Prisoner Ch. 05

The new feeling was like a hot coal dropped into his hands. He had to juggle it around in order not to burn his skin. The feeling was vile and indeed alien to him. Twisting and turning it, he tried to figure it out, knowing instinctively that it was a dangerous sentiment -- an intruder. It might destroy him because he didn't know how to live with it. Should he confront it? Confess it? Or bury it in the graveyard of his mind? He felt the chill of moisture drying on his face. He'd cried without knowing.

Time passed; how much time he didn't know. His new thoughts made him restless. He looked around the apartment for things to clean up and tidy, but that hadn't calmed him down. What it did was lure him to the mirror-door in the corner of the master bedroom. There he caught himself listening to whatever sound might come through it. He knew that it only would make it harder to obey Miss A's order to forget the girl's predicament, but after his third visit he couldn't resist opening the door and listening at the crack.

At first he heard nothing. Maybe he was too far away. Then he heard a distant, forlorn little sound that he couldn't make out at first. It came in irregular patterns, interrupted by long stretches of silence. He'd closed the door and left, only to return within minutes, and open it wider before stepping inside. His bare feet made no sound on the cold concrete; the chilly draft gave him a shiver.

The sound he'd heard was sobbing. When he reached the room he knew for sure -- it was the girl sobbing. He peeked around the corner, but the room was in total darkness. Moans interspersed the sobbing. The girl must be stone cold and stiff from her static position. He could still smell the acrid urine, laced with the sickly-sweet stench of her enemas. He returned to the bedroom, closing the mirror-door silently. He rubbed the goose bumps on his arms, wondering why he didn't feel relieved. He should be thankful not to be in the girl's position. He wasn't supposed to envy her -- was he? Not to feel -- left out. So why did he?

He uttered a frustrated scream, slamming the kitchen's counter with his flat hand.

Five minutes later he found himself back at the entrance of the torture room, carrying a blanket. He'd love to think it was sympathy that fueled his actions -- the need to help the suffering girl. But he knew it wasn't. It was the need to steal the suffering away from her; robbing her of the means to please her mistress.

He strained his eyes to make out her silhouette in the room's darkness. When he at last did, he tiptoed closer, and threw the blanket over her folded form. He put both arms around her, feeling her shape against his naked body -- the spread legs, the raised ass, and the plug's flange at its center. He pressed his belly against the hard object, shivering with her. Then he whispered through chattering teeth: "For you, Licia. For you." She groaned, stiffening even more.

"Noooo," she hissed. "N-no need... please don't." He ignored her plea, rubbing her flanks through the fabric. She arched and humped to shake him off.

"Mistress will be mad," she panted, making the chains and brass pipes clang. "You shouldn't be here. Go!"

"You are a cheat and a whore," he said, not letting go of her body. "You are not worthy of her." The girl hung still again.

"I know!" she whined, the last word ending in a sob.

"You betray her," he went on, squeezing harder. She breathed quicker, shallower.

"I am weak," she admitted. He snorted.

"Too easy, girl," he said. "She should kick you out."

"I... know," she agreed, having difficulty breathing now.

"Beg her to dump you," he insisted. "Beg her!"

"I... did," she said, wrestling to get the words out.

"Liar," he spat out, hugging her even tighter.

The girl was silent. Realizing he was choking her, he relaxed his hold. She responded with a series of deep, coughing breaths. He let go of her, stepping back and taking away the blanket. He lowered his gaze to her inverted face. It looked up at him from between her knees.

"What is it to you?" she asked. The question put him back on his feet. What indeed? He knew it was jealousy. He envied her position. He wanted to be her, but he could never admit that, could he?

"I don't want Miss A to hurt," he said instead. "You've hurt her enough." The girl was silent again. Then she shrugged, making the metal rattle.

"I know, and I'm sorry," she then said. "But she always takes me back. She says she's in love with me." The answer sent a flash of indignation up his face. Before he knew it he'd slapped her. Then, realizing what he did, his hand reached for the place he'd hit, starting to caress it.

"You are bad, " he said. "You count on her forgiving your cheating, because you know she loves you."

"I know," she agreed. He went on.

"You are a selfish slut. You manipulate her love and take it for granted. It is you who should love her, but you don't." Another silence lingered. The draft made them both shiver.

"I try," she finally said. "I so much want to love her." New sobs wrecked her body. He felt shamed by them. He touched her ass cheeks, tentatively.

"I," he said, "I should not have judged you." Another silence was punctuated with sobs. He circled the plug's flange with his forefinger.

"Please don't tell Miss A I was here," he then said, letting go of her. He picked up the blanket and turned to leave.

"I'll have to when she asks," the girl said.

***

Of course she asked the girl as soon as she returned from work, late that night. And Licia told her. Of course she told her. She had no choice, had she?

Now, hours later, he was on the night-dark terrace, still hurting from the grizzliest experience of his life. Torches and candles were placed around him in a half-circle, sparsely lighting the place. The evening breeze felt balmy after another summer's day. He wondered how Licia's torture room could have been so cold. He also wondered why he had such trivial thoughts at a time like this and after what happened. He stood on tiptoes, strung up by chains to an iron hook set into a protruding beam. Sweat was drying on his skin. His shoulders ached, as did his whipped backside and his bruised crotch. He didn't mind the pain. It was proof of her anger. Anger equaled attention, didn't it? He'd gotten her attention all right. He grimaced.

"Why do you smile, dog?"

She sat in a rattan chair right on the edge of the half-circle. A riding crop lay in her lap, black leather on a pinstriped skirt. Her long legs were crossed, the skin of her throat and face shone pale in the yellow, dancing light. "You want me to whip you some more?"

"If you wish, Miss," he said, suppressing a wince. "But that wasn't why I had to smile." His answer made her stare in silence for a bit. Then she rose, climbing to the top of her high-heeled boots. She walked the few steps up to him and grabbed his jaw, turning his face towards hers.

"You are a worthless little shit," she said. "You keep proving you are hopeless and you know it, don't you?"

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes I do, Miss. But then again it is no wonder. I am male." She grinned, pushing away his face. She started to walk in front of him. He admired her feline movements and the delicacy of her cleavage, ever so slightly trembling with the impact of her heels. Would he ever understand how such a delicious package could hide such monstrous perversions?

"Don't use your stupid maleness as an excuse, though, dog." She had turned and stopped in front of him, caressing the palm of her gloved left hand with the tip of her crop. "Especially," she went on, "because you are not even male. You are nothing -- a slab of hairy meat with arms and legs and a cock that brings tears to my eyes."

His gaze never left hers. He felt the venom of her insults, even when they were delivered in a sweet, soft tone. But they didn't hurt, not really; they just were too damn accurate to hurt. None of what she said differed from how he saw himself. Hearing it from her mouth was like a seal of approval. He felt -- vindicated; it spread a perverted sense of pride through him. He grinned again. It made her eyes darken.

"Are you playing the Christ or something?" she asked, more curious than sarcastic. "I don't get you men," she went on. "You seem either macho or martyr. But even the martyrs usually get their pecker up from punishment and humiliation."

While saying that, she lifted his limp penis with the tip of the crop. They both looked down on it.

"You are a riddle, André, you know that?" she asked, letting go of the cock. He cleared his throat.

"I don't know, Miss," he began. "I really think I am a simple thinking guy. I admire women; I adore you. All I want is to serve you, to be with you, and to be tolerated." He paused, looking for words. "Even if you don't want me." She just stared at his penis, reaching for it with the crop again.

"In your eyes I must be worthless," he went on, careful not to respond to the crop as its soft flap started caressing his cock. "But that is exactly what I want to be -- worthless. I want to be your tool, even as broken as you may consider it. I want to be a doormat, punched by your cruel heels. Your chair, even your girl-fucking robot like tonight..."

Their eyes met again. Hers were wide now -- surprised? Of course she wasn't.

"I love to cook for you, and to serve you good food," he said. "Clean up after you and your friends, be the invisible, ignored faerie that looks after your wishes, even before you utter them. I don't need favors or gratitude, punishment will do fine -- and just your permission to be around. " His eyes started to shine as he went on, his face flushing.

"But," he proceeded, "I know my presence irritates you, even if I never question your most insane instructions -- or do you maybe hate me because of that?" He knew he was skating on very thin ice, but somehow he'd stopped caring. He smiled again.

"I know things have changed," he went on, almost whispering. "During the first few days you were amused by the novelty, I guess. After that, well, I suppose you got bored. That is why I disobeyed you, I think. Just to get your attention; just to be able to plead with you -- as I do now."

The tip of the crop was still circling his genitals. Suddenly it rose and crashed into his crotch with vehemence. He cried out, more from surprise than from the pain. With closed eyes he followed the track of wildfire running through his lower body.

"Thank you, Miss," he muttered with clenched teeth. She took a step back to study him.

"So you don't mind if we treat you like a, a thing -- a vacuum cleaner, a household machine -- or whatever machine needed?" She studied his response; he nodded.

"It excites me to be treated like an object," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Why sorry?" she asked.

"You may not like me to get excited."

She shook her head.

"You are amazing," she said. "My slave girls thrive on the arousal they get from serving me. They suffer for it, beg for it, and get off on it. However cruel I am, it is their only pleasure."

"I know," he answered. "But they are women. They are allowed to, I am not. It would be an act of machismo if I'd let my cock fill up with arrogance. It would seem like I wanted to challenge your dominance. I... learned not to do that."

Miss A had started to walk again, from left to right and back. She tapped her lower lip with the crop's flap in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. Then she turned back to him, slowly.

"I don't know what to do with you, André," she said in a friendly voice. "I really don't. I loved your cooking and cleaning, your clowning in the apron, your sweet embarrassment and the way you pampered me and my girls. And yes, you amused me those first few days." She paused, taking a breath that filled out her chest. Pale flesh pushed against the silk of her open blouse.

"But you don't amuse me anymore," she almost whispered, sighing. "You were very... useful tonight, but you disturb the delicate balance of power I have with my girls. You scared the shit out of Licia this morning, you know..."

"I'm sorry for that," he said, looking away.

Miss A stepped forward, tracing the bruises on his pubic bone with her crop. She smiled ruefully.

"You are such an uncouth, hairy ape," she said. The tip followed the muscles of his thigh. "In a way you are useful -- in a ridiculous sort of way. But why would I need that around?"

He felt tears press against the back of his eyes.

"Please, Miss," he begged, swallowing. "I'll die if you dump me."

The crop hit him across his belly, leaving a fiery track right over the black and blue bruises. A second blow turned the weld into a purple X. He sobbed, jerking at the chain that held him.

"Don't you ever blackmail me with your life, boy," she hissed. "Never!"

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"Yes," she said, rising to her full length. "You are a sorry, sorry creature." She turned her back on him and took a bottle of red wine from a low table, filling a glass. Sipping it she walked around him.

"Would you be my prisoner, André?" she asked. The word hit him like a third lashing to his belly. Prisoner?

"You know," she went on, "your stay at the ice cellar still impresses me. It sort of tickles my ego to know a man is prepared to go to such extremes for me." She smiled over the rim of her glass. "Even if you're not much of a man," she added. He looked down at his feet, trying to reduce the soreness of his shoulders by finding better footing. He also looked down so his eyes would not betray the silly pride he felt.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. "I'm glad you liked it."

Miss A chuckled.

"Well, yes," she went on. "But what I liked most about those days was not having you around. You see, honey, seeing you not only annoys me, I also know I can't trust you." Her words were like a bomb exploding right into his face. Images of the last few hours played through his mind. He fought not to feel bitter.

"But...," he tried, being cut off by her gloved hand slapping his cheek.

"No 'buts,'" she growled. "What you did, spying on Licia today is proof of your untrustworthy character. If you didn't have these pathetic balls I'd call you a jealous bitch." She gripped his testicles, squeezing them until tears leaked down his cheeks. She pushed her face into his.

"That was what it was, wasn't it? Jealousy?"

Her hot breath smelled of wine. "You were jealous of what I did to her, weren't you? You envied her for the attention she got, while you didn't." He squirmed and twisted, trying to avoid the pain.

"No, Miss," he whined. She increased the pain.

"No?" she asked. "So now you're a liar too? Do you deny being jealous of Licia?" He shook his head, clamping his jaws to avoid crying out. She suddenly let go of him. She held her gloved hand to her nose, looking disgusted. Then she cleaned it on his chest.

He panted, trying to find order in the chaos of his mind.

"I...," he tried. "I confess that I am jealous of Licia's bond with you. But I'm not jealous because you've chosen her to be trained as your slave -- not even because you spend more time with her than with me."

Miss A turned the glass round and round in her hands, waiting.

"Then what are you jealous of, boy?" she asked. He hesitated, stretching the silence until she got impatient. "Of what?" she repeated.

"You told her you love her."

The words hung in the balmy night air; he couldn't take them back, even if he wanted to, and he didn't want to. He knew the words had taken him past a crossroads. There was only one direction left.

Miss A's eyes widened at his statement, but she said nothing. Big chunks of her armor seemed to melt away. She looked -- vulnerable. Stepping back, she walked out of the circle of light, becoming a silhouette against the evening sky. He knew what she was thinking. Just like him she must be aware of the taboo of a mistress loving her slave. Her voice came from the far end of the terrace. It sounded -- shaky.

"My love-life is none of your business, dog."

Her words disappointed him. It seemed this was an evening of disappointments. He must indeed have touched at something lurking deep below her beautifully construed guard. Was this all she had to offer -- a bitchy non-answer?

"She doesn't love you, you know?" he said, adding acid to vinegar. "She wants to, but she can't." Now the crossroads were way behind him, past the horizon. Even the road itself was gone. It made him feel alone and fatalistic, but not afraid.

Through the circle of light a dark, shining creature leapt straight at him, roaring like a wounded animal. Hands closed around his throat; the added weight jerked painfully at his arms and shoulders. Her teeth snapped in front of his face.

"I said...," she growled. "This is... none of... your business!" Then she went limp and sagged on her knees in front of him. Was she crying? He felt embarrassed.

"Miss," he mumbled, but an angry growl cut him off.

My God, he thought, what have I done?

It took the woman minutes to gather her shattered thoughts. Then she rose, keeping her face away from him. She disappeared into the apartment, leaving him hanging from the chain.

***

Maybe an hour later she returned -- it had to be way past midnight. Her hair was wet and slicked back, her make-up gone. All she wore was her dark red kimono robe and no shoes.

His arms were numb by then. The cooling air became a discomfort. Most of the candles had died. The surrounding city seemed to have lost its voice.

As he watched her replacing candles and lighting them, he once more wondered who she really was. He'd fallen for her ironclad confidence and her intelligence. He'd also succumbed to her forceful eyes and her cruel imagination. And now he'd seen the absolute opposite of all that -- a vulnerability that confused him, and a weakness he could only despise.

Watching her, his thoughts took him back to what happened before, that evening, and it made him doubt if she had the license to do what she did.

When she came in from work earlier on, she'd rushed past him -- totally ignoring his presence. He'd been at the pantry preparing a small supper -- some lentil soup and sandwiches -- never knowing if she or Licia would eat any of it.

After waiting for about five minutes he'd drifted to the mirrored door, pushing it open. The sounds he heard were muted by distance. He could pick up Miss A's voice, interrupted by an occasional moan and the rattling of metal. He crept closer, stopping at the corner and resting his back against the cold concrete wall. He was afraid to look and maybe get caught. But he listened. There was a lot of rustling and clanging of brass. Then, clearly, "Open your mouth, honey," followed by wet sucking noises, culminating in the gagging sound of a deep-throated face fuck.

"Relax, honey cunt," the voice went on in a gentle and soothing way, followed by more gagging. The harsh, clucking noises gained in speed and intensity. They were mingled with smothered whimpers and scared, high-pitched gasping. Miss A's voice cooed and encouraged, using words like 'slut' and 'bitch' as if they were endearments. Finally the wet, gagging rhythm stopped. There was coughing, and the splattering of fluids; then he heard nothing for a while, but the rustle of clothes -- the creaking of leather.

Soon the girl's panting increased again, interspersed with small, whining moans. "Mmmmm," the soothing voice said, "my sweet slut is so tight... so very tight."

He heard the wet slapping of flesh on flesh. It increased, as did the encouraging 'yes's' and 'ooh's.' He realized that both his hands had gone to his crotch, cupping his balls as if to protect them. After a few minutes Miss A's voice returned, now panting from exertion.

"You have a lovely cunt, honey," she said. "But today we ought to try yet another of your promising holes."