From Jenny To Mei Ch 03

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*****

Phil pushed Jenny through the door of the sleazy bar and into the mid-afternoon sunlight. The brightness hurt her still weeping eyes as Phil waved over a taxi.

They didn't speak, Jenny just cried quietly as the taxi made its way through the crummy part of East Oakland, which was most of it.

He'd slid close, one arm around her, pushing her head to his shoulder as her weeping transitioned to whimpering. He'd been stroking her hair, whispering quieting words to her in a continual stream since they got in together.

"That's it Jenny." "It's ok." "You'll be ok," and the like.

At one point she said, "My work, I'll be fired." Phil assured her that he took care of it, not explaining further.

The cab stopped in front of what looked like an abandoned hardware store, the large first floor windows covered in bars and graffiti sprayed plywood. A chain held the front doors closed.

Phil paid the fare and helped Jenny out of the cab. They walked a few feet to a side door and Phil got out some keys.

"Welcome to my place," he said, without feeling, leaning her against the building.

Jenny was tired beyond conversation.

Once inside they walked up two flights of concrete steps to another door. Phil punched in codes on a keypad and unlocked dead bolts. He swung the heavy steal door open and gently pushed Jenny forward.

She wasn't in the mood to be impressed with interior design but she was. She stood in a very large room, partitioned by low walls and furniture into several distinct spaces. To her left, at the front of the building, was a wall of glass blocks behind a living area with two brown leather couches, a matching arm chair and a coffee table. Abutting it was a dining area. To the right of that a kitchen, further to the right was a wall and a hallway. At the end of the wall shared with the stairwell they'd just come up was what looked like a workspace with computers. Just in front of her was a sort of shop area with benches, a stool and a row of parts cabinets like in an old Taiwanese apothecary's shop.

"What's this place?" she said wearily.

"This is my home and my office. My dad was a failed real-estate investor and this was one of the few properties he owned outright."

He walked her over toward the front of the building, sat her on a couch and covered her lap with a tan throw that had been draped over the back.

'Is this cashmere?' she wondered.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Um..." she had difficulty thinking.

"I'll make you a sandwich and some tea."

"Ok," she said languidly.

'Nice place,' she sort of intuited rather than thought.

The sounds of a plate on stone and various clinking and clanking reached her while he made food in the kitchen. She didn't pay attention.

'Why is he being nice to me now?'

She looked around. A soft glow was coming from the wall of glass blocks that gently curved in front of her. It rose to within three feet of the open ceiling of exposed rebar trusses which held up the roof. It nearly touched both walls and had large houseplants on low square wooden tables in the recesses of the curves.

There was a coffee colored rug under the thick black wooden coffee table at her knees.

He returned with a plate, a cut sandwich, a pickle spear, and a mug of tea.

"Why did you have those men fuck me?" She took half of the sandwich in her hand.

"To teach you not to disobey me."

"Do you know what a whore I feel like?" She didn't have the strength to slap him or scratch is face.

"Jenny, if this is going to work, you must obey me."

"If what is going to work?"

"Your transformation."

She didn't really have an interest in what he was saying. All of the shit she'd been through was just too much. She couldn't listen to more of his bullshit.

"Yeah... well listen. Perhaps you could give me some warning next time. I don't have a problem, per se, with multiple men, not even if it's a little rough but I pick my men. And anyway I wasn't expecting it and it scared the shit out of me at first. And I didn't like the abuse."

"You don't pick anything and you'd better get used to it."

"So. You going to have me gang fucked on a regular basis?"

"No. You've learned your lesson I think. You won't forget so quickly next time and I don't like having to do that to you. It's the abuse you'll have to get used to."

"I don't want to be abused."

"But... "

She interrupted him, "I deserve it right?"

"Yes. You've got a great debt to repay and you'll have to repay it with humiliation."

"Do you have any idea how fucked up that sounds?"

"Do you have any idea how fucked up you are, Jenny?"

"Yes."

Her tears began again as she took another bite.

He sat closer to her and began again to stroke her hair and console her.

She pushed his hand away from her face as he brushed away a few hairs that had matted against her wet cheek. Jenny turned toward him with red eyes.

"Don't touch me," she said, "what is wrong with you? How can you have me brutally abused one hour and stroke me and talk to me like that the next?

"I..."

"You're a monster."

"I'm not a monster," he said. "I guarantee you that at the end of six months you will be more appreciative of what I am doing for you than you have ever been. And I'll go further. I'll let you turn me in and send me back to jail if I fail you."

"You are fucking insane."

"Jenny, I am letting you talk like that because of what you went through today, but I won't take it much longer."

She didn't answer. She was too tired to endure any more crap.

"Believe it or not, I don't like disciplining you. I'll be much happier when you anticipate and I don't have to order you around. It's too much like work."

Again, too much bullshit to process at the moment. What could she believe?

She finished her sandwich, which was unbelievably good, ate the pickle, which was awesome and drank a few sips of tea.

Phil had wandered off. She half heard some sounds like plates being loaded into a dishwasher and water running.

"I've run a bath for you," he said, when he returned to her side.

She took his hand and stood from the couch. A bath did sound good, to be clean again sounded like holy salvation, too good to believe. As dirty as she felt cleanliness was a fantasy.

In the bathroom, he stood before her and gently removed her blouse and bra, placing them on a folded towel that was on a chair. She vaguely thought, 'Who has a chair in their bathroom?' Then it dawned on her that this was no ordinary bathroom. It looked like it belonged in a high end hotel but much, much larger. She looked around at the expensive looking tile and dark woods.

He moved behind her and unzipped her skirt. She let it fall, stepped out of it and removed her panties by herself.

She figured she'd get on her knees before he commanded her to, at least it was a small act of will rather than following his orders. She sank to her knees.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I figured that since I talked back to you back there you'd be punishing me again. I was just getting ready."

"Get up. Please." The please had been a mistake. Phil could not afford to apologize, not so early. "Get in the tub."

"I'm too much of a whore even for you?" she said, with the most miserable and dejected tone of voice he'd ever heard. She was about to start crying again but just swallowed the rejection and let it join the stack of misery within her.

She slipped into the old fashioned ceramic tub, the kind you see on Pinterest. The warm water, with a scent of roses or lilac or something, was heaven, until the water touched her ass.

"Ouch," she said, "Did you have to hit me so hard?"

"Just slide in slowly," he said, knelling by the tub. "But stand there for a minute."

He brought his hand to the small of her back and began to very gently play his fingers over the flesh of her buttocks. As much as she hated Phil and what he was doing to her life, the feeling of his fingertips on her sore skin was l like a soothing balm. It was gentle and cool and contrasted so wonderfully with the pain that, despite her will, she thoroughly enjoyed it.

He laid his forehead on his forearm which rested on the edge of the tub and stroked her flesh unseen. He continued for a minute or two and then wetted his hand and cupped her buttocks with his palm, making her ready for the warm water. After a few more moments he told her to slide in.

She did, and the water burned regardless of the preparation, even though the water was little more than tepid. Thankfully the pain dissipated quickly.

It occurred to her that she had no feelings of self-consciousness at her nakedness with Phil. In the shit hole bar or here in his bathroom. She wondered why. She was proud of her body until last night's revelation that all of her pride was a lie. Pride was now a burden.

There was no room for two in the tub.

Phil got to his feet and went to a cabinet by the white pillar basin. He returned a moment later and knelt behind her.

"Lean forward."

Jenny lent forward, holding her knees to her chest.

He uncorked the bottle, drizzled oil on his hands to warm it, then placed them on the back of her neck, leaving them in place for half a minute.

It felt good. It felt so warm.

He worked the muscles of her neck firmly and very slowly.

She'd always loved a massage.

He took a long time on her neck, doing a thorough, proper job. He put his left hand on her shoulder and set her chin resting on his forearm to relax her neck muscles. Then he pinched her cervical spine and ran his thumb and finger to the base of her skull and back down to her shoulders.

When he finished he began to knead her trapezius muscles above her shoulders. Smiling when she moaned in pleasure at the release of tension.

These areas completed he stood, moved to the tap and let warmer water pour into the tub. It soon cascaded over the sides. He knelt again, despite soaking his clothes, and took her arm out of the tub. He massaged her shoulder with more oil and down her bi and triceps, to her forearm. He spent a great deal of time on her small hands, her head now leaned against a rolled towel at the back of the tub.

Jenny wasn't thinking at this point. She just let go. Before relinquishing thought, one question occurred to her. 'Why is this bastard giving me the best massage of my life?' She knew it had something to do with his tears. He was working off guilt, she supposed.

The feeling of his hands on hers made what would have been an unwelcome connection if she still had the power of thought. But her quiet mind basked in the sensation as the delicate muscles felt the firm pressure of his fingers and went slack.

He finished her left side, turned off the tap, the tub now pleasantly warm, and began her right arm. He took the same twenty minutes on this side as the other.

She lay, legs outstretched, head back, mouth open, jaw slack. Her breasts buoyant in the water, a fine sheen of oil on it's surface.

He stepped away, pants legs stuck to his calves, sneakers sloshing as he walked over to the cabinet and got a small bottle and jar along with a washcloth. Without a word he dipped the cloth in the water and began to tenderly wipe her face.

She licked her lips but otherwise didn't stir.

He broke the plastic seal on the jar and daubed a bit of the white cream with the cloth and began to apply it in circular motions along her forehead, on her cheeks and her chin. He rinsed the cloth and did it a second time, telling her not to open her eyes as he lightly cleansed her eyelids. He rinsed her face by wetting the cloth and squeezing out the water over her skin.

Jenny was floating in a blissful place. She so needed someone to care for her right now. Someone to take away all those feelings of guilt and self-loathing. It didn't occur to her that the one caring for her so tenderly was the motherfucker doing this to her. But to just forget was so... nice. And she did forget. She forgot about Phil, forgot about everything while she was drained in the tub and for the first time in her life, she didn't feel it was just her due.

He opened the other bottle and began to work the unctuous lotion in with his fingers. Her temples were his first target. Round and round his thumbs pressed the small socket in firm, confident motions. Then her cheekbones, chin, bridge of the nose and finishing with her brow and forehead.

After rinsing his hands, he began to massage her scalp, pressing each fingertip with equal pressure, making small circles that wandered over her head and returned to start again.

She figured she'd slid in and out of wakefulness a few times during the scalp massage, but didn't care if she died and was resuscitated.

Lastly, he got some shampoo and washed her hair. Not once but twice. With his soapy hands he again massaged her neck as her head was supported by the tub rim and her muscles completely slack.

He left the bathroom for a moment and returned with a plastic quart tub, the kind you get with your take out soup from a Chinese restaurant. He filled it from the tap and rinsed her hair again and again, far more often then required to dispel the shampoo.

Having no more he could do while she was in the tub, he pulled the stopper by the chain and held a limp hand and pulled slightly.

She came to, not quite sure where she was but she had the strength to sit up and come to a crouch. He helped her over the side, let her balance her ass on the tub rim and began to towel her off.

Her eyes were half shut. She looked and felt drugged.

He got her to her feet, just, and lifted her arm over his shoulders. He hoisted her up, slipped an arm under her knees and with no difficulty, carried her out and down the hallway to his bed. A trail of water marked their path.

He covered her with his sheet and blanket and turned to grab the sweats he wore around the house and left for the bathroom. He returned to find her eyes open, just slits but she could see him and started speaking.

"Don't. Just turn over."

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

He grinned. Not because of the words, but because of the way she said them. Sort of playful almost, with a hint of the smart ass.

It took great effort just to roll over but she did and he crept up on the bed and brought a bottle of oil with him. Over the next three quarter hour he massaged her back half with skill, warmth and genuine caring. But it was nearly all wasted on Jenny, who slid into a death like insensibility when he began rubbing her feet.

She stirred, slightly, as he lovingly kneaded her lower back but otherwise was exiled to blissful unconsciousness.

##########

It was about 8:30 at night when she regained consciousness. She drifted awake slowly, rising out of a dreamless sleep, more refreshed than she'd felt in years. She vaguely remembered the bath and massage, the brutal fucking, at first thinking it might have been months ago.

She opened her eyes to find Phil in a chair reading. There was apple cider and an orange on the night stand.

"How are you feeling?"

With the rest and returning energy her old sense of outrage returned.

"Do you care?" She considered adding, 'you sick fuck', but decided it probably wasn't wise.

"I care very much."

This brought to mind the tears and the massage. She felt those facts were incredibly important but she didn't know why.

"Why?" Her tone changed. "Why do you care and if you did, why did you let that... why did you make that happen?"

"I don't like repeating myself but I guess the past couple of days have been traumatic for you. So I'll repeat for you.

"You are in training to be my servant. Slave if you prefer, and in order for you to be good at it I'll need to strip away layers of your personality."

"I don't want that."

"The alcoholic doesn't want to leave his bottle either."

"So? What does that have to do with me?"

"It's an analogy. You know it, so stop playing. You, like the alcoholic, have a dependancy. You need to exercise the power you body gives you. To treat people like shit, men specifically, but everyone in general. You do this to feel good about yourself, and that is sick. You've grown dependent on that mechanism to maintain your sense of self-worth."

"What bullshit."

He continued, "But it's worse for you because an alcoholic has a physical dependency and if he just stops drinking for a while then he's better able to deal with the psychological part and has a chance to change. You... Your problems are all psychological and the only way you are going to see what a bitch you are, and change, is for you to be stripped of your arrogance and forced to see who you really are."

"So who am I?" a challenge, not a question.

"You are simply a young woman. Nothing more than that. You've built up everything that you think you are on false assumptions. The primary one is that because you are pretty you're better than other people. On top of that you've built other assumptions, that you deserve an easier life than others, and that people are there to make you feel good, or do unpleasant things for you.

"I read how you made kids do your homework, and give you money, and their cars for the weekend. And you were proud of it. You thought you were clever but you just weakened yourself and made yourself more corrupt each time you used someone."

She really wished he didn't have her whole history. She wished she hadn't shared so much of her past with those online 'friends' but she figured she was completely anonymous. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

"All that taking and no giving has made you a filthy bitch."

"Just tell me how you really feel. No need to hold back."

"You notice that I don't sound angry?"

In fact she had noticed and it made the insult worse.

"I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. It's just an assessment of your state."

"Thanks," spoken ironically.

"You learned that you could use your body as a tool and you gave in to the temptation to cruelty and found you liked it."

She knew he was right and the way he saw into her frightened and angered her.

"You twisted sex into a tool and when you got bored, you used it as a way to punish men."

'Who the fuck was this guy?' The bitch of it was that it was all true. As he made each statement the truth of it caught her like a fist on the chin. How could he know things about her that she only realized were true after he said them? As they came out she agreed, considering them for the first time.

"So, if I'm so horrible, why are you doing this? Why take the time?"

"Have you ever seen that old movie Pygmalion?"

"No."

"It's about a professor who tests some ideas on a girl that sells flowers on the street."

"Porn?"

He laughed but continued. "She was a lower class girl from East London with a terrible cockney accent. He trained her to speak proper English and she ended up speaking like royalty."

"So that's your plan? Transform me into your princess?"

"Something like that."

"Your crazy," she said, then immediately retreated, "Sorry... I think you're crazy. Sir. You can't just strip someone's personality like it's old paint."

"You'd be surprised what humiliation and a whip can do."

She waved her hands nonchalantly like shooing a fly but the word 'whip' frightened her. "I don't need my personality stripped."

"Yes. Yes you do. Tell me, what about you is most endearing, what are you most proud of?"

"My body. I guess."

"That is really pathetic. How can you make your self-worth about your body?"

"Isn't that what society values most in a woman?"

"And you think society has got that right?"