21. Needles(s) Lesson

Marcus

Eventually, I tire of waiting, of watching you limp and barely conscious on the bench and I make you get up. I don't carry you. I want you to walk, I want you to have to walk. I want you to know, as I give you a push, not holding your hand or anything, that this is not over. You've been punished for cheating. You will now be punished for lying to me. Only then it is over. Only then you will get anything but cold, disappointed and displeased distance and resentment from me.

I lead you into the surgical room. I make you lie on your belly first, on a disposable sterile paper sheet on the operating table, and I very gently dab and clean your butt. I apply soothing, cooling antiseptic, clean it up as best as can be, checking that none of the lines are bad enough to permanently mark or scar you. I put a moistened pad onto the chair that looks very much like dentist's chair, in which you've already been even though you have no recollection of it. I make you lie down. I know it hurts to have your butt touching it, but you'll just have to deal with it. At least you're almost horizontal and there's not much pressure on your butt, and it has that soft, damp, cool, antiseptic pad between it and the (mercifully) padded chair.

I strap you down. Legs, arms, hands, belly. There are lots of straps to hold you.. There's a special collar grip that will keep your head in place. There.

The kit for piercing is ready. Two silver rings, large, thick metal, and almost three quarters of an inch in diameter each, are ready. And two sterile, thick, big, slightly-bent piercing needles. I give you a drink of sugary water with a splash of lemon. I command you to do your breathing routine (“in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four”) . . . a few times.

"I would be very disappointed if you fainted on me. It's a punishment after all," I muse as I wipe the whole of your chest with ethanol and gasoline mixture, repeatedly, then with a gentler antiseptic, too, just to make it all completely clean and sterile. I'm a sadist, but not a butcher, and I want this to heal clean, well, and fast.

I unwrap the first of the needles and spray the gentler antiseptic on it even though it is thoroughly sterile as is.

"Never. Ever. Lie. To. Me. Again," I say, gravely, seriously. "Swear on the lives of your little brothers that you never, ever will," I demand. And we both know that with what I know about your family, with how easily, efficiently I made you disappear, that's not an oath you should take lightly. It is in my powers to take their lives, should it come to it.

"Swear," I insist. I will force you to say those words, no matter what the cost. If you are unwilling, I'll take some straight needles out, syringe needles, and show you what I can do with those first, if that's what it takes. But I will make you say those words.

Laura

I lie on the upturned U of the punishment bench, exhausted, panting softly, lost in pain and the trauma of what just occurred. My 11–year–old bottom burns in agony. I've never felt anything like it before. The caning I endured a few days ago seems like a mild spanking in comparison. It is like someone has started a fire right on top of my butt. My rounded little cheeks look marred and disclored as they throb and ache and burn.

You pull me down from the bench and my bare feet hit the floor, sending a jolting, shockwave of pain into my buttocks. I barely manage to stay on my feet. I gasp aloud with pain. Even the act of standing causes a mild flexion in my butt cheeks that brings a fresh, searing pain to my striped backside. I feel wet back there, and I know without looking that it is blood. ("Don't look back there, Laur', don't look back or you'll faint.") I shudder with the knowledge that my bottom is flayed enough to bleed. I can't imagine what it looks like, but I don't want to see. Oh, how I wish I hadn't lied to you!

I know what awaits me in the surgical room. My skin feels cold and my legs wobbly as you push me in that direction, causing me to move my legs quickly to stay upright, which in turn causes my bottom to flash with pain. I wince and gasp. Everything hurts. And I'm so tired. It's hard to be flogged, especially when you're only 11. It's hard to say the mantra so many times, and have the beating go on for as long as it did. It seemed endless to me. An endless beating. Indeed, it took over an hour, and the toll it took on the rest of my body is evidenced in my fatigue, my shuffling steps, and my questionable balance. My entire body is sore,my butt is absolutely killing me, and my mind is dead tired.

I don't fight you as you assist me onto the table. I'm too tired to fight. Too resigned to my fate. My only focus now is on survival. Surviving this ordeal. The stuff you put on my butt is cool, and it relieves some of the burning almost instantly. I gasp in pain a few times as you dab at the angry, raised red weals –– especially the intersecting points, where the first layer or two of my skin has been flayed off.

I know what you plan to do, but I am too tired to resist as you turn me and I settle –– with a moan of pain –– onto my back and bottom in the chair. "Unhhh . . . uhhhh . . . uhhhhh," I gasp, as some of my weight comes to rest on my torn little butt. I am completely passive as you strap me in ("It's better this way . . . it will be better if you can't move," I tell myself). But I am shaking. Terrified. I have survived the first part of my punishment –– barely –– but I'm not sure I can get through this. Not sure at all.

I see you take out the piercing kit, and I close my eyes. I don't want to see it. Needles make me faint. Blood makes me faint. I whimper with dread. "Mmmmnnnnn . . . unhhhh." I've never felt so helpless. Before today I was aware, in concept, that you could do anything you wanted with me, or to me. But now I know, now I understand, what that means. What it means to be completely, utterly, totally helpless at your hands. How you can hurt me and hurt me and hurt me some more. For hours if you like. And I can't do a thing about it. Not a thing, except suffer. There is nobody to help me. Nobody to save or rescue me. Nobody even knows I am here.

I moan and whimper as you clean my chest. The liquid evaporates quickly, leaving me cold, making me shiver. My nipples erect, the tiny nubs stiffening on my utterly flat, undeveloped, preteen chest. I lean my head up to take a sip of the lemony sugar water. I don't want it, but I drink anyway. You want me to. So I do. It is that simple.

It terrifies when you say you don't want me to faint, like you know how much this will hurt –– like you've done it before. But I do my breathing exercises ("They'll help you, Laur’. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe"). It doesn't help much. My shivers have become trembles. Little-girl trembles of utter fear. When you take the needle out my eyes bulge and I moan in fright. It looks like a nail to me. It's not a needle, but a rod. A rod with a pointy end, bent in a sinister way. I can't take my eyes off it. I want to throw up. But somehow I manage to keep my tummy under control.

I watch as you spray the needle. And then look up at you, terror etched on my face, as you warn me about lying. A small, tiny glimmer of hope makes me wonder if you'll call the whole piercing thing off. Maybe it's just a bluff, to scare me? And then . . . then you mention my brothers. My adorable little brothers Calvin and Jeremy. Both younger than I. Innocent. Rambunctious. Cute. Little-boyish. You wouldn't . . . you couldn't . . . (my eyes go wide with shock, and absolute, cold-blooded terror) . . . you wouldn't . . . hurt them? Would you? Oh please no no no no no NO NO! My head spins with worry. You made me disappear. Brought me here. You know everything about me. You know things about my family. Things I didn't tell you. I don't even live with my brothers –– they live with Daddy while I pursue my modeling career with Mom. How do you know about them? How much do you know? You wouldn't hurt them? If you do I'll . . . I'll . . . (I stare into your eyes, petrified). There is nothing I can do. There is nothing I can do to protect them. I know what you are capable of. I shiver in fear –– not for myself, but for them.

My brain flashes with anger. I don't want to swear on my brothers' lives! I don't want them to be part of this. You can hurt me or kill me if you want, but please please please please don't hurt Calvin or Jeremy. They're too little. They didn't do anything! They won't understand!

I look panicked. I shake my head no –– my desire to protect Calvin and Jeremy outweighing my fear of you, my fear of pain, my fear of needles, and of consequences. It actually is a brave act from a recently flogged 5th–grader. But I don't see it quite that way. I just can't imagine anything happening to my little brothers. I would give my life for them. I love them more than anything on earth. I've loved them since they were born. I've helped to take care of them. Watched them. Played with them, even when they were brats. I even helped change Jeremy's diapers when he was really little. They can't be part of this nightmare. I won't let them be. You can do anything you want to me but not that. Not that. I won't allow it!

I look up at you, my lower lip almost inverted in a sad, defiant, pouting frown. Not my little brothers. Not them. Not ever. "Leave my little brothers alone!" I order you defiantly, my voice hoarse and raspy, but spirited. I stare directly into your eyes so that you know I'm serious. Dead serious. I'm determined to stare you down. I won't compromise. Not on this.

Marcus

Your response stuns me. Just when I thought you have been beaten into utter submission. Damn, girl. Seriously?! The resistance is unexpected and your anger triggers anger in me: dark and a lot less helpless than your anger. When I speak, it comes out almost as a growl.

"You will swear on their lives never to lie to me again. It is in my power to leave you, for a couple days, come back, and bring you their heads," I say with total resolution. "And there is nothing you can or possibly could do to stop me," I say bluntly. "For you, there's nothing but here, this, me. I know your family, I know lots about your family. I know the address. Which school they go to. And more," I tell you directly and quite truthfully. I did my homework, I did indeed. "And you," I say even as I slap you, "will call me sir, and will not even attempt to command me," I say.

"I have all the time in the world, and as many needles as can fit into your body..." my voice echoes a bit in this under-furbished, steel- and-ceramic-equipped space with little to no soft furnishings, a place that is made for cleanliness and sterility. I take a needle, not the piercing one, but a normal one, straight and hollow, press the tip against the outer edge of your areola. Push it in, slowly. Wiggle the tip a bit while it's inside. Push out some half an inch away. It's not a long needle, almost a third of it is inside you this way. I take another one out, slightly bigger. I prick your skin a few times, without going in, without drawing blood -- just to wreck your nerves further -- and then the point sinks in. Pauses. Moves. Pauses. Moves. Pauses. I take my time. Then emerge, almost an inch away from the insertion hole, pushing out. Like the previous one, I keep the needle in.

"Now this," I say calmly, didn't really hurt. "This was a light warm up." I take another smallish needle, hold it in my left hand and with my right hand, I take the alcoholic wipe and clean your pussy. Thoroughly. The alcohol stings, it never got hit quite bad enough to bleed, but the skin is abraded and bruised by several of the cane strokes, I can see at least three just from here, and I know the alcohol stings. I take another such wipe and clean up the toes on your left foot. Very thoroughly, especially their fronts though, near the toenails, and the sole of your feet. Your sensitive, intensively innervated, smooth, soft little feet.

I tease with a needle tip along the sole of your foot, and eventually find a good spot on the instep. "I suggest you don't wiggle your toes too much and don't curl up your feet. You could hurt yourself further," I warn you even though I'm intending to place the needle sideways and just right – not too deep, but deep enough not to tear your skin even if you strain it. What happens next is an extreme of needleplay. I don't think any person in their right mind, even if they are into this stuff, would let themselves be pierced there consensually. You, however, don't get a choice. I push the needle in and through. It actually makes me hiss in empathic pain; I can imagine I myself would not even remotely like this myself, not one bit.

I pause.

"The oath. Next comes your pussy. Then I start sticking them under your toenails. By the time I've pushed one through your clit, you will be ready to swear to murder them yourself, so why not spare yourself some of the pain while you still can, and stop being a very, very silly girl? It's a fair oath. You don't want me to do anything to your brothers, I don't want you to lie. You never lie, I never touch them. Simple. This game has no other end than you budging;" I say. "Even if I have to take a candle and heat those needles up to burn you on the inside, to burn you, even if you pass out on me and I have to shake you awake a hundred times over, this only has one possible result," I say confidently and I know it's the truth. I know techniques that would make soldiers, secret agents speak, I could water-board you, for fuck's sake. Maybe I will. This is a breaking point, this is a key moment, unlike the small, bitty conditioning, here and now I have the power to alter your personality in a single blow. If you make the oath, I'll have every reason to trust everything you say from then on. And I will have broken a very important part of your resistance.

I take an extra large, extra long needle and show it to you up close. I take it out of its case and actually point it at your eye from quite close, just to make you feel super squeamish. And then I move down to your pussy and touch your left outer pussy lip with my finger near the opening of your vagina. "This way in." I then touch very high up, almost your mound, well above your clitoris.

"This way out."

I pause. I give you a chance to stop this now. After all, you are a fifth grader, and while this is exciting, done like this, it's not erotic per se; not even to a fucked up, messed up guy like me. I won't be stared down, commanded, I won't give up. Won't settle for any less. But perhaps you can sense from me, that on some level I don't really want to continue this . . . butchery.

Damn it! I grab the needle and the tip touches your soft, tender flesh, about to disappear inside you and run through most of your soft, tender, sensitive nether lip. I stare into your eyes. My anger and determination have killed any empathy or compassion that could have stopped me. I will not stop this. Will you?

Laura

I don't care what you do to me. I don't care how much you beat me or how bad my bottom hurts. I love my little brothers with all my heart. I won't let anybody hurt them, or . . . I can't even bear the thought of them dying, because of me. I can't swear on their lives. I just can't. I won't. You can't make me.

When you threaten to bring their heads here, to this place, I look helpless. Angry, frustrated, desperate, and helpless. I emit a little whimper and form the word "please" silently as I look at you in horror. I want to tell you how innocent and sweet they are, how they didn't do anything, how they wouldn't understand, how scared they'd be. But it occurs to me rather abruptly that you simply couldn't care less. You could snuff out their lives in an instant, just as you could with me at any time. You would cut their heads off! You would do it. I've never felt so helpless and scared. I can't let you. Anything you do to me is fine. But you can't, CAN'T bring them into this. You can't hurt them. They're too little. They're just little boys, eight and six. They wouldn't understand any of this. My head snaps to the right and I see stars as you slap me. I almost –– almost –– thank you. But I am in full-blown defiance mode, and I suppress the urge, overruling my training.

My eyes are wide as saucers as you bring the first needle out. ("No, not needles, not needles!" I say to myself) My little body trembles as you show it to me, my eyes wide and terrified. The needle petrifies me. It is the physical manifestation of one of my greatest fears. My chest and tummy rise and fall rapidly as I hyperventilate. As you bring it to my little areola I moan in fear. Every part of me wants to surrender. But loyalty and love for Calvin and Jeremy overcomes the urge. I would give my life for them. I can't let you hurt them. I HAVE to win this.

"Noooo," I whimper softly as you push the needle in my skin, causing my face to contort in a horrified, terrified, little-girl boo-boo expression. I watch, my eyes almost crossed, as the needle penetrates my skin and you wiggle it there. "Unnnnhhhhhh," I moan, softly, my mouth open in a silent scream of pain and fear. It hurts physically. But the psychological pain is even worse.

I gasp for breath. Looking away. I can't bear to see. Having a needle stuck causally through my skin like a piece of fabric is a horror of a new dimension. It is going THROUGH me. Inside me. And it hurts. It stings and feels weird and oddly pinches the skin there. It's not as painful as the cane, but in my mind it is on a whole new and higher level of disturbing. I can see a droplet of blood at the entry point, and I feel faint.

I look back to see you preparing the second needle and, like a voyeur, I watch as you first prick me –– my muscles flinching reactively –– and then push it through my skin. My body is arched in my binds, as much as the ligatures allow, despite the added pain that shoots through the flayed skin of my bottom. "Unnnnhhhhh! Unnnnnnhhhhhhh!" I whimper, my mouth and eyes open wide, the latter like saucers. "No no no no nooooo," I whisper, gasping, as it pushes through, slowly, further, further, further. I can feel it moving, penetrating my flesh. I cannot look away. It is like a slow-motion nightmare.

I am panting in pain now. Pain and fright. My bangs are matted to my forehead with perspiration. I gasp at the sharp, burning pain in my little cunny as you apply the alcohol. I swallow, my lower lip quivering. ("Not there, oh God, please! Not there.") My resolve starts to crumble. I have to be brave. I can't let you hurt Calvin and Jeremy! I can't swear on their lives. I can't let you cut their heads off. I won't!

As you move to my feet I try to wiggle my toes away, but you just grasp my slender, soft little foot in your hand and clean it, then warn me against movement. I shake my head no in horror. My expression is one of dread and fear and desperation. I make tiny whimpered sounds of anticipation as you find a spot and begin to push the needle in.

My expression is one of surprise, mostly, as this needle finds a new dimension of pain, a different time zone from the ones in my chest. "Unnhhh –– ahhhhh – eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" I squeal, giving into the pain, thrashing in my binds. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" I shriek, hoarsely, my face a surprised, horrified, rictus of pain. I start to pant like I've just finished a foot race. "Unnnnh unnnnhh unnnhh," I whimper, in a high-pitched, very distressed, agonized little-girl voice. That needle hurt! It hurt bad. Really bad. I bite my lower lip with resolve.

The next needle is so long. So awful-looking. And you show it to me up close. I can't look away, even as my body trembles and I writhe in my binds from the terrible, awful, horrible sensations coming from the nerves in my little foot. Those nerves are very irate, and they remind me thousands of times a millisecond just how unhappy they are to have a needle pushed through them. My entire foot –– not just the needle source, but the entire bottom of my foot is throbbing in pain like I've been clubbed there with a hammer. A sort of pain and numbness and sharp throbbing that I've never felt before.

The pain is horrific. Yet I can't, CAN'T be disloyal to Calvin and Jeremy. I can't let you hurt them. Your words reverberate in my mind. "It's a fair oath" you said. No, it's not. It's not fair. They're too little. They didn't do anything. It's not FAIR! I whimper helplessly as you show me the entry and exit points for the needle on my little pussy. I shake my head no, no, no. Please. My eyes wet with yet another round of tears. They beg you. Please don't, they say . . .

Images of my playful, adorable, six- and eight-year-old little brothers flash through my mind as you press the needle to my tender pussy. I have to be loyal to them! I can't let you hurt them. "OK," I say in a desperate, horrified, hyperventilating voice of surrender. ("Nooooooooooooooooo!" I chastise myself. "You just killed them!"). Tears of shame and guilt flood my eyes. "I'll say the oath, pleeeeaaase" I sob, my expression mortified, as a feeling of disloyalty, failure, and dread numbs my bound, naked little body.

Marcus

You have resistance in you. Oh yes you do, little girl. Well . . . fuck that. All the merrier the job of ripping every last ounce of it from inside you. And as I put the needles in you, and you tense and whimper and squirm, I see your confidence, your resolution crumble, dissolve, fall apart. It doesn't even take that long. Showing you that needles can be truly and horribly painful, not just in your fearful imagination, but in real life, too, as I force one into your sole. That was a nice touch. And it seemed to have worked.

By the time I make it to your pussy, you seem ready to collapse, on the verge of a heart attack, it's good that you are young and healthy and in your own way, strong. Thing about this kind of pain is that it is exactly the nagging, horrific sort of pain that doesn't make you pass out or shut down, it's the awful, attention-drawing pain that makes you unable to think about anything else, keeps you from zoning out, tortures you without giving your brain the option to just conveniently fade into nothingness.

And then, you budge. The last remaining bits of your stubbornness crumble as I show you the large needle and lower the point to your pussy, about to skewer it right through. I look at you, gravely, firmly. I don't nod yet. Don't let go off the needle. This is not over until you have actually said those words. I decide to help you with the wording.

"I, Laura Vandahl, a slave to master Marcus, swear to never ever lie to my master again. Not once. Not for any reason. I swear so on the lives of my little brothers, Calvin and Jeremy." I say it and then look at you, mouthing the word "repeat" as I start saying it again, piece by little piece so you can repeat it, precisely like that, no wiggle space, no grey-zone fuzziness allowed, no bullshit or loopholes smuggled in. You lie to me, they die. Simple. Each time you think of lying to me from this moment on, images of your little brother's lopped-off, severed heads will emerge in your imagination. Odds are, even if you tried to lie to me, you would simply choke on those words.

Out there, in the Big Wide World, there are degrees to things. There's shades between good and bad and sometimes even between correct and wrong. There's compromises, negotiations. Unforeseen complexities emerge in human-to-human interactions. Down here, I get my way. I have all the power, you have none. I set the limits. You may have limits, or think you do, but those boundaries are nothing but imaginary lines that I can cross at will.

Up there there would be serious limits to what I can do, likely, physical coercion would not ever have been an option. Down here? I can play this game until I win. I make the rules. I make the game. I can just keep looking for more sensitive spots, for bigger needles, for nastier ways of putting them into you; with something as invasive, horrifying as a needle, it only takes a little to make a massive difference. A tiny little wiggle when going through innervated sensitive flesh. A moment's hesitation before the needle re–emerges. Letting you -- or rather making you -- watch when I know you are super–squeamish about needles. Putting one into your foot, the sole of it, which is tender and sensitive and really not made for an inch of metal to run underneath your skin, invading your body's integrity in such an unsubtle, awful way.

For a moment, a sort of conscience flicks through my consciousness, through my mind. A realization that this is really fucked up, this is the worst of the worst, lowest of low I could possibly sink; it is physically, drastically torturing a child out of even a sexual context. With no real joy involved on either side apart from my grim satisfaction of knowing, all along, the result of this battle. It's not even about you and me, about our personalities, our physiques . . . if we swapped, right here and now, if you had the guts to do the same back to me, I wouldn’t bet a dime on my own tough ass. Fuck. I've had a needle under my toenail once, and thank you very much, never, ever fucking again if I can help it. I've witnessed such scope of pain in my life that I no longer believe that death is the worst possible option. Sometimes, a quick clean death is the best we can hope for. When real pain walks in, all religious, humanistic, ethical stuff just becomes a pile of bullshit. Between extreme suffering and death, death is easily the favorable option, especially if the suffering leads to death anyway. But for you "opting out," ending the game, is not an option. And I know it. And that's how I know I cannot lose. Even if this should get to a point where I myself feel queasy and sick. I don't want your pussy pierced with a needle, I realise. Your butt is out of order for days now, and I'm gonna want sex. If you somehow don't repeat the words after me smoothly, I'll reach for the fucking dental drill. There.

You can't read thoughts, but you can sense emotions, read expressions. And mine is one that basically tells you that not doing what you okayed, what you actually begged to be allowed to do, I think you realize now, would be among the top, or rather "bottom," ten shittiest ideas of your entire life.

Laura

I lie there, strapped naked to the surgical chair, bound, virtually immobilized, completely helpless. Two needles protrude from my chest, near my nipples, and one from the sole of my foot. I am panting, hyperventilating. My face is pale, my forehead most with perspiration. My chest and tummy rise and fall with deep breaths. My body trembles uncontrollably every few seconds.

I did my best. I tried. Really, I did. You found the one thing in my life that is most dear to me: my love for my little brothers. A love so deep, so unconditional, that I was able to muster the fortitude –– at age 11 –– to stand up to one of my greatest fears out of loyalty to them. I endured the sight and the pain of needles pressing slowly, relentlessly, into my soft, tender, preteen skin. All to protect Calvin and Jeremy. To prevent them from being dragged into this Hell. So preserve their innocence, playfulness, and love of life.

All it took was three needles. Three needles and I folded like a house of cards. I sold Calvin and Jeremy down the river like I didn't care about them at all. And now I have to take an oath, on their lives, on their heads, that I won't lie again.

My family isn't big into religion. We go to church only sporadically, on holidays, special occasions. I'm not a big one for prayer –– although I've even been trying that since I've been down here. But oaths and solemn promises and "swearing to God" are things that I take seriously. You just don't break those. If you break those, bad things happen.

I look up at you with a pained, pale, defeated, teary–eyed expression of horror as you state the words that I must repeat. Drawing it out. Adding detail so that there is no wiggle room, no opportunity for equivocation. For a brief moment, as you speak, I am about to renege, to shake my head and scream "No!" and start the process all over again.. But I can't. ("You're worthless, Laura. You don't care about Calvin and Jeremy," I taunt myself, adding to my misery.) At the end of the day, I'm just a little girl. 11 years old. In the 5th grade. Like all children, I respond to negative reinforcement like pain. Pain wrought by needles pressed into soft, tender flesh. And psychological pain, like the knowledge that you have lots more needles, and lots more time. Depending on the child, sometimes it takes a bit longer for the message to sink in. But given enough time, and enough pain, no child can resist forever. Not many adults could, either.

Giving in, on this issue, now, breaks me. Despite all I have been through these past few days, I have maintained a certain private dignity, indulged in a certain misguided belief that there were limits to what I could be made to do. Limits to what I would allow. But now I know different. There are no limits down here. There are no norms, or restrictions, or conventions to govern what you can do to me. Your word is law. Your power over me is absolute. To the extent that I ever thought your conduct would be self–regulated by a sense of compassion or mercy, that thought is gone now, too. You can and will do exactly what you want and you always will get your way. It's as simple as that. I understand that, now. I didn't before.

I struggle through the words of the oath. Every syllable pains me. Images of Calvin and Jeremy –– those goofy, crazy, annoying little boys I love so much –– race through my brain. So many times I had vowed to protect them with my own life, if necessary. And now, in the moment of truth, I have failed, not only failed to protect them, but actually put them in danger. Grave danger. One–misstep–away–from–death danger. There is not the slightest shred of doubt in my mind that you would take them. Abduct them. Kill them. Behead them, and bring their little heads here, to me, to see what I have done. The thought brings a cold, constricting chill to my naked little body. I feel crushed. Worthless. Horrible.

I repeat the oath, phrase by phrase. My eyes are closed. My words reluctant, halting, soft, raspy, defeated, pained. "I . . . Laura V–Vandahl . . . a s–slave to m–master Marcus, swear to never ever . . . lie to my master . . . again. (Gasp) Not once. Not for any reason. I swear so (my voice rises in a crescendo of emotion) on the l–lives of my little brothers, Calvin and Jeremy." When I am done, I lie there, thoroughly defeated. My eyes are closed, but the tears manage to squeeze out beneath my eyelids and roll down my cheeks. I don't care if I live or die.

Marcus

There. ‘Tis done. The words have been said. What a music to my ears. If any qualms emerged about hurting you this much, they're all gone now. All gone. I would do it again, and more, worse, to reach this point. To see your will break, utterly and completely.

It's good to be pretty much sure that you will never knowingly lie to me again.

It's even better to know that this was likely a thing you thought you'd never ever do, this was an absolute no-no, a hard limit, and therefore a learning experience that showed you that there are no no–nos, no absolute limits down here. I feel . . . exulted. Elated. Uplifted and deeply, profoundly satisfied on an almost spiritual level.

I nod. "There's a good girl. I accept your oath. And from this moment onwards, I only ever expect to hear the truth from you."

And then, to affirm it, I push the thick, bend, sharp needle through your left nipple. In from the right, near the root, piercing the line between your nipple itself and the areola, going deeper a bit, perfectly horizontally, sure-handed, watching your skin strain and arch as the needle pushes from inside out and then emerges, with some blood, and I pull the needle through. I slide the ring in it's place. Clip it closed. Solder the safety in, making it irremovable. Smoothen and clean it all.

You are collapsed, apathetic, and I don't like that one bit, sure that the pain, a whole new level of it would stir you up again. It's a big, major victory for me, though of course it comes at a cost. You've seen the truly dark me and the depth of its determination. Your attachment to me will for ever be tinged with this experience, this fear, this realisation just how cruel I can be. But then . . . at the end of the day, even with you being so cute and all, I brought you in here for fucking and physical abuse, to get my rocks off. Not for lovey–dovey stuff.

I give you another sip of the sugary water. Whether you like it or not, I force a few gulps now your throat. I make you breathe again. Take the second needle.

"Today was the last time in your life you lied to me. You now see that it is futile, it is stupid, it is wrong, it is . . . dangerous, and now, it would also be oath-breaking. Breaking of a very serious oath," I state grimly and repeat the process that you're now painfully familiar with. I push the needle through, slowly, mindfully, consciously, accurately. Tss! Nurse? I could have been a surgeon. Look at the precision! The rings are equally high. Perfectly horizontal. Each equally deep in its own nipple. They look gorgeous on you. And they don't even bleed too much. I spray a special after–piercing antiseptic that will also slow the bleeding and speed up the healing. Or so it says on the expensive little bottle, anyway.

I unstrap you. Wipe your tears. Help you up onto your unsteady legs. Offer you more of the sugary water. I lead you into the dungeon, away from this creepy, freaky, sterile place and only once the door is closed and we're in the more familiar setting, I squat down and look at you, giving you the first little smile in a good long while.

"The punishment is done. It's over. I have not, and will not forget what you have done, but you are forgiven. Clean start. I'm no longer mad. You get a chance to go on like it never happened, apart from your . . . reminder," I eye the gorgeous-looking rings in your nipples. I always wanted to pierce and mark a little girl as my own. You gave me the perfect excuse. "I'd give you a hug, but you would not like that just now, believe me," I wink at the raw, freshly pierced nipples. Instead I take your head in my palms, softly, and kiss you, gently. All is well. You survived. You made it through, and now . . . we can start writing a new chapter.

"Now . . . you might need to lie on your side to rest," I note as I let your cell door open, as right now, neither belly nor butt are really suitable for that purpose. "I'll bring you a snack." I leave you to just rest for some half an hour, but then I'm back. With a super–smoothie, some fruits, a Greek honey-flavoured yogurt, some biscuits. Stuff that should raise your blood sugar and help get over the exhaustion. There's water, too. And a cup of weak black tea, should you want some.

"Eat. Drink," I encourage, and sit on the side of bed, giving you time to wake up from your own personal nightmare made real, that you have just been through.

Laura

My eyes are full of tears as I betray my brothers with my words, and I look away from you, with an unhappy little whimper of shame. I am so distraught that I have temporarily forgotten the punishment for lying, the punishment that you spelled out, the punishment involving my dime–sized, undeveloped, pink little–girl nipples. I turn back to look just as you grasp my left nipple, bulge it slightly outward, and skewer it at the root with the needle. My mouth gapes open in surprise, and I arch in my binds as a wave of blinding pain washes over my body.

"Aiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" I shriek, my voice raggety and hoarse. I see stars. "Unnnh unnnh unnnnnh!" I gasp in pain, as you slide the ring in place. My mouth is wide open. I see blood. I feel . . . strange, light–headed. I slump in the surgical chair, and my eyes roll back for a moment, then return, unfocused. I look dazed. "Uhhhh," I gasp, almost as a question, the pain unfathomable. I am panting, my nipple burning, aching with pain.

You force my head up, and I groan, but my mouth opens and I gulp a small swallow of the sugary water, then another, and another. Some of it dribbles down my chin as I moan and turn away, my head slumping back. "Unnnh . . . unnnnh . . . unnnnh," I moan in pain, looking dazed. I look into your face as you speak, but my eyes seem distant, as if focused on a point two feet beyond your head. "Uhhhhhh," I moan as you take the other needle in hand. I arch in my binds again, my mouth open in a silent scream, as you grasp my right nipple and drive the needle deep into my tender, preteen flesh. "Unnnnnhnnnnhhhhh," I moan, in agony, as new, shocked tears flood my eyes.

The unrelenting pain just keeps coming as you slide the second nipple ring in place and permanently secure it. My mouth opens and closes, like a fish or a baby bird, as my eyes fill with tears of pain. "Unnnh . . . unnhhh," I moan, panting, hyperventilating. It is difficult to describe the pain in my chest. Rather than a stabbing, cut–like pain, it feels like I have been hit on each nipple with a sledgehammer –– causing a deep–seated achiness –– and then spanked relentlessly in the same spot –– causing a sunburn–like burning sensation. The two kinds of pain combine into a symphony of unrelenting agony that causes me to moan with every exhale.

I continue to moan in pain, panting, occasionally grunting, as you unstrap me from the chair. I can't stand as you lift me down. It's not faked –– my legs feel like rubber and my brain is foggy. Nor do I have the will to stand. I take a sip of the sugary water as you hold me, slumped, off–balance. "Unnnhh . . . unnnnhhh," I moan, as I swallow, and gasp in some panty breaths. As you gently lift me upright again I manage to keep my footing, reaching for your arm, your shirt, to steady myself. I look a tiny bit better. But my chest continues to sing in pain as I continue to moan.

I walk slowly, pigeon–like, into the dungeon, the motion reminding me of the 25 strokes worth of damage my slender buttocks just suffered. I can't stop moaning: "Unnnnhhh . . . unnnhhh . . . unnnhhh." Everything hurts. My chest feels like someone karate–kicked me and I can feel the odd, foreign coldness of the steel rings as they dangle from my throbbing nipples. My bottom is raw, welted, and bloody in places. My cunny rubs and burns as I walk. I look pained and distant as you kneel down before me. Like I'm not fully there. There is no reaction as you kiss my head.

As we walk into my cell I moan, seeing the bed, wishing I was already on it, wishing that I didn't have to walk additional painful steps and climb up onto the mattress. Somehow I manage, and I lie down on my side with a sigh, away from you, then resume my moaning with metronomic regularity. "Unnhhhhh . . . unnhhh . . . unhhhhh." I am oblivious to your presence and take no note of your departure. I am lost in my own world of pain.

I don't actually sleep while you are gone, but my moaning abates over time, and the tears leave my eyes. My chest and bottom continue to throb, however, and I dare not even try to move. Moving causes pain. Moving makes it worse. Even the act of turning around to my other side is a struggle, when you return with food. I have no appetite. I'm not thirsty. My eyes are dull and defeated. I think I want to die.

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