PrisonerChapter 2 free porn video

Of course she didn't call him – not the next day or the next week. And of course he didn't dare call her; too many unspoken taboos surrounding their relationship (was it even that?) He tried to dial once or twice, but never got past moving his thumb over her name in the display – a strange name, exotic. His lips formed the syllables, soundlessly, searching for the correct pronunciation. It would most probably be the French way, where you leave the last part mute, stress the middle, while giving the first part this slightly nasal quality.

When he added sound to his mimed efforts his voice echoed in the empty flat, sobering him up. What on earth was he doing, playing the moonstruck teenager mumbling his would be lover's name? She hadn't shown any signs of real affection on her side, had she – let alone commitment. A sigh deflated his chest as he realized that playing the love struck teenager was exactly what he was doing; and it wasn't even playing.

Though he never missed a day at work, he started missing dead lines that week. He sleepwalked through meetings. He was perfectly able to stare at his laptop's screen for a full hour, believing minutes had passed. Phone calls went unnoticed; people had to repeat their questions. On Friday afternoon his boss called him into his office.

They had always had this rather impersonal relationship of two professionals who were too different to connect on a private level. André knew his boss thought him slightly weird; he might very well call him a faggot behind his back. He even seemed to dislike his name, calling him Andy. André, on the other hand, considered the man a boar, lacking in tolerance for tastes and inclinations other than his own. But, well, he was his boss and as long as the man respected his work, he didn't mind.

That Friday was different. Jenner closed the door behind them – always a bad sign. He gestured towards a chair and placed his own huge rump on the edge of his desk; a casual touch he'd never shown before.

"André, what's wrong?" he said, trying to give his voice a fatherly quality. André had no idea what he meant. The almost intimate tone of voice worried him, though – just as the correct use of his name.

"Wrong?" he echoed. His boss raised both hands, palms outward.

"You've been acting strange these days," he said. "As long as you've been working here, you never missed a deadline. This week you did so twice. Or even three times, maybe. What about the El Bulli article for Monday?"

"Almost ready," André muttered, knowing he had hardly begun.

"So," his boss said, rising to his feet. "To repeat myself: what's wrong? Are you ill, stressed out? Are you in love, Andy? Did you get an outside offer?"

What about all of the above, André wondered. But he said: "Nothing wrong, really, just rotten coincidences. On Monday you'll have it all – first Monday morning, no worry." He could see the man didn't buy it; he had trouble believing it himself. Three big projects, two of them he'd hardly worked on, to be finished in two days?

His boss shrugged. The usual awkwardness crept back into their relationship. He started gathering folders and papers. André knew he was dismissed.

"Have a nice weekend," he said before leaving.

The confrontation somehow cleared his muddled mind. That same evening he finished the article that was already mostly done. He even started on the second one before dropping his face on his keyboard. He slept for a few hours. Then he woke up with his neck hurting from the awkward position. He rose and stretched his creaking body.

After showering and eating an old croissant he'd flushed down with a glass of juice, he returned to his laptop. First light crept through the blinds of his windows. The short nap and the shower had refreshed him, but what revived him most was the proud realization that he'd gotten some work done. He was halfway into reading a piece of research when his phone rang, shattering the silence. It was 5 a.m., who on earth would be calling him?

Her voice was chipper.

"Good morning, sweetie," she chirped. "Did I wake you?"

The crisis of the lost deadlines had truly wiped all thoughts of her from his mind. He hadn't thought of her ever since his boss had given him his ultimatum. He'd shielded himself with determination. And now her first words made it all flood back in – the bittersweet helplessness, the humiliation, the thumping of his heart against his throat.

"N-no," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm working. Deadlines, you know. Missed two. Have to get three articles ready on Monday. My boss, he ... my job..."

"Oh my, you're working!" she exclaimed, cutting through his rambling avalanche of babble. He almost heard her tongue click in mock disapproval. "At this hour, honey – and in your weekend? Shouldn't you be partying? Or even sleeping?" Her laugh sounded metallic in his ear. He had to finish this call quickly before it all slipped out of his fingers again. But he knew the damage had been done. His hard-won new focus was shattered. Shapeless thoughts ran away from him like a herd of scared animals. Once more his world turned around this voice worming its way into his ear. He screamed on the inside, but he had no answer.

"Honey?" she went on, replacing the silence with her sweetest voice. "I loved it at your wonderful mansion. Let's go there again. Let's go now, I have so many plans."

He couldn't move; he couldn't think. He knew he could never drop his work and be with her, not now. His job would be shot, as would the last remnants of his confidence.

"No," he said, already regretting the bare rudeness of the word; but glad he'd dared say it. No, he'd said. No. But she didn't seem to have heard it.

"Okay," she said. "In an hour. You are sweet!" And the connection died with a click. He stared at his cell. Her name was still there. He erased it with a touch of his thumb.

In the next hour he tried to return to what he'd been doing. It was like reaching through veils of gauze – touching and yet not touching. He reread whole paragraphs and still had no idea what he'd read. His mind was elsewhere. He imagined her getting out of her cab and walking up to the closed gate. He remembered the sway of her hips, the flow of her gestures and the confident smile on her face. She had no concept of a world where things didn't go her way. He smiled at the thought. Then he frowned. He imagined her pressing the bell with one long red-nailed finger – and the surprise on her face when no one responded. Her thick black brows knitted, darkening her emerald eyes. He saw anger after her first surprise, a cold rage building.

He trembled, knowing he was the cause.

He'd said 'no, ' but she hadn't even heard him. How could she have? In her world there was no such thing as a 'no' from someone like him. He'd knelt beside her in a restaurant, being fed by her. He'd allowed her friend to jack him off in a public place. She'd sat on his bare back, while he only wore a frilly apron. So how could there even have been a 'no' to overhear? And yet, here she'd be at a closed gate to an empty house – her wishes denied.

His phone rang. He knew without looking it must be her. He tried to ignore the ringing, but as it went on it seemed to get angrier – until it stopped. He found his hands clutching his ears and his thighs pressed together.

A minute later the phone rang again. He bent over in his chair, holding his ears and making his body as small as he could. He gently rocked. When the ringing stopped, his soft moaning went on.

The third time he picked up the call. He couldn't say a thing; he didn't have to.

"André?!" She sounded angry. Or was it something else – surprise from the unexpected, maybe? Incredulity? No, it wasn't that...

"André, why aren't you here?" He knew now what it was in her voice. It was disappointment. She'd never expected him to deny her anything; never thought that he wouldn't be there.

"I'm here," he said at last. "I'm at my flat."

"But ... but you promised... ," she muttered, letting her voice peter out.

"I have to work; I told you," he said.

"But I need you here." She didn't say it as a command; she said it as a need. It came surprisingly close to begging and it shamed him that he was the cause of it. This incredible woman begged; this Goddess said she needed him?

"I am so sorry," he whispered.

"I don't need your sorry's, André," she answered, her voice back to her calm self. "I need you here."

He felt like a lab rat in a mace, running left and right in perplex nervousness. Hands seemed to pull and push him into every possible direction. Sweat trickled down his spine, his throat felt constricted.

"I ... can't," he croaked. "I'll lose my job."

A profound silence went on for seconds.

"Your job?" she then asked. "Anyone can have a job, André. But you were allowed to love me. Remember?" He nodded.

"Remember?" she repeated. "I heard you say you loved me and now your job is more important? What kind of love is that?" He shook his head, too confused to realize that she couldn't see him shaking it.

"Am I mistaken?"

"No, Miss." His voice was almost a whisper. He wondered why he felt so ... liquid, so spineless. "I do love you; I really do."

"If that were true, you'd have been here already."

His phone clicked. There were beeps.

The light traffic had him arrive at the estate within a quarter of an hour. He already saw her from a distance – a black speck against the stone-and-iron gate. He pulled up and left his car. She looked paler than ever, he saw, the whiteness of her skin set off by her tight black outfit. Her legs seemed endless in her heeled boots; her eyes were huge and dark inside the square frame of her haircut. But to his surprise she didn't look angry; she seemed calm. It made him nervous; his heart pounded.

"You made me wait," she said, her voice soft, yet carrying. It seemed a statement, not a reproach. He kept his silence, not even looking for an excuse. He'd given her the reason; if she didn't think it valid there was no use to repeat his sorry's.

"Hand me the keys of the house," she said, putting out her hand, palm up. The question surprised him, but when he thought about it, it made sense. Handing her the keys of the house would be another step in accepting her dominance over him. Did he want to take that step? Oh yes, he did. But the house wasn't his. People who knew him had trusted him with the keys. They wouldn't agree at all that he'd give them to this woman.

Her fingers curled, moving in a gesture of impatience.

"Come on, give them to me," she insisted when he kept hesitating.

"But I can't," he said, noting the whine in his voice. "They are not mine."

"No," she said, smiling. She reached for the keys and grabbed them. "You are right. They are not yours; they are mine." She turned on her heels and opened the gate with the largest key. The iron scraped over the pebbles as she pushed it open. She never looked back, walking up to the house.

He stood, staring at her backside – then he closed the gate and followed her along the short driveway and up the few steps to the front door. She found the right key after one try. The high hallway took them in with a cool sigh; her heels rang on the tiles.

"I love places like this," she said. Her voice echoed. "But they are so big; one really needs servants." Her laugh was short and silver. She looked over her shoulder; he was only a few steps behind. She stopped and turned around.

"But where does one get affordable servants nowadays?" she said. He stopped too, extending his hand.

"Please, Miss," he said. "Give me the keys. The owners really wouldn't want to..."

"But of course!" she cried out, cutting him off. "Why didn't I think of that? It would be perfect!" He fell silent. What did she mean?

"The keys, please," he repeated. She didn't hear him, spinning around on her heels, arms wide as if to encompass the hallway. Then she suddenly stopped, her back towards him.

"Get naked, honey," she said, looking up to the ceiling.

He froze, his jaws clenching.

"No," he said. The word squeezed past his teeth. "Please give me the keys. I have to go home and work or I'll lose my job." For a second nothing happened; then she whirled around and reached him with two steps. Her hands clenched his shoulders; her face was right into his.

"Home?" she hissed. "Job?" She pushed him away. Then she rose to her full height, folding her arms under her breasts. He could not look away from her face. Her eyes were like chunks of green ice on fire, yet her lips curled in a smile.

"André, André," she said as if tasting his name. She shook her head in mild disapproval. "You are such an indecisive little boy. What is it you want from life, honey? Work? Career? Money?" She once more shook her head, clicking her tongue. "I don't think so."

She shifted her weight from one heel to the other. Her hand left her folded arms, touching his face. Her fingertips were cool.

"We both know what you really want, André honey, don't we?" The fingers traveled down his jaw and rested on his lips. "Tell me."

The touch to his lips was maddening. The fingertips were like probes sending tingling sensation up his head. He felt as if his entire body hung from the anchor of her touch. Who could shape any coherent thought, captured like this?

"Please, Miss, have mercy," he mumbled.

"Mercy?" she echoed, smiling. Then she once more shook her head in denial. "You don't want mercy from me, boy, now do you? Think..." He couldn't think; he told her so.

"I ... I can't think, Miss." She nodded.

"That's fine, honey," she whispered. To his amazement she leant in and pressed her lips on his. The kiss caused the last remnants of rigidity to leave his body. He closed his eyes and felt himself dissolve, disappear between her velvet lips – ceasing to exist.

A voice penetrated the darkness surrounding him.

"André," it said. "It is about time you find the courage to be who you really are. Time to give up these silly tries at normalcy. Your clock is ticking away precious time. I could send you back to your empty flat so you can finish your silly projects and satisfy your fat little boss. You'd safe your puny career and drift on into your little life."

The soft mouth came back, her tongue probing. Hands cupped his face, holding it up. His jumbled thoughts dissolved into a perfumed buzz.

"André, sweet André." The voice proceeded as her lips left his. A cool breeze touched the emptiness of his abandoned mouth. He opened his eyes, finding hers.

"How could that be what you want, honey?" she asked. "You were born to serve women. You were born to serve me." She smiled, nodding, her face almost into his.

"You are precious, darling," she went on, her breath caressing his skin. "Who'd want to serve fat macho boss-men if they could serve me? Who'd want to waste their life not doing what they crave to do? That would be such a shame. Thousands of men could satisfy your boss, honey, but there is only one who'd be allowed to satisfy me..."

Her eyes shone. Her lisp returned for another kiss. Her soft breasts pressed into him as her tongue dashed around his teeth. He knew he was lost and yet he knew exactly where he was.

He was where he ought to be – home.

A slight pressure lowered his shoulders. He gave in to it. His face slid down her chest and her belly until it rested against her crotch. She pushed it into him as his knees touched the floor.

"Satisfy me, André." Her voice drizzled down on him like a soft spring shower. The words thrilled him. His fingers opened the buttons of her tight trousers. He found her bare, shaven pussy; she wore no panties. He smelled her arousal; it caused a flush of pride – she was aroused for him and wanted him to make her come.

He felt her hands at the back of his head, pulling his face into her furnace. Her bare cunt lips electrified his tongue. He started lapping, spreading her lips and finding the slick, musky flesh inside. His nose touched her clit. He rubbed it and felt her stiffen. Her hands closed his ears with a tighter grip. Now he couldn't see, couldn't hear – just smell, and taste. He lapped and probed. He sucked and nibbled. He felt the vibrations of her moaning.

His world was perfect.

Nirwana lasted ten minutes. They felt like hours. Nothingness flooded his senses. He smelled her blood-hot cunt and tasted her squirting wetness. He felt her skin and heard the muffled sounds of her moaning. But there also was the unrelenting pressure of her hands and – later on – the strangling of her thighs that robbed him of his breath. He heard humiliating curses when her climax crested, and there was the pain of her raking nails. Finally a stream of piss gushed down his face and chest.

Now he lay face down on the drenched tiles. She'd pushed him away. The smell of her urine was overwhelming; its bitter flavor blended with the salt of his tears. He cried without knowing it; he just did. The water ran from his eyes, mixing with the juices and grime on his cheeks. It wasn't misery that caused it. It wasn't happiness either. It was just salt water escaping for lack of resistance. All his facial muscles hung loose; his limbs felt no tension. He just lay there, soaked and drained.

Then he felt a sudden pressure on his left shoulder blade, followed by a piercing jab. A heavy weight pushed his shoulder down. It lifted only to be replaced by a similar weight on the small of his back. The accompanying pain was worse – like the stab of a knife, followed by blunt pressure and new sharp pain on his thigh. He groaned into the stinking tiles. A veil lifted from his mind and he knew: she was walking over him on her high-heeled boots. She used him as a rug. What he felt were her foot soles; the pain came from her stiletto heels. He screamed when she reached his calf. Then the pressure was gone.

Lying down, panting, he heard the click clack of her boots walking away from him. He was stunned and not just from the pain. She had used him as a doormat, just like she had used him as a chair. She had wiped her feet on him and stabbed her heels into his flesh. He could still feel the throbbing pain.

He knew he should be shocked by her indifference, and he was. He also knew he should be indignant, and hurt, but he wasn't. A soothing flush of warmth spread from where the heels had punched him. It blended with the cocktail of emotions simmering below his blanket of numbness – there was excitement and a curiously sweet bitterness of loss. There also was a lingering soreness mixed with the unexplainable thrill of humiliation; it spread through the melting fibers of his resistance. Then it became a groundswell, flushing out the debris of whatever compromises he had made during his confusing life. Cleansing was the word, whatever that might be.

He sobbed, not able to lift a finger.

The rhythmic pounding of the pestle in the stone mortar caused exotic flavors to curl up and spread throughout the kitchen. The blend of roasted kummel, dried peppers and coriander took him back to the spice market in the hot and crowded souk of Marrakesh, as it always did. His nose had perfect memory, just like his tongue. Every scent and every taste, even the subtlest, brought associations of the first time he'd smelled or tasted them – making him relive colors and sounds, pictures and adventures. Even now the memories flooded in, as he stood only dressed in a cheap gauzy apron, scrutinized by the woman who had walked over him.

He didn't look up; he didn't have to. He knew she was watching him like the feline predator she was. She'd told him to prepare lunch for her; she might even eat it. That was after she'd been soaking for an hour in the antique bathtub she'd had him prepare. He'd brought her tea, dressed like she told him to: stripped of all his clothing, only wearing the frilly apron. She'd been on the phone for most of the time, conducting business and sharing gossip in equal parts. When he entered with the tea, she'd abruptly stopped and giggled. Then she murmured something into the phone in a language he didn't understand, before turning her iPhone around and shooting a picture of him. She went back to her phone, informing her party that her naked servant served her tea, and that a picture was under way. Only a few moments later she dissolved into a bout of giggling.

He retired to a corner, feeling the heat of his blush.

The sore imprints of her feet could still be felt all over his backside, but maybe what he felt wasn't just physical pain anymore. Pain and humiliation seemed to be fighting for precedence by now, feeding on each other. It was easy to mix up his feelings and emotions. Was he humiliated by her act? Or did he feel humiliated because he'd let her do it? Had her stabbing heels only caused pain? Or had they also caused the delirious state of mind he felt right after? And why was he still here anyway?

He ought to be working on his projects. Each minute he stayed here brought his dismissal closer. And yet here he still was.

After he had picked himself up from the floor, he'd gone looking for a shower to get out of his soaked garb and clean off the stench. He'd found a robe to wear before looking for a pail of hot water and a rag to mop up the puddle in the hallway. The stench had gone stale, attacking his sensitive nose even stronger. After cleaning the floor he'd taken his soiled clothes to the laundry room, starting the machine to wash them. When he at last returned to the kitchen, she was there, asking him to make her a coffee.

"You are a splendid rug, honey," she said, sipping her cappuccino. "Please drop the robe and show me your backside."

He'd been resolved to tell her things would stop at this; he had to save his job and must leave for home – no more toying.

"No need for that, Miss," he said, sipping his espresso. "There are no bruises at all, I'm fine."

She rose from her stool and walked over to him. Her hand was a sudden blur when she slapped him full in the face.

"You don't understand," she said, calmly. "Get rid of that robe and turn around. Please."

His head spun. The suddenness of her violence stunned him as much as the blow itself. Anger flashed, but just as soon dissolved, scattering like dead leaves in a storm. He stood frozen, not able to act. His hand touched the burning spot on his cheek.

"You ... hit me," he said, too dazed to notice the lameness of his remark.

"Yes, honey, I did," she said, taking away his hand from his face, squeezing it. Then she leant forward and kissed the spot. "Now lose the robe and turn around."

He didn't know what his hands did, but soon the robe slid off his body, rustling around his feet. He slowly turned his back to her, hearing a sharp intake of breath. A fingertip touched the sore spot on his shoulder blade. Then it travelled to the spot on the small of his back. When it halfway passed his spine, he shivered.

"God, honey," she whispered, "you are so brave." Her finger found the bruise on his ass cheek. She rubbed his flesh with her open palm, making the warmth spread. Then he felt her body press into his back – her breasts, her belly and thighs. She breathed on his neck, her lips touching his ear. Every fiber of his body trembled; he closed his eyes. The spot where she had hit his face burned like fire.

"You are incredible, honey," she breathed. Her arms closed around him, one hand rubbing his belly, the other tugging at the coarse hair around his left nipple. He wondered if he'd ever felt this low. He also wondered how he could feel so alive at the same time.

"This ugly hair has to go, darling," she said, pulling harder. "I hate hair on bodies." A blinding pain stabbed his chest when a few hairs came loose. He cried out, tears squeezing from his eyes. She chuckled softly.

"Don't worry," she said. "We'll shave you nice and baby bare." Her hand started a slow caress of the spot where she'd pulled the hair. "And maybe less painful."

"I... ," he began as a teardrop slid across his cheek. "I really need to go home. You know that I have to." But he didn't shake free; he just stood there, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of her body wrapped around him.

She didn't answer. Her lower hand sank to his genitals. She cupped his balls, kneading them. Her other hand took his penis.

"Is it an act or do you never get hard, honey?" she asked, slowly rubbing the shaft. He kept silent. She squeezed his balls. "Is something wrong with it?" asked.

"I, ehm ... No, nothing's wrong," he then said. "I just try not to." Both her hands were now holding his balls, fingers entwined to form a little basket. She pulled hard, making her embrace even tighter. Her tongue started licking the short hair of his neck.

"We'll see to that," she said at last, letting him go. "Now you draw me a bath."

He didn't move, still dazed. Then he picked up his robe and left the kitchen.

He could have easily run when she was taking her bath. Why hadn't he? And why would he use the word 'run?' He could have left for his apartment anytime – even only wearing his robe. She didn't know where he lived, did she? Now why did he think that? He was free, wasn't he? She couldn't make him do things; she was just a woman he'd met. She wasn't even sexually attracted to him, was she? She was a lesbian as far as he knew.

But first he had to have the mansion's keys back. He couldn't let her have them; what would the owners think? Now where did she keep them? He couldn't very well ask her. Or could he? He wondered why he thought he couldn't. His hands strangled the pink gauze of the ridiculous apron she'd made him wear. Made him? Who was he kidding? He knew he was very good at finding excuses and explanations for his behavior, but he knew better than believe them. He just couldn't say no. That was all there was to it – not to women in general and certainly not to this ... witch.

Did he call her a witch? Why? Was it just another excuse to put the blame on others? Implying that she might have some kind of magical power over him so he was a poor victim, really? Oh come on, he mumbled, is this a fairy tale? Let me get those damn keys and I'm out of here.

Her things were on the bed in the en suite bedroom – a black silk top, satin bra, black tight trousers. His fingers trembled when he lifted up her things. Her boots were there too; he touched the cruel stiletto heels, estimating their length at four inches. Why on earth would he do that? And where was her bag? That was when she called out to get her some tea.

The bag was in the bathroom – a bulky black leather affair, no doubt filled with the thousand-and-one things a woman couldn't be without. He saw he'd never get into it without her noticing. It took him seconds to realize how stupid that thought was. What on earth would keep him from grabbing the bag and taking what was his? That was when she snapped the picture and shared it with her friend, giggling her head off. The humiliation devastated him. As usual it shut his mind down, pushing out whatever thought he might be having. It shrunk his world into a tiny, constricted place. He wondered who might be on the other side of the conversation ­– Tasha? – or more likely a total stranger, seeing him in his hairy nakedness sporting the ridiculous see-through apron.

The thought caused another hot flash of embarrassment. He crept out of the bathroom, his ears ringing with her giggles.

And now here he was, still naked but for the silly apron, preparing lunch for the bitch. Witch, bitch ... he tried to focus his scattered anger by calling her names and ignoring her predator eyes. Making the Moroccan beet salad also helped. He concentrated all his frustration on squeezing the juices out of an innocent lemon.

"I'll eat it at the table, darling," she said, putting away her cell phone. "Make me a lovely plate and add a nice glass of chardonnay." He arranged the colorful salad on a white plate and placed it on the table with a freshly baked roll of white bread. Then he filled a glass of wine. Finally he stood straight, waiting for her to come over and sit down. His hand pulled out the chair to help her sit down, but she didn't. She just stood and stared, making him wonder what she wanted.

"This sure isn't the chair I had in mind," she then said, looking up and smiling. He understood; he should have known. But he resisted. Not again, he thought. Not this time.

She waited; so did he. Then she chuckled.

"Don't be like this, André," she said, touching the back of the chair with her fingertips. "It's not you. I know you want to be my chair. You enjoyed it so much last time. Why let your silly pride come between you and my delicious ass cheeks?"

His stare projected more stubbornness than he felt inside. His mind was in turmoil. She was right of course. He might not want to obey her now, but that wasn't because he hated being her chair. Remembering the sweet pressure of her body made his heart beat faster – the soft and tender weight shifting; the radiating warmth, her perfume, even the growing pain in his muscles. Why did he resist? He loved to obey her, to be with her and be her toy. He'd never felt as alive as these last days.