Roommates on Lockdown Ch. 05

In the coming days, I discovered what "obeying" meant. Any moment Gabriel wanted something--be it a soda from the fridge or for me to do a load of laundry (we had a machine in the apartment)--I did it for him.

Any hints of resistance or hesitation were met with cold stares and, if I kept pushing, mild acts of violence. These were never as bad as the first spanking, but they included hard spanks or a hard pinch on the ass or soft slaps to my face. It didn't take much to overcome my resistance - I knew I couldn't stand up to him physically.

It was so hard, so utterly draining, to resist. And my efforts were always futile, I began to wonder what the point was. After all, his demands did not descend into sexual ones, at least, not outside of our sessions. I told myself he just wanted someone to help out around the house, nothing more. Like a servant. I rationalized - he was working and I wasn't....at least not really. So it wasn't crazy for me to help out a bit more around the house. I wanted to resist, but I was afraid that pushing back too much against the non-sexual orders might cause Gabriel to escalate to a punishment of a...more sexual nature. When I thought about that possibility I felt a strange mix of fear and anticipation.

When it came to our painting sessions, Gabriel still on occasion laid out clothing for me, which ranged from dresses to skirts to jeans and shirts to bikinis to lingerie. More often, though, I began choosing outfits myself (subject to Gabriel's approval of course). I mean...it was what it was, right? We were doing this for extra cash so I may as well put in the effort to look good for the work product.

My strangely developing body was looking better and better in these items of clothing too, my hips and chest filling them up more generously. My pecs continued to grow and I found I didn't need to stuff the bra's as much anymore. I began storing the outfits in my closet and pursuing them when I was bored, from time to time, mentally composing different outfits and styles. Gabriel had even begun buying items specifically for me, rather than taking used items from his studio. And he said I could keep them. My wardrobe grew pretty large, and I was pretty sure my female clothing far outnumbered my male clothing at this point.

I also became better and better at applying makeup. No longer did he have to touch anything up, and I had begun watching youtube tutorials to improve on my craft. After all, I told myself, I wanted these paintings to sell. Even my hair was growing smoother and more glossy - I thought it must be because of the new shampoo and conditioner Gabriel had me using, but even at the end of a long day it seemed silkier than it ever had before.

I was very proud of each painting Gabriel produced. Not only that strange pride in myself about how good I looked, but also, curiously, pride in Gabriel for his obvious talent and genius. His beautiful creations were a testament to our teamwork. And, I grudgingly had to admit (only to myself though, never to him) that he was right - the "sexual tension" came across vividly in the paintings.

Our "part 2s" following every session continued, and grew increasingly intense. My anticipation began whenever Gabriel declared that we'd have another session that day, and then built throughout the day - I'd spend most of the day thinking about it, wondering what outfit I would wear, thinking about what would come...after. The anticipation would continue to rise as I prepared for the session - putting on makeup, slipping on the dress or outfit, and then posing in front of the mirror. Finally, the anticipation would flare out of control while he was painting, under his steady gaze. Our eyes bore into one another, smoldering, during those sessions. Though I tried to resist, I often found myself scanning his body up and down (and thought I caught him doing the same, though I wasn't sure - he was painting what he saw, after all).

He always showed me the painting first, and often fondled my ass standing behind me while I admired myself on the canvas. I couldn't believe that this was how he saw me. I was so beautiful, so sexy, in his eyes...

I no longer resisted these second parts of these sessions. What was the point? It was like he said - these post-session...activities...were what made the paintings so successful. I practically had a financial responsibility to fool around with him!

Sometimes he initially held me tight against his body while we groped eachother all over, and other times he pushed me to my knees immediately after a cursory glance at the canvas. Those times, I knew I had driven him particularly crazy with my outfit and poses.

Once, Gabriel had decided to stay nude while he painted me. He said he wanted to see how it affected the painting.

I couldn't tear my eyes off of him the entire session. His arms and shoulders, together with the rest of his glorious body, flexed and pulsed as he made confident and fast brushstrokes. He painted with such power and grace. He had never been more alluring in my eyes.

His cock also put on an enticing show that day, beginning by hanging heavy and low, but hardening gloriously part way in, pointing right at me. It oscillated between hard and soft, and I found myself disappointed whenever it became soft - trying to pose more suggestively to turn him on again. When he finished, he turned the canvas towards me. I only had eyes for Gabriel though and for once didn't even look at the painting as I strode to him and dropped to my knees to take him hungrily into my mouth, hardly pausing my assault until I had swallowed every drop of his delicious cum.

When he wasn't using me, though, he was so cold to me - almost indifferent. I wondered whether he appreciated all the things I was now doing for him. I wondered whether he appreciated me at all....

But I also still hated his fucking arrogance, and chafed at his financial control over me. He would always make lewd or complimentary comments about an outfit or my (growing) cleavage. Other than during or after our sessions, I would scold him or roll my eyes (not pushing my criticism too far). In this particular way he allowed me my resistance. He assured me I would cease objecting at some point - that I would soon seek and revel in his approval. That, indeed, I would come to glory in it. The thought repulsed me.

One day, watching a movie on the couch, Gabriel tucked me into his arm while I squirmed, resisting the desire to settle in. He chuckled.

"I know you still deny, Mishel. Deny your true female nature. But deep down, you know. Yes, deep down you know, just like deep down you worship me. It comes out often when you are around my cock, when you let loose. But, other times..." he sighed, "you still deny. It will be easier when you accept. You will be much happier, Mishel."

"That won't happen, Gabriel" I replied firmly, though my heart pounded in my chest. He wasn't right. He wasn't.

He just chucked again and gave my cheek a light slap, though his heart wasn't in it.

And in spite of hating him, I avoided him less and less. After all, he controlled so much of my life, I shouldn't allow him to control where I went in my own apartment (even if he did pay the rent). True, more encounters in the hallways and living spaces meant I was forced into increasing servitude. On the other hand, though, he had begun simply texting or yelling for me when he wanted something, so I decided that hiding in my room didn't make much of a difference.

One morning, though (following a long and intense post-session activity the prior evening that forced Gabriel to carry my exhausted body to bed), I woke to find that every article of my male clothing was gone. I knew. I KNEW. I threw on a robe and stormed to Gabriel's room, throwing open the door.

"YOU FUCKER." I yelled as I stormed in. I hadn't yelled at him like this in a long time, but I had had enou....

Gabriel was sitting at his computer. On his screen was...a woman!? A beautiful woman in tight clothing. I felt an entirely different stab of...what...anger? Panic?

"Mishel, why are you here. This is not acceptable. That language should not come out of a lady's mouth."

My eyes were still fixed on the screen. Who was she? What was she to him? Wait...I was getting distracted. I snapped my eyes back to Gabriel.

"You are wanting to know who she is, yes?"

"What? No. Why would I care."

"Oh, my Mishel. You are turning red. You are...how do you...revnost..." He paused. "Ah yes! You are jealous."

"What? Are you crazy? You ass hole, that's not why I'm here." I replied coldly. Jealousy? Get real.

His expression darkened and I gulped. "Watch your language Mishel. This is two warnings."

"What did you do with my clothes?" I asked, my voice flat.

"As for the woman," Gabriel replied, ignoring my question, "she is an old client. She sends me images sometimes." He shrugged and I felt that pang of...something...again at the explanation.

"I don't give a flying...." I stopped myself and took a deep breath before continuing. "Where are my clothes, Gabriel." I repeated.

He still sat in his desk chair. He shrugged. "They are in your closet, of course."

"All that is in my closet are dresses, skirts, stockings, and other female crap like that." I growled.

"Yes. Like I say. All your clothings are there."

My eyes widened. I knew it! He expected me to wear that crap all the time now!

"Listen, Gabriel. I want my normal clothes back righ..."

He interrupted, standing up. He towered over me, and he was so wide...

"That is enough, Mishel." He said sternly in his powerful russian accent. "You have all clothes you need."

"You can't expect..."

"I expect you to wear what is comfortable. What for you I know is comfortable." His hands rest on his hips now, speaking sternly with his steel eyes boring into me. I gulped, but hardened myself.

"You know, I see what you're trying to do." I answered quietly. "You're trying to turn me into your little servant. To break down my resistance by humiliating me."

He responded with a stern face that betrayed a hint of amusement. "This is not correct, Mishel. I simply think you should act according to your....station."

"It's not going to work. I'm not going to be that little servant girl for you, you a...I'm just not. I'm not going to wear those clothes around everywhere all the time." I blinked aware tears. What the fuck? Keep it together Mishel....no, Michael!

"Ahh. So you will just walk around naked, or in that...wonderful robe?"

I glanced down and was shocked to find the robe was practically see-through. Shoot he had replaced my robe with one that was so thin as to be practically transparent. We'd used this in a recent shoot. I flushed, trying to cover my body, as he continued.

"Because I must say, Mishel - that would be fine with me." His grin grew wider as he scanned me up and down as I tried to cover myself.

"I'll...I'll buy more clothes. Mens clothes."

"I will not give you money to pretend you are something you are not, Mishel."

Fuck...money. I needed my own money.

I shook my head in disgust. "This isn't going to work, Gabriel."

"We shall see, Mishel. Now if you excuse me, I have correspondence to write." He nodded his head at the computer screen, still displaying the picture of the slut.

I turned around, feeling tears come to my eyes. I was so angry about how he was treating me, and yet still, for some reason, I felt the shame of rejection. Gabriel slapped my ass. Hard! It sent me running out of the room, squealing and crying. Fucker.

---------

So I began wearing the clothing all the time. I hated it, I really did. Really...I did. I did...

At first I tried intentionally to wear the loosest and ugliest clothing I had left, just to spite Gabriel. However, he seemed to take no notice at all. Indeed, he barely seemed to register what I wore other than during our sessions (for which I continued to dress well of course - we had to make money).

Well, I grew fed up of trying to anger him with ugly clothes. Truth was, I really hated wearing the ugly clothes. They were scratchy and uncomfortable, bunching up every opportunity they got. And I had zero self-confidence in them. I came around to a new way of thinking - whether ugly or nice, either way they were girls clothes, right? I may as well wear the nice, especially if it was more bearable for me. And as I said, he was barely looking anyways. Why should I make myself miserable?

So I began to actually utilize my growing closet, picking a different outfit every morning, sometimes even trying on a few before settling on my favorite for the day.

I found it strangely...satisfying. Finding the perfect outfit to fit my swinging moods felt like a goal achieved each morning--a light blue short pleated skirt and a colorful halter-top tank top, a purple and white flowery light summer dress, or even just just simple tight black jeans (they were my favorite as they cupped my butt wonderfully) and a white soft, thin scoop-neck shirt. I also began wearing some of the dozens of pairs of heels and wedges that Gabriel had given me. I mean, it couldn't hurt to be closer to his height. Plus, I told myself, I needed the practice in wearing the heels for use in the sessions.

Of course the bra and panties I wore (the bra was a growing necessity with the strange and still unexplained changes to my body) had to match the outfit. Some would stick out of the more revealing outfits, and the outlines or colors of my lingerie may be seen through the clothes if paired incorrectly.

Much of my new clothing was incredibly uncomfortable when I slouched or lounged, but I soon realized it felt wonderful when I had proper posture or sat up straight at the edge of my seat. So I began focusing on my posture. It was a lot like during our sessions, except I focused on fixing it myself instead of needing Gabriel to point out my mistakes.

Strangely, I felt a renewed sense of energy, of confidence. When I thought about it, I figured I should have been ashamed, embarrassed. I was a freaking drag queen! Moreover I was parading about this way in front of a man I truly despised.

Yet...when I looked in the mirror, I didn't see a drag queen. Instead I saw a beautiful, sexy young woman. And the man that that beautiful young woman was constantly around...well he was a beautiful, and even younger, man. How could the attentions of such a man not make a woman feel good about herself...

What was more, I had grown so lost over these past months--Gabriel and the virus had broken my confidence and my sense of self--It was good to grasp onto...something...as crazy as that seemed. I had been broken, but I was rebuilding.

Yet I fought it. I truly did. Those feelings of growing confidence and comfort in this new skin - they were wrong. This was not the way I was. And I kept my hatred for Gabriel burning strong. I observed him closely throughout the day, noting every little thing he did that pissed me off. How he continued to pompously discuss art philosophy with me (though I now knew it not for pompousness, but simple passion and interest - it was strangely intriguing to hear such cultured and sophisticated words come from this man in his thick uncivilized accent). The way he ran his hand through his perfect hair constantly, his bicep bulging with the motion. The way he wore too-tight t-shirts, so self-obsessed with his body. The way his muscles flexed and pulsed, visible through his shirt with even the smallest movement--as if I cared. The way he sat down on the couch and took over the remote, no matter if I'd been watching something. The way he ordered me about so casually and expectantly, the way he put his arm around me on the couch so presumptively.

I tried to make sure, subtly, that he knew my displeasure, renewing my effort to never smile for him, that he never see me satisfied. I made clear to him that this was work to me. Chores, nothing more. The pure hatred though - I kept that inside, distilled and bottled during the long days. While I could show my reluctance and displeasure over what he made me do, I couldn't release the pure hatred upon him in words, or in defiance. I knew how that would end up. Instead, it came out during our sexual acts. I began using my teeth, wanting to cause him pain. I bit his shoulders, his pecs, his biceps, even his nipples. I began scratching his back aggressively when he was fondling my ass and squeezing his ass as hard as I could when I gave him head. Yet he never reacted. I bit and pinched so hard that I left marks but he didn't even flinch. He was incredible....

More and more, I was on fire all the time. My breasts had grown so much they now filled a "b" cup and my constant angry heat seemed focused there and between my legs, building and building until I released it against Gabriel's body and cock.

But I had a growing sense of frustration too. I didn't know what it was, but there was a sense of incompleteness. Something was missing. The part 2's of our sessions continued, more passionate than ever (even sometimes interrupting the part 1's), but while Gabriel always finished (as did I, though less...spectacularly), it no longer felt like we were really finishing. I would storm to my room after we were done, then often, in spite of myself, cry myself to sleep.

What had I become...? I needed to keep fighting.

Then one morning, I went to pick up my morning coffee off the ground outside my door (strangely, it was the one thing Gabriel continued to do for me, rather than the other way around). Pulling open the door, I found a garment bag hanging on the outside handle.

I walked to the living room (I wore only a light pink silk nightdress, but it felt silly at this point to be embarrassed from that - he'd seen me in far less) and found him sitting at the table reading a russian paper (he had them delivered).

"What's this?" I asked, holding up the garment bag and taking a sip of my coffee.

"Ah, dobroye utro Mishel. You are the vision this morning." He said, turning.

I felt my cheeks heating slightly as I flushed but fought it down, mentally adding these inane compliments to the list of the things I hated about him. He thought I'd glory in his approval? Fuck off.

"What's this?" I repeated flatly.

"Ah yes," he said, patting his leg as if to say I should sit on his lap! As if! But then I surprised myself by simply walking to him and sitting down. When had I started to obey such casual whims of his!?

I began to sit up but his hand fell to my leg and held me in place, his thumb rubbing softly under the hem of my nightie.

He brushed a hair out of my face gently, looking at me with his intense hazel. I stared back, my heart suddenly beating fast. "We have a commission - prepaid" he said, his eyes twinkling.

"Really..." I replied, intrigued.

"Yes, Mishel. He says he may commission many more, if he likes this one. It is good money. I sent him your measurements and he had the dress made for you."

"...wow" I said quietly, impressed.

"You are catching the eye of many people. We are making the waves."

In spite of myself, I giggled. "Making waves, Gabriel. Not making 'the' waves."

"Ah, yes. You are 'the' right."

I giggled again. He could be charming, I grudgingly admitted. But...no...what? That hadn't even been funny. But he was looking at me so fondly. One hand stroked my smooth bare leg while the other rested on my shoulder, the thumb running up and down my neck. I was so small in his lap.

I sighed, looking into his eyes. "It's not just me making the waves, Gabriel. Your paintings are really wonderful."

"No, no." He shook his head, still looking at me. "They are only wonderful because they are of you, my beautiful Mishel..." he said fondly.

I don't know why, but in that instant my hatred was nowhere to be found. I felt only warmth. At that moment I had only admiration and desire for this strong, talented, beautiful man. The moment felt so simple, so wholesome. A man and his woman sharing a quiet, contended moment at the table during breakfast.