Prisoner Ch. 05

He heard a soft 'plop' and a forlorn moan from the girl. He imagined the fat plug leaving her asshole. His anus tightened in sympathy as memories of his own rape returned. He felt his cock shrink inside the cup of his hands.

Things turned very quiet, and just as he wondered why, a strong hand gripped his throat. He froze, his heart skipping several beats. A voice hissed into his ear:

"Peeping fucking Tom, eh?" The hand was joined by a second, really strangling him. He gasped for air.

"I always knew you were a worthless, impotent little bag of shit, honey," the voice breathed on. "But now I see you can't even follow simple directions, can you?"

He didn't know what to say. It was impossible to say anything anyway. His brain buzzed from the lack of oxygen. His fingers rose to find her squeezing hands. Then her grip relaxed. He sank to his knees, coughing.

"Get on your worthless feet, dog," she said, kicking him. Finding guidance from the concrete wall, he scrambled to his feet. A familiar, cold band closed around his hurting throat. A chain lease jangled. He was collared and pulled into the room.

First thing he saw was the red-rimmed hole at the center of the girl's ass -- and her swollen cunt lips below. Oil and juices sparkled on the exposed flesh, brilliantly lit by a spotlight. Her spread legs were like a big letter A framing her inverted face, which was a mere blur in inky shadows. The leash pulled him towards the girl and down until his face was right above her shining cheeks. A hand pushed him even closer.

"Lick." He hesitated, staring straight into the hole. It opened and closed like a mouth, in time with the whimpering gasps that came from below. "Lick!"

His tongue touched the greasy rim of the hole, tasting the rich flavor of virgin olive oil. The hand against the back of his head was relentless. As his tongue sank in, his face pressed into the girl's flesh. God, how cold it felt.

"Fuck her." The hand started a rhythm of pushing. He speared his tongue and gave in to it. The wet sounds of his face against the girl's ass filled the room until he was yanked back.

"Step back, dog." His heart raced. He obeyed, not daring to look up. He saw two hands coming from behind, holding a black leather harness they draped over his shrunk genitals. It sported the most incredible black dildo he'd ever seen. The monster was made of slick black leather, smooth and shining from use and a liberal coating of oil and spittle. He didn't even try to estimate its measures. The shaft must have been as big around as his wrist -- and as long as his forearm. The head reminded him of a black, gleaming billiard ball. He shuddered, imagining what the dildo must feel like while being forced down that hole and into the waiting bowels.

The hands started tightening the straps of the harness, making the monster rise from his crotch. A round, smooth knob pressed into his pubic bone, already hurting him as the hands jerked the straps in place.

"Go." He looked up, facing the girl's ass again before turning back to the obscenity between his loins. He looked past it to focus on Licia's face. Even in the dark shadows between her legs he saw how wide her eyes were -- circles of white around the black irises. Her mouth gaped, producing faster and faster gasps. The brass pipes rattled from her trembling.

"Fuck her ass." The voice was close behind him. Hands rested on his shoulders, pushing him closer. Then they slid past him to the ass cheeks, spreading them. He felt Miss A's soft breasts press against his back -- and the stiffness of her corset. When the monster rested its head between her cheeks, the girl shuddered like a thoroughbred horse. A very tiny voice breathed high-pitched 'no's' in quick repetition. He knew he should feel something, anything, but he diddn't -- no sympathy or jealousy, not even excitement. Just the stubborn will to obey and fuck the girl's ass.

The black ball kissed the oiled sphincter. He rose to tiptoes for better purchase. Where the muscle started to yield, a mist of condense spread on the shiny head. He realized the girl must be hot inside -- and the cock's head cold.

"Push harder." The breathy voice behind him was relentless. The hands had gone; he replaced them with his own. Suddenly a white-hot pain seared across his back.

"Harder, dog!" Urged by the impact of the whip's lashes, he forced the black ball past the struggling muscle and into her dark bowels. A piercing sound rang through the room, but he had no idea about its origin. Was it the girl screaming, or was it the whip cracking -- or was it even his own voice?

He didn't know, he just pushed, making the dead, unfeeling object disappear into the girl's flesh.

"Fuck her!" He started pulling and pushing, kneading her ass cheeks with his hands. The knob slammed into his pubic bone with every forward move -- hurting. There was no arousal, no eroticism, nothing but a sweaty, panting exercise. It was punctuated with the cracks of the whip, the forlorn moaning of the girl and the increasing filth of their mistress's cheers, delivered in agitated gusts of breath.

"Grab her cunt, dog."

He was shocked how wet the girl was. She must have come already, maybe even more than once. Her juices seeped through his fingers as he started rubbing her slit.

"Her clit, you fool!"

Trying not to break the rhythm of his fucking, he slid his fingers forward to find her nub past the dripping and extremely loose folds of her vagina.

"Yes," he heard, "yes-yes-yes!" It was the same voice that had accompanied his intrusion with a litany of 'no's' only minutes before, but now it wasn't very little anymore; it was hoarse, needy and increasingly loud. He felt her body stiffen the moment he touched what might be her clit. A hot rush of juices drowned his hand.

"Fuck her harder, lazy bastard!" He did, humping his lower body into the girl's ass, ignoring the painful squashing of his pubic bone and the growing forest of welds on his back.

He slowly turned into an insensitive, fucking robot.

***

Back on the terrace, way past midnight, he watched the crazy woman light the last of the new candles. She was crazy, wasn't she? She must be. Hadn't she turned him into a punishing machine to destroy a girl just for failing to love her?

And now here she was, disrobed and showered, ready no doubt to join her little ruined lover in bed. Would she leave him hanging? Why rekindle the candles? He looked on, swaying from his numb arms.

She rose, looking him over.

"Yes," she said. He wondered to what question the 'yes' might be an answer. To his accusation that she loved Licia? Or to his other accusation -- that the girl didn't love her? Both, maybe?

"Yes, I love her," she then added. "And yes, I know she doesn't love me back." Her eyes were steady; there was no hesitation in her voice. Then she smiled just a tiny bit.

"But also yes," she went on, "to my statement that it's none of your business." She sat down on a big flat pillow, pulling both legs under her. He looked down on her, deciding it was his business.

"It must be hard for you to punish her," he said. She looked up, annoyance washing over her face. Then she shrugged, exposing most of her left breast when the robe slid off her shoulder.

"No," she said, automatically tugging at the fallen fabric. "No, at times I even have to check myself. She can make me really furious. Frustration, you know. She is a compulsive cheater."

In the subsequent silence he waited if she might have something to add, but she just sat there, sunken in thoughts.

"Why am I still here, Miss?" he asked. "You said you don't really care for me, so why am I still hanging here?" She looked up again and smiled.

"Because you are easy, honey," she said. "Compared to Licia you are an oasis of easiness. I forget you for days in a row. Even when you are around it's easy to look right through you." She still smiled, straightening the robe where it had slid off her thigh now.

"Always remember, André," she went on, "that I don't care what you do, one way or the other -- it is you who decides your future. You can leave whenever you want. Should I lower the chain and open your cuffs? You tell me..." Her words caused a flash of fear to constrict his throat.

"No, no!" he called out. "I don't want to leave. I promise I'll be nobody. I'll be invisible, but let me stay." She chuckled.

"See? You spoil me, boy, and why on earth?" she asked. "I almost let you die in that cellar. I had girls rape your ass and piss on you. At best I ignore you and take you for granted... Why stay?" He felt himself sway gently left and right on the tips of his toes. Half his body hurt, while the other half was dead.

"Because I love you," he said.

***

They passed the torture room, reaching the big metal door. It looked rusty. Dust and cobwebs indicated it hadn't been used for a while.

"Open it," she said, stepping aside. The door was heavy and it scraped the floor. Behind it was a corridor running into darkness to the right. There also was a set of concrete stairs, wide and dusty and going straight on down. Standing at the top they were met by a cold and clammy draft. Miss A took the lead again, choosing her steps carefully. The electric torch in her hand painted swashes of light on the gray walls. Her footsteps echoed slightly.

A row of heavy metal bars divided the room at the bottom of the stairs. It ran from floor to ceiling and from one wall to the other. The space between each bar was maybe four inches. At the center there was a door made of similar bars. It sported a big lock.

Miss A let the torch sway through corners and over the ceiling. Quick shadows scurried away. He saw a wooden stool and a bucket. Chained to the back wall hung a slab of wood -- the bed.

"Welcome to your prison," she said.

The echo of her voice died quickly. She went to the wall and pressed the tumbler of an ancient light switch. A naked bulb at the center of the ceiling spread a ghostly light. From a peg on the wall she took a key and opened the metal door. It squeaked. She nodded for him to enter. His heart raced when his feet passed the threshold. On the bed he found a moldy blanket and some dark blue clothes. There also was a bottle of water and a days-old loaf of brown bread.

"Put on the clothes," she said, watching him from the other side of the bars. He did. The shirt was old and often repaired; the pants tended to sag off his hips. There was no belt; there were no shoes either.

"You look ridiculous," she commented, smiling. He smiled back, his hands holding up his pants. She closed the door, grabbing the bars as she looked at him.

"This will be your home for as long as you wish, André," she said. She let her eyes roam through the shabby room. Goose bumps rose on her bare arms. "Are you really sure this is what you want?"

He nodded, touching the stool before sitting down on it.

"Yes, Miss," he said. "This is more than I ever hoped for. Being your prisoner makes me incredible happy." She shook her head in disbelief. Then she shrugged. She stuck the key into the keyhole and turned it. Its sound was like scratching a black board with your nails. Pulling the heavy key out again, she held it up for him to see. Then she walked over to a peg in the wall and hung it up for him to see.

"You are crazy," she said and turned towards the stairs. There she stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot." She turned to him again.

"Show me the bread, please." He reached down to pick up the dark, hard loaf.

"I think it's way too old and hard to eat," she said, stepping closer to the bars again.

"It is all right, Miss," he said, turning the bread in his hands.

"No, it isn't," she disagreed. "Piss on it."

His head turned up sharply, his eyes flying to hers.

"Piss on it, honey," she repeated, smiling. "Best way to make it softer."

Slowly, very slowly he rose from the stool. The pants sank to his feet. He once more looked at her. She nodded encouragingly. He shrugged. Then he took his penis in one hand and the bread in the other. A narrow, hesitant trickle of urine escaped, sinking into the dry bread and coloring it darkly. A pungent smell filled the room.

"Don't you have more?" she asked, her eyes glued to the dripping cock. It spasmed twice to add two modest splashes before closing down.

"God, you keep disappointing me, André," she said, turning again. "Have a lovely stay."

He watched her climb the stairs, her silk clad ass cheeks swaying, her merry laughter bouncing from the walls. The penis in his hand slowly shrunk; his piss leaked from the bread, seeping through his fingers.

He wondered if he was insane, or just crazy.

***

In his prison there was no day or night, just ghostly-lit eternity. Hunger and thirst were his trustworthy companions. Once every few days the girl Licia would visit with fresh water and a loaf of bread she pissed on before leaving. She didn't say a word. He tried in vain to get her talking about Upstairs, as he'd started naming the apartment. She just shook her head.

Downstairs of course was what he considered his world. It had four chilly and poorly lit walls and a high ceiling. But it wasn't a totally isolated world; there always were the myriads of sounds from upstairs -- running pipes and creaking floors, footsteps, slamming doors, almost intelligible words and exclamations. Sometimes there was music and the noise of a party in progress.

At first, the parties had kindled a sense of yearning inside him. They brought back memories of serving and pleasing, of being sat upon. He remembered preparing dinners and snacks, and dressing up in Miss A's latest humiliating fantasy-silks. He'd been ridiculed, but he'd belonged and he craved to belong again, instead of sitting here, imagining and hoping for the occasional crumbs that fell off the queen's table. But he'd chosen this. He couldn't complain, could he?

No, he couldn't.

Miss A hardly ever visited him those first weeks. She sent Licia, but there was never any regularity to the girl's visits. Either Miss A forgot to send her, or she was away on business and the girl forgot, but he never went without water for more than three days. He'd learnt to ration the soaked, stinking bread, keeping his hunger at a manageable level.

He remembered the first time Miss A came down to him. It still felt as if it happened yesterday. Every detail of it was branded into his memory -- how she looked, what she did and said, and how sweetly miserable it had made him feel. Compared to her perfect beauty he must have looked like the dirtiest extra of Les Misérables -- unwashed, emaciated and overgrown with straggly hair.

The familiar scraping of the metal door had alerted him, but only when he saw Miss A's delicate feet searching for a save route down the stairs did he realize this wasn't just another visit of Licia. It was the real thing -- the thing he'd dreamt of during endless nights, and yearned for on the never-ending days in between.

Maybe it was the contrast to his ugly world, or maybe the long time of not seeing her, but she looked even more eerily beautiful than his dreams had made her. Her legs were sheathed in sheer black stockings. She showed them off by gathering her long skirt in one hand, the other holding on to the stairs' rusty rail. Her waist and ribs were laced in leather, leaving most of her chest and shoulders free. Her skin gleamed marble-like in the hesitant light. A black bob framed her face, drawing attention to dark eyes and a blood-red mouth. It didn't smile -- she might as well have been a mobile mannequin. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she walked towards the bars of his prison. Blood pumped through his temples like increasing thunder. He might have fainted, he might have died, but in the end he lived, staring numbly.

"You look awful, honey." Her voice was soft and friendly.

He nodded. His face felt tight from smiling -- from grinning, rather. He must have looked as foolishly as he felt.

"Miss," he croaked, imagining the dust of endless silence smoking off his lips.

She studied him, letting her green eyes pass over the wreck in front of her.

"You really should take better care of yourself," she said.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry, ma'am," he answered, wondering why he knew nothing better to say after dreaming of this moment for weeks. His fingers tugged at the hem of his dirty shirt. He was suddenly aware of the stale air rising up from his body. He worried about his breath. Shame overwhelmed him.

Miss A went over to the one chair available to visitors. She dusted its seat with a tip of her skirt and sat down, crossing her legs. The skirt opened to display a thigh. A garter-clip held the lace top of her stocking in its silver jaws. Two triangles of pale flesh were exposed on each side of the garter. The sight mesmerized him until she snapped her fingers.

"Don't stare," she said. He apologized. It brought annoyance to her eyes.

"Don't apologize," she said. He stifled another sorry. There was an uneasy silence.

"Did you miss me, honey?" she then asked, while inspecting the nails of her right hand. He hesitated. She looked up, her eyebrows rising.

"Yes," he hastened, "yes, of course. I was very lonely." The hand of the inspected fingernails made a throwaway gesture.

"What is this? Are you complaining now?" she asked.

"No," he cried out. "No, no, no, of course not, Miss."

"You better not, honey," she said, rising. "You got everything you asked for." The skirt rustled as its hem fell down to her ankles. She watched it fall before looking at him again.

"I didn't miss you one bit," she said with a pensive look in her eyes. "Isn't that amazing?" He didn't know how to answer. She smiled.

"Remember that this is all your doing, boy," she then said. "Always remember." He hastened to agree, making one word of gratitude tumble over the other. It only made her look more annoyed.

"Licia!" she exclaimed.

From upstairs the naked girl came rushing down the steps, carrying two bottles of water and a loaf of bread. She knelt at the woman's feet. Miss A took the loaf from her. She sniffed at it and pinched it with her fingers.

"Maybe too fresh," she muttered. "Shouldn't spoil the brat." She urged the girl with her toes to rise.

"Give him the water, honey," she said. Then she turned away to the stairs, holding the loaf. The girl shoved the bottles through the bars; then she hurried to join her mistress.

"Tomorrow, boy," Miss A said, turning her head back to him, one foot on the first step. "Tomorrow this bread will be in a more appropriate condition. Bye."

The last he saw of her was the slender heel of her left foot balancing on a stiletto stilt. It took the girl not one but two days to bring back the hard, moldy bread. She told him to piss on it himself, as she'd just been to the toilet.

***

When time drags on in limbo, it tends to lose its shape, and with its shape its meaning. Nothing around him had enough rhythm to create a believable sequence of hours and days. There was no day or night to begin with. There also were no fixed meals or regular visits. There was just he, his heartbeat and the sounds around him. He loved listening to those sounds -- well, it often was the only thing to do at all, wasn't it? He'd lay down with closed eyes and hear the ticking and gurgling of pipes, the distinct flushing of a toilet. There was the slamming of doors, the occasional sub-sonic throb of heavy traffic, but most of all he loved to hear voices. Voices were rare and usually unintelligible. He always tried to guess whom they belonged to. Yes, indeed, there wasn't much to do in his empty, shabby prison.

One day there were screams and they weren't far away -- they sounded as close as maybe next door, right at the other side of his prison. He'd never heard sounds from there, so he crawled to the wall and pressed his ear against it.