Chapter 4

She'd left a clean house – bedrooms, kitchen, and living room. She'd put everything in its proper place, the dishwasher filled with clean glassware and cups and plates, the dryer with clean laundry. He had no memory of her doing this; he must have fallen asleep after gushing down her throat, right there on the sofa. Or he must have fainted from sheer exhaustion when she finally squeezed the seed from his balls.

She was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Giving in had been catharsis; letting go left him empty, body and mind. With his come she must have sucked all energy from his limbs. "Little vampire," he thought. "Little selfish bitch." But he felt no bitterness – yet. If anything, he felt guilty.

After emptying a liter-bottle of water he took a shower, first standing, then sitting under its steaming downpour. His thoughts were all over the place. He wondered why he should fear punishment for what he'd allowed Licia to do. Wasn't giving in to her only natural? What on earth could be wrong with it? Why feel guilty; Miss A wasn't even there. And why worry at all? Were there really consequences? He'd just ignore the woman. He would not return to her or consider her wishes when she called. He'd just say 'no, ' as easy as that. Or even better: bye-bye, darling, too-de-fucking-loo. It would be as easy as that, wouldn't it?

But if it was, how had he arrived where he was now? And where was that? Why had he always done what the woman wanted, even if she wasn't around? And why was she always at the front of his mind whenever he tried to plan his future? Did he plan at all, or was he planned? And did he mind?

Yes, he did mind – at least he thought so. He should sober up and return to what he had been before the woman walked into that editing room –­ and into his life. But what had he been? Free, he gathered. He'd been free to shape his own life – an unhappy one, maybe, but he'd been his own master. He nodded slowly as the water drummed on his head. 'His own master.' He chuckled.

Scrambling to his feet he turned the water to as hot as he could bear. Reality nagged at the fringes of his awareness. Of course he'd never been his own master. And to be honest – was there even a point to return to? Reclaiming a former life would presume he had a former life. Did he?

He sighed and admitted that any change he'd make would mean a fundamental change, not a simple return to whatever former life. And even then it would be more like trying to kick an addiction – it would capture his mind 24/7; he wouldn't be able to think of anything else. The sheer effort of changing would take so much energy that he wouldn't have anything left to actually shape a new life with. Maybe you start being a true alcoholic the moment you try to stop, he wondered. He grinned, turning the water even hotter.

Why was it so much easier not to fight the damn woman?

That evening he packed his things and returned to his apartment. Tomorrow would be Monday and he'd decided to go back to work. He wondered if there would be work to go back to. He'd taken his days off right before the closing of a monthly magazine he was supposed to do the culinary segment for.

No, he thought, they wouldn't be happy at all.

He lay in bed, failing to read the book he held open in front of him. What if he was fired? He'd have to find another job. If there were other jobs in his field, he'd have to move. But if he stayed, unemployed, he'd lose his flat anyway. He might go freelance; many of his colleagues did. But wasn't that the exact problem: too many other freelancers?

Right then he was hit by ... let's call it an insight – a peculiar sensation that stirs your adrenalin and flushes out all nagging details. It gives you a much wider view of ... of ... everything. Later on it will make you say that you were lifted to a higher level – a level where new and stimulating questions entered your mind.

Questions like: why do I need a job? What do I like about it anyway – it only usurps all my time and makes me worry constantly. What do I care about this damn apartment? Does it make me feel less alone, less miserable? Why should I care when nobody does? Other questions followed – questions that started to more and more look like answers. Why would he want to be this pitiful struggler? Why hold on to something he didn't even know he wanted? Why be his own master if the whole concept made him laugh – or cry?

And right before his swirling mind fell prey to the blissful darkness of sleep, there was this last, almost shapeless question: why resist?

"You fucked up this time." The man's face was as pale as unbaked dough. André nodded.

"Why?" the editor-in-chief asked. "You knew about LifeStyle closing." It was the monthly he'd missed the deadline for. "You just gave a flippant phone call and let us down."

"Personal reasons," André said. Color touched his boss's face, but the man's voice kept calm.

"Could you be more specific, please?" he asked. "Mother died? Wife ran off? Ah yes, you don't have either, sorry." His try at sarcasm floundered.

"No," André said. "Now are you going to fire me?"

The huge man across the desk blinked. The sudden challenge made him hesitate long enough for André to know he wouldn't be fired. It also told him his professional life would be worse these coming months because of it, years maybe, and that there would be no significant raise in the foreseeable future.

"No," the man said. "I won't fire you this time. But you have to know..."

"Okay," André interrupted him. "In that case I quit." He rose. Consternation widened the man's eyes. He rose too, hands raised.

"Don't be rash," he said. "Jobs are scarce." André didn't respond. He turned and went for the door.

"Think about it," his boss called after him. He closed the door.

Sitting down behind his desk the delayed effect of his decision caught up with him, leaving him trembling. He had done it. He'd cut off the way back – one bridge down, more to follow. He'd write his resignation, gather his stuff, take his last check and free days, and leave. But first he'd call.

"Hello?" Her voice was clear; no pounding music this time, no background voices.

"It's me, André," he said. There was silence.

"I am sorry," he added after a while. Hearing her voice had caused a tremor in his. Sweat coated his palms.

"Stuff your sorry's," she finally replied. "You disappointed me again, boy. You know that. Why couldn't you be stronger?" His shoulders sagged.

"I... , he said. "I pitied the girl." Another silence dragged on. It made him doubt his answer.

"Oh, honey," Miss A replied with a sigh. "Why should I even be talking to you? First you disappoint me and now you lie."

"But I really did!" he cried out, trying to drown his doubts in volume. "She begged me. She said you'd punish her if..."

"André!" Her voice cut through his like a knife. He fell silent.

"Don't try to shift the blame on the girl; it doesn't become you." Her voice's sadness hit him worse than her anger might have. "Admit it. You are like all men – primitive apes led by primitive urges. Be honest, honey, you are just another animal that has to crush a girl with his pathetic ego, raping her, gagging her with your slimy pole. Oh, honey you so disappoint me."

He swallowed. Protest rose in his throat.

"No!" he insisted. "No. It wasn't like that at all!" Silence, then she said:

"Do you want me to hang up on you, boy? Is that what you want – to lie to me and make me end this?"

"Oh, God, no Miss," he whispered, sudden fear robbing him of his voice. "No, no, please. I just quit my job..." He had no idea why he brought that up – or how it connected to the subject; but he had to say it.

"You quit your job," she repeated. "And why would I need to know that?" She sounded utterly disinterested. Why had he told her indeed? To her it could mean anything. Maybe that he'd found a better job, or that he wanted to move, or ... He had to be more specific.

"I want to be your slave," he blurted out. The deafening silence made him hold his breath. Then he heard a profound sigh.

"I told you before, André," she said. "I don't do men." He should have known she'd say that, and to be honest, he had. But to his amazement her refusal didn't matter.

"I know, Miss," he said, his voice steadier than it had ever been. "But I still want to."

"You are hopeless, honey."

"I know."

The silence didn't scare him. The longer it would last, the better it was. Miss A was a woman of quick and impulsive decisions; he knew that by now. The lengthening pause could only mean she was undecided, or even confused.

"Licia likes you," she finally said. "She agrees you are a weak nobody, but she likes you."

He let his pent-up breath go. He knew he'd won – or at least that he hadn't lost. He'd succeeded in prying a minimal opening in her armor, a scratch on her steel.

"Maybe I could give you to her," she said, "as a pet."

He inhaled audibly. The woman chuckled. She must be amused by her solution.

"Be at this address," she went on, giving it to him. "Don't be later than seven o'clock."

Beeps signaled the end of the phone call.

It was a large neo-classical building. He'd seen it before, he'd even been inside a few times. It had quite a good restaurant and sometimes there were wine-tasting sessions, followed by visits to one of the several clubs inside. The ones he'd been to were pretty classy, but others, he'd heard, were more like strip-joints and brothels, catering to all tastes and persuasions. He could see how Miss A's business might connect to the place; he could also imagine how her hobbies did.

The entrance hall was large and finished with sumptuous slabs of marble. He walked over to the reception, 'manned' by a beautiful blonde.

"I have an appointment with Miss A," he said. "Where can I find her?" The girl hesitated.

"Just a moment," she said, picking up the phone. "Who can I say?" He gave her his first name. After a few whispered words she turned back to him.

"You may walk to the end of that corridor over there and take the staircase up. Then you walk down another corridor until you reach the elevator. Just push 'up' and it will take you there." He thanked and turned to follow her directions, when she said:

"Ehm, but I'm afraid you can't go like that, sir." Puzzled he turned back.

"But you said... ," he began, lamely pointing to the advised corridor. She smiled.

"I mean, you can't go as you are, sir." He looked down his clothes. He did wear a jacket, but no tie.

"Uhm," he said helplessly. The smile of the girl got wider, almost embarrassing him.

"A tie?" he asked. She shook her head 'no.'

"Quite the opposite, I'm afraid," she said. He had the impression she chuckled. "Miss A likes her visitors to be as ehm, casual as possible."

He plucked at his jacket, raising his eyebrows. She nodded. He took it off, hesitating where to put it.

"At the wardrobe, sir," the blonde said, pointing out a counter at the other side of the hall. He walked over and handed his jacket to a redhead in a tight black uniform. She took his jacket, but didn't move to store it away. Instead she held out one hand, obviously waiting for more. When he didn't understand, her smile vanished.

"Your shirt, sir," she said, moving her fingers invitingly.

He turned around to look at the blonde. She stood smiling and nodding. There were two more people crossing the hall, a man and a woman.

"Oh, come on," he said, laughing incredulously. The girl handed him back his jacket.

"As you wish, sir," she said. "Have a nice evening." He stood with his jacket, not knowing what to do. Two women arrived at the counter to hand their coats to the redhead before walking to one of the corridors, one wearing a business suit, the other a flowery dress. What the fuck, he thought and followed them. A giant in uniform blocked his way.

"Sorry, sir," he rumbled. "I'm afraid you are not dressed properly.

"But I have an appointment," he objected. The man smiled patiently. They were all great at smiling, he thought.

"You can leave your clothes at the counter, sir. The girl will be happy to store them safely away for you until you leave."

He looked past the man into the corridor, then back to where he'd come from. It was obvious; he could only visit Miss A when he left his clothes at the wardrobe. He turned away, walking back to the exit. Standing outside he took a deep breath. He considered how far he'd come to end up where he was now – the courtyard, the mall, the cellar, his job. He knew it would all have been for nothing if he gave up. Besides, why would he give up over this? He'd done worse, hadn't he? He remembered the silly apron in the mall – the shop, the cash register, the street outside ... Was this worse? This was a private club; to the girls it would be daily fare. He'd strip and run to the elevator, trusting things would be more private upstairs.

Clenching his jaws, he went back in. He ignored the smiling blonde who looked up from her desk, and walked strait to the wardrobe – jacket in hand. After giving it to the redhead, he worked on the buttons of his shirt, pulling it from his pants. He kicked out his shoes before opening his belt and fly. He never looked around, afraid he might lose courage. Stepping out of his pants he became aware of a cool breeze caressing his bare legs. Bending, he pulled off his socks; then gave everything to the girl. She never moved, waiting and nodding with her enraging little smile.

He felt the heat rise as his fingers hooked into the band of his boxer shorts, pushing them down. He almost fell over when he pulled them off his feet. After throwing them on the counter he started to sprint away.

"Sir!" the girl called after him. "Your ticket, sir!" But he didn't stop. He kept running into the gloriously deserted corridor.

He'd never felt this exposed. As he ran he was aware of his penis and balls swinging freely. He just kept looking in front of him, watching out for the promised staircase. He took three steps at a time to reach the top as soon as possible. He passed two girls who looked at him, giggling. Then he reached the elevator, slamming the 'up' button. The waiting seemed endless. He didn't dare look back into the corridor, but he heard all kinds of giggles and chuckles – then again, they might be figments of his imagination. He let go of a big sigh when the doors opened to an empty elevator. Inside, mirrors reflected his naked body from every perspective. Mercifully, the doors closed at once.

When they opened again he stepped into a smaller hallway. It had only one door that stood open with an inch-wide crack. It was a big door, set in a high, arched entrance. The rest of the wall had similarly arched reliefs, creating fake windows overgrown with stone ivy. He knew this style. It was Jugendstil, the highly decorative style of the early nineteen hundreds. He thought of Gustav Klimt, the Viennese painter who was tightly connected to the style. "Von Sacher-Masoch," he murmured, one of his favorite writers, also from the period, and also from Vienna. Masochism was named after him. How appropriate ­to think of him at this entrance – and not at all accidentally.

He hesitated; then he raised his hand to knock on the wood panel. But before his knuckles landed the door opened wider.

"André!"

She was as naked as he, her darker skin sparkling with oil. Her black hair was a cascade of wavy curls. She smiled. He automatically mirrored it. Then she ran forward, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him open-mouthed. Her lithe frame curled against his in a full-body hug.

"Welcome," she gasped breathlessly when her mouth left his. "And thank you once more for what you did." She averted his eyes, blushing. He just stood, his arms dangling. After seconds of silence her enthusiasm turned into awkwardness.

"Please come in," she mumbled, stepping back. "Mistress awaits you." He stepped across the stone threshold onto a mosaic that covered the floor – an intricate pattern of curly, dark green creepers around big black and white tiles. They felt cool under his bare feet. As he looked around, taking in the vaulted ceiling and the elegant columns, the girl cleared her throat. He turned towards her.

"I'm afraid you can't stay upright, André," she said.

She was still at the entrance, rising to tiptoes to lift a leather ring with a chain leash from a peg in the wall. A dog collar, he saw, feeling familiar sensations course through his veins. The girl held the collar in both hands, nodding. He understood and sank to his knees. The leather was thick but soft from use; it sported big steel studs. Stretching his neck to receive the collar made him shiver. Her nimble fingers closed the buckle. She pulled at the leash to make him fall to his hands. He was on all fours now.

"Mistress told me to call you Brynn," she said, her mouth close to his ear. "That is quite an honor, you know." He didn't know what to think. To be precise, he didn't know how to think. A dog? He was a dog now?

"Come, Brynn, darling," the girl said, pulling the leash. He crawled across the tiles, his knees and hands feeling their slick coolness. When they arrived at a second door she made him stop.

"One more thing," she said, getting a harness-like contraption from a lovely chiseled cupboard.

"Sit still, please," she murmured as she knelt in front of him. The jewel on her left nipple danced in front of his eyes. Then he saw a complex set of leather straps holding a large, black ball. As the straps went over his skull, he understood. He opened his mouth. She smiled.

"Good doggie," she said, pushing the leather ball between his jaws. They ached when she pulled at the straps until everything was tight. She patted his head. He didn't know whether to cry or laugh; he guessed wagging his non-existent tail might be appropriate.

He crawled past the threshold into the next room, following the girl. It was a large room, highly vaulted and with tall bay windows at one side, a huge fireplace on the other. Rays of the parting sun slanted through the glass, painting brass knobs and polished wood with warm orange hues. Miss A walked in from the huge glass door that led to what might be a terrace. She wore a dark red kimono-like robe – silk he guessed. It was short and closed rather loosely.

"Ah," she said, clapping her hands. "You brought your new pet, Licia! You two make a great pair!"

He felt dizzy.

It was all so bizarre. He felt silly and yet shivered with anticipation. He was the pet of two women, dehumanized and voiceless. He saw Miss A walk over to him, crawling him behind his ear. He smelled her perfume.

"Did you already decide on a name, honey?" she asked. The girl went on her haunches next to him, wrapping both arms around his neck, kissing his cheek.

"Brynn of course, Mistress," she said. It seemed to have meaning for them as they both chuckled.

"Great name, darling," Miss A exclaimed. "I hope he can live up to it." They both laughed out loud. He felt ridiculous and left out. He was a dog now. It was one step up from being a chair, he supposed. He preferred being the chair, though.

As if on clue, Miss A told the girl to sit on him. He froze as he felt her naked flesh slide over his bare skin until she sat astride him. She felt moist and slippery, maybe the oil, maybe the arousal of her pussy. My God, was she light. The heat of her thighs and ass sank into his body, rendering his joints liquid. Her fingers clawed into his hair. Then he felt her heels slamming into his sides.

"Walk, doggie," she said. He walked, putting his right hand forward, followed by his left knee; then his left hand and his right knee. The floor felt pleasantly cool, the girl was a feather. She guided him with her hands and knees around the room, her heels prodding impatiently. "Go, doggie, go!" Bare ass cheeks humped, her crotch slid over his spine. Both women laughed, and Miss A clapped her hands to the rhythm of his progress.

When they arrived at the open door, Licia urged him to go outside. The terrace was large. Half of it lay in the sun. There were potted trees, a hammock and a set of rattan chairs around a low table. She made him circle the terrace twice. Then she slid off of him. He felt the evening breeze cool the wet spot she left. He just stood, not knowing what to do. His jaws started to hurt more intensely from the ball. Suddenly all went black. A velvet hood slid over his eyes; he was blindfolded – standing on all fours he crouched in perfect darkness. Hands cupped his covered face.

"Now be my sweet doggie and wait," a soft voice whispered.

He waited in the evening sun, feeling its rays on his skin. He still waited when a cooler touch of shade replaced the sun's warm fingers. Then he waited some more as the fat red ball sank behind distant buildings. Not that he saw anything of that; he saw nothing, he could only hear. But hearing he did extremely well.

He heard the rustle of textiles, the plodding of naked feet and the screeching of moving furniture. Later on he heard the tingling of glasses and ice cubes. But above all he heard agitated whispers and fragments of conversation, laced with giggles and carefree laughter. He heard the wet sounds of kissing and licking; and finally there were gasps and moaning – the high-pitched climax of female lovemaking.

He stood and listened, slowly turning into a statue – a static receptacle of impressions. But inside his perfectly still frame a myriad of pent-up emotions boiled. All his life he had dreamt about being here, belonging to the secret inner circles of womanhood, listening in. By now his dream was close to becoming true, tantalizingly close. Being depraved of sight only enhanced the experience. Scents added to the sounds, building feverish images on the screen of his mind.

"Ah, look," Licia's voice said. "How touching – he drools!"

Slightly moving a hand he felt a slick puddle on the tiles; saliva must be seeping from his helplessly stretched mouth.

"Bad boy! Don't touch!" He heard bare feet running towards him, and the quick breathing of the girl. Suddenly vision returned to him as she removed the hood. Her shaven pussy was right in front of him; it glistened and the lips seemed slightly swollen. Her fingers clawed into his hair and shook him violently.

"Bad, bad boy," she said. Her face replaced her crotch as she sank to her haunches. She frowned, studying him with her chocolate eyes. Then she suddenly smiled.

"Shall I remove his muzzle, Mistress?" she asked, calling out to be heard.

"Whatever you want, honey." Miss A's voice came from the inside. "He's your pet, isn't he?"

Busy fingers loosened the straps. She tried to pry the ball out, encouraging him to open his mouth wider, but he couldn't. Pain shot through the hinges of his jaws as she put pressure on it. He cried out when at last the dripping gag slipped past his teeth.

"Ah, poor boy," she crooned, kissing his brow as she pulled him against her soft chest. She massaged the sore joints. "Is this better?" She stepped back, her eyebrows raised with expectation. He worked his tortured jaw and nodded. Then he hung his head.

"Why don't you reward him, honey? Make him lick your cunt," the voice suggested from inside. "Dogs love pussies!"

The bout of laughter was loud and gleeful. The girl chuckled too. She pressed her face into his, holding his ears.

"Now would you like that, doggie?" she asked. "Lick the sweet pussy of your little mistress?" Without waiting for an answer she turned around in front of him and went down on all fours. Looking over her shoulder she smiled.

"Let's do it doggie style, doggie," she said as she sunk on her elbows, jutting out her tight ass. Her swollen pussy hung like a plum between her thighs.

"Come, doggie, doggie, lick, lick, lick," she chanted, sinking even further until she rested on the side of her head, her chest and shoulders. Her fingers grabbed her ass cheeks, spreading them. He came closer until his face was almost against her crotch. A pungent mixture of perfumed sweat and female come made his nostrils flare. "Lick me, Brynn," she coaxed, shoving her vagina backwards and into his face. "Make your little mistress happy." He heard the sound of heels approaching from behind. A hand rested on his bare ass cheek, rubbing in circles. He opened his mouth, bringing out his tongue. He shivered all over.

"He is so shy, honey cunt," Miss A's voice commented from right behind him. "Isn't that cute?" Suddenly a hand slapped his ass cheek hard, making his face bump into the girl. Licia giggled, gyrating her bare cunt lips over his tongue and nose. She started singing a vaguely familiar children's song. He started licking harder, his tongue dashing against her clitoris while his nose bumped into her anus. He groaned into the flesh when the invisible hand started raining slaps on his behind.

"Lick her, dog, lick her and make her come," Miss A told him over and over again.

The girl's singing voice became unsteady, breaking down in off key syllables as he licked on, now slipping a stiff tongue into her. She started fucking back until she came with a cry. The cunt lips squeezed around his tongue as the girl wildly humped his face. The slapping had stopped, but now a hand slipped between his legs, cupping his balls; then holding his penis.

"Limp, honey," Miss A informed. "It's amazing, but even licking your sweet little cunt doesn't arouse his gear. Isn't he just one ungrateful dog?" She slapped him again – hard. "Bad, bad doggie!"

The pain and the overload of emotions made him crumble to the tiled floor – exhausted by the relentless onslaught of slander and humiliation. It made him break down, sobbing so loud that he didn't hear the clucking of tongues or the chorus of mock compassion.

After leaving him on the terrace for maybe an hour, Licia came out, wearing a thin silvery shift. It streamed like liquid from her poking nipples to just below her crotch. She walked carefully on tall white whore-hooves, carrying two metal bowls.

"Mistress takes me out tonight, doggie, so I have to leave you alone. Here," she said, bending low to put the bowl in front of him. "Food for my darling Brynn to keep him strong." She kissed his brow, chuckled and turned to leave, swaying her tight bum.

The food smelled delicious; there was beef teriyaki, stir-fried vegetables and rice in one bowl, fresh water in the other. He wondered what was expected of him. He decided they might not want him to use his hands. He also supposed they wouldn't return before the wee hours or even early morning. So after emptying the bowls, he took a blanket from the hammock, wrapped it around him and went to sleep on the bare floor in a corner of the terrace.

He assumed they wouldn't want him to sleep elsewhere.

The new sun didn't wake him, as the terrace was to the west and south. But the twittering birds did. He stretched the stiffness out of his joints, shivering from the cold that rose from below. First thing he noticed was the weight around his neck and the cold metal chain dangling down from it. The second thing he felt was an almost hurting fullness of his bladder.

He crawled towards the large doors, finding them closed. Looking around he saw the big tree pots. He pondered if they might be the next best solution. Was a dog allowed to piss against a tree? He groaned, not so much at the thought, but at having it at all. He played the dog to please the girl and her mistress – that didn't make him one, did it? There was no reason to crawl around and act like a dog when they were not there – so why did he?

He rose to his feet.

Shifting his center of gravity must have affected his bladder as he felt a sudden increase in pressure. A squirt of urine streaked his inner thigh before splashing on the tiles. It seemed to lessen the urgency for a minute, only to return with a vengeance. He cupped his genitals with both hands, pushing them against his crotch. It helped for another minute. He danced around with tightly closed thighs, looking hard at the closed door and the emptiness behind. The pauses between attacks became shorter and shorter, and when another squirt escaped, he ran to the first tree, releasing the stream of piss even before he arrived. It caused a dark line straight up the side of the terracotta pot. He didn't care. Pent-up air rushed from his lungs as the hot yellow liquid blasted into the dry earth. God, oh God, how incredibly good it felt.

"Wow," he heard from behind. "I thought we bought us a house-broken puppy, you dirty, dirty creature."

The voice was Miss A's. The words hit a nerve deep enough to trigger guilt and a strain of shame he hadn't felt since childhood. It was the shame of having been found out, and the guilt of being a bad, bad little boy. He didn't look back. Sinking to his knees, he slid forward in his own spilt piss. He covered both ears not to hear the accusing voice. It meant he also didn't hear the quick tattoo of heels approaching. He wasn't prepared for the hard push that forced his head forward into the soaked soil.