PrisonerChapter 5 free porn video

For the next few days, life was a bowl of soup. It had no shape, no focus, and no target. He'd returned to his apartment, hardly recognizing it as the place where he'd lived before. At first he'd tried to sleep. Then he'd tried to read, watch television, sleep, eat a sandwich, hear music, drink beer, sleep, watch television, and drink booze. Then he passed out and slept for fourteen hours straight.

Waking up didn't bring clarity. It did bring a hangover and the mind-numbing return of despair. He'd been alone a lot, but never this lonely. He'd often felt desperate, but had always been able to drown it with work, cooking, talking about cooking, and friends. Friends. He used to have quite a few of them, all carefully parked outside his true self – never allowed in. They may have known that; he surely knew it now. There wasn't one he could have discussed his actual predicament with. He cringed just imagining telling them. Friendship. Sometimes it's exactly that: a word.

After standing before his bathroom's mirror, brushing the same tooth for minutes, he realized he had two choices – taking his life or slipping back into the life he'd had before all this. He picked up his phone and called his onetime editor-in-chief. The man didn't even try to be friendly. He'd been replaced, he said. He added 'by a woman.' He should try elsewhere.

He tried elsewhere, but there weren't many 'elsewheres' in his line of work. A few freelance gigs were offered. He took the most promising job; ah well, the least boring. When he finished it, three days had passed; three days he'd nibbled out of the mountain of pointless nothingness that loomed over his existence. Finally the sheer pathos of his self-pity disgusted him. Goddammit, he'd been someone until this woman cut the legs from under him. He'd led a life, made a living, got respect, even if only professionally – and even if phony. He could do that again, couldn't he? Why not? He was the same man, wasn't he? He could live with phony.

He got his coat and took his bike into the city. Same building, same security, same reception. The editor was busy, his secretary said. Fuck busy. He knocked and let himself in. A pretty girl jumped off the editor's ample lap, fumbling at her blouse's buttons. He thought he knew her from somewhere.

"Goddamn it, Andy," his huge ex-boss bellowed. "Ever heard of knocking?" He ignored him, looking at the girl. Twenty-five, he'd guessed – a bit older maybe.

"She your new star?" he asked. "I can see why you'd prefer her over me." He liked his sarcasm; he didn't give a shit.

"What do you want, Andy?"

"My job back."

"You quit."

"I un-quit."

"Sorry, too late."

André smashed both fists into the desktop. The girl left the room.

"Don't bullshit me, Jenner," he said. "She may be experienced in all kinds of things, but not in journalism!" His fist hit the desk again.

"Get out, Andy," Jenner said. "You're finished here."

"I won't."

"Don't make me call security."

Back at his flat he emptied the bottle of Glenlivet he'd bought on his way home. Admittedly, after the first two glasses he started taking smaller sips and after the fourth glass he added ice, but still, two in the afternoon is pretty early for a bottle of whisky, even a good one – especially on an empty stomach.

Passing out has this ring of peacefulness to it, and of course it is. But one should never forget the gut-wrenching, brain-splitting hangovers that follow.

He woke up in a pool of vomit. And after a while he realized his cell phone had woken him up. By then the ringing had long stopped. He scurried to the bathroom and took a very long shower. Then he cleaned up the floor and made himself breakfast and coffee. Only after forcing some of it down, did he pick up the phone, finding a voicemail message.

"Get back," was all it said with the voice of Miss A. He stared at the phone. Then he punched buttons to hear it again – and again. There was no reason for doubt, it was she and she said it, sending a flash of adrenalin up his sore body and his aching brain.

After some sorting out, he found one relevant question amongst the rubble of his mind: should he? He poured some more coffee and listened to the message once again. It was an order, no doubt about that. But her voice wasn't cold or businesslike. If it weren't totally silly, he'd say he heard traces of contriteness – miniscule, microscopic traces, but nevertheless. He shrugged. The ear is a treacherous organ.

He could call her; ask her why, and what she meant. But by now he understood that wasn't an option, not with her. He could either obey or ignore her. Ignore her? Who was he kidding?

Walking into the reception was like coming home. The blonde smiled at him; the corridors echoed his footsteps. He felt the hidden thong cut into his genitals. Turning around, he took in the kaleidoscope of reflections the elevator's mirrors gave of him. The Villa's door stood ajar, he shed his clothes at the entrance, crawling naked past the threshold into the big, sunny room.

Miss A sat in one of the overstuffed club chairs, leaving through a pile of sketches in her lap. She must be preparing for work, as she wore one of her almost businesslike suits: a white, half-open blouse under a tightly laced black waist cincher of heavy silk, and a short leather jacket. Her charcoal pencil-skirt ended on her calves, which were sheathed in knee-high, well-heeled boots. Their laces ran up through rows of eyelets. The jacket was sharp, but showed just a bit too much of her pale cleavage to be entirely professional. Her heels were at least an inch taller than usual in a conference room.

She didn't look up.

For a few seconds he hesitated what to do. Then he bent forward until his nose touched the floor. He lifted his ass – as he had seen Licia do. Silence ruled, only punctuated by the ticking of a clock and the rustling of paper. Distant noises came in through open windows. While waiting he felt the accumulated stress leave his muscles; there was no need whatsoever to get her attention. She was here and so was he. All was well.

"The girls seem to miss you."

Her voice was soft, casual. He knew that nothing more would be said. There would be no explanations, no excuses. That was all right; he didn't need any.

"Rise," she said. When he scrambled to his feet, he saw that she had already risen.

"Follow."

She went into the bedroom, crossed it and opened one of the mirror-covered panels in the far corner. It was a door; he didn't know of its existence. Behind it was a corridor of unadorned concrete. The floor was rough and cold against his bare feet; he shivered when a chilly draft breathed on him.

Miss A's heels echoed on the stone, at times scratching in the sexy way high heels do. She walked the length of the corridor, not once looking back. There was a huge steel door at the end, but right before it she turned to the right and went into a gloomy room. There was only one naked light bulb, throwing a sphere of light about that exposed gray lumpy walls and a high vaulted ceiling. What it also revealed made him gasp sharply.

At he center of the room was a construction of brass pipes, supporting the naked body of a girl. She was folded over a lateral pipe, its height forcing her to stretch her spread legs to the maximum. High-heeled plastic platform shoes propped her up; her head dangled at the other side, between her knees, hair touching the floor. Miss A turned towards him, pressing a finger to her mouth, urging him to be quiet.

"Sorry, honey," she then said to the tied up girl, while getting a transparent latex apron form a peg in the wall. She donned it and walked over to the girl's ass. It rose high, sticking out obscenely.

"I promised you a monster ass-fuck last night, but alas..." she said, patting the bare flesh. "It has to wait for a bit, I'm afraid." He saw that, together with the apron she had slipped on latex gloves.

"Business raised its ugly head," she went on. "I have to leave you alone for a while." She fondled the ass cheeks for a minute. "Well, anyway," she went on, "it gives you more time to think about what you did to me." Her hand came down hard, twice, making the bare flesh shiver. Then she spat on the crack between the glowing cheeks and slipped a finger into the closed hole. The girls started, making the pipes rattle.

"Please, Mistress," she croaked. Her voice must not have been used for a while, but he recognized it immediately.

"Licia!" he said under his breath. Miss A looked angry at him, but the girl gave no sign of having noticed.

"Please what, honey?"

"Please, I need to pee."

Licia's voice was small, childlike. Miss A chuckled.

"No problem, darling," she said. "Do whatever you need to; there's nobody you might offend." He heard another groan, but the girl didn't relieve herself.

"Whatever suits you, honey cunt," Miss A said after a pause. Her fingers touched the girl's exposed cunt lips, rubbing them. She then turned towards a small table with a silver tray that held several objects. She picked up a plastic bag filled with a soapy liquid. A tube ran from it, ending in a nozzle. She pressed it against the girl's asshole, making Licia shudder.

"Open up, honey. As from today you'll be doing this first thing every morning until it becomes routine. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mistress." Her voice was almost a whisper. Miss A forced the nozzle in.

"Please relax some more and it won't hurt," she said.

The black tip of the nozzle slid past the tight sphincter. Miss A raised the bag, squeezing it to force the liquid into the girl's bowels. She hummed soothingly when Licia started to groan.

"I need my girls clean, honey. I bet you understand," she whispered. "Keep it inside you, please, for just a few more minutes."

Licia's ass churned around the nozzle, a movement that got more urgent when the obvious pressure in her belly intensified – not to mention the increased pressure on her bladder. Five minutes went by before Miss A said, "good girl." She turned her eyes to the naked man, who'd watched in frozen terror. She pointed to a bucket and urged him with nods and gestures to pick it up and hold it under the girl's spread thighs.

"Let go, honey," she then said, pulling out the nozzle. A brownish, malodorous liquid gushed from the hole, accompanied by a long sigh from Licia. André felt it splatter over his arms and chest, causing him to almost drop the bucket.

"God, girl, you stink!" Miss A exclaimed, laughing out loud.

When the stream became a mere trickle, she pushed him and the bucket away, picking up another bag to repeat the process. After the bucket filled up with her second offering, Miss A made him take it to a corner of the room where he could dump its content into a hole in the floor and rinse it out. When he returned, he saw Miss A handling a large syringe. It had a long, fat nozzle that she pressed against the tight ring of the girl's sphincter.

"Relax, love. I promise this will be good," she muttered, pushing the nozzle completely in. Then she pressed the plunger. It caused a hissing noise, followed by some bubbling. A foamy substance backed up to gush past the nozzle and trickle down the ass crack before dripping on the floor.

She removed the syringe from the slippery hole, replacing it with a gloved finger she pushed in to the knuckle. After a little pause she started to turn and twist it, spreading the lubricant. Soon she added a second finger, humming softly to calm the girl. Licia danced on her plastic hooves, wriggling and churning as the fingers kept fucking her, putting extra pressure on her bladder.

"Good girl." Miss A complimented her again, taking out the shining fingers, dripping with oil.

She returned to the tray and picked up a black, cone-shaped object. André shuddered with recognition, watching how the thing swelled generously in the middle, before tapering off to a narrow waist at the bottom. There it flared out again into a round flange. He groaned with sympathy, his anus contracting. Miss A smiled a knowing smile at him. Then she reached down low between the girl's spread legs to find her dangling face.

"Open your mouth please, honey," she asked. "Wet this pretty object with your saliva and do yourself a favor – don't be stingy."

Through the gap between her legs he saw how her mouth opened and how the cone went in. After it came out again, dripping with spittle, Licia begged:

"Not there, Mistress. Please not in there." Miss A held her inverted gaze for a moment. Then she shook her head.

"Can't do, honey. The Second Gate, remember?" she said. "The Second Gate is all about this; about openings and opening up. Openings of the mind; openings of the body..." She almost chanted the words as she touched the girl's mouth, pushing the two fingers in that still shone with lubricant.

"God knows you are open here, darling," she said. "And even during this nonsense time of being a lesbian, your pretty cunt has been well trained by all those naughty vibrators and dildos. But you have been way too selfish with your poor tight ass ... Such a shame, as it really is a wonderful fuck hole."

She rose again and slapped the high ass cheeks repeatedly. Then she invited him closer by nodding her head, mimicking with her hands what she wanted him to do. After a few seconds he understood. With both hands he pulled her cheeks apart, allowing the woman to spit a drop of saliva onto the closed sphincter.

"Relax now, honey," she said softly. "Let go, so it wont hurt too much." She sank the plug past the greased muscle, into her hot, padded bowels. The pressure must be getting unbearable, considering the girl's increasing moans. The sphincter stretched thinner and thinner around the intruder, until, suddenly, it closed with a plop, gripping the plug's waist.

He let go of her cheeks, stepping back. Licia's screams became a long, low groan that suddenly twisted into a cry of dismay. The alien presence must have crowded her full bladder, for as soon as the thing was in, a gulp of golden urine gushed from between the girl's legs, splattering the floor.

Miss A jumped back with an exaggerated yelp.

"Oh my," she cried out. "Look what you did, pissing all over my new boots!" She stamped around with theatrical exaggeration. "What do we do now? I can't very well meet my clients dripping with the piss of an incontinent little slut whore, can I?"

Licia sobbed quietly as she fought to stop the rivulets coming down her thighs. Miss A laid both hands on the bare high ass and lifted one boot, pushing it between the spread legs into the girl's face.

"I know what you can do, honey," she said. "You can clean them with your tongue."

From her awkward angle it took Licia a few minutes to clean every square inch of the boots' heels, tips, soles and the lower part of the shafts. She gulped as her pink tongue slid over the shining leather, her lips sucking up the stray drops. Miss A turned her feet this way and that until she was satisfied that no niche or corner had been overlooked.

At last she complimented the girl on a job well done. She picked up a bottle with a plastic straw that she fed to the girl's inverted mouth.

"Suck, darling. It'll have to keep you for a few hours, I'm afraid." After Licia drank half the bottle, Miss A rose again. She tapped the plug that sat securely wedged in the girl's ass crack – peeping out like a black eye.

"Now be a good girl until I return, honey. Enjoy your new black lover and don't ridicule his modest size," she said. "We all have to start small, don't we?" She giggled. Then she kissed both cheeks beside the plug and whispered: "Good girl! Don't forget I love you."

She smiled, shedding the apron. Then she turned, gesturing him to follow, and walked away on her tall, thoroughly cleaned heels.

Staring out onto the terrace, he didn't know what to do. Well, he did know what he shouldn't do. Miss A had pushed him down into a chair after they returned to the terrace room, and she'd told him with unmistakable intensity not to go see the girl while she was away. Not to visit her; not to speak to her. Then she had picked up her papers and her laptop, and left.

What she could not do, though, was make him forget what he'd seen. He could not shake the images of callous abuse and off-handed humiliation. But most of all he could not shake the confusing feelings those images gave him. The girl had begged not to have her asshole violated. Miss A raped her anyway and he knew that should have offended him, even outraged him, but it hadn't. He'd liked the girl, he owed her for the way she nursed him back to health after the ice cellar horror. But even that didn't make him feel for her now. To the contrary: sitting here, watching the sun peep around the corner, he realized that he hated Licia.

He'd never hated anyone in his life, not even his boss. To be sure he didn't even know if the bitter, cold feelings he had were hatred at all. And if they were, shouldn't they be aimed at Miss A, the cruel torturer? Maybe, but they weren't; he loved her. She had treated him maybe even worse than she had the girl, but he hated the girl and loved Miss A. The feeling confused him no end.

Squirming his bare ass into the leather cushions of the chair, he was very aware of the absence of its black, fat intruder. He also was aware of the presence of the same plug between the girl's buttocks. It caused his mind to wander and as it did all kinds of half-forgotten sensations revisited him. At first there were reminders of physical pain: the burning of his skin, the violation of his asshole, and the fiery crisscrossing of his back with the riding crop. But more intensely he remembered the ridiculous apron, the being pissed on and laughed at.

The memories had always filled him with a thrilling, shivering sense of – contentment, even gratitude: women had tortured and ridiculed him, but they had also tolerated his presence, kissed him and even fondled his body. He had belonged. But now those feelings were jaded with a sense of loss, a sense of resentment. Suddenly he knew why he despised Licia – it wasn't hatred, it was jealousy.

He envied her for the attention she got – attentions denied him. But most of all he envied her for the few simple words Miss A whispered in her ear right before leaving. 'Don't forget I love you, ' she'd said.

She'd never said those words to him, and he knew she never would.

He shook with emotions he hadn't felt before. Slaves were supposed to love their masters as a matter of course. He knew he loved Miss A in the most helpless and pathetic way, but could a mistress be in love with her slave? Never. It would be a blatant weakness; it would turn the world upside down. It also was unfair to other slaves, unfair to him, wasn't it? He loved her like he was supposed to and there were no conditions to his love. He knew Miss A would never stoop to loving him back and that was how it should be. He was her servant, her chair; he'd be shocked and disappointed if she ever did.

Besides, Licia didn't love her mistress – Miss A had told him so herself. One moment she would crawl and grovel for her, only to be found out cheating the next day. He thought her so-called panicking to be a highly suspicious excuse for running off, but time and again it moved Miss A into taking her back.

He had never been jealous. It had taken him time to even recognize the bitter hurt for what it was. He'd never envied others for having things he craved, or relations he coveted. He simply never thought he could claim anything as his – anything at all.

But yes, he was desperately jealous of the girl.

He remembered liking Licia from the moment he met her. She was a sweet and playful girl, never bitchy. She was open and helpful. She was fun to be with. She'd never tried to come between him and Miss A, as far as he knew. But now he wondered. Hadn't she sacrificed him to avoid being punished by her mistress? He'd forgiven her because Miss A had put her in that position. But now he wondered. He also wondered if that was what jealousy did – pushing a one-time friend into the ugly light of suspicion?

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.