“Dan.”
“Yes?”
“Same here,” I say; and with a last smile he is gone.
Captive Dove
by Alcamia
I always wanted to be a prisoner in the cage. Even as a child I wished for it. Then, I was obsessed with the huge gilded cage with the parrot, which my grandfather owned. I would press my finger to the bars and the slowly germinating sexual me demanded captivity. I soon had cages of my own as if, by collecting them, I could assuage my thirst for constraint. You see, I am an addict of imprisonment.
I have existed like this for many years, in a penumbra of morbid, sexual frustration. My lust draws me to act out strange and lurid erotic fantasies and I have discovered that without the fantasy of the cage I cannot orgasm. My dreams are haunted by images of skin caressing bar, and dripping sex within confinement, and I awake throbbing, with sex-wet sheets wrapped around my legs and arms, and my clit pulsing and unsatisfied.
I inhabit two dark rooms in a Victorian house and they are clogged with my cages. They hang from the ceiling and rest on every available surface. I have one tiny Japanese ivory cage which Takana, the boy at the oriental supermarket gave me. He said it once belonged to a Geisha, a woman with torrid sexual desires. It is so small I can hold it on my finger; inside a miniscule woman, fashioned in white, presses her cheek to the bars. I often wonder the reason for that tiny cage and whether I am the only person to be so intoxicated by dreams of captivity.
Inside each of my cages I place my dolls. I am envious of their imprisonment, because they are who I want to be. Hands chained and fastened, and in various stages of undress, their captivity excites me.
I once saw a beautiful white dove in a cage on a Parisian market stall and it haunted me. Gentle yet tragic beauty fluttered in frustration against steel, but in the eyes were solace and contentment. That is how I wish to be. I want to be the captive dove.
Emile is an artist of considerable calibre and I am an artist’s model. For once, I am not alone in my obsession, for Emile has so many more cages than I. He collects them like a fanatic collects art, and his art grows around them. He only ever photographs models in cages.
When I first met him, he wanted a specific bird for his cage and he chose me. I stepped into his warehouse and I was reminded of my apartment, as it was full of cages of every conceivable size and shape. It was a surreal experience to be wandering into my fantasy landscape. Instantly my dreams became stylised pastiches of depravity, woven around my captivity within Emile’s art.
‘You have dozens. How many do you have?’
Emile pressed his finger to his lips and smiling he rotated a cage in his hand.
‘I have many hundreds. It’s quite an obsession with me.’
‘Where do you find them?’
‘Oh! Flea markets, antique shops. People even give them to me. Artists, actors …’ He paused for effect. ‘And I custom design and make them, to exacting specifications, for my art.’
‘I see.’ At this instant, my heart began to race and my theatre of sensuality, which is the hot, greedy sex part of me, moistened alarmingly. ‘Would you ever make one for me? Perhaps for a birthday present, or because I am your perfect model? Maybe because you have fallen in love with me?’ Emile did not reply and I strolled over to a cage which had quite taken my eye. ‘And what about this large one? Is this for a dog?’
‘No, that one belonged to a pop star. He kept a panther as a pet.’
‘A panther!’ My heart leapt as I crouched by the cage running my hands over the bars.
I think the cages are metaphors for Emile. Within the prison of his mind, he is as captive as am I. The cage is the manifestation of both of our warped worlds.
The other models tell me Emile is impossible to work with. Driven by an artist’s mercurial temperament, no love or desire seems to stir him. Emile is entirely hidden within the cage of his psyche. However, this makes him more interesting to me and my lust for him is overpowering. I become haunted, and permanently aroused. He affects me like an illness and I am so giddy with it, I sometimes have to take a break from a photographic session to run to the bathroom and seek solitude. There, I reach my hands beneath my skirt and sink my fingers into my saturated pussy, to appease my gnawing hunger, and when I come back I reek of sex. Emile must smell the excitement clinging to my skin, as he often brushes my body. Pushing me onto the bars of the cage, as if he knows how best to inflame me. How can such a fleeting touch ignite so much passion?
Emile photographs me in many ways. Naked, in shadow. Dressed in beautiful clothes. Makeup artists transfigure me into an Egyptian princess, a nineteen twenties flapper, or tentative Eve, clad only in a thong, with my luscious breasts exposed. It is all about the cage and the mood in which he wishes to portray it. One picture became quite famous and it found its way on to the front page of a magazine. I was draped naked, over a beautiful white cage, festooned in red and white roses. Emile captured the mysterious shadows of my nipples and dark sex, and I blossomed for him. When I played with the cage, touching and entering, then stepping back, for the first time, I saw dangerous fire in his eyes and his body quivered with arousal as he fingered the bulge between his legs.
Emile is an enigma. He confuses women but he seduces few. They lust after him, but they think they fail to interest him enough and thus he tires of them quickly. It is true that he is an erudite intellectual parading his use of words and art in front of them, as if the words are a screen to the sexuality he tries to repress. But I know it is more than that. Emile wants his captive dove and I know the release of his sexuality is as dependent on bar and steel, as is my own. His artistic and intellectual sides build a wall between us, but with the cages I feel I am breaking through the thick veneer of ice that freezes his desire.
I am so easily aroused and influenced by Emile, I show him my sexuality at all times. I unbutton my blouse to expose my breasts, sitting with my skirt up high around my thighs so he catches glimpses of my shaven cunt. His equal obsession with the cages fuels my lust, making me vertiginous with need. I must be captivated by Emile and I must be his bird in the cage. No woman has ever released him, fully possessed him, and neither has a man fully possessed me. My need for imprisonment soon becomes indistinguishable from my thirst for Emile. I know the cage is as much the key to Emile’s sexuality as it is my own, and all I want is to find the hidden key.
Emile watches me thoughtfully. When he is introspective his eyes become progressively darker. I enjoy staring into the twin orbs. Within them I see the world I deny myself. The first time, when he showed me the cages, he was malleable and soft. I felt I reached him through his eyes and his addictions. This is how it was, until I mentioned my desire for captivity. I am used now to his initial loosening and opening, which makes me receptive, my thighs drenched with juices, red-hot and loose. And then the closing and locking of the door to his mind in an instant. He plays me like a fish on a line. He has discovered my needs and he will build layers of seduction until he locks me in steel bondage and I explode. I look into Emile’s world through the bars of his cage. A cage with bars so closely placed together, I cannot get my fingers between them. They are the bars locking away his sexuality.
Emile constructs the most complex and beautiful cages. He takes the world of his emotions and extrapolates them into the cage, as if the cages grow from his mind. He creates phantasmagorical designs of all shapes and sizes, twisted copper, lead or steel and fills them with chained lovers, contorted in grossly extrapolated poses. Yet Emile’s body is imprisoned within a different kind of cage, as if the body and mind are two diametrically opposed forces.
‘Your own cage is to be my latest project.’ Emile says one day. ‘I think I am falling in love with you, and I have a certain obsession, which I now feel ready to give birth to. You awaken things in me, Lucinda. Within you I see something which stirs my memory and deepest sexual fantasies. I see, in you, the eroticism of captivity.
He draws me down beside him and his mouth
and tongue dance over my lips. I sit breathless, hardly daring to move. I experience the heat from his body, burning my hands and searing my snatch, and I quiver and tremble with virgin-like excitement.
‘Once!’ he continues, ‘when I was in Buenos Aires, I visited this club and I saw a woman dancing in a cage. I cannot explain the beauty of this woman. Her limbs were naked and she shone from the oil she rubbed onto her skin. Every night I went back to the club, and she drew the dark sensuality out of me. She was my artistic muse. I fell in love with her. But only, you understand, in the cage. She was my captive dove. There was no dancer in all of Buenos Aires like her. She said the captivity made her so sensual, because it unlocked her deepest desires and it excited her. She loved men’s eyes on her body. When she danced, her cunt poured like a faucet, the droplets running down her thighs. The more the men stared, the more excited she became. Her hips would thrust and she ejaculated just like a man. I never saw anything quite so erotic. Then she would lean through the bars and say, ‘Emile, I love you.’ One day she gave up dancing in the cage, as she knew other men looking at her upset me. I said to her you were good in it, I liked and admired the beauty of you very much inside the cage, why did you have to fly free? You see, she had got it very wrong. Yes, I was a little jealous, but when she left the cage it killed my fascination, as she became someone else entirely. She didn’t understand. After that she became angry, she went away.’
I did not know how to respond to this. For a while I felt jealous of the woman in the cage. She’d captured Emile’s love and it was something I craved. Somehow she had turned the key.
‘Why do you wish to be captive, Lucinda? Is it because you want to be a prisoner to your own fantasies, or simply submissive? You are a strong, independent woman. Do you crave a man to master you? Why else would you be drawn to a metal cube?’
‘All of that.’ I poke out my tongue to caress his. ‘All of that and much more. The cage unlocks my sexuality. It is the key to who I am.’
Actually, I am so excited at the thought of the cage, because it is being formed from the complexity of my love of Emile’s mind. It is as if my cage is an extension of his art, body and penis.
On the day he gives me the gift of the cage, he brings me to the warehouse and gently removes the blindfold he has placed over my eyes. ‘You see each bar is painted alternately black and white, to reflect the dark and light sides of your sexuality. I had to place you in a palace of towering cupolas and minarets. You are to be my caged Goddess.’
I almost faint from orgasmic arousal. Emile holds me, vibrating, as I respond to his constant teasing of my nipples. I stare at the cage, and, like the exotic Buenos Aires woman, I ooze fluids.
Emile observes me, his tongue occasionally flicking out to lick at his sensual lips.
‘You are an apple gone bad, aren’t you, Lucinda? I was attracted to you instantly. I saw in you someone the same as myself; a pure clean dove with dirtied wings. A creature of captive desires.’ He touches my lip with his finger and I take it into my mouth, sucking hungrily. It is as if the cage draws all the energy from my body. It enslaves me. I run forward and let my tongue press the bars. I tear open my buttons and grind my naked flesh against it.
‘Emile. Put me inside. I want to be your captive dove now.’ I whisper seductively, blowing my breath onto his lips. ‘Darling. I don’t often beg for something do I? Kiss me and lock me in the cage. I know it excites you as much as it does me.’
I have never wanted a man like I want Emile. But he plays with me. He hooks me with his perverse needs and now he winds in the line slowly. He will not seduce me, he enjoys gently tantalising me, and I am now feeling aggressive from my sexual need.
‘You’re afraid that, if you unlock that part of you, it won’t get back in its cage.’ I once said of his emotions. Yet, your art is all about the cages.’
Emile fondles me and a delicious shiver explodes across the surface of my skin. He is able to awaken me immediately. His sexual energy is so magnetic, it wraps around me like invisible thread, squeezing my nipples into tight buds and forcing my cunt fountain, to flow.
‘Beg me, Lucinda. Say, Emile I beg you to lock me in the cage.’ He grips my chin and stares into my eyes. ‘I know what you want. I know the cage is the manifestation of your warped fantasies.’
I wait for his kiss. Yet even as he brushes my lips with his, I know he won’t take me. He flicks his tongue out to trace the outline of my mouth and my body erupts in orgasmic flame. ‘Put me inside it now.’
‘You must beg me. On your hands and knees, Lucinda.’
Emile slides his hand under my blouse and I place my palms on to his bare skin. Then, I tease his naked nipples. I love the rigid points, primed with lust. I want to lick and taste them, drive Emile to the brink of delirious pleasure. But only within the cage. I drop onto my knees and I look up imploringly. ‘I beg you. Lock me in the cage.’
Emile takes the tiny key from around his neck and he unlocks the door. I step inside. I touch devices designed for restraint. Manacle, chain, rope, even the swing designed for a human bird. Within the crepuscular shadows of the warehouse, the light dances on the bars of my prison.
My nipples tighten and I feel the familiar heat between my legs. Emile comes up behind me and his hands brush my blouse. Next he eases his finger beneath the buttons and his hand grips my breasts. My body becomes a roaring, fluid rush. Every muscle and fibre of my pussy loosening and contracting in spasms of tetany, as Emile presses my body against the bars of the cage. The cage will untie me, free me.
Then, he pushes me inside and locking the gate, he hangs the key around his neck. ‘Now I shall leave you for a while, Lucinda. I will give you time to discover your gift. Certainly, I will come back. You won’t know when of course. However, I will return to feed you. Perhaps to play with you. You would like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh yes, Emile!’ I whisper breathlessly, gripping and sliding my fingers up and down the gilded bars. Pressing my lipstick drenched mouth to the steel. ‘I adore the cage. Emile. Thank you so much.’
Will he starve me, play with me. Seduce me? Will I writhe at the feet of my captor, begging for freedom and sexual release? My body resonates with primal lust.
I undress. I unbutton my blouse and unzip my skirt. Next I wriggle out of my silk panties and kick off my high heels. Then I press my limbs against the bars; thigh, breast, and cheek, rubbing cat-like on them, as I feel my sex pulse rise. I let the bars imprint nipple and burning clit, groaning as I orgasm in rapid convulsions.
After a while I sit down on the steel floor, enjoying the cooling sensation of steel on super-heated sex. I adore Emile because he has made my dream come true. I always knew his liberated spirit could create the magnificent cage which would unlock me.
I crawl around the floor, like a human panther, leaving a snail-like blossom of sex desire behind me. I gaze at the small swing, swaying gently and I remember the woman in the cage and how Emile said she would hang upside down, displaying her large pendulous breasts and gaping, shaved pussy. Yet the woman in the cage blew her chances with Emile and I intend not to. Within my private prison of delight, furnished with toys and ropes provided by my captor, I intend to seduce Emile. I will be his captive dove.
Using my muscular arms to lift myself onto the swing, I sit there, rocking gently to and fro. Emile loves the agility of my curvaceous body. Then, I part my legs over the steel swing and I purr with delight as it slips between my saturated cleft. I flex and contract my pelvic muscles around it, pumping rhythmically up and down, as I imagine Emile’s dextrous fingers and sinuous cock ramming in and out of my snatch. Satiated, I lower myself to the floor, drawing up my knees to my chin. And between the curves of my thighs, the pursed lips of my cunt pucker, in readiness for the kiss of Emile’s cock.
Soon I become a little bored and I call. ‘Emile, I need you. Why don’t you come to me?’ My fists tighten around the bars. I am aware now of the acuteness of my senses and the gnawing hunger of lu
st. There is a timelessness within the cage. In the silence I hear the rattle of wind on the corrugated roof, and the ebb and flow of my own aroused breath, as I dream of Emile. Seconds extend and my dreams of sex elongate with them, it is all I can think about. Bored, my hands cup my breasts, invigorating and pinching my nipples until they are red and rigid. Gradually, my hands insinuate themselves between my thighs and I lay writhing on the floor of the cage, my fingers dancing and slipping in and out of my hungry red maw and around the engorged tip of clit and sucking hole. I climax in a frenzy of gasps and bucking hips, and then I lay still.
Still my arousal grows. I need new ways to appease myself. I spread-eagle my legs and push them through the bars. I press my labia and clit against them as closely as I can in an intimate embrace. I grind and wriggle. My need now to urinate inflames me, until I orgasm again, with such ferocious intensity, I almost faint. When I collapse on the floor of the cage, I am branded with streaks from the bars of the cage.
I am so feverish with my need for Emile, I do not know what to do with myself next. I toss and turn, I lay on belly and back and I spread out my arms and legs in a star, laying in a state of abandon dreaming of Emile. Later I prowl the cage, like the captive panther, twisting and purring. My feline eyes searching the shadows. ‘You bastard! Emile. How dare you leave me so long! I hope you’re satisfied.’ Yet my anger commingles with something more potent, the germinating dark side of a hidden and fierce sensuality.
I must have fallen asleep because I awaken to Emile, who is fastening a collar around my neck and manacles to my wrists. He has taken my clothes and thrown them outside the cage. Instead of anger I experience intense sexual fire. He says nothing, he simply strokes my cheek and then he locks the door. ‘Emile, bring back my clothes.’ I rattle the bars of the cage angrily.
Once more I clamber onto the swing. But, this time, I allow it to gain momentum, until I am soaring, and as close as I can be to the sides of the cage. With one hand I reach out and grab the bars, and, swinging monkey-like, I release the swing and grasp them, clutching like a limpet to my prison. I am higher than I thought and I can see most of the warehouse. I am hoping Emile is hidden and observing me. ‘Emile, you rat, come and let me out.’
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