Chapter Five.
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.
