straightening it out. A familiar lump weighed down his anus.

How many hours had he been a chair? How late was it now? He had no idea. He only felt a numb satisfaction creep in, a crazy sense of fulfillment.

"You silly boy."

Miss A's voice came from behind clouds of steam. He saw her silhouette, and an even deeper sense of satisfaction flushed his mind -- he'd shown her what he was prepared to do for her. She had to know now; she'd understand.

"Get out and dry yourself," she said, holding up a huge towel. He took it from her and started rubbing his body, feeling a curious wave of prudish embarrassment.

When he was done, she handed him a big mug of steaming cocoa. He sipped and closed his eyes as the hot liquid seeped down his throat. There was a hint of rum.

"Sit down," she said, pointing at a low stool. He sat down, luxuriating in the glowing aftermath of his shower -- and of what he'd accomplished. After three or four more gulps of cocoa, she took the mug away from him, setting it on a counter. Then she turned suddenly and slapped his face hard, repeating the strike backhandedly. He almost fell off the stool, totally surprised by her violence.

"Who told you to almost die on me?" she asked, rubbing her hand. "Did I tell you to pull a stunt like that?"

"No, Miss," he mumbled, his fingertips touching the pink bruise on his right cheek. "I... I thought...," he went on, but she cut him off.

"Don't think," she said and sighed. "Just don't."

"No, Miss," he promised.

"Is he all right?"

It was Licia's voice from the tub. He only saw hints of her tanned body under a mountain of foam. She waved. Miss A ignored her question, keeping her eyes on him.

"So you tried to be cute," she went on. "You thought: I'll show her how great I am. I'll show her and she can't dump me. Was that what you thought?" He just sat, staring at the floor. She kicked him. She still wore her leather boots.

"Was that what you thought?" she repeated.

"Eh... I guess so," he said lamely. She grabbed his moist hair, pulling up his face.

"You tried to make me feel guilty about you, didn't you, boy? You wanted to blackmail me with guilt. Well, nobody makes me feel guilty!" She shook him by the hair. "Nobody!"

"No, Miss." His voice trembled with the shaking. She pushed his face down with disgust.

"Nobody," she once more repeated. She turned away and walked over to the girl. Then she stopped, looking back.

"Pick up your sore body and your cocoa and go sleep on the sofa. There will be blankets. Now go!"

He scurried away, wrapped in his towel. Last thing he heard was Licia's splashing.

***

"Wake up."

There was bright daylight; he must have slept late. She prodded through the blanket.

"Go piss and wash; then return here." He rose, at once aware of the plug and a new pressure behind it. "Leave the blanket," she added. He let it fall.

Licia was in the bathroom, brushing her hair in front of a mirror. She was stark naked as well. He hesitated, half-turning away. She giggled.

"Don't be shy," she said. "I've seen doggies piss before." Her big smile shone out of the mirror. He walked over to the toilet, directing the stream of his urine so it would make less sound. He closed his eyes. When he was finished, he opened them again, only to see the girl crouching next to the pot, looking up at his dripping penis.

"Do you shake it when you finish?" she asked. He felt a blush rise to his face. He'd involuntarily started the shaking.

"How often?" she asked, shamelessly reaching out to catch a drop. "Three times? More?"

He ignored her questions, walking over to the sink to wash his face and hands.

"Spoilsport," she said when he left.

"Sit." He sat down, opposite Miss A, very aware that he'd soon have to relieve the pressure in his bowels.

She wore a dark red robe; it fell open when she crossed her legs. A heeled slipper dangled from her foot. She sipped tea out of a glass, urging him with a shake of her head to take the second glass that stood on the low table. There were biscuits too. His stomach growled.

"Why didn't you just leave and go home, yesterday?" she asked. "I told you I don't have use for you, nor time or energy." He turned the hot glass in the palms of his hands.

"I have no home to go to anymore," he said and sipped.

"Bwwah!" she puffed, dismissingly. "Don't be a drama queen, you're too male for that. Go back to your flat and your job and your silly little life. Find a girl and fuck her with child. Be a daddy."

His tea was fresh mint tea. He looked down into the wad of soaking leaves, inhaling its aroma. Morocco. Then he raised his head, studying her face.

"You don't mean that," he said, surprised by his boldness. "You know me better than this."

To his relief she chuckled, then she laughed out loud.

"Now do I?" she asked, kicking her dangling foot. "Do I know you?"

"Yes," he said, emboldened by her lack of anger. "What you did to me these last weeks makes it impossible for me to return to my old life -- and you know it. You closed every door, burned every bridge behind me..." She frowned.

"I did?" she asked, putting more volume into her voice. "You say I did? Force you?" She rose and started walking. It stirred the air between them, sending a whiff of perfume his way.

"I did preciously little, honey," she said, walking over to the bay windows, looking out. "It was always you. You begged me. I warned you that we had no future, but you plodded on." She turned in his direction, her silhouette softened by the light behind her. He watched her breathlessly; then he cleared his throat.

"You are my destiny," he said. He knew it sounded pompous, but he also knew each syllable was the truth. Even Miss A's sarcastic laugh couldn't change that. She walked over to him and went down on her haunches, touching his knee.

"Sweet boy," she said, smiling, "you use such big, big words."

"They are the truth, Miss. And I have always known." He was amazed by his own calm. Miss A's smile died.

"You are serious, aren't you?" she said, caressing the hairy skin higher up his thigh now. He nodded. She sighed.

"Great; fucking great," she whispered. Then she rose again. "But I can't train you," she added. He looked up at her, totally relaxed. Even the pressure from the butt plug melted away.

She hadn't said 'no,' not really, had she?

"You don't have to train me," he said. "You don't have to do anything. You may ignore me and neglect me, as long as I'm allowed to be around you. I can be your servant, clean your house and make your food. I am a good cook and I can help you entertain your guests. I'll be your perfect eunuch -- more discreet than any deaf-and-dumb, blinder than the blindest bat. You may use me, abuse me and sit on me. You may lend me out to your friends to be used. You may kill me even, when you get tired of me. Let me stay, and I'll be anything you want me to be."

Starting out calm he noticed how his voice had gradually risen, and how his muscles had tightened. He imagined finally climbing on the narrow sill of his inner window, swaying on the balls of his feet. Behind him was nothing but darkness and closed doors. He had no idea what might be in front of him as the light dazzled his eyes. But he knew that he couldn't stay where he was, tottering between abysses. Miss A's response would decide which way he would go -- flying forward into the unknown, or falling backward into the quagmire of his miserable past.

(She didn't answer. She just stared, holding his eyes for minutes. He was wrong, she realized -- she had no idea where he was heading. She'd known Licia's destiny, even when the girl did everything to run away from it. With the boy she'd just stumbled forward -- or was it even forward? He was a man. He was foreign country. Obviously he had no clue that she'd never led him; she'd only followed, trusting whatever intuition she had. All she'd done was trying to get rid of him. She'd never thought he would return after being pissed on and left naked in a thunderstorm. She'd been genuinely amazed when the girl at the shop phoned her about his adventure at the mall. She'd felt undiluted horror when she found him unconscious in the ice cellar -- the hatch had been open all the time, for crying out loud. He could have left at any time. He also could have died. And now this latest stunt... no, she didn't know him at all. What the fuck did he want from her?

She certainly didn't want him.

She studied him closely, noticing the hope and the expectations building behind his eyes. She had to decide. Either way she'd be responsible. If she abandoned him, he'd fall to pieces, maybe kill him self. If she accepted him, she'd have to find time and energy to accompany him to his destiny. She wondered; did she care either way? Goddammit, she cursed under her breath, yes, she cared for the pathetic creature. At first she'd ventured into this awful mess just thinking it was drunken fun, but for him it never was. She'd been as responsible for what happened as he was, even if she'd had no clue and just wanted to shove the blame on him.

Oh, dammit, dammit.)

"So you apply for the job of eunuch in my harem?" she asked, making the sarcasm as clear as she could. He nodded. She sighed.

"Firstly," she said, "I don't have a harem. And secondly: you are no eunuch. Rise." He put down his tea and rose to his feet. She reached up for his balls, cupping them with her right hand, looking up.

"Eunuchs don't have these," she said, smiling. He nodded.

"Are you telling me that you want me to have you... castrated?" She hesitated at the last word. He nodded again.

"Say it," she said.

"If you want me castrated, it is all right with me." He was stunned by his own words, but he didn't waver. She squeezed her fingers tighter, feeling the balls roll inside their soft sack.

"No," she said. "No, that would be too easy." His eyes widened. Her other hand started caressing his limp penis.

"Too easy for you and me," she went on. "Anyone can buy a surgeon with a well-honed knife and a bottle of painkillers." She felt his flesh shrink in her hand. His balls retracted.

"You see, honey," she said, "I love to take risks with my girls. I like to dominate them totally, but they always must have a choice left. Knowing Licia might betray me again at any moment thrills me. It hurts me when she does, it breaks my heart, but I'd be bored to death if I brutally broke her spirit, just to be sure of her loyalty. Do you understand?" She looked up, searching for his eyes. He nodded.

"Having you... cut would also eliminate the risk, and the thrill. Your thrill mostly, of course, but I don't care very much about that. It would spoil the thrill for the girls and for me, and that would be unforgivable, wouldn't it?" She shrugged, once more squeezing his balls.

"I could have you locked in a chastity devise," she said, imitating a cage around his genitals with her fingers. "Less definite, less messy. But that would be too easy as well, wouldn't it?" He didn't respond. "Wouldn't it?" she repeated, waiting until he nodded.