Prisoner Ch. 03

Chapter Three.

The next days were like rudderless ships. He went to work and did what was needed, but there was no passion, no interest. The comments on his peeling nose and burnt ear-rims died down and everything seemed back to normal -- ah well, except for him, of course. He knew he'd been changed and he didn't think he'd ever change back.

On the morning of one more day promising drudge and misery, he sat at his kitchen counter -- thinking. He should have been at the office for at least two hours by then, but wasn't able to move. The woman had forced him to confess out loud why he made his trip to the mall -- that he'd done it because he had to, not because she told him. Admitting something like that to yourself can be hard, but saying it out loud is something else altogether. It had taken a lot of courage to expose the truth; he'd had to dig it up from deep and scary places. Admitting it out loud had opened long-forgotten windows -- windows that had been locked shut with nails of shame for as long as he could remember. They'd been hammered close by the repeated violence and ridicule of his classmates, friends and family.

Through the years the hinges had rusted and the panes had blackened with dust and cobwebs, hiding a view he could hardly remember. Miss A had led him down to them -- ah, she'd pummeled and slapped him to return to this place of pain and humiliation. But, like in the saying of horses and water, she could lead him there, but she couldn't make him open the windows. No one can do that for you. You have to do it yourself. And he did.

He broke panes and hinges, disturbing dust and scurrying insects. But then, after letting the rush of fresh air in, he hadn't known how to go on. He'd stood in front of the open passage, still shuddering from the sheer audacity of his actions. He felt the long-forgotten wind blow, smelling a freedom that gave him goose bumps all over. He drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. But he dragged his feet, afraid to make the final step and climb through the inviting rectangles. He needed time, he thought. Ah, no -- he needed courage; he needed help.

Picking up his phone he called the office telling the editor's secretary that he wouldn't be in for the rest of the week. She protested that he should take it up with his boss. He just said she should do it and hung up.

A huge weight fell off his shoulders.

He went to his bedroom and packed a bag. On top of his clothes he put the pink apron. His fingers carefully straightened a few wrinkles. Then he filled a cool box with whatever he found in his fridge, closed his flat and went to his car. He drove to his favorite market, buying fresh fish, vegetables, meat and wine. Twenty minutes later he parked outside the ornate gate of the mansion. Walking through it and into the secluded court brought back a wave of memories.

It is true that locations burn themselves into the memories of painters and photographers after having worked there. They usually remember every detail, every wall and corner, the slant of light and every stone and crack in the pavement. André now knew that being forced to sit in the sun for hours had the same effect. Returning to the place was like meeting old acquaintances, intimate friends: a cracked flower pot, a garden hose, the gnarled skeleton of a dead vine hugging the top of a crumbling wall -- and the scents, of course, the acrid smell of dust, the subtle sweetness of sunbaked herbs. And he remembered sounds -- buzzing flies, far away birds, the lazy wind rustling through the leaves of an ancient oak. Everything came rushing back, overwhelming him until he sank to his knees. He knew this house would never be the same again, just as he wouldn't. It had swallowed him, making him part of it -- a room, a chair, a servant waiting for his mistress.

Neither he nor the house would ever be complete again unless his mistress came home. It was a truth that hit him like a hammer. His hands searched nervously for his phone. He pushed her number with shaking fingers. Waiting for her to pick up became agony. Her hello shook him. It sounded annoyed and was embedded in a background of blaring music.

"It is me, Miss -- André," he mumbled, wondering if his voice would be audible over the music and the beating of his racing heart. "I hope I don't disturb."

"Who?" Her voice was a razorblade.

"André..."

"Do I know an André?" she said as if asking someone she was with. "Are you the damned hairdresser who almost ruined my last show?"

He felt devastated. Had she already forgotten him? He stuttered things to re-introduce him, feeling perfectly ridiculous.

"Ah, that André!" she cried out, laughing merrily.

"Yes, Miss," he answered. "I just wanted..." She cut him off.

"André," she said in a warmer tone. "You are calling me..." He exhaled his pent-up breath. She sounded sympathetic.

"Yes, Miss, I'm at the house, the mansion, and I just..." She once more cut into his words.

"Didn't I tell you?" she said, some of the ice returning.

"Eh," he wondered. "Tell me what, Miss?"

"You never call me, you hear? Never." And she hung up.

With the background music still booming in his head, he scrambled to his feet, a lost child on the brink of tears.

The afternoon crept by like a snail. He tried to speed it up by keeping busy. He stored away all he'd brought. Then he cleaned an already clean kitchen, dusted spotless furniture and mopped a shining floor. Finally he sank to his knees and hands on the exact spot where he had been chair to the woman he adored, imagining her squirming bottom rubbing the burnt skin off his back.

The sun sunk behind the walls; it would be dark soon. He didn't feel hungry; he just felt miserable. Then a car's claxon blared into the quiet evening, repeating its rude sound twice more before he was at the gate. A convertible BMW stood askance on the driveway. From it poured three women, obviously tipsy and very loud. One of them was Miss A, the others he'd never seen. From their appearance he'd call them girls. They wore short, colored cocktail dresses, except for Miss A, who stuck to her favorite black.

Earlier that evening they might have looked impeccable, but by now their hair was mussed, their mascara smudged and their lipstick smeared. They giggled, tottering on high heels and bumping into each other. One of the women held an open bottle of champagne.

Miss A reached the gate first. She looked drunk, but her voice had no slur and her eyes were as intense as ever.

"André," she said. "My darling chair, please meet my friends Marijke and Gigi." The first girl she pointed at seemed a natural red head. Her almost translucent skin was dusted with freckles that spread from her face down her throat and all over her chest -- of which she showed enough to know she hardly had breasts. She was tall and gangly, thin as a model and swaying on endless legs. Gigi on the other hand was petite, five feet and maybe a few inches if he subtracted her breakneck heels. Even for a Latin girl she looked dark, wearing her black hair in a crown of curls, while her body sported the curves of long gone Italian movie stars. Her face had a round and open look with generous lips that betrayed African ancestry. Her dress was red and smoothly tight -- he suspected it was all she wore. Between the three of them they scared the shit out of him.

"Andrécito!" Miss A cried out, rattling the gate. "Don't be a gawking statue. Let us in!"

Mixing their drinks he watched them walk about. The skinny redhead had kicked off her heels. She admired the horse paintings, making lewd comments about the potential size of their penises. Gigi, the petite one, had dropped onto the overstuffed settee, drinking from the neck of the champagne bottle. She didn't seem to mind what vista her spread thighs offered. She burped, then asked Miss A: "Is he in any way close to them?" Her accent was foreign; it had a buzzing singsong quality -- Portuguese maybe? Brazilian?

At first he had no idea what she might mean, until the black haired woman answered with a chuckle: "We'll know, honey, when he at last succeeds in getting it up." The redhead guffawed, turning in surprise. "You mean..?" she said.

André pretended not to hear, as it obviously wasn't directed at him. It seemed as if he was supposed to be a household utility; he was talked about, never talked to, and it suited him. He filled a tall glass with ice cubes, pouring a white Sancerre over it. He silently condemned the poor taste of the redhead that made him kill such a fine wine. Damn, he should have bought cheaper stuff too.

Miss A asked him for a finger of malt whisky, no ice, and his heart once again warmed to her. Not because she had asked him; she hadn't. She'd just stated her desire, but the 'no ice' had shown her good taste. He knew it was just a detail, but wasn't this all about details?

After he had served them their drinks, the three women talked to each other, excluding him. At times they were loud and stunningly rude, sometimes they whispered, interrupting themselves with bouts of laughter. The curvy girl, Gigi, twice glanced over at him and he knew he was the subject of their amusement. It caused blood to rise to his cheeks.

Miss A hadn't bothered to introduce him to her friends by more than his name. He'd never expected she would. He was a servant, a chair, wasn't he? How does one introduce a chair? His mind wandered off to the evening when she'd sat on him.

Reliving it seemed to paralyze his thoughts; he still didn't quite understand why it had had such a profound impact. There hadn't been sexual arousal. Even the initial humiliation had only sent a passing wave of heat up his body before he took on his expected role -- freezing, petrifying.

"André?"

His absentmindedness caused him to miss his name.

"Ah, he is totally withdrawn into his weird little world," Miss A said with a mocking lilt. The girls tittered.

"You see, Gigi," she went on. "He's so overwhelmed by us that he sometimes forgets his manners. André?" Her voice turned sharp when she repeated his name. It sent a shiver up his spine, pulling him out of his reverie.

"Yes, Miss?" he said, hearing a tremor in his voice. He also noticed the annoyed sigh in hers. He must have missed something. She turned away from him.

"Does he disappoint you as much as he does me?" she asked her two companions. He lifted his hand in protest, trying to explain his lack of attention, but she ignored him. He felt dejected. The girl Marijke shook her head.

"Ah, well," she said, shrugging. "I told you not to believe him. He's like all the other arrogant bastards, trying to fool us." He saw the petite, curvy girl nod vigorously. Miss A returned her eyes to him, looking him up and down, before addressing her friends again.

"It is so predictable," she said and sighed. "He tries to ingratiate himself with women, making us believe he adores our superiority, prepared to do anything for us. Lovely stories, but he's a trickster. Under all this would-be submissiveness he is as terribly a macho as the next one. Ah, worse: he's a fake!"

He stood frozen. His eyes went from her stony stare to the freckled face of the redhead until they rested on the mocking eyes of the Latin girl. He grew smaller, more insignificant by the second. He knew not one word of what she said was true, but her contempt made the last remnants of his ego vaporize. How could she think of him like this? She knew it wasn't true; he'd proven it. He loved her; he adored her. He'd shown he was nothing and she was everything. She knew, so why was she lying? What had he done wrong?

"He doesn't even know what he did wrong, now does he?" Miss A asked, her face showing mock pity. She re-crossed her legs, leaning back as she studied his face. The whisky glass hung from the blood-red tips of her fingers. "But the asshole is too arrogant to see his mistake. All he has to do is look at himself."

Almost physically hit by the vehemence of her words he let his eyes go down over his body, inspecting his spotless white shirt and khaki slacks, his leather boat shoes.

"Turn," the woman said, addressing him directly. "Turn around. What do you see?" He turned, studying what was behind him -- confused. Then he saw, and he understood. A rush of embarrassment flushed his face. His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, exposing his blistered shoulders as he pulled it off. His hands were already at his belt when the shirt hit the floor. He kicked off his shoes; then he pushed his slacks and shorts down in one movement, stepping out of them. He was naked, his lower body still concealed by the counter. He grabbed the frilly apron from its peg, donned it and tied the straps behind his back. He felt the frills tickle the hair on his skin. It made him feel more naked.

"Better," Miss A said in a friendly voice. "Now come over here and give us a little fashion show, honey." He stepped around the counter until he was in front of them.

"Doesn't he look so much lovelier?" she asked her friends. He blushed fiercely, his fingers fidgeting with the hem. He knew he looked ridiculous and saw it confirmed by the girls' faces and their peals of laughter.

"Now, girls, behave," Miss A said, keeping her face straight. "He is so brave."

The girl Gigi slid off her chair and sashayed up to him, the champagne bottle dangling from her fingers. Her coffee-colored breasts moved freely in the low cut-out of her dress. She was at least a head shorter, even in heels, but she easily intimidated him. Smiling she reached out. Her fingers caressed the flimsy fabric of the apron, one hand sliding between his chest and a strap. He felt a sharp pinch as she tweaked his nipple. He kept looking past her, his eyes on Miss A's face. Her other hand slipped below the apron, cupping his balls. It startled him. His lashes fluttered, but he kept watching the woman whose green eyes caught his over the rim of her glass. He knew now that she owned him; there was no escape left because he had stopped looking for one. He would never be free of her again because he'd given up looking for freedom. Freedom abhorred him. It had become a dark and fearsome place, an abyss, an alien concept. But the thought of commitment still shocked him -- the absoluteness of it. His mind spun. The hand found the limp shaft of his cock, squeezing it.

"You are right," Gigi said, addressing her friends. "He is quite sufficiently hung." She started rubbing, making the foreskin slip up and down his cock's head. He never looked down, lost in the sweet horror of his newfound truth. His penis did grow hot from the rubbing, but it stayed soft. Her other hand made his balls roll inside their sack. He closed his eyes.

From beyond the blood-warm darkness came Miss A's voice. His breath caught; her words were directed straight at him.

"You have to know, Andrécito, that it is a first class hand you feel right now." She chuckled softly. "And a very, very expensive one too." More laughter mixed in; the hand's squeeze intensified.

"Gigi is a whore you know," Miss A went on. "A high class pros-ti-tute." She mockingly emphasized the syllables. The hand suddenly jerked and Gigi cried out:

"No, I'm not! I am a traveling PA!" The other women laughed out loud. The hand gave two more painful jerks.

"All right, all right!" Miss A admitted. He opened his eyes and saw the two women in front of him nudging each other as they made fun of the Latin girl kneeling before him. "Let's say you're a successful businesswoman, sweet Gigi, hired by serious businessmen when they have their dull meetings on tropical islands and in boring far away cities like Vegas. Okay, honey, you are a respected career-woman, known in the upper circles of Corporaria; we all envy you!" They laughed again. Gigi shrugged and muttered. Then she returned to his dangling cock, pulling aside his apron and licking him from his balls up to the head. He shuddered, closing his eyes again.

He knew Miss A was playing a game. He was sure that she'd bragged with the girls that they wouldn't be able to get him hard, let alone orgasm. Maybe she'd even placed a bet. However humiliating it might be, he knew he couldn't let her down. She would punish him for it, he was certain. But that was only part of why he strained to stay soft. He feared his failure would rob him of Miss A's interest. He was sure she would leave him if he got hard. It would prove to her that he was just like all other men after all -- only in for a quick fuck and a mindless orgasm; another walking hormone-gland. It would disgust her. He realized he didn't want that; he didn't want to lose her. Just the thought was enough to send a bolt of fear down his genitals, paralyzing them.

"God..." The petite girl's gasp and her squeezing hand brought him back to reality. "He really doesn't seem to..." She let go of his cock to grab the apron and tear it aside. Her curly head dove between his thighs. He felt her hot wet mouth closing over his flesh inside a halo of tickling hair. His cock twitched from biological necessity, but he fought to keep it down and limp. His eyes flew open, looking for help only to fall straight into Miss A's emerald trap. She smiled and nodded. The wet sounds of Gigi's sucking mouth filled the room.

Then a cloud of red hair eclipsed the green eyes. The girl called Marijke crawled all over Miss A. He heard muffled moans and wet kisses. He didn't see where their hands were, but hems of dresses shirked up to waists, bare legs rose and bodies moved.

It was very erotic.

He closed his eyes yet again, but his mind added imagination to reality -- as did the sounds he heard. He knew he was losing his battle. The expert mouth stretched around his swelling limb like a hot wet glove, massaging it, strangling it. His cock's head slid up to the entrance of her throat. In panic he opened his eyes again, only to be met by another nightmare.

Miss A lay back in her leather club chair, both legs lifted and spread wide over the arm rests. Her black dress was pulled up to her breasts, her pale belly obscured by a riot of red hair that bobbed and moved. Her eyes were closed, her mouth hung open as she moaned. Entwined fingers pulled her lover's head tightly against her.

That was the moment he felt a flash of intense jealousy, a wild envy to be the redhead; to be the one kneeling and sucking at his mistress's glorious cunt lips, feeling her claws in his scalp, her juices on his tongue. He cried out his frustrations, throwing back his head and surrendering. His cock hardened at once. The girl plunged forward, making his pulsing head pass the incredible tightness of her throat's entrance. He was lost. He sobbed. His hips jerked forward as molten lead rushed painfully through the tight, long-neglected passages of his penis. He heard the girl's throat swallow; he felt her muscles tighten as load after aching load rushed towards her stomach. He keened his misery, tears streaming down his face.

Through a mist he saw the woman in the chair. She leant forward over the crouching body of her redhead lover, spent and limp. Her body glistened with perspiration, but her intensely green eyes were alive and burning. Their gaze jumped across the distance, engulfing him. It radiated a bottomless sadness that instantly replaced his elation with doom. His short-lived bliss was tainted with misery. He felt lost.

Falling to his knees, he sobbed.

***

His entire life had been riddled with questions. Questions about who he was and why he was who he was. Questions about gender, questions about rejection and belonging. Questions about questions...

As the first raindrops hit his face, he wondered if he still had a right to question. Of course that was a question in itself, proving he still had them anyway. But was he allowed to have them? And was it wrong to still need answers?