Prisoner Ch. 04

She opened her hand; then she lifted his listless penis with the tip of a finger. Looking up she said:

"You'll have to be your own castrator, André, your own invisible chastity devise. Do you think you can do that? Never get hard even around the most provocative little sluts?" She moved the foreskin back and kissed the exposed head.

"Never respond to the hottest little mouth?" She smiled, watching him shiver. His eyes closed as she licked his slit, but he stayed limp. She let go of him.

"Kneel with me, please," she said, sitting back in her chair. He knelt at her feet.

"Now repeat what I tell you." She reached for his chin, lifting it to hold his eyes. "I, André, swear..." He repeated. "...to never, ever have an erection again." He also repeated that. She slowly shook her head in disbelieve.

"Do you realize what you just promised, honey?" she asked. He nodded.

"I'll never have an erection again," he said with a steady voice, holding her gaze. "Not with you," he proceeded, "not with your girls, not even after you may decide to dump me... not in private, not in public. Never again." He bowed his head.

(She felt an icy finger touch her; it made her shudder. The boy was serious -- seriously insane too, she thought. But it was his life, his choice, wasn't it? She washed her hands in imagined water; was it in innocence?)

Slowly, and ever so subtly, her head moved up and down.

"Fine," she said. "If you insist. But never complain about the miserable mess your life will turn into."

A huge sigh left his chest as tears sprang into his eyes. He hugged her legs, kissing them, and sobbing mutilated 'thank you's.' She carefully untangled herself, not able to keep a look of disgust from her face.

***

The next month was paradise. He considered himself servant, butler, cook and furniture all rolled into one. Most of the time he succeeded in being invisible, even at the center of Miss A's orgiastic events that she kept calling dinner parties -- and also when he wore some of her outrageous outfits.

She had a penchant for slippery silks and shiny satins, preferably in pink or creamy yellow. He wore spaghetti-strapped camisoles that contrasted ridiculously with his hairy chest and broad shoulders. She also loved to give him garters -- 'jarretelles' she called them, ending the word with her tongue peeping out between her teeth. Of course the garters held up stockings that did nothing to hide the shadowy whorls of dark leg-hair. He always wore French-cut panties that just about covered his genitals, but not his unruly bush of pubic hair. Opera-length gloves were another favorite item, often decorated with rhinestone-studded bracelets. For some reason she never asked him to wear heels. Often he went around in pink flats, size 11, with a pretty little flower on top.

Licia loved to treat him like a dress doll too -- he was her personal tit-less Barbie. The remarkable thing was that hardly any of Miss A's guests ridiculed him or even gave him unpleasant looks -- it obviously 'wasn't done.' Sometimes they did try to add to his appearance though, by using their lipstick on him, their nail polish or their eyeliner pencil. Occasionally his serving tasks were interrupted by a request to perform cunnilingus on a dining guest; once or twice he was asked to give a blowjob to one of the gay male diners. At first he'd hesitated, not quite sure he'd heard right. He'd helplessly searched for the eyes of Miss A, who had smiled and nodded her encouragement. The man wasn't hung very impressively and thank God he came quickly. Later on Miss A berated him for running off to spit out the slimy spunk and gargle his mouth.

So there were no stares or offending comments, but there always were hands everywhere, most often on his ass or his genitals -- cupping them, kneading, even stroking. Efforts at getting him hard by hand or mouth lessened after a while. Even the most drunk and horny guests started accepting the impossibility of their missions. And while he patiently waited for the manual 'inspections' to complete, he heard women comment on his physical attributes as if he wasn't there. It didn't offend him; to the contrary, being a neglected object for women had always been part of his dreams.

Ever since Miss A demonstrated his talents as a piece of furniture to her friends, he was used as such -- especially while they drank their coffee or an aperitif, gossiping and smoking cigarettes or the occasional cigar. Sometimes they used him as a table to put their drinks on, which he found worrisome rather than satisfying -- he feared he might spill the drinks. More often he was their chair, and it was sheer heaven to carry the warm and soft weight of various sitters while being drowned in their ocean of gossip, giggles and the outrageous recounting of sexual adventures. To his delight they were utterly shameless; his presence seemed no reason at all to censor their words. It made him believe he was accepted as one of them.

Once Gigi was there, the dark, curvy Brazilian. At first her presence had made him nervous. Doing his rounds in an all-white lace set of unfilled bra, overflowing thong, satin gloves and gartered stockings, he wondered if the girl might brag about the time she buggered him with a strap-on dildo. She did nothing of the kind. She even kissed him deeply, complimenting him on his outfit. He must have blushed and there was laughter all around; but he was sure there was no malice.

Later that same evening Gigi had sat on him, gently rolling her firm ass cheeks inside her tight and stretchy little dress. He felt her lean down and whisper into his ear. She wanted to ride him, she said. He wasn't sure. He'd once done that for Licia, but never in public. Gigi didn't give him time to consider, though. She pulled up the hem of her skirt; then she lifted one leg and sat astride, prodding him with her knees. He carefully put a hand and a knee forward, feeling her sway with the movement. Soon they walked around as she guided him by his ears. There was a multitude of friendly comments, applause and good-humored laughter. She rode him through forests of nylon-clad legs, stiletto sandals and well-heeled boots. Hands tussled his hair; one woman even fed him a cube of sugar. Feeling the warmth and the gentle roll of his rider's ass cheeks caused dizzy spells of happiness.

Being part of it all was heaven. But more often than not, he was on his own. Miss A traveled a lot, buying her materials, meeting customers and holding shows. Licia would usually go home when her mistress was gone, but when she came by, things were always pleasant. She loved to cook with him, teaching him all kinds of secrets of the Lebanese kitchen. She never helped him clean up the place; on the contrary, she did her utmost to clutter up the place, leaving her things for him to pick up. Maybe it was her way to remind him of his place in the pecking order, or maybe she thought she did him a favor. Or both, he thought, smiling.

Being alone didn't bother him, it never had. He spent a lot of his free time reading or gathering recipes and culinary tidbits. Miss A had given him a limited debit card to do the necessary shopping for groceries, the drycleaners and all other things to keep the apartment in shape.

He went to his old place to collect his clothes that were still at the house's wardrobe, and when he returned his suspicions were confirmed. The girls at the reception had played him, likely at the request of Miss A. From then on they never stopped him again; he stripped only after reaching the apartment, following the same routine as Licia.

Being on the street and among people wasn't the liberating experience he might have expected. He preferred to do his business as quickly as possible, feeling his muscles relax as soon as he returned to the mirrored elevator, riding up to Villa, as the apartment was called.

That first day he'd picked up things like his laptop and a few cooking books. Miss A had forbidden him to end the lease on the place, which troubled him. To him any attachment outside Villa was an implicit betrayal of the commitment he'd made. He also feared that it was a way for her to let him know she had reservations.

On his visit he also took a few shirts and slacks, no underwear. Miss A insisted he should always wear the high-cut panties she'd given him. They didn't arouse him in the way cross-dressers rave about. They just felt good because they reminded him that he was executing one of Miss A's wishes. There was a sense of reassurance and safety in the way they tightly hugged his genitals.

Then the afternoon arrived when his world collapsed. He'd been out to buy the ingredients for a Thai recipe he intended to cook for Miss A and Licia, who'd both be present that evening. He'd visited the open-air market. It specialized in fresh, biologically grown food. He always enjoyed the rich display of colorful fruit and vegetables, the sleek silver bodies of freshly caught fish, the crabs and lobsters still carrying the tang of the ocean. There were nuts and olives and an overwhelming variety of cheeses, freshly baked bread and aromatic spices. To him it was a party just walking around, smelling, tasting.

When he returned, his arms full of groceries, the Villa's door stood ajar. From inside he heard Miss A's angry voice crying out amidst the crashing sounds of breaking glass and crockery. It wasn't at all like Miss A to be this loud, even when she was angry. He closed the door behind him and walked into the big room where the sound originated.

Miss A was at its center, dressed as severe as he'd ever seen her -- hair slicked back, face as pale as death. She wore a low-cut leather corset under her open jacket, her legs wrapped in tights, her feet and ankles laced into boots that sported heavy square heels.

The room around her resembled a war-scene.

The floor was strewn with broken cups and pots and dishes. Shards of broken glass sparkled everywhere. The tall antique mirror next to the entrance of the bedroom was shattered. A copper palm tree's pot had been lifted and dumped at the room's center, dirt spreading everywhere.

Miss A stood still, her chest heaving, her eyes flashing. In her hands was a heavy glass piece, a priceless Art Nouveau vase. He dumped his groceries and moved forward to salvage it, but Miss A lifted it above her head and out of reach.

"Fuck off, you silly turd!" she hissed and threw it at him. He ducked, feeling the vase graze his skull before it smashed into the wall behind him. The woman rose even higher and gave off a scream that echoed against the ceiling.

He didn't know where he found the courage. He hardly even knew that he moved at all, but even before the broken glass settled on the floor, his arms were around her. She struggled and screamed, but he didn't let go. Later he wouldn't remember one word of what he said. He'd shushed her, no doubt, using noises to soothe her, humming silly phrases, cradling her like a baby. All she did was arching her body, slamming her elbows into him, wriggling her limbs, spitting in his face, stamping his foot, scratching, biting. But he didn't let go. He ignored the scratches and bruises. He held on until she went limp in his arms, sobbing into his shoulder.

He knew she might never forgive him. He also knew that he'd had no choice.

Panting hard they looked at each other. Her face was a ruin, smeared with mascara, tears and snot. The fiery light in her irises was gone. There was a drop of blood on her lower lip where she'd bitten herself. One pale breast had slipped out of the corset's half cup. She abruptly pushed it back in, turned and stomped out of the room, the debris crunching under her boots. He wondered which door he heard slamming shut. Carefully sitting down, he tried to calm his racing mind.

Then he rose, picked up the grocery bags and took them to the pantry. He spent the next half hour swiping the floor and hunting for shards and pieces in and behind the furniture, in and behind the curtains, under pillows and cushions. He knew he'd keep finding more for days to come. The woman surely gave the term 'scorched earth' a new meaning. He found smashed lamps and even chairs, broken liquor bottles in odorous pools of alcohol, a totally destroyed glass vitrine and the content of several cupboards. What on earth could have happened to upset a usually levelheaded woman? And where was Licia?

"What you did is unforgivable."

Her voice was hoarse, her face pale, although her make up was restored to perfection. She still wore the corset; the jacket had gone. She looked like a marble statue bound in leather -- cold and distant, unforgiving indeed. Her gloved hand held a riding crop.

He fell to his knees, leaning forward until his nose touched the tiled floor. The fear he felt was mixed with thrill; there was no way to tell one emotion from the other. He trembled; his fingers clawed the floor.

"I am sorry," he mumbled into the stone. The crop's tip struck his back like blinding lightning.

"Fuck your sorry's," she said, her voice without emotion. A second lick of lightning hit his shoulders. A third one followed. He clenched his teeth to keep quiet. A rain of lashes danced across his back. When it stopped he heard her panting. He let out his breath.

"I am sorry," he repeated. The tip of her boot kicked him in the side. Two more kicks followed.

"Pack your things and leave," she said.

He didn't move. She kicked him some more, but he didn't budge.

"Go!" she cried out. Emotion flooded back into her voice. It was anger, sure, but it was broken anger. It was rage tainted with desperation. There was sadness too. "Go! I can't bear to see your face anymore."

He rose slowly, lifting his ass cheeks off his heels, groaning softly with the pain it caused. His back was on fire. He looked up, carefully, expecting her wrath. But he saw no anger. Her face was like stone -- hard and without expression. It would have terrified him, if he hadn't seen the moisture on her cheeks; her eyes sparkled with tears. He had to restrain himself not to rise and once again take her in his arms. Their eyes met, frozen with the terror of the moment.

"Please," he almost whispered. "Don't send me away."

Her mouth worked in silence before she spoke.

"You saw my weakness and took advantage," she said. "You humiliated me." His eyes shifted. He stared at the floor.

"I...," he said, trying to suppress his tears. "I never would do that; never. I just couldn't..." She made the crop crash into a chair. The explosion cut off his reasoning.

"Shut up," she said. "Your voice offends me, and so does your face." Her voice was like a robot's. "Your presence is unbearable. Your entire existence is a mockery. Go."

He sighed, feeling his eyes burn. He stumbled to his feet, got some clothes and put them on, wincing when they touched his back. Then he gathered his meager belongings. Miss A had left the room. The heavy front door of Villa closed behind him.

He searched for the down button on the elevator through a blur of tears.

***