20. Tour de Force

Marcus

When you come back into the bedroom and kneel, I'm in the bed, replaying surveillance videos of you kind of randomly. When you come in and kneel, I'm in no rush to acknowledge you, reinforcing your position, reinforcing our dynamics by taking perhaps ten minutes before I get off the bed, close the laptop and go to you, and I undo the strap of the ball gag and pull it out of your mouth. "Stand up, and look at me," I say, squatting down behind you so that we're face to face, eye to eye.

"Last night when you chewed your fingernails was the last time you ever did that. Last time you did it unpunished, anyway," I add. "And if you ever do it again and I have to punish you, I'll make sure you never ever forget that punishment, and never ever do it again. Such punishment would involve your mouth, mostly, and it would make you wish I just used the cane again instead. Are we very, very clear on this one?" I ask seriously. "For starters, we'd switch to eating dog food only, until you persuaded me you deserve better than that again. Understood?"

I nod then, and lead you back to the dining room. I give it a long scrutinizing look. I note how very orderly you made things. How hard you worked on the floor. Good for you, given what's coming. "Well done," I say finally, after a long pause. "Next time get the mop for the floor; now go and get a new sponge so we don't use the floor-sponge for dishes in the future," I say when I assess your effort, not that I wasn't watching some of it over the camera system anyway. I give you the key; the code locks are not set while I'm in here and the key is all you need to go and get the supplies. I make sure to look you in the eye directly and to linger a moment, once you've reached for the key, before I let go. I want you to appreciate that you've just earned a special privilege, you've done a good job to please me and earned a bit of my trust in your diligence in turn.

I wait for you to get the new sponge, throw the old one in the trash and take the key back from you. Of course you don't get to keep it, but the fact that you were allowed to touch it, to use it all by yourself, was a big sign of trust. Or I make it seem that way anyway. When I leave the doors are also locked by a complicated code and this key does not match the keyhole at the entrance of the dungeon; the amount of freedom it provides is purely symbolic.

Satisfied with the state of the dining room, I lead you back into the dungeon's main. I pick up a cane. The same one that gave you the stripes that are just beginning to fade on your buttocks. I put it over a little table next to one of the punishment benches, one that is more padded, and round, rather than triangular. I make you get on it, to show you how its used. I love the way fear completely swallows you, engulfs you, how you fear that despite having done a good job in the dining room, you've made a mistake. I love the way you subconsciously accept the premise that I only punish you when you have somehow deserved it, even if it doesn't always feel fair and never adequate and normal to you. I guide you into proper position on the bench, having you place a leg on either side, much like riding a horse, and lean forward, lying down over the top, while your legs keep it "embraced" making a reversed "U" shape. This position very much reveals you butthole and your pussy and well as the whole of your buttocks and not only the back of your thighs, but also a lot of the inner side, especially near your butt and pussy.

I then let you get off, without using the cane, without even touching you beyond what little I need to do to show you the right position for this particular bench, or the one I wanted you to assume this time, anyway.

"Stand straight. Put your big toes together, closer, so they are touching," I say. "Now stand up on your tip-toes. Heels of off the floor. You can use arms for balance, but not to hold onto anything," I clarify. "And that, my love, is how you stay and wait for your lunch," I say, smiling, knowing full well that I'm setting you up for an impossible task. At least I have the decency to mention how to handle failing, which is pretty much inevitable.

"Stay like that for as long as you possibly can. A special price awaits should you manage till I come back with pizza," I say. "If your heels or any other part of your body touches the floor, or anything else in the dungeon, you'll get on the bench, the way I just showed you, immediately, and will start counting from one up, continually, out loud, not too slowly," I add and look, as if accidentally, at the cane waiting nearby. I made a mental bet that despite this task becoming very painful in some three minutes or so, you'll manage over five, possibly ten, even. I then leave to get the pizza. It's a ready-to-eat, fresh, refrigerated-but-not-frozen one, ready in 20 minutes; that and whatever time the unwrapping and getting it on a tray and such takes means I come back in about half an hour; way more than any human other than a professional ballerina could have withstood this endurance exercise.

As I heat up the pizza (big enough for two or three adults), pour some fruit juice into two glasses, and some tissues to wipe our fingers off with, I imagine your silent struggle down below, locked and left with clear, and rather harsh instructions. I'll definitely watch it later, but for now, I just rush back down.

I wonder what number you'll be at, doubting little that you would not dare to cheat, and what mental state you'll be in if you believed, as I meant to lead you to believe, that each count is worth a cane stroke. I'm glad your family recently ordered a family-sized pizza so I could have gotten one with the same ingredients, preventing anything you dislike -- not that they routinely put brussel sprouts on pizza -- and I avoided getting one that would be too cheesy, no Cheddar on top, just bits of perfectly molten Mozzarella. No chillies and capers, either, which would have been my choice if I was getting one just for myself. But hey, just now, I'm dead set on you not starving, at least for the time being. I can always eat more, or something else up above. Unlike you.

Laura

As I kneel there, I am feeling a kind of eagerness about the job I did in the dining room. I want you to see it. I think you will like it. ("Yes, but should I have left the shakers and napkins on the table?" I wonder.) You are looking at something on your laptop. I continue to kneel. But you don't look up. I know not to make any sounds. I kneel on my heels, waiting. The ball gag continues to make me drool, and I have given up trying to stop the stream that runs down my chin and down my flat little chest. You didn't say I could move or swipe it away.

Finally you close up the laptop and rise from the bed. I stand as you direct, looking into Your eyes. I didn't do anything wrong ("What if you missed something, Laur'?"), but still it makes me nervous. And then you make it clear that I am not to bite my fingernails. My eyes flit down to my little hands, where every last one of my fingernails is gnawed down. They look like the hands of a little boy. I look back up at you, guiltily. "Yes, sir," I say, softly. ("How are you gonna stop biting them? You ALWAYS bite them," I think to myself.)

I have been biting my nails as far back as I can remember. My Mom hates it that I do but I never stopped. Even Glenn told me, rather seriously, that I would need long, beautiful nails if I wanted to keep going in modeling. He said that I could get artificial nails, but that they were a bother and an expense. But still I bit my nails after that. Whenever I get nervous, I just do. But now I can't anymore. I make a personal vow not to bite them ever again. I'll have to remember. Somehow.

I walk back into the dining room, feeling a litlte excited, even giddy, at what your reaction will be. It doesn't surprise me that you take your time, and don't react overtly with praise. I can tell that you are not unhappy –– I can just tell. But I am uncertain I will get the highest marks. You inspect everything carefully. And when I hear the words "Well done" a sheepish hint of a prideful smile crosses my lips. I feel a sense of warmth all over. ("You are such a silly girl, Laura Vandahl!" I say to myself.)

I take the key with a "Yes, sir" –– my eyes flit up to yours as you won't let it go, and for a split second, I look fearful –– and go to the closet, and extract a new sponge, pull off the plastic wrap, and replace the other one. I hand the key back to you and walk with you to the dungeon.

We enter the dungeon and you pick up the cane. My reaction is virtually instant. The blood drains from my face and I look pale. My eyes glisten with tears of unfairness ("But I didn't DO anything!" I think to myself.) My lower lip starts to tremble. My heart starts to pound in my chest and my breathing increases. I feel faint as you direct me to the punishment bench. I am shaking as I reluctantly climb aboard, and my face is etched in a rictus of dread. ("But what did I dooooooooooo? Is it 'cause of my fingernails?" I ask myself.)

I try to look back and see –– thank God the cane remains on the table, omnipresent and obvious, but not in your hand. I feel so exposed. I can feel the coldness on my exposed cunny and bottom as the punishment bench causes them to be obscenely exposed, obscenely open. ("What did I dooooooooo?" I agonize internally.)

When you order me off the apparatus I exhale an audible, trembling sigh of relief. ("Oh, thank God, thank God, thank you God," I say to myself.) My heart rate remains elevated and I still look pale as I stand there before you. I put my big toes together on your command with a soft "yes, sir," and raise my heels off the ground. I've done this in dance class many, many times, and I put my arms out to either side for balance. I don't look quite as fearful, but more curious, as I look up into your eyes.

I listen to the rules of this new game, moving up and down a little on the balls of my feet, trying to find a balance point, my heels still off the ground. It seems like a weird game. Why would you want me to stand on tippy toes for that long? I can do that for a super long time, I think. My head jounces and down a couple of times as I try to find the right foot angle to maintain. Right now my feet and toes feel strong –– like I could do this forever. Or for a while, anyway.

I am standing in a crucifixion position as you leave, balanced on the pads of my feet, wavering little bit as I try to maintain my balance. Having my feet adjacent to each other is the biggest problem. It makes balance difficult. If only they were a bit farther apart. ("Why does hewant me to do this?" I think to myself.) My eyes flit to the table. With the cane on it. I have great respect for the cane. And great fear of it. Although the 'lectodes probably hurt more than the cane, the bite of the cane has a lasting, searing quality to it. A caning lasts longer. A caning makes it hard to sit. A caning is not something I want to experience ever again.

I don't even last a minute after you leave the dungeon. It wasn't fatigue, but balance that caused me to raise up suddenly, then come down on both heels. I instantly raise up again, my mouth and eyes open in horror. ('Your heels just touched the ground, girlfriend," I say to myself.) My face goes pale. If I go to the punishment bench I'll surely get the cane. I stand on tip toes –– high now, trying to atone –– as my heart starts to race again and my skin feels cold. I ponder my options. There is no way you could have seen. No way you could know. ("He knows everything, stupid. He'll KNOW.") I know there is risk. Considerable risk. But I'm 11. Scared. And I don't want the cane. I fear the cane. ("Just pretend . . . just pretend it never happened, Laur'.")

I stand there, concentrating on my balance. My feet are starting to ache at the four-minute mark. By the fifth minute my feet are trembling and my arms are flapping as I try to hold position. My face is pale. My expression terrified. ("I can't do it . . . I can't do it!") I hold out until minute seven. Panting now. Shaking. My little body is getting moist with perspiration. My tummy is clenched with fear. I can't hold position and I know it.

Panting, I lower my heels to the floor, resting, my eyes looking fearfully and furtively at the entrance. ("He'll come any time, Laur', and if he sees you . . . ") After a few seconds of rest, I rise back up again. But my little feet are tired. I dont even last another minute before I have to lower myself again to rest. What started off as one cover up for bad balance has become another violation for touching with my heels. And now another.

I am under no real illusion that I will get away with this. I debate moving to the punishment bench and starting my count. Fear of the bench and fear of failure battle each other in my young mind. I rise up again, willing myself to hold position. But I can't. My feet are so tired. With a little whimper I lower myself, standing, resting. I just know you will return any second, and catch me. But I just can't rise up.

I am nervous, perspiring, shaking, and panting. My heart is racing. There have been many heel violations now. The minutes go by. Agonizingly slowly. I am spending more time on my heels now. ("Oh, where is he? Why won't he come?" I think to myself.) ("You don't want him to come. He'll KNOW, Laura Vandahl. He'll KNOW. He already knows!") I am so torn. Distraught. I eye the cane. The cane of pain. Tears form in my eyes. I lift up again, but my little feet are shot. I can't even pretend any more. I lower myself again, and with a very, very sad little girl expression on my face, I walk gingerly to the punishment bench. I mount it, just as you showed me, and begin to count, softly, in a sobbing, trembling little voice, out loud: "One . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . two . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . three . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."

Marcus

You're only at around sixty something at this pace and with all your attempts to delay the inevitable. I set the tray aside, absolutely positive that you have cheated, one way or another, the very moment I hear you counting.

"Sixty four. Okay. Good. Get of off there," I say kindly, not even glancing at the cane. "Pizza time." I lead you into the dining room and open the box, sitting on a chair. I point under the table, to my feet, to a spot where I want you kneeling. Eventually getting on your fours.

"Simple enough rules. No hands, just mouth and tongue. Once you've cleaned up every last crumble and bit, you can kiss my foot to ask for another piece and I'll feed you some more. No leftovers allowed, if you ask for a piece, you gotta finish it – spotlessly." I suspect that like many kids you might have a tendency to not eat the crust or something along those lines, something I most definitely will not allow.

I drop a slice of the pizza down on the floor between my feet. It's delicious, thin crust, super yummy, proper, Italian, fragrant and fresh pizza. Yumminess guaranteed. And the floor has just been cleaned, quite thoroughly and obsessively, as you very well know. This game isn't really malicious or mean, it's just one of those things I do to reinforce our dynamic, to remind you that whatever I say is normal simply is, and that's not open to discussion. If you are to eat of off the floor and beg for each following slice with a kiss of my feet (and none is provided until you deliver a good, proper, wet, tongue-inclusive kiss) then . . . that's that. That's how the lunch happens.

I feed you piece by piece and occasionally even reach down to stroke your hair. I eat, I relax, I comment on how yummy the pizza is, I make you kneel up as best as you can and lower the juice glass under there to allow you to drink – hands free, of course, but made easy with a straw – taking a peek at your face, so messy and so cute. It makes my cock twitch. Things that you do, that we do so often do it. I've been erect, aroused, and cumming good and hard more in the past couple days than ever before, having enjoyed more pleasure than in the months before that combined. When we're both full, I wonder if my plan to make you forget the "en pointe" task has worked. I let you slip from under the table, lead you to the bathroom and rinse and wipe your face and whatever else got dirty in the process of consuming lunch the way you just did.

I then sit down on the edge of the bathtub, put you on my lap and give you a look. A long, scrutinizing look. Just that. A quiet, long, intense look. Just that, but more than enough to make you dead-sure you're in trouble.

"Laura? I want you to tell me, exactly, precisely and honestly what happened after I left the room. And to explain how come you were only at sixty four when I came in, even though you definitely did not manage to stay on your toes, heels off the floor, for over twenty minutes. Tell me what happened and suggest your own punishment, one that you think fits the crime or trying to fool me. Trying to . . . lie to me," I say in an extra-strong, extra-deep voice to emphasise that that, of all things, is the worst imaginable, most-terrible crime. Other than hurting me or running away, which as we established earlier, is pretty much punishable by death.

"So tell me. Exactly what happened? And exactly what kind of punishment do you think it deserves? And think about it a bit," I emphasise. "If I don't like what you suggest, if it sounds like you're not sorry enough," I shake my head. "I'll make very, very, very sure that you are sorry by the time I'm done with you," I say darkly. And I can already feel the fear starting to flow over you and through you and totally swallowing you, engulfing you, consuming you, and as it consumes you, I consume it, and it makes a chill run up my spine, like a small orgasm almost. I feed on this. I could quite possibly live off of this, just feeding on the intensity of emotion that courses through you just now. And I don't make it easy to you, I don't allow the fear to mindlessly take over. I demand that you think, that you get creative, and that you speak, and then suggest your own punishment for a crime you have committed.

And damn me if I'm not curious as hell what you'll come up with. Especially when I made it clear just how very serious the crime I suspect you committed is. I look at you, transfixed, focused, hungrily lingering on your lips for your every little word.

Laura

I count, and count, very slowly, tempted to start over, but afraid that you will know. I am not sure when you enter the room, not exactly, but when I hear you my head turns back to look at you at the very moment you start to speak, and my expression gives me away –– I look very, very, worried. Then again, you made it clear with your actions, glances, and suggestions that I was in for a caning. No wonder I am worried. But your expression is cheerful, your words upbeat. I am not in trouble ("That was close, girlfriend!" I say to myself); thank God for that.

Feeling relieved, at least for the moment, I scoot off the punishment bench. I'm hungry again, and the pizza smells heavenly. I glance at it and it looks exactly, precisely like my favorite kind. I stare at you in awe, my mouth agape. I didn't tell you what my favorite kind of pizza was. There is no way you could have guessed –– it's too weird a combination. Either we share the same favorite kind of pizza –– fat chance of that –– or you somehow KNEW, or divined, what my favorite kind is. The realization that you seem to know everything worries me. If you know what my favorite kind of pizza is without asking, then you might know other things, too. Like whether I cheated on the "game." My hand rises to my mouth absent-mindedly to bite my fingernails –– until I stop my self with a downward jerk of my hand and a guilty look of worry and chagrin on my face.

I follow you to the dining room, and am instantly disappointed as you motion me to a spot between your feet. I kneel there, at first, but you position me on all fours. It's humiliating and mean that you make me sit there, feeding me from your hands. I'm not a baby! But I'm hungry, and I've done this before, so I look up to take the first bite from your fingers. But there are more rules, arrrggh! Yes, I already know I can't use my hands as you feed me, whatever. Just get on with it.

But I am stunned, and my expression reveals my surprise as you drop the slice to the floor. It lands there, right in front of me, on its side, partially upside down, a splatter of red sauce around it. My expressions shifts from surprised, to angry, to frustrated, to sad. I'm so hungry, and I know how much worse I feel when I don't eat. But this . . . this is the worst. Degrading. Humiliating. Mean. My face flushes red with anger and humiliation, and my ears burn. You do these things just to be mean. You said it's a game and you don't really mean it, but you're just a big fat liar! I hate you!

Fine. Be that way. I look down so you won't see my eyes as they glisten with tears. Instinctively I know that you like being mean to me. You like seeing my reaction. But I'm not going to let you see. I'm not going to give you the satisfaction. You can make me eat from the floor, just to be mean. But I'll . . . I'll . . . you'll see what happens. Eventually.

My ears burn with shame as I lean down and start to eat the first slice. it's slow going because I can't tear it into smaller bites. I can feel you watching me as I nibble little pieces from it, separating them with my lips as I hold on with my teeth. I get red sauce on my lips and nose. I hate the dirty, sticky feeling that it gives me, but I can't reach it all with my tongue and licking seems to smear it and make it worse, anyway.

When I finish the first slice, I lick the floor clean ("At least it you just cleaned it and it isn't gross," I tell myself), then move you your foot, and begin to kiss and lick it –– the way you want it done. I do it reluctantly, robotically, but my tongue works between your toes, and I suckle each one of them inside my mouth. This gains me the next piece, which drops to the floor with a "splaaat." I eat it, too, and then take a drink from the straw as my eyes regard you with anger and hatred.

Finally, lunch is done. I am full, not overly so, but no longer hungry. I wonder what you have next in store for me, since I survived the tip-toes game from earlier. Maybe we'll go back upstairs I wonder, hopefully.

I follow you into the bathroom, feeling like a little kid with red sauce all over my chin, lips, and the end of my nose. I even have a little dollop on my cheek, but have no idea how it got there. You wipe my face like I'm a toddler, but it feels good to be clean. We sit together on the tub, my naked little child form in your lap.

And then you look at me. Stare at me. For a long time. And it makes me totally, super nervous. ("What did I do now?" I think to myself. "Why is he staring at me?") My heart starts to beat faster in my young chest. I am feeling unsettled, shivery, and nervous by the time you begin to speak.

And when you do speak, and I hear your words, it's as if my world has come to an end. I had mostly forgotten about the tip-toes game. I thought I had gotten away with it. I thought you had forgotten, or got bored, or wouldn't ask. But you haven't forgotten. And all this time, the pizza, the feet-licking, the clean up –– all this time, you've known. You've known all along that I cheated. I swallow nervously. My hands are shaky. My brain searches and ponders for a way out. Something to say. Something that will get me out of this. Something that will allow me to avoid punishment. Something. Anything. But nothing comes. I can't think of anything. There is no silver bullet. My palms are perspiring with fear. My full tummy is clenched with worry. You can read the fear on my face. It is palpable in the room. ("What punishment? I gotta come up with my own punishment?" I think to myself, horrified.)

But suddenly it does come to me. A solution. A way out. A way to avoid the consequences of my transression. A way that countless youngsters throughout the ages have devised in situations just like I am in right now –– under pressure, under stress. It is the best solution. The only solution that offers the chance of complete exoneration and avoidance not only of punishment, but of blame itself. I resolve to lie.

I swallow, trying to steel myself. Then I speak: "B–but I did . . . I was . . . I didn't . . . 'cause I take– used to take dance (swallow) . . . um . . . um . . . I did it, um, stood, you know . . . on my toes? For most of th-the time. And then, um . . . when . . . um . . . then I got tired? And um . . . that's when I like, when I couldn't do it no more?" I look up to see how I'm doing, my eyes questioning, interpreting your reaction. "And then I started counting like you said," I finish quickly.

Marcus

If you think you can play me . . . you deserve to be played. It's unnecessarily cruel, in no way in concordance with the behavioural pattern I'm trying to ingrain into you, but fuck it, it's fun. I smile and mess your hair. Plant a kiss on your forehead. Scratch you behind the ear playfully.

"Damn. I'm sorry. I had no idea you were that good! I should know better than to expect you to lie to me, anyway. I bet you would never do such a silly thing," I laugh. And tickle you a bit, to make you laugh, too. "Sixty four is a very good score. I wasn't expecting anything under a hundred, really," I say, sounding quite impressed really, and I make you get up, bend forward and very gently tug at the plug in your butt, pulling it out, finally, tossing it into the sink.

"We'll clean that up later. Let's have a bit of a rest after lunch, then," I say and guide you into the room. I fish out several sheets of clean, plain paper and a soft, smooth writing gel-ink pen. Dark blue, 0.3mm, my favourite writing stuff. I put them on your desk. "For later," I explain. "I'll leave this here till tomorrow." Of course, your letter; as promised. Another contrast, another swing; you had to eat your pizza of off the floor, face burning in shame and anger, but here's the good stuff. I'm mean for the fun of it, but I also keep my word.

I also take out the remote I've taken away from you earlier and I sit on the bed and make you sit between my legs, leaning against my broad chest as I turn the big panel opposite us, like when we watched Leon earlier on.

"Let's watch a movie," I suggest. I'm not sure how much you're buying this, but even uncertainty would make for a nice drop towards the certainty of doom that's coming. I punch in a four digit code and then a sequence of directions that unlock the remaining channels; not just the three that you're generally allowed to watch. I flick through videos with codes, right hand using the remote, left stroking your hair. I pick a video starting with DNG and a sequence of numbers that, if you understood the system, would tell you it's a video from about three quarters of an hour ago. It starts a bit early; and comes alive with sound and all, my slightly distorted voice explaining to you the rules of the game as you, very relieved, get of off the punishment bench. Then you put your toes together, lift your heels up, and I walk out, closing the door behind me. And then, only some fifty seconds earlier, you sway and your heels touch the floor. I stop stroking you. I make sure you can feel me tense, take a deep, big breath behind you. But I don't say anything. I watch on, and I make you watch on. I chose the camera that you were pretty much facing, it shows everything, even your open mouthed surprise, there's no denying you were aware there and then that you messed up. Then, after some rather impressive and (for me) fun to watch struggle, minute seven comes, when you simply took a break and did not even flinch to walk towards the punishment bench again, clearly, deliberately and obviously disregarding my command. And then another rest, and more. And then further hesitation before you, slowly, what really looks like . . . lazily on the video, climb up onto the bench and get into the position. Even the brief pause you made between that and starting the count must seem staggering, now that I've made you watch all the way to this point. I stop when I come in and announce pizza time.

But we're not done. I flick from DNG videos to BTH videos and pick the last one. And play you back, from a sideways, somewhat odd, slightly too steep up above angle, a minute or so of silence, of nothing, and then we come back, and I clean you up . . . and sit you on my lap. And then I speak . . . and then you . . . you say, word by word, on the video: "B–but I did . . . I was . . . I didn't . . . 'cause I take– used to take dance (swallow) . . . um . . . um . . . I did it, um, stood, you know . . . on my toes? For most of th-the time. And then, um . . . when . . . um . . . then I got tired? And um . . . that's when I like, when I couldn't do it no more? And then I started counting like you said," you finish. And I turn off the screen.

I sigh, and push you of off me, like I'm disgusted by you, repulsed, like you suddenly turned hideous and sticky and stinky and I don't want to be anywhere near you, let alone touching you. And expression of sickened dismay on my face. My oh my, I can be a good actor when I put my mind to it. I get of off the bed and step away, my lips down turned, eyebrows forming a deep, frowning "V". "You've got twenty minutes to come up with a punishment for disobeying me and cheating. All of that repeatedly. We will carry it out. If it seems fair to me, I will also give you a fair punishment for lying to me through your teeth, in my face," I say coldly. "If your punishment doesn't seem bad enough, I will still carry it out, but instead of a fair one, I'll punish you for lying to me in the worst possible way that I can imagine." With that, I march out of the cell and come back precisely twenty minutes later, having made some preparations around the dungeon.

"Speak," I command, sharply.

Laura

I have a suspicion that something is up. You were too quick to buy my lies, too eager to accept my words. You didn't probe me further, or express any skepticism whatsoever. I giggle at your playful touches and tickling, but I'm nervous. I'm pretty sure you don't believe me. Or maybe you do. The truth is, I can't tell. Something seems odd. Wrong. Out of place. And yet, maybe you DO believe me. But maybe you don't.

I wince as you pull the plug out of my bottom, not in pain or discomfort, but just because it feels weird and strange. I had gotten used to it –– forgotten about it, actually. Then you take the writing stuff out, and I am momentarily hopeful ("Is he gonna let me write a letter home? Oh please please please please please!" I think to myself), but you dash my hopes as we move on into the bedroom.

I sit down between your legs and lean back against your chest, wondering what movie we're going to watch. ("I hope it's something I like this time," my mind says.) Yet something still doesn't seem right. A movie. In the middle of the day. Something is wrong. We were gonna do training. It seems to take you a long time to change channels and enter codes and stuff to get to the movie, too. It wasn't like this when we watched the movie with that French man and the girl.

And then, suddenly, my world utterly collapses, as I realize what you are up to. On the screen is the scene of me, in the dungeon. There is no doubt who it is, there is no doubt when it was taken, and there is no doubt what it will show. My cheeks turn bright red and my ears burn with shame. The worst of it is that I can't get up, or say anything. I just have to watch it. Knowing full well what I did. Knowing full well what both of us will see.

In fact, it's even worse than I thought it would be. ("Just breathe, Laur'. Try to breathe," I beg myself.) The camera captures my first transgression, and I can feel you tense. I cringe, unsure whether to expect a blow. But your hand stays where it was, no longer caressing me, just there. My only hope is that you will shut the video off and punish me for that. But I know you won't. And you don't. We watch the video through to the end. I have to remain still, and watch it. It is excruciating.

The video is very incriminating. It captures my expressions, which seems to say "Guilty –– guilty of disobeying, lying, and attempting to trick." Or it least it seems that way to me. If anything, the video makes it look way worse than it even was. I rest on my heels three, then four, then five times. Even I didn't think it was that many. Behind me you are quiet. All I can do is watch.

And then the video of me lying to you. Lying straight to your face. My words utterly and completely contradicted by the dungeon surveillance video. I cringe at my own pathetic attempt at a lie ("He didn't believe you even before he saw the video, Laur'. That's why he put the video on. He already knew you were lying," I admit to myself). I feel ill. My tummy is tied in knots. I literally feel like I am going to be sick.

As you sigh and push me away I can tell that you are not just mad at me, but disappointed in me. I feel about 2" tall. I know I am going to be punished. I deserve to be punished. It was a dumb, stupid, ridiculous thing to do to lie to you. ("You had to know he had cameras everywhere, Laur'. Smart move!" I chastise myself.) It all seems so silly now. My failures in the dungeon. My lies. You even said that you didn't expect me to count less than 100 –– maybe you weren't even planning to use the cane on me at all, since you knew I couldn't do it. But now I'll never know. Because it doesn't matter anymore what would have happened. What matters now is what is going to happen.

You explain to me what I must do, and tell me I have 20 minutes to think about it. And then you leave. The next 20 minutes are just about the worst of my life. I know I'm going to be punished, and that's bad enough. Enough to tie my tummy in knots, make me tremble, and bring tears of dread to my eyes. But even worse is the knowledge that I have to come up with my own punishment. That's really bad, because there aren't any punishments I want to do. All of them seem bad. ("That's prolly the point, girlfriend," I tease myself. "You're not exactly 'sposed to like them, duh.") The final straw is the fact that if my punishment isn't fair enough –– and by fair I think you mean appropriately severe –– you're gonna punish me in the worst way you can think of. The "worst possible way."

So for 20 minutes I ponder what my own punishment should be. ("Needles, girl. He'll use the needles if you're not 'fair,'" I warn myself). I know that what I did was bad. Very bad. Super bad. ("Oh why, why, WHY did you do it? Why did you lie to him?" I cajole myself.) I make a little moan of anguish as dread washes over me.

Maybe if I apologize . . . like, really a lot. Tell you how bad I feel. I won't get out of punishment; there's no chance of that. But maybe it won't be so bad if I do. I feel contrite. Very contrite. Embarrassed. ("Yeah, for getting caught," I taunt myself. "No, not just for that –– because I lied. Lying was dumb.")

I get myself very worked up, alone in the bedroom, thinking about my punishment, my mind racing, unable to focus. I moan in dismay and fear. I dread your return, positively dread it. ("It has to be the cane, Laur'. You have to tell him it should be the cane. The pain mostly went away in a couple of days, right?") But how many cane strokes. Ten? Twenty. I'll die if He does more than 20, I tell myself, with a little shiver. What about chores? Or sex stuff? But I can't think clearly. Nothing seems right.

The twenty minutes passes quickly, and you are back. I stand. Trembling. Hands clasped before my hairless preteen quim. I have tears in my eyes. I try to speak. Haltingly. Almost hyperventilating. I want you to know how sorry I am. And I am sorry. Sorry for failing. Sorry for cheating. Sorry for getting caught. Sorry for being a couple of minutes away from a punishment that I know I'm not going to like, and might not even survive. Tears come. I can't stop them. They roll down my cheeks. I can't even look up at you. My head is down. I couldn't see through my tears even if I wanted to. "I'm (hic) r-really, r-really sorry . . . for lying," I sob, with a hyperventilating, hiccupping high-pitched, very-upset-little-girl voice. I sound beyond miserable, beyond despondent, and very, very frightened.

"I th–thin– thin– . . .think," I say, making the K come out, "y–you should um . . . p–put me . . .on the thing . . . the thing with the p–p–pads," I say, stammering, trembling. "And h–h–h–hit me t–twenty times . . . twenty–five t–times," I say, upgrading on the fly. I look up. I look terrible: pale, almost ghost–like, teary–eyed, and extremely unhappy. "Is th–that fair?" I ask, with desperation in my voice. ("Oh please, PLEASE let it be fair, God. Let it be fair," I pray silently.)

Marcus

I give you a long, hard look. No jokes. No smiles. You're in trouble. Serious trouble. You just happen to be lucky enough to be stuck with a psychologically sadistic bastard who gets off on you shivering in fear. If I was a simple-minded brute, you'd already be half beaten to pulp by now, but no. I savor every second of this, more than that, I savor every single one of your rapid, frantic, panicky heart beats. I smell and sense and see and feel your body's reaction to knowing that this is it, you are fucked, you are not getting away, pain and suffering are inevitable. "I was hoping you'd get a bit more inventive than that; taking the cane to your rear is kind of obvious. And twenty five strokes for cheating," I shake my head side to side, displeased. "That's not really enough," I say and pause, letting the information sink in. "It's not completely unfair; at least you thought along the right lines, you deserve a severe, painful punishment," I say, toying with you, speaking deliberately slowly, thoughtfully, so I don't reveal my final judgement too soon.

"Yes. I will mark your bottom with twenty five strokes. Then we will punish your lying. I thought about that a lot. I want you to never forget that lying to me is . . . terrible. Awful. And really, really stupid. The worst possible idea at any given situation. I will mark you forever for it. I will put rings into your nipples. Piercings. Each time I tug at them, each time your hand brushes over them, each time you notice again that there's a new bit to your body that is there to stay, forever, you will also remember how you deserved to be marked that way, remember to never, ever lie to me again. I'm getting you off easily, that's not the worst I could think off, not by a long shot, and I will expect gratitude in turn, I will expect you to perform exceptionally well in training after -- yes, after the punishment we will train and practice. Now, come."

I don't even take you by the hand or neck nor pick you up like I would often do. I want the message that you're tainted, lessened, made ugly in a fashion by your lie, to remain obvious. Off to the padded upturned U bench. Securing your legs. Hands, arms. All in multiple places. I have absolutely no illusions about you withstanding this kind of ordeal staying in place of off your own will. No. I tie and secure you firmly. I do it well, with a lot of precision. Turning your toes inwards, stretching your arms forward, positioning until your buttocks are wide exposed, pucker not only showing, but stretched, almost begging to be fucked... and your pussy underneath. I can see exactly where and how I need to hit for the cane to hit your nether lips. I bet I could lay a line right over the opening of your little cunt. It will bruise the thighs badly, I'll have to press in a lot for that one, but heck, it's not like I don't have a plenty of tries.

"When I hit you the first time, you say your mantra. Then you will apologise again for cheating, tell me you know you deserve the punishment, and ask for another stroke. When I hit you for the second time, you say your mantra twice. Apologise. Tell me you know that this is well deserved, your fault. Ask for more . . . then three times. Four times. Each time repeating the mantra once more. I'll say the number when I strike you so you don't lose count."

I don't ask if it is clear. There's no other option than it being clear. It means you will say your mantra more than three hundred times altogether, if I'm counting right. I take the cane I previously used on you of off the small table, put it back into the stand. Think for a bit. And eventually pull out a much thinner, dark red cane, more of a rod, really. It's super flexible, the kind that you can bend end to end without breaking it. It doesn't bruise nowhere near as much, having much less kinetic energy, much less weight beyond the blow. But it's faster. The pain is sharper, more fiery, more stingy, generally . . . less popular among the otherwise willing takers of such abuse in the kinky community. I know it will hit right on the verge of breaking your smooth, soft, 5th-grade girl skin, right from the start, and the moment the lashes start to overlap, tiny pinhead-drops of blood and later more of it will be shed. Perhaps as much as a small trickle. Since I have no intention to spread the blows to your legs this time, I'm aiming from the top three quarters of the arch of your buttocks to the line just below, and perhaps an inch below that, just so you pussy gets a taste as well, but that's that. I intend to massacre your ass, no neat lines this time.

I breathe. I take my time. I gently stroke the tool in my hand. Rub it. Quiver it through air, warm it up. Stretch my wrist, my arm.

And then I give you a taste of what you asked for yourself, as punishment. One twenty-fifth of your punishment for cheating, a loud swift swish, an impact, that sounds more like "fffhip" than "thud" or "smack" kind of sound, so fucking thin the tool is, so sharp the impact. A nasty red line running across from the middle of your left butt-cheek to the upper bit of your right butt-cheek, only narrowly missing your pucker, appears immediately and stands out in irritation. It will be exactly this, the upraised, irritated skin, that will soon make things messy, but for now, I managed to not draw even a hint of blood. Barely.

"One." I wait for your words. I have all the time in the world.

Once satisfied, I deliver the second lash, exactly the opposite angle, lower on the right, higher on the left. Where the red marks meet each other, they create a deep purple spot.

"Two." I wait. I'm merciless. If you attempt to beg or bargain, I'll warn you this could make that strike not count, making things worse for yourself.

And then another lash lands. "Three." Pause . . . Words . . . I don't give a shit if you hyperventilate, bawl, sob, scream, if your voice is barely comprehensible, I make you say it all before I hit you again. And again. And again; "Four." . . . "Five."

I notice the first hint of blood with a perfectly horizontal and particularly well placed strike number seven, it raises a sort of bloody "dew" in the many spots where it overlaps with the previous lines. And I wait, and then go on. And on, and on.

By fifteen, your ass is an almost continual red grid, the lines starting to merge into one big mess of redness, and the dew drops of blood are so many that the first of them starts to ooze down.

At twenty, your little bottom is bloodied and going from red to purple. Bluishness sort of appearing, but it's mostly deep purple, violet, quick angry colours of thin, skin-deep welts and lines of broken skin that I can see. I'm not surprised that speech has become all but impossible. Voice hoarse, all but gone . . . And yet . . . even if you mumble it, under further threats of not counting the strokes that landed, I make you move your mouth and "do" the words, even if it's just make-believe, even if you mostly just think them.

The last strokes are the worst. There's no undamaged, non-bleeding area to hit, and while I try to avoid your puckered hole per se (I will have use for it, soon) I now start hitting your pussy along with the uppermost bits of the backs of your thighs, giving the agony a yet new dimension. I hurt you. And hurt you more. And hurt you further.

Finally, the last blow lands fast and hard across the middle of your ass which now looks horrid. You'll be sleeping on your belly for the next few days; sitting is completely out of question -- unless I decide otherwise, of course.

"Twenty five." I conclude and toss the cane aside for cleaning, and untie you, bit by bit. I let you lie on the bench limply for a good long time to at least tiny bit recompose yourself. I need you conscious for the next bit.

Laura

I look terrified, disheveled, and very, very unhappy –– and I am all of those things. The last 20 minutes have been very difficult. I know you are mad at me. Furious, in fact. I know I screwed up. I spent most of the 20 minutes trying to determine just HOW mad you are at me. Is this just going to be a really bad punishment, or a near-death experience? I don't know for sure, until you return, that is.

When you return, I can tell that you are extremely unhappy with me. Extremely angry. I lied. I shouldn't have lied. I cheated on the game. Repeatedly. And then I lied about it. Oh how I wish I hadn't. How I wish I could go back in time. It was a stupid, dumb idea ("Nice going, Laur'.") to lie to you. I feel genuinely contrite. It won't ever happen again. I've already learned my lesson. But now I have to suffer the consequences.

I look at you, timid and wide-eyed, as you speak. When you say 25 strokes is not really enough, my already ashen face looks even more despondent. But then you give me the slightest glimmer of hope –– "not completely unfair," you say –– and a tiny flame of optimism sparks in my chest. Optimism that you will beat me 25 times. It is a strange form of optimism in a little girl but it is a product of my circumstances. It is the best I can hope for.

And then you say what will come after that. And I feel faint. My knees almost start to wobble. ("Needles, Laur', that means he's gonna poke through your nipples with big, thick needles.") My mind searches for an answer. For an antidote. The most basic, primal options run through my head. I could run –– run away from you, into the dungeon, hide behind the equipment, avoid you. I could . . . I could . . .nothing comes. There are no other options. I can't escape. I can't yell for help. I can't overpower you. I have no options. My eyes are like glimmering saucers as I stare up at you. The walk to the dungeon is a blur to me. As I lie across the upturned U of the punishment bench, I try to will myself to survive. If I can survive this, maybe things can go back to being normal. "Normal" as in you are not horribly angry at me. Normal as in all we do is sex stuff and games and training. Normal as in you are not going to beat an pierce me and hurt me a lot. ("A whole lot, Laur'. It's gonna hurt more than anything ever.") I emit a little moan of worry as I yearn for the normality of eating pizza from the floor and making love to your butt hole with my mouth and tongue. I force myself to concentrate and listen to your instructions carefully. I don't want to screw up and prolong my punishment. My mindset is survival. I need to survive this. Here. Now. Today. I'll never lie to you again. I already know that. If I can survive my punishment this will never happen again. There won't be any need. So I listen.

The wait for you to begin is excruciating. I can't see with you behind me. I interpret every little sound as the start of my flogging. My bottom clenches and releases as I imagine the cane whipping down on my exposed, upturned cheeks. For several minutes you prepare –– testing the air, warming up your arm. My heart is racing. My slender back rises and falls quickly as I pant on the bench. I feel so exposed. Part of me wants you to start while the rest of me fears it with every fiber of my being.

And it begins. The first stroke of the cane is like a brand across my pert, preteen bottom. But before that, the whippy cane cuts the air, with a high-pitched "Throooooooos" sound, ending in a "fffhip" as it strikes my exposed, 5th-grader cheeks. The impact causes me to tense and jerk in my binds. But I can't move much. My muscles flex and my tendons tighten as a fiery, impossible, torturous pain travels at light speed to my brain. I jiggle from side to side making a pained "Unnh unh unh unh unh" sound, but not crying out.

I recite my mantra, all three parts of it, in the high-pitched, unhappy, rushed and panty voice of a little girl in severe pain. "I'm s-sorry for cheating!" I say in a breathless, pain-filled rush. Oh am I sorry. I've never been more sorry for anything, ever. "I deserve to be punished!" I practically yell, as another layer of pain reverberates from my exposed, upraised child bottom. "P-please give me (gasp) . . . another stroke."

The second lash hits my little cheeks like a fiery brand, and I yip in pain. Tears start to drip from my eyes to the ground below as I jerk and twist in my binds. My words are rushed and pain-filled but it distracts me just a bit from the agony to say them. I have to concentrate.

My beating continues. It lasts for so long. The mantra takes so long to repeat. You have to guide me, remind me –– it is impossible for my little mind to remember to say all three of the mantras so many times. But you don't let me miss a line. I say them through my tears. Through my whimpers. My voice is strained now, from being upside down, head down, on the punishment bench.

It goes on and on. By the 5th stroke, I am crying out with pain. I can't help it. It hurts soooo bad. "Aiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" I shriek on stroke seven as you intersect the lines. "Waaaah haaaa haaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" I squeal, wriggling and twisting. But I can't escape the pain. It is unrelenting. Fierce. Like an animal gnawing on my buttocks. My voice starts off strong and vigorous, but soon gets ragged and hoarse as I scream and shriek and wail like the little girl I am.

My backside is like Hell on earth. It throbs an aches and sings with pain. Each "fffhip" of the cane adding to the wealed, colored texture of my middle-schooler buttocks until they look like hamburger. I begin to tire. My voice starts to fail. But I am not even halfway through. When I think back on my beating much of it will be a blur. But right now, it is not a blur. It is blinding, horrible pain.

I can't say the words. My mouth moves but nothing comes out. Hoarse whispers. Halting. I'm flagging now. I need a lot of help. Once-familiar words are hard to remember. Through it all my bottom seethes with fiery pain.

When it is over, I am too tired to move. I lie there on the bench, draped across its sloping contours, spent, exhausted. I look so tiny straddling the padded bench. My upturned bottom is red and welted and mangled. A kaleidoscope of colors. I am close to shutting down. The pain in my bottom is unrelenting. I'll never lie to you again, that much is sure.

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