Den of Iniquity Ch 11 final
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PrisonerChapter 6 free porn video
White mist. He tried to focus. A wall. 'Hospital, ' the wall said, as did the metal bed-frame and the ceiling modules with their cold neon lights. There were beeps and when he turned his head he saw tubes and a plastic bag hanging from a rack. He closed his eyes.
Things were wrong. Where were his sounds? Why was he warm? Where were the iron bars and the pathetic light bulb? Where was his world? Opening his eyes, he saw a dark blur against the whiteness. A black face, a nurse he found out when things pulled into focus. She looked healthy and fleshy in her starched outfit. She called his name. How could she know? She did things – then she did more things in her creaking, rustling uniform, smiling all the time. When she left she said the doctor would be coming soon.
The doctor was pink, clean and gray. He said things about undernourishment and neglect, weight loss and weakness. He smelled of aftershave. He also said things would be fine. It just needed time, he said. Then he left.
Later he felt stronger. Was it the next day? His hair had been cut, his face shaved. There was liquid food. He asked the nurse how he got there. She didn't know but would ask. When she brought tea, she said a man had delivered him at the ER after finding you in an alley, unconscious. He signed for your papers.
He thought hard, trying to hammer sense into his chaos. It must have been her driver – 'chauffeur' she said; what was his name? She must have worried about his health. He guessed she didn't want a dead body in her cellar. Or did she care? Did he care if she did? Deep down he despised her good Samaritanism. All he felt was being disposed of. He'd become a burden.
The thought ashamed him. Maybe she was right, he wasn't worthy to even be her cellar rat. Tears welled up from his eyes.
"Are you all right, sweetie?" the nurse asked. He nodded. He was right where he belonged.
The strict rhythm of the hospital caused the return of order in his life – a sense of cause and consequence, and a sense of time. There was morning, afternoon and evening again – and with it a succession of days and nights. He was tested, run through scans and found weak but healthy. They made him do exercises. He started eating real food again, though he missed the special flavor he'd gotten used to. He also missed the sounds and the scents, the subtle excitement that always lurked under a layer of numb patience.
Most of all, he missed her.
Missing her wasn't a 'hollow feeling where his heart had been, ' as so many romantics try to explain it. It wasn't anything physical at all – just a constant lack of purpose, a not knowing what to do next, or why. He missed her presence, but most of all he missed waiting for her. He'd never known when she would come down to see him, but he'd always known she would, one day. And when she did, she brought her Presence, which was his anchor. And most of all: she brought her Eyes – the two magical buoys that kept his spirit from drowning. Was he drowning now? Was he still alive?
A ringing sound pulled him out of his funk. It took him seconds to realize it was a phone – his phone. He never knew he still had it. The ringing stopped by the time he'd turned his body enough to grab the cell. There was a voice mail message, her Voice. "Still sleeping?" it said. Excitement kicked his guts. It felt unusual to smile. He pushed her speed-button before getting afraid enough to do it. Her Voice was breathy; it invaded his ear.
"Hello?"
"Miss?" he answered. "André here."
"I see that," she said. "Why did you threaten to die on me, dumbo?"
"I'm sorry." He knew it would enrage her, but he could think of nothing else to say. He did feel sorry for letting her down.
"It won't happen again," he added. She chuckled.
"I'm sure it won't," she said. "Because I won't take you back."
Ice-cold disappointment invaded him.
"But, Miss..." he started. He couldn't find words in the chasm that opened before him.
"Forget it," she said, her Voice sweet. "You obviously aren't strong enough, honey." It was the truth, and it was as simple as overwhelming. He'd blown it. He'd broken his promise by failing her. Why take him back?
The silence dragged on while he tried to think.
"Still there?" she said. "I haven't got all day."
"Still here, Miss," he whispered. "You are right, of course. I am sorry for not being strong enough to serve you." Now her side was silent for a bit.
"It's as much my fault as yours," she then said. "I should never have encouraged you." He protested, trying to claim the blame exclusively, but she loudly spoke his name to cut him short.
"Go back to your life, please, André," she said, returning to her low, breathy voice. "Pick up where you left off."
He protested, but the line died. He cried for minutes, hiding his face in his pillow.
Two days later the doctor told him he could go home. He decided against discussing whether he had one. The nurse brought him the suitcase that was supposedly his, so he might find some clothes to wear. He found silk camisoles and satin panties, bras, garter belts and pairs of stockings. On top of them was a pink nylon apron with frilly straps.
Half an hour later the nurse asked him why he wasn't dressed and ready. He blushed deeply and shrugged, kicking the open suitcase with a dangling foot. She looked down. Then she looked up at him.
"Wrong suitcase, I guess," she said, turning. "Let me go look who mixed it up." He called her back.
"No need," he said. "It's the right suitcase. Wrong place, though." He smiled weakly. The nurse looked down and up, confused.
"But how ... what will you wear?" she asked. He shrugged again.
"You keep the robe for now," she said, meaning the fluffy thing he'd been walking around in these last days. "And the slippers too, so you can walk to the cab."
He'd been at the apartment for maybe an hour when she called. He tried to sound pissed off.
"So you're home?" she asked.
"No," he answered. "You know very well this isn't home anymore." He assumed she was as surprised by his tone as he was.
"You are hurt," she said. "Damn, I should never have started this." She seemed upset, and even as pseudo-pissed off as he was, he felt ashamed.
"I wanted it myself, Miss," he said after a pause. "I loved every second."
"But I didn't!" she retorted, emotions coloring her Voice. "You upset me. You make me feel guilty, you fool. Goddammit, me guilty; I'll be the laughing stock."
"I'm sorry," he said. It earned him a frustrated Cry. He stifled another automatic apology.
"I won't take you back, André," she said, sounding exhausted. "Your slimy submissiveness sticks to my skin, making me want to vomit." He wondered why she'd called him at all.
"I understand," he said. She sighed deeply.
"You don't," she decided. "You'll never understand." He didn't know what to say. She obviously didn't either.
"André?" she asked.
"Miss?"
"You do realize that you are torturing me." She heard him gasp.
"Never, Miss! I would never do that!"
"I know that you wouldn't. But you do," she went on. "You keep forcing yourself onto me, even after I told you time and again that I don't want you around. You disgust me." Misery flowed from the cell's speaker, engulfing him.
"Miss," he said. "Please, I ... please, I know. But I can't live without you."
He'd said it. He'd said the ultimate selfish thing. He'd taken his life and laid it down at her Feet – her lovely Feet – to be kicked about and trampled upon. He knew she didn't want it; didn't want him. He almost added an apology.
The beeps of disconnection wormed into his ear.
It was two months later, and he was still alive. He even worked at his old office again, be it as a freelancer. The girl that had replaced him had been speedily promoted to editor. Now she was too busy to write articles, he supposed – too busy fucking her boss, that is – so he wrote them for her at roughly half of what he earned before. He knew what he did was debasing and humiliating. He also knew that people despised him for it, or at the very least pitied him – colleagues, friends, everybody. The fact that he didn't care was proof of who he'd become, and the lessons he'd learned.
It had been the girl who had called him and given him the job, but she seemed to do everything to make his life miserable. She often deliberately held off assignments, just to make their deadline more urgent. She also turned down perfectly good articles, making him do them again over the weekend. She put constant pressure on his fees and urged account to delay payment.
Colleagues wondered why he went for it. Friends said they were disgusted. Truth was, he quietly admired the girl for the way she manipulated males in a male world, always making them think they were in control. Jenner, his old boss, was literally her lap dog. Her male colleagues bent over backwards to please her, even if they called her insufferable behind her back and derided her quick promotion. And he? He saw it all. He was in awe and did his utmost to help her. Wasn't she proof again of the easy superiority of the female race?
One night he'd stayed late to finish a piece on South-African cooking. She'd turned it down twice that day without explanation, although it had to be finished before the next morning. He knew for sure there was nothing wrong with the content of the article, but hardly changing anything would be unacceptable. He'd once tried that and earned a harsh and very public dressing down by her.
It was past eight and the office started turning dark. His desk lamp and computer screen were the only light sources. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, not counting a donut during lunchtime. He didn't notice her approach until her hands closed over his eyes.
"Boo," she said, hissing in his ear. He just sat, his fingers still hovering over his keyboard.
"I, eh... , " he said, "I really..." She laughed, letting go of his eyes and folding her arms around his neck. Her soft chest pressed into the back of his head as she leant over him, reading his screen.
"You are such a diligent little boy," she said. "Miss A often mentions you."
He froze. Miss A? They knew each other?
"Miss A?" he asked. She chuckled, letting go of his neck. She walked around and sat down on the edge of his desk, right next to his computer.
She wore a tight skirt over dark sheer nylons. Her off-white cashmere sweater clung to her breasts in a fifties kind of way. Her wide, red mouth smiled. She leant forward, invading his personal space again. She smelled of Eau d'Issey.
"You remember when she visited Jenner?" she asked, removing stray hair from his forehead. How could he ever forget? He nodded.
"Well," she said, sitting straight again, squirming her ass cheeks into his desk, "she told him to replace you with me."
He blinked – fast. He tried to understand, ducking answers he didn't want to know. She smiled widely, stretching her arm and spreading her fingers to admire her nails – or was it the rings circling them?
"But she didn't even know me then; we never met," he gasped. She shrugged, bouncing her heeled foot by flexing a calf.
"Why would she have to know you, honey?" she asked. "She knew me."
His mind was a carrousel. It spun and spun around, taking him past faces – past laughing eyes, and sneering mouths. He clung to his colorful little horse, feeling the nausea hit the pit of his stomach. It was all so banal, looking back – her singling him out, making a date. It had never been about him, had it? Never even close.
He was going to be sick. He should be sick all over this smirking creature in front of him, shouldn't he? Cover her in the bitter gall of his defeat as the hysterical laughter of rows and rows of women washed over him. Cold sweat ran off his brow as he swayed back and forth in his chair, eyes closed, lips shaping unheard words.
After a century his ears popped open again.
"Are you all right, boy?" Her voice was soft and sweet, concerned. She'd had a great teacher, he thought. He just groaned.
"So," he tried, coughing to open his throat. "So that was all it was? A set-up to give you a shot at Jenner and this job?" She chuckled and patted his shoulder.
"I guess I have to thank you," she said. "I owe you a lot. But be honest, love... , " she went on. "It wasn't really all bad for you either, was it?"
He had no answer. A world of planned deceit and cold, cold deliberation unfolded before him. The word 'set-up' didn't even begin to explain what had happened. The girl read his emotions intently as they slowly paraded across his face. Her hand caressed his cheek. She looked concerned, eyebrows rising.
"You don't expect me to be sorry for you, honey?" she asked. "Because I won't be. You loved every minute of it. Miss A is right – it is who you are. It is what you were born for. Now don't spoil it by denying. That would be so dishonest."
Her hand was soft; it radiated warmth into his bloodless face.
"The gray woman," he croaked. She nodded, her smiling eyes close to his.
"Sarah," she said. "You were very ... revealing with her." He just stared at her, too stunned to shape a sentence.
"How?" he asked. He didn't really know why he said anything at all anymore. The earth had started swallowing him; he'd be gone soon enough. He might as well sit back and enjoy the ride – hearing how he'd been prepped, served and eaten.
"Miss Sarah is a friend," the girl said. "Ah well, aren't we all friends?" She laughed a sweet soft laugh. He could see how she'd seduced Jenner – stupid, fat, married, divorced and married again Jenner. He saw the works, the easy, breathtaking manipulation. Had Machiavelli really been a man?
"Sarah is a long time friend of Miss A's. She also has been my mistress for a while." Her eyes turned soft, remembering. Then she hardened them again, realizing he might have seen. She sat straighter, pulling at her skirt's hem.
"But Miss Sarah is way too sweet to break a girl," she went on. "She is too... involved, I guess." The girl had taken a pause before emphasizing the word. Then she shrugged.
"Anyway, knowing I was an ambitious girl, she wanted for me to get a crack at being successful. The internship at The Globe was a hoax, of course, courtesy to another good friend. And the portfolio? Well ... Let's say: once in, I knew I'd make it." She giggled.
"So, after hearing your drunken lament, Sarah had this notion of catching two flies in one swap, if you know what I mean: for me a career and for you, ah, let's call it a life-long dream coming true." She spread her hands in a 'voilà' gesture, the corners of her lips almost reaching her ears.
He admired her perfect teeth.
"Now what?" he asked, after a protracted silence in which he struggled to get past her story, past her mocking tone and the all-encompassing completeness of his humiliation. She just sat there quietly, hands folded in her lap, eyes probing his from under raised brows. Why didn't he jump to his feet, curse her and leave the office? He knew very well why. She knew it too. He shrugged. "What plans do you have with me, you and your friends?"
She clucked her tongue, shaking her head.
"Why on earth would you think I have plans with you?" she said. "I've got what I wanted, haven't I? I don't really need you; I can find other freelancers to help me out, but okay, you'll do. I may keep you for a while."
He knew he should be boiling with indignation, hearing a glaringly under-qualified girl casually dissing a seasoned professional. But he wasn't offended; he was in awe, spellbound by her eyes, her mouth, her easy confidence. He almost nodded his consent, feeling all the well-known responses rushing back. Questions about age, experience and hierarchy became utterly ridiculous. She'd crushed him like the bug he was; then provided the skeleton to prop up his weak and insignificant existence.
"Please," he muttered. "Please take me." Her eyes lit up, but her face was set in stone.
"Speak up, boy," she said, "I can't hear you." He shook the dizziness from his mind, swallowing the bile at the pit of his throat.
"Please take me, Miss," he repeated, louder. She chuckled. Then she lifted a foot and planted it in his crotch.
"What is there to take, honey?" she asked, grinding his genitals with the sole of her heeled sandal. He closed his eyes, feeling the leather maul his soft, spongy flesh.
"I can serve, Miss," he offered. "I serve well."
The foot hesitated, only to be replaced by the sharper edge of her heel. He groaned, but didn't move.
"I hear you make an excellent cook and waiter," she said. "I also hear you are a chair to be sat on, and a horsey to ride."
He nodded, tears leaking from his closed eyelids. The pain in his crotch became insufferable. Then he felt fingers opening the buttons of his shirt. A warm hand caressed the haired skin below until it found a nipple, pinching it hard.
"Way too much hair for my taste, honey," she said, plucking at the wiry growth around the nipple. He winced. Then all sensations were gone, as was the foot. The pain subsided, but he felt abandoned. Opening his eyes he saw she'd slid off the desk and was standing next to it. She clapped her hands.
"Rise, boy," she said with an up-beat voice. "We got places to go." She turned her back on him, walking off to her office. He assumed she wanted him to follow. His crotch ached when he took his first steps.
Her office was another statement of her ambitions. They had been two offices before she had them combined and redecorated. It was bigger than Jenner's. The former two windows were now one big panoramic expanse of glass that yielded a breathtaking view of the surrounding cityscape – velvet blackness strewn with countless lights. Her furniture was new and deceptively simple, including a desk, a conference table and a huge leather sofa. Table and desk were intimidatingly empty, but for a sleek silver laptop. The floor was a stretch of blond wood. Along the edge of the ceiling hidden fixtures spread a warm, indirect light. Every detail whispered taste and sophistication; and a stunning budget.
He watched her watch him for his response. He just numbly wondered how she'd got Jenner to cough the money up, but it wasn't the most important question on his mind.
She'd dropped herself on the sofa, leaving him standing at the center of the room.
"Undress," she said, crossing her legs. "I need to see what I've taken." He hesitated, thoroughly aware of the big window and the possibility of a security guard doing his rounds. There was another window next to the door, looking out on the offices.
He'd obviously waited to long. She pushed herself out of the leather cushions and walked over to a cupboard that hid a bar.
"You've second thoughts, I see," she said, taking a glass and pouring a drink. "Aren't you men all the same – big talk and no deliverance?"
He mumbled an apology and started undoing the rest of his buttons, letting the shirt slide to the floor. His pants and shorts followed quickly and soon he was naked, standing next to the desk.
The girl sipped from her glass.
"Not bad at all," she said. "Let me have a better look." She turned to the wall and twisted a dimmer switch. The soft light changed into a glaring brilliance, making him feel very self- conscious.
She walked over, reaching out to touch his chest.
"Hairy as an ape," she said, disapprovingly. "But that can be easily dealt with." Her hand went down, stroking his belly.
"Good," she said. "I hate fat guts on a man. Like Jenner's." She theatrically shuddered. "What a girl does for her career." Her hand reached his genitals. They were still red from her mauling. She cupped his balls.
"I hear you never get hard," she said, her eyes leaving his crotch to find his. "Isn't that an awful pity?" He knew he didn't have to answer. Her hand was on his ass cheek now, pinching it, then sliding down his thigh. He flexed a muscle.
"You'll do," she concluded, emptying her glass and turning away. He let out a sigh. Then she said:
"Walk over to the window, boy. Let's not be selfish and keep you all to ourselves."
He knew he should have died of embarrassment as he walked around the desk and into the spotlights. They shone from the ceiling right over the panoramic window. He was on the tenth floor, but all around him rose equally high buildings, many of them with brightly lit windows that showed rooms full of late workers and cleaning crews. Numerous sets of eyes would be able to see him, but curiously enough he cared less than he'd feared. He felt protected by a shield of indifference. Had these last months of exposure and debasement numbed him down? Or was it just his general state of depression? Whatever it might be, it kept him standing on his wide open stage, feeling the limelight flush over his body – outlining his nakedness, exposing each and every square inch of skin to whomever took the trouble to watch.
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