22. The Tingle
Marcus
I look at you. You really look beat. Well . . . you are beaten, after all, and pierced. Two rings in your nipples, tiny holes left after needles that I slipped out so quickly and mindlessly when I finished the nipple piercings I don't even recall doing it. You look pitiable. But then . . . you cheated, and lied. And now you are hurt beyond caring for food, but I know better than that; your food income has already been way too patchy as it is.
"Kneel on the bed if you cannot sit, or just prop yourself up on your elbows and eat while lying down. But you will eat," I say firmly and push the things closer. You need nutrition, vitamins and sugar, so that your bloody can regenerate and heal. I kept you from passing out with sugary water, but that can only take you so far.
Training doesn't really look like an option; you are barely able to move, and you clearly would not remember a thing. It's lucky that it's only past noon and I can give you time to rest and regain strength and still come back for some fun later. I'm not letting you off that easy. I feed you. At one point, you look so shaky and weak I can't even bear it any more, and just spoon–feed you little bits of fruit with the sweet yogurt. Like a little baby. Mouthful after mouthful of energy, of nutrition, of sustenance.
There's one more thing I need to do before I go, taking all the dishes and leftovers with me, though I only carry them into the dining room for you to wash later. My dish–washing days down here are over. I take the antiseptic and dab your little aching bits with it once more. I glance at the clock on your bedside table to check that the time is correct, and adjust it when I see it's a little bit off.
"I'll be back in three hours and we will train. You have till then to rest. After that, you will get up and start behaving like I have taught you. Else I'll pull you out of the bed by those rings," I say. Oh yeah; that's the "bonus" advantage of having marked you this way; until they heal completely, I have a tool of guiding you and directing you with zero resistance. It would hurt too much to not give in. To not yield.
I leave, the door hissing closed after me, and since three hours is a good block of time, I actually do some work up above, including phone calls and emails. My usual brief visit to the town for fresh groceries swallows up more time then I expected, but given the circumstances, I don't expect you to mind my being some twenty minutes late when, dressed again in my comfy, lose, easy-to-strip-off dungeon clothes, I walk into your cell and clap my hands.
"Up, up, up on your feet!"
Laura
At your command I manage to prop myself up awkwardly on my elbow, scissoring my legs and bending at the knee for more purchase on the mattress. With a little moaning sigh I lean forward, toward you, trying to rest mostly on my hip and not my inflamed, swollen bottom. I don't look comfortable. Everything hurts.
I also look wan and tired. My eyes have a vacant, distant look to them. But I open my mouth obediently and begin to take the sustenance that you offer. I open, chew, and swallow robotically, showing no enthusiasm for my lunch.
Yet as the cool, refreshing yogurt hits my tummy, I perk up a little. I have no desire to eat, but I am hungry, and the calories refresh me. Focus returns to my eyes and I look at you, my mind re–engaging. "How can he be so nice now, after doing what he just did?" I think to myself. You no longer seem angry with me, yet less than an hour before you beat me almost senseless with the cane, ravaging my little bottom, enveloping me in pain. And then you jammed needles into my tender child flesh, twisting and moving them beneath my skin. The beating alone seemed endless to me –– my memory of it a jumble of thoughts: endless, endless recitations of the mantra, asking for more strokes, counting. And, of course, the fiery sting of the cane, the blinding pain, the horrifying hiss it made as it cut the air, as it sliced into my defenseless, upturned, 5th–grader bottom.
No, I do not understand you. Cannot understand you. Your moods swing so fast, from dark and terrifying to nice, almost tender, in the span of a few minutes. I know that the punishment was my fault. I brought it on myself. I cheated and lied. I did so knowing that there was a good chance that you would know, that you would catch me, yet I did it anyway. It was a foolish thing to do. I won't make that mistake again. I can't give you any reason to punish me. My real mantra going forward will be to do anything to avoid pain. And I can't lie. Never again. Not ever. Lying would be crazy. My body shivers as I contemplate the consequences of lying even as I open my mouth for another bite of yogurt.
As if from a distance, it occurs to me that it is an indignity to be fed this way, like a baby. But the thought leaves my mind almost as soon as it enters. Down here there is nothing but indignity. Six days ago I was a normal little girl, 11 years old. I ate with utensils, seated at a table, using my manners, eating mostly what I wanted to. I would be clothed, sitting on my pert, soft, milky–white, unblemished little bottom, in the company of my classmates, or my Mom, or Daddy and the boys. Up there I had friends, and parents, and teachers, and classmates, and Glenn. Down here, I eat from your fingers, or the floor, or however you wish to feed me, if you even decide to feed me. I eat what you provide to me, without choice, and I am well aware that dog food could be on the menu. I eat naked, while collared, and usually seated or on hands and knees on the floor. My only company is you. And it has been days since my bottom was milky white and unblemished. Now it is a swollen mass of raised, criss–crossing welts and abrasions, pink and purplish in color, shiny with ointment, and in places still oozing blood. Down here, indignity is normal. Just a few days into my captivity, being spoon–fed my lunch barely even makes the list. Eventually the thought probably won't even occur to me at all.
When you finish feeding me, I see you reach for the antiseptic. I wince, as a brief, sharp pain flares at my incision points, then recedes. I look down at my chest. The steel rings protrude from inside my body, and dangle down on my smooth, soft white skin. They horrify me. The way they go INSIDE me. Into my skin. Through holes that shouldn't be there. Into the flesh of my nipples. The skin around the incision points looks swollen and inflamed. It looks like somebody else's chest. But its not. It's mine. I know it's mine, because it throbs with pain. The rings dangle there, touching my skin with a metallic coldness, reminding me of the consequences of bad behavior.
When you depart, I sleep. My tummy is full now, and I am exhausted. My sleep is deep, and mostly restful, despite the fact that I awaken more than once as a sharp pain flares from my chest or my bottom. I try to stay on my side, but it is difficult not to move about. When I do, that’s when a damaged part of me touches the mattress and flares with pain.
I am still asleep when you return, and your claps and the sound of your voice awaken me with a startle. I crawl from the bed and stand, naked, collared, and rub my eyes. I am still half asleep, but I look rested, better, and to your studied eye, ready to resume my training.
Marcus
"There's something we need to look at. You get things fine in training sessions, but then you tend to forget yourself outside them. I'm not happy with that," I say, giving you a long, intense look. "You didn't thank me earlier," I say before I slap you.
"In the future, remember that being upset or afraid is something you can express; it's not like I expect you to not have emotions or to hide them. We've established truth–telling as the one and only way, after all, but they do not excuse you from doing as you are told, doing as you were trained. When I slap you, I want a loud, clear, thank you, sir, coming without hesitation."
I slap you again. And again. And once more. The remote for your dental electrodes in my left hand, and I make sure you notice it. I make sure that you know that even having pierced and caned you, I have other ways of causing more agony, more maddeningly intense pain. I can keep hurting you, limitlessly, and I can even do it in ways that don't cause lasting, visible damage. If you want to avoid pain, the one and only way is to play along, to obey, to please me.
"What do you say when I give you a command?" I ask, and we both know that you know very well, and also know that you've taken several instructions today without saying it. And so we drill that, too. I make you kneel. Bend over and kiss my feet. I make you march through the little cell like a soldier, an unimportant, almost mindless practice. Turn left. Turn right. Turn around. Step forward. Step right. Run the tap. Close the tap. Kneel. Get up. Hands up. Hands down... The only point is to make sure that your "yes, sir," becomes a part of your biology, like your breathing, like your heart–beat.
"If you over–use it, I'll let you know. For now, 'yes, sir', is the correct answer to almost anything I say, except when I ask you a question or tell your to say something else. Err on the side of caution, better to use it too much than not enough. We'll see if we can relax the rule later. Right now, I want it to become a habit. Something you do not forget, do not skip." I step towards you and grab your chin in my fingers.
"Your mantra. Kneel. Get up. Kneel. Get up. Kneel. Get up!" When you last get up, I slap you; they are light slaps, not intending to mark or really hurt you, slaps of shaming you into submission and obedience, because-I-can-slap-you slaps, slaps to make sure you say 'thank you, sir,' each and every single time I hit you.
"On your tiptoes," I command. "Heels of off the floor." Sounds kind of like back to square one of today. Only this time I'm here, watching. And failing to stay on your tiptoes despite the tiredness and pain and all of it would mean disobeying, and it would mean more pain.
I don't push you too much, this time not wanting you to fail. I allow you to "Relax, heels down," in under two minutes. It seems like we're in for the mind-fuck of the day. After all the pain, all the suffering, humiliation, as tired as you are now, you cannot possibly want to be on the receiving end of sexual pleasure, I believe, and yet, that's exactly where I'm taking you.
"Stand. Legs wide apart. Hands behind your back, but no, not loose, here, hold onto the foot of the bed. That'a'girl." I smear lube on your pussy, command you to close your eyes, breathe deeply and just stay put, no matter what. I leave the cell and I'm back in under a minute, with a vibrator that has a light buzz to it, but very high–pitched, quick, the kind that's good for forcing clitoral orgasms out of most females quite quickly.
"When you have an orgasm, when you cum, you tell me. Out loud. 'I came, sir, thank you, sir,'" I specify. "But you stay put. Be glad to be allowed a position in which neither your butt nor chest are strained and touching anything!" With that, I turn the toy on, it's “bzzzeeeet” sound resounding through the cell, and I start to work on your pussy. Outer lips, super–gently over wherever I left marks, but they are few and thin and easy to avoid, and don't seem to be going towards bruising here, opening of your pussy, pushing the tip in. Mound. Outer folds. Inner folds. "There's no such thing as too much of this," I state – a fact of life, not to be disputed – just as I move the toy right onto your clit. "Don't you dare squirm out of the way unless you wanna end up strapped down for this," I say. "Play nice, and I'll keep it nice." I use more lube, and I make sure that for now, the toy is buzzing against your tiny clit from above, through its little hood, not totally directly.
Laura
Your first slap takes me completely by surprise. Having just woken up, and just stepped groggily from my bed, I wasn't expecting it. It wasn't a huge blow, but it takes me unaware. I didn't do anything wrong, couldn't have made a mistake, yet. But then you tell me that I'm being punished for something I did earlier. Something I'd forgotten. Your slap doesn't hurt much, but I flinch, and wince, cringing in fear of another one. I manage to keep my arms and hands down though, despite my fears. It takes me a few seconds to realize what I did wrong, and a few more to realize I owe you another response. "Thank you, sir," I say, in a soft, hoarse voice.
I listen as you speak, on edge, cringing, with my arms at my sides, then with my hands clasped nervously in front of me, then at my sides again. I fear another slap, and I'm right: it comes –– not too hard, but hard enough to matter. I flinch and blink, my head turning slightly to the side. "Thank you, sir," I croak, as I notice the remote in your hand. My heart starts to race in my chest. ("Not the tooth thing, not that again . . . it hurts worse than anything," I think to myself). I make no move to protect myself –– other than wincing and blinking, and slightly turning my cheek, bracing myself, as your hand approaches. "Thank you, sir," I gasp, as you slap me for the third time. Another slap comes. Another timid "Thank you, sir" is my only response.
"Yes, sir," I answer, the correct response to your question, as we switch to drills. ("Oh no, please not more of the 'yes, sir' training, like when He makes me do all those silly things," I think to myself.) And then we begin. Command after command. Drill after drill. Response after response. On and on. Kissing your feet ("Use your tongue, Laur', the way He likes it," I remind myself), marching, bending, kneeling. I am amazed at your capacity for this activity, this mindless entertainment. Or it seems mindless to me. Mindless, but not painless, as my scorched buttocks flare with pain from the bending and kneeling, stooping and leaning. Bending and kneeling stretches the striped, welted skin of my bottom, causing me to wince and bite my lip with pain.
My new nipple adornments are particularly disconcerting. Surprisingly, they don't seem to hurt as much as I was sure they would, but they dangle and flop about on my chest, cold and foreign. They tug on my little nipples, too, with an annoying, unfamiliar heft. Just when I have momentarily forgotten they are there, I feel them flutter and flop against my skin once again. The incision points are red and raw–looking where the steel rings disappear beneath my skin, but they don't feel hurt as bad as they look –– just an occasional little tweak of pain here and there.
I freeze in place and stare at you as you grasp my chin, wide–eyed, instantly terrified that I have done something wrong. But you want the mantra. "There is nothing but this. There is no place but here. There is no one but you," I recite, in a nervous, little–girl voice. With a grimace of pain, I kneel, then rise, then kneel again. I rise, and you slap me. "Thank you, sir," I murmur, as I cringe in anticipation of another blow. It seems like my torment will never end.
Your next command is a recently familiar one, and not one I want to get wrong. I lift up on my tip toes, my arms out to either side. I bob down slightly and then up again, trying to find my balance ("Don't let your heels touch, please!" I remind myself). I moan as my calf muscles complain. Although I didn't last very long earlier, I still spent more time on my toes than ever before and my slender little legs are almost instantly tired from having to do it again so soon. I know that I won't last long and I start to panic. My expression is one of terror, and my body shakes as I try to stabilize my balance and remain upright. ("Oh please please please don't let them touch!")
But then your order me back down, and with a relieved whimper, I lower my heels to the floor and stand there, panting. My heart is racing. I wouldn't have lasted much longer. I spread my legs wide apart as you direct –– my ravaged backside flaring with pain as I do –– and place my hands behind me on the foot of the bed. My chest rises and falls quickly, as I nervously close my eyes and concentrate on breathing. I have no idea what is in store for me when you leave the room. ("That can't be good, Laur'. Can't be good. He's going to get a whip. Or a needle.") I dread your return. I manage to keep my eyes closed as you return, but I'm obviously very nervous about what you have in store for me. I listen to your words, and they're not what I expected. I'm going to have an organ– org . . . one of those thing? Like you do? When the cum stuff shoots out of your penis?
I hear the sound of something, a high–pitched buzzing, and my eyes flit open to see –– until I clamp them shut again with a nervous gasp. ("Did he see that? Did he see me open my eyes?") I caught only a glimpse. You had something in your hand. Something small. I couldn't make out what. My uncertainty over what it is makes it seem even more sinister to me. My body starts to tremble and shake in fear. I don't know what you have planned, but I know it's going to involve my pussy.
And then it touches me, there, on my bald little–girl parts, all buzzy and loud. It feels weird but it doesn't hurt. In fact, it tickles. Bad. I squirm a little, eyes closed, flinching, my body leaning a bit this way, then the other way, almost imperceptibly, just a tiny re-balancing on my spread feet, just enough to move my pussy a half of an inch left or right –– which of course doesn't do a thing to stop you. I bite my lip and suppress a little moan. It tickles. Feels weird. I flinch. ("Oooh it really tickles there!")
I flinch and shudder and gently lean, my body on edge, as you work the buzzy thing all over my 11–year–old cunny. My heart rate increases, as does my breathing. ("Oh God that tickles . . . oooh . . . oh God . . .ahhhh," I think to myself). Back at my old school, the boys and girls are just settling down at the start of Mrs. Van Dueselfdorf's art class. As you work my naked little quim with the vibrator, all of my friends (including Marissa Parker, Caroline Vargas, Robbie Waskowicz. Beverly Cain, and T.J. Taylor) are seated in their uniforms around the craft table, ready to start on the clay–kiln project. My disappearance has been a major topic of conversation all week, but now, as you pleasure my bald, preteen snatch with the vibrator, things are starting to go back to normal at my school.
I try to be quiet, and I think I am, but in reality I am making a medley of little noises. Sharp inhales. Spotty exhales. Tiny little grunts. Some sighs. An occasional moan. I am unaware of these sounds –– my entire, attention is focused on little pussy, trying to anticipate what you might touch next, where the buzzy thing might go.
When you warn me against squirming I try to stand still, but it's so hard, and my little grunts increase as you move to my special spot ("Oh God not there! Not there! It tickles so bad!") I exhale a moaning sigh, completely obliviously, as my child sex tickles with intensity. I bite my lip. I grip the foot of the bed with white–knuckled intensity. My tummy flexes in an out as the tingly, tickly, buzzy sensation builds down there, deep down inside me, under my special, private spot.
Marcus
Your yes-sirs and thank-you-sirs almost . . . stick in my ears, in a clingy, echoey kind of way, like too loud a sound, like bells of a church–tower that are always a shock of silence to be done and over with. I hope it's sinking in. I hope you're getting now. I hope. But not in a worried hopeful way, just . . . smug and slightly amused by the anticipation-of-things kind of way. If you fail, I'll just drill you some more, more intensively, with steeper positive and negative reinforcement in place. That's the theme of this game, I cannot lose it, and I know it, and that makes everything, even the little bumps and obstacles on the way, actually quite fun.
The place that the session has put me into is hard to describe, as it was kind of dull and involved nearly no physical pleasure but at the same time . . . there's something about it, something about the surreality of the drill, of your robot–like obedience, of your following each of the commands because you're too exhausted, too broken, too afraid not to. It still arouses me on some level. It puts me in a strange state, not quite sexually satisfying, but also not completely asexual, a weird drunkenness on my power and ability to control you, to mess with you, to be totally, absolutely and unquestionably in command.
I enjoy it, quite thoroughly actually, all the way through and all of your responses. Your natural submission and a near-inability to disobey is starting to crystallize in you and that fascinates me. Dull in essence or not, I could never actually tire of these session, or get bored. Oh no. You might wish so, hope so . . . but . . . nope. As simple as that. They mean too much to me, I pick up way too keenly on the underlying stuff to grow indifferent to all that's going on, to the changes these sessions make in you, to the way they shape you.
And now, after all that which seems mindless, which is kind of the point to it, to get these instincts into you in a non-thinking, pre-thinking way. To get you to a point where slapped awake, in the middle of the night, you will say, "thank you, sir," to the point where any command, no matter how weird, out of place, shocking, drastic, unexpected, will only ever get the one response "yes, sir," and obedience. Blind, pure, unexamined obedience.
And how better to fuck with you, after all this pain, physical as well as psychical, then to randomly, unexpectedly mix some pleasure to the mixture, just to show you that I am master of both, of good and the bad, of the worst you can be possibly feeling as well as the best. To show you just how very god-like I am in this little universe.
There's only this. There's only here. There's only me. You have repeated your mantra well over a thousand times by now, and you have not even been a whole week here yet. I'm putting masses of pressure on you, and I'm not being subtle or careful. It's dangerous and goes to a point, like after the piercing, when your eyes just glaze over and you nearly switch off, but I have ways, techniques, methods of my own to keep you here, present, awake and aware, always on your tiptoes, and this tight here is one of them.
I don't even mess around much after that. I can make this simple, and for the moment, I take an advantage of exactly that. I press the toy against your well–lubed cunt, almost, if not quite, directly against your clit, and wait. All I have to fucking do is that. Wait. You're gonna cum eventually. You might not like it, it might feel like too much and even be perceived as painful somewhere along the process, but at some point, the sensory overdrive will yank an orgasm out of you, regardless of anything else. I know you can cum and I'm confident now that this toy can make it happen. And so I do precisely that, I hold it pressed almost right over your clit from above, and I wait for it to happen.
Ready to keep the toy there, perhaps a tad retreated as you cum, to make the orgasm last, but not over your clit as not to cut the sensation short, as not to cause a cramp that would break it. And this time, I will not let you get away with one. You will cum twice for me before this is over, and you may not like it, but I'm determined about it, so that's what's going to happen. Now though, I just wait. I wait for the first one. As you have already learned, while I don't like being patient, I can be a very patient guy.
Not that the insistent, tingly, ticklish, almost mosquito-like buzz of the toy so close to your most sensitive spot is likely to put my patience to test as I wait for the desired outcome to manifest.
Laura
It's hard to stay in position, much less to suppress any reaction to the devilish, tickling, buzzing device that is playing over the soft, delicate folds of my tiny, bald, preteen girl parts. My eyes are clamped tightly shut, my mouth partially agape, in a kind of wincing grimace, as you park the high–pitched, rounded end of the vibrator directly over my special spot. ("How does he know to put it right there?" I ask myself. "That's my special spot –– oh God it tickles!")
My legs are spread wide; almost two feet apart at the ankles. My hands grip the foot-board of my bed, clenched there, squeezing, as little sighs and moans and panting exhales escape my lips. With a tortured gasp my hips undulate, trying to escape the persistent, tickling buzz of the device. I exhale in a gasping rush, as my pelvis begins to lean and sway –– my motions limited by my position. You didn't give me permission to move, but I can't possibly stay motionless, not with the tickling, overpowering sensation emanating from my little snatch.
I've never felt anything like this. When I first felt the super–intense tickling sensation a few days ago, it was slower, the feeling building, more bearable. This is faster, powerful, overbearing. I emit a gasping whimper as I press my bottom back against the foot-board, trying to get away, trying to escape. Not because the buzzing hurts, but because I can't bear the tickling, overpowering intensity of it. it is so intense that I barely even feel the pain in my welted, abused little bottom as it first touches, and then grinds against, the foot-board.
Pressing back doesn't help, but merely pins me there, helpless, as the buzzy thing assaults my special spot. I undulate against the bed. I feel tingly all over. I feel like I want to pee –– or maybe I even did already. The buzzy thing deprives me of all of the normal feelings down there, and replaces them with a singular, all–powerful, building, over–arching tickling feeling that is almost unbearable. My muscles flex and my tummy presses in and out. "Uhhhh . . . oooooo," I gasp, unable to suppress my words, my reactions, my noises. No longer even trying to be stoic or to resist.
And then I feel It again –– that deep–seated, explosive, uncontrollable, overpowering sensation from Down There, inside me, underneath my special spot, behind it somehow. I gasp, and my head arches up and back, mouth open, as my cunny seems to explode with an incredible, powerful, deep–inside tickling feeling, like a tickle on top of a tickle somehow, leaving me weak–kneed as I remain pinioned to the foot-board. "Ah . . . ahhhhh . . . uhhhhhhh," I gasp, as I claw at the foot-board with my little hands. I rise up on my tips toes –– unbidden this time. I can't breathe, but manage to gasp with relief as you move the buzzy head of the thing up, off my special spot, on my mound. "Uhhhhh," I grunt, as I clench my cunny muscles against the wave of tickling pleasure emanating from my child sex.
My chest is rising and falling erratically, almost spasmodically, as the wave of intense, tickling pleasure washes over me. I am pressed against the foot-board, on my tip toes, hands behind me, my head thrust back. "Uhhh . . . ahhh . . . ahhh," I gasp, as I shudder. I suddenly feel weak, and lower my heels to the floor, grunting in pain as my torn little cheeks slide down the foot-board. I am relieved as you remove the buzzy thing from my mound and I bring my head forward, eyes still closed. I gasp for air, spent, my body trembling as I recover from the most intense sexual experience of my young life.
Marcus
I love your little sounds and the way you hold your position over all and your body just involuntarily bucks and squirms and shudders and ends up pinned and on your tiptoes just before the release. I adore seeing how unprecedented, how new, how intense this all is for you. And then you arch, tilt your head back, and cum, and collapse back on your heels, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. Hell yeah! I lean in, and in a conspiratorial whisper, like it's not even me, but someone else helping you, reminding you of what you are supposed to do before you get in trouble, I flick my tongue over your ear and murmur: "I came, sir, thank you, sir." I wanna hear those words from you. I want you to know that I know that you just felt like that. I want you to be aware of the fact that even this feeling, so powerful and so private and so "yours," your little spot, your pussy, your body shuddering and going all weak and funny under its intensity is something that's on my radar, and to a fair degree, under my control.
It's an essential part of your training, knowing that I control both ends, and that I can play on both of them, suffering and pleasure, excellently. I toy with your folds with my fingertips and then around your opening, even sliding in a bit with my index finger, and I then trace your lips and slide my fingers into your mouth to give your a taste of yourself, of your arousal.
Tracing your body with my lips, I breathe in with my nose and take in your scent, your perspiration, your arousal, your little girl pheromones. All that. I'm a messed up sadist willing to hurt you and to keep breaking your mind, spirit, your very soul if it comes to it. But I am also still, on some level, in love with you, I still see you as perfect and irresistible, and as my tongue traces your skin, neck, brushing over the tops of your nipples, then to your collar-bones, sides of your chest, belly button, mound, and back up to your nipples, tongue sliding under the ring on the left one, and through it, brushing against your nipple. Causing a little bit of pain as the ring slightly moves in the unhealed hole, but also pleasure, as it wetly worms over that little nub. I toy with the ring and the nipple for a while before gently sliding out and repeating the process on your other "tit," not that you really have tits beyond your nipples and the rings in them.
This is also an important lesson, one of your first experiences of pleasure masterfully mixed in with pain, being one, and yet not, both intertwined but at the same time, in a manner of their own, distinct, one sometimes winning over the other as I tease and play. And then I go lower. I smear lube on your pucker and press the buzzing toy against it, not going in, just letting it work its magic against that sensitive, pink little rose. I slide a finger into your pussy and I start gently exploring it, massaging the inner walls, changing depth and angle. And I start to lick your slit above it, and your clit, of course.
"You'll cum at least once more for me," I announce, and get busy, toy buzzing against your rear, finger–fucking you and licking your clit, unlike with the toy I'm not avoiding going right over it now. Directly. Focusing on it. All three stimulations coming at once, as one, in an onslaught of sensation. It’s a lot to take in. Especially since you last came only minutes ago, your pussy still sensitive, hot, in a receptive state.
And I'm in my element, loving this. Loving what I'm doing to you, enjoying the act itself, your taste, your slightly marked pussy under my lips and tongue, the warmth and tightness of your clam around my prodding, teasing finger. I enjoy the idea of the whole thing, too, and where it's leading to. This is simply . . . perfect. And so I keep going, and keep going, and on, and on, and on. This is it, moving beyond drill, beyond just pain, confusing your little mind till you lose yourself in all this, no longer clear on good and bad other than what I call good and bad. The ultimate manipulation. I'm your Hell and your Heaven. And right now, we're headed Heaven–wise.
Laura
It never even occurred to me to thank you. It didn't even cross my mind. To say I was lost in my own, sightless, dark little world as you teased and tickled and pleasured my hairless, preteen pussy would be an understatement. I am still lost in in my own bliss, my eyes closed, as you lean in, your breath warm and wet on my little ear, and whisper the reminder to me. This brings me back to the present even as your tongue licks my ear, causing me to shudder as goose pimples break out on the back of my neck and upper arms. My entire body feels like it is on high–alert: super–sensitive, tactile, aroused.
My voice is soft, raspy, and breathless as I whisper the forgotten words: "I came, sir. Thank you, sir," I hear myself say, distantly, genuinely. My eyes still are closed, as if opening them will end the feeling of bliss and pleasure that still radiates through my diminutive frame. I know that I will be punished for failing to say the words, but that doesn't matter right now. As long as I can postpone it for a few more seconds, a few more seconds of pleasure. My breathing is raggeyy and shivering as I recover from my orgasm.
I moan softly as your fingers touch my sensitized pussy, my mouth opening as I pant. As your fingers trace my lips I almost want you to give me one of them to suck, and when you do press your finger into my mouth I close my lips eagerly around it, forming a tight seal. I swirl my tongue around it, sucking your finger, only vaguely aware that it is my own moistness I am tasting. I suckle your finger with my mouth, satisfying some innate, post–orgasmic need for an oral fixation.
And then I feel you, your lips, your hands, touching me, trailing against my skin. With my eyes closed it is almost an out–of–body experience for me, not knowing where you will touch me next, my soft skin flinching, my muscles rippling and flexing as you work your way up, down, across, and over my sensitive, goose–pimply body. I no longer am moaning, but my shivery breathing betrays the sensual pleasure I am experiencing as your adult hands and mouth roam across my soft, 11–year–old skin. Everything seems super–sensitive as you touch me all over.
I feel your tongue especially, wet and soft, as it traces lightly across my skin, leaving a cool, evaporating trail in its wake. I lean gently to this side and that, my body English revealing my pleasure as your tongue, and occasionally your lips, feast on my soft, undeveloped little body. I feel your tongue as it works its way to my nipples, flicking the rings there, causing a twinge of pain at the edges of my incisions. But even with the pain I don't want you to stop. My little nipples are erected, like mini pencil–erasers, my areolas covered with raised, firmed little pimples. Your tongue feels good there. With my eyes closed It doesn't seem so bad, or wrong, that you are touching me, that I am enjoying being touched. I know I shouldn't ("Slut!" I chastise myself) but I can't help it. With my eyes closed it's not real, it's not even happening.
I moan softly, then grunt, as you begin touching me Down There, on my privates, pressing the whiny, buzzy thing against my poo hole. It feels so weird there, and even though it's buzzing against my bottom, I can feel the buzzing elsewhere, somehow through my slender body, in my pussy. It reverberates there, and it feels good. And then you touch my bald little cunny, fingering me, your thick digit proving the warm, soft inner walls of my child vagina as my opening grips you in a tight, clenching embrace. I flex my cunny muscles around your finger as you press into me, trying to squeeze your finger even tighter.
And as you lick and suckle my special spot, the device buzzing in my cleft, your finger inside me, I clench down and cry out as a secondary orgasm washes across my tiny body, wobbling my knees. "Aiii uuhhhhhh," I moan, as I buck, nearly falling, my little hands coming free from the foot-board and making brief contact with you, reflexively pressing down and away on the top of your head and forehead. I cry out again, my cry a mixture of child orgasm, surprise, and fright ("Laura, what have you DONE??!!" I ask myself in disbelief, as I quickly remove my hands and stagger, falling to my right, the pleasure of my orgasm interrupted by frenzied, flailing efforts to stay upright.
"I'm sorry, sir!!!" I whimper, my voice desperate and terrified, as I scramble to catch myself on the bed. ("You TOUCHED him, Laur' –– nooooooooo!") My voice is raspy, frantic, panicked, my expression mortified: "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" I wail, wishing I could take it back.
Marcus
I look up quickly, and slide out of you, and lower you to the floor, grinning. Not even trying to hold back my grin, 'cause right now, fuck behavioral science, I just am having too much fun and hey, after one like that, I would have tumbled over myself, I bet.
"I'll let you make up for it without hurting you, I promise," I mutter hurriedly, barely bothered that you lost your footing, and now that I have you steady on the floor, I resume my effort, ready to give you a proper orgasm, though it does occur to me that your pussy twitched and you never thanked me; another muck–up to make up for later. But now, now I'm loving your taste and your pleasure and all of it and I lap on your pussy like a hungry dog, and I resume fingering you, a bit faster, and a bit less gently, after all, if you can take my cock in there without screaming in agony, what's a single finger? Amazingly, despite that, your pussy seems tight and sweetly, satisfyingly clamped around the finger, and god, do I love that!
I slide the toy back towards your pucker, teasing it from between your pussy and your anus, pushing a bit harder against it, almost tempted, since the head of this particular vibrator is relatively small, to push in, further, but decide against it for now, and instead resume my licking effort. Can I make you cum a third time? With enough patience and determination, could I do four, five, it occurs to me that I don't know, and there's only really one way to find out. My tongue darts forth tirelessly to lick your clitoris, and I decide I'm going to ravish you and pleasure you into exhaustion here and now, no pausing or waiting or postponing, the way you are, beaten and freshly pierced and likely worried about having lost your balance and – worse – having kind of attempted to push me away, bad, bad girl – but even as I think it, I think it in a joking tone. I'm loving this, and unless it's for the sake of cruelty and my own amusement, I don't really expect the impossible from you. Right now, I don't. All I want is to make you cum again. And then . . . to go right on, and see what happens.
Could I get you to the state I used to get my favorite adult, willing sub into, sliding from orgasm to orgasm in a sort of chain of them, until she was a breathless, drooling mess, debilitated by the pleasure to a point of no resistance, no rationality, to nothingness, all but destroyed by the sheer amount of pleasure I could inundate her with? Likely not, not yet anyway, but you can cum, clearly, and you cum powerfully, not just some restrained, barely there, controlled, contracted orgasms but nice expansive, intense explosions of pleasure. Good girl for that alone, not that my mouth's available to good–girl you now. I continue the triple stimulation determinedly.
After all, I promised that after beating you for cheating and piercing you for lying I will have forgiven you your trespasses, what better a proof than to give you a whole new, and an altogether different experience? And so my tongue dances, up and down and up and down, ten quick licks in that direction, a circle, a few sideways flicks, another ten quick up and down licks, a circle but spinning the other way, a wet, lips–on kiss, and more licking. And more. And my finger bending and twisting and dancing inside you, and the buzzing toy making it all faster and easier with its high pitched mozzie vibration that mostly tingles on your butt but clearly carries over and through the whole of your nether areas.
And me? I'm starting to be a bit uncomfortable and my tongue is tiring a bit, but I am an experienced, skilled man, and a very, very determined man, and so even as my tongue starts feeling painful and a little wooden, I just go on, switching to flat–tongued, firmer and slightly slower licks which are easier to keep up. I keep turning and sliding the toy over your pucker and pushing against it, making it part a little. Perhaps if you relax enough, I will push the head in in the end, but not if it was to cause you pain and distract you from what I want you to be doing: cumming for me. I lap and I lick and finger and buzz. For once, I'm not in a position in which I'm a total time–master, but I can keep it up for a decent amount of time, and that alone will be worthwhile, to see how far I can get you in the span of perhaps half an hour, forty minutes or so.
Laura
I am terrified as you lower me to the floor ("You touched him! You touched him! He's going to stick needles in you!") but you don't seem angry, and I don't have much time to think as you resume poking and licking and buzzing me with that thing against my puckered little hole. I gasp as my bottom touches the floor. It is red and raw and abraded, and now it's on the floor, rubbing there as I move.
And I can't help but move, and spasm, and writhe, as that deep–down tickly feeling continues, with your finger inside me. It doesn't hurt. I fact –– and hate to admit it –– it feels pretty good, inside me, while you lap and lick at my special spot. The first time I felt this way my cunny started to burn, and it hurt, and I wanted to get away. But this time it feels nice ("Slut! Slut!") and I lie back, panting, my arms beside my hips ("Whatever you do, don't touch him, don't try to push him away," I warn myself.)
I feel another tickly wave building, and then it comes –– exploding, erupting from me, causing me to moan and arch and buck, even if it hurts my bottom when I do. "Uhhhh . . . ohhhh . . . ohhhhh . . . oh God, oh God!" I gasp as my cunny clenches around your finger tightly, gripping you, squeezing. My head turns from left to right as I ball my little hands into fists and lift my hips off the ground, bracing with my shoulders and feet as I thrust my preteen pelvis up, toward you, as if seeking your mouth, seeking your finger.
All the while the buzzy, whiny thing vibrates against my butt, making everything down there feel weird and numb, the vibrations reverberating somehow through me. My body is stiff like a board, arched from my heels to my shoulders, so slender and smooth. And aroused, as you pleasure my bald little snatch with a combined–arms assault.
But you don't stop, and as I settle back down it is with a minor panic that I realize you intend to continue, even though I am panting with effort and my chest is rising and falling with desperation and exertion. I make a little whimpering sound as you lick through my latest orgasm ("Oh. My. God. Say the words, Laur'!" I think, suddenly. "I came sir, thank you sir!" I squeal, desperately, in a tight, high–pitched, distressed child voice. ("Did you say it before? How many times did you came?") Just to be sure I say it again. "I caaamme sir! Thank you, sir!" I gasp, uncertain how many times I have "came" since you started.
As a fourth, mini–orgasm rolls over my spent, perspiring body –– less intense than the others –– I start to tire. My reaction it more muted, just some little nasally yippy pants, but my cunny constricts thickly around your finger. "Uhhhh," I moan ("Did you came? You gotta say the words, Laur'," I remind myself.) This time the words are a forced whisper. "I came, sir, thank you sir," I say, in a rush, my hips arching once then, returning as my bottom sings with pain.
I am tiring now, my body spent, my mind, too. I groan. I'm too tired for the tickling to continue. Yet I can't stop you. All I can do is lie back as your finger, mouth, and buzzy think work my child body to orgasm after orgasm.
Marcus
I stop, not wanting to completely spoil your enjoyment of the whole process, as I see you tire and unable to respond in full. I give your hair a stroke, climbing atop you, straddling you with knees on either side of you careful not to put my weight on you, aware of the state of your buttocks and also very careful not to touch your nipples just now.
I lean forward and gaze into your eyes, hypnotically.
"There's nowhere but here. There's nothing but this. There's no one but me. But it's not all bad," I wink. "You did like this, didn't you?" I ask, and it's not just a rhetorical question, it's serious, even if it has a teasing undertone, and I'm looking directly into your eyes, among other things to keep you reminded of the fact you swore never ever to lie to me again. I want you to admit that this, despite everything else, even though I forced it on you, felt damn good. Another bit chipped of off your mind, your integrity, from a whole another end.
I help you up, to sit. Sit next to you, both leaning against the side of the bed now, both sweaty, my face a mess. I lean to the side and kiss you, let your taste yourself, all the pleasure, all the mess that got on my face when I was busy lapping at your little pussy. I enjoy kissing you, knowing how I taste and smell, and your mouth tastes all sweeter for it. In the end, I surprise myself, get carried away, make it a long, thorough, exploratory, lasting kiss before I break it off and sigh.
"Now here's the plan," I say and take a deep breath, wiping sweat of off my forehead. "Your big trespasses are forgiven. Losing balance isn't the end of the world, so don't let that ruin your day. You did try to push me away though, which I didn't like one bit, which clearly doesn't surprise you, but hey, I promised I'll let you get away with that without any more pain. You had enough pain for one day, methinks. Agreed? I'm not asking because you could make me not punish you," I explain, smiling, "but because I hope you would like to behave in a way that'll keep you out of trouble for the rest of the day." Pause. Letting it sink it. And still kind of catching breath.
"I'll let you into the bathroom so you can wash. No bath, and don't even shower your upper bits for too long. Bad for your new decorations, that. Soaking it would slow down the healing. Also don't get shampoo and soap on there just yet, it's been cleaned thoroughly and right now all that would do would sting unnecessarily. I go get some decent food, we chill, eat in the bedroom's bed, maybe watch a movie, your pick this time, and I mean an actual movie, not re-playing your misdemeanors," I assure you. I'm quite sure you're suspicious by now, because it all sounds too good to be true. "I'll then take you up into the house, blindfolded. I'll get you to kneel under my desk, and you'll spend the whole of the evening sucking my cock and swallowing everything, to the last drop, that comes out, while I work and do . . . whatever I'll be doing. If you make me cum at least twice that way, you will not be punished for pushing away earlier, if you manage three times, there might even be a small reward. It's not exactly painless, since your jaw will hurt at the end of it, but you know, relatively speaking, it's not pain–pain, just side effect of making me happy. All clear? Let me get some food then, and you get yourself cleaned up!"
With that, I stand up, and let the cell's door slide open, and with that, it stays open. You are confined to the dungeon, but not just your cell any more. Today has been an ordeal, but it also made the ices shift a good bit.
I go out and up and make us a good, hearty curry. Salad on the side, some popadams, rice, naan, and a glass of sweet lassi each. An Indian feast. I want you refreshed and regenerating well. And with energy for my evening plans.
Laura
I am so relieved, so thankful, when you finally stop. I don't think I could have taken any more. It's exhausting to came all the time.
I look nervous as you climb atop me ("He's gonna stick it in you again, Laur', that's what He's gonna do."). But you don't. You straddle me, and look down, making firm eye contact. I lie beneath you, naked, 11, panting, spent, perspiring. My mouth gapes open as I breathe in and out, my eyes fixed on yours. And then you recite the mantra. And ask me your question.
Of course I have to answer affirmatively; that's what you want and expect, after all. You think just because you know how to tickle my special spot and make me came that I'll start to like this place. Or You. But I won't. I won't ever like you or this place. Never. Never ever ever. Even if you tickle me there 1,000 times I still won't like you, or this place, or what you did to me. On the other hand, I liked doing what we did just now a lot more than being caned on my bottom or getting needles stuck in my nipples. And, if I'm being perfectly honest with myself, the first two times I came were mind–blowing. The second one almost literally knocked me off my feet it felt so good. I could have done without the times after that, 'cause I was getting tired and stuff, and a little achy, plus my bottom was rubbing on the floor and it hurt. But the first two times –– wow. They did feel good.
"Yes, sir," I say, blushing a little, embarrassed to admit that the sex stuff felt good ("Slut! S–L–U–T!" What would Caroline say?" I chastise and tease myself. "Shut up!" I reply to my inner voice. "Caroline's not here and it doesn't matter what she thinks! Not anymore it doesn't!")
We sit up and kiss –– me perched on the side of my hip a little, since my bottom still hurts. Your face is wet and yucky and I can taste . . . well, it has to be my taste. But I don't care, 'cause I've had a lot worse things in my mouth over the past few days. Way worse, in fact. You're really into the kiss this time and my tongue plays with yours 'cause I know you like that. Your tongue sure is slippery and long.
I listen carefully, my mouth all wet, my hair disheveled, as you explain "The Plan." You always seem to have a plan for what we're going to do next. I'm relieved to hear that I'm not going to get punished anymore. I totally agree that I've had enough pain for today. More than enough, in fact. Way more. I nod as you ask if I agree, and I totally do, but I'm suspicious. That's exactly how your acted earlier when I ("Bad move, Laur', bad, bad move") lied to you. You pretended I was off the hook, even ruffled my hair. But all the while you planned it out, planned to show me the movies of me being bad. You always have a plan. Always. So I don't trust you now, not at all.
Cleaning up and taking a shower sound OK, but when you mention the movie, I know you're gonna punish me again. Hurt me. It's all a big joke to you . . . but then you tell me you mean it. Really. We can watch a movie and I get to pick which one? Yeah, right. You prolly don't even have any movies I like. You prolly want to watch sex movies, or one of your cameras or something. When you explain what I'll be doing after the movie, I'm not happy. But at least you're being honest. And at least I don't have to lick your butt hole. I already know what that stuff that comes out of your penis tastes like. And I already know how to make it come out. It beats getting your big cock in my pussy.
When you leave, I gather myself up and rise to my feet, groaning a little as my bottom flares. I feel sore. I head to the bathroom and wash up, being careful of my bottom and my nipples. I wash everything else, including my hair. I'm waiting for you –– 11, collared, naked, all fresh and clean –– as you return with dinner.
Marcus
It's lucky that the bedroom's warm and cozy, and the bed super–big,'cause we have to toss the duvets aside to be able to lay all the food around us and still, it's gonna be a bit tricky to eat and not make a total mess of it. But then... it's just a sheet, it can easily be changed. I come up with some rules that don't exist up above, others, like "no food in your bed" that you'd be used to from home, don't apply here, don't exist here. I slide a roll–down white sheet from behind the wardrobe, attach it to a hook opposite the bed, and turn on the almost hidden projector that's above our heads. There are also speakers, unseen, too.
"So, what movie do you wanna watch?" I ask. The circuit is connected to my NAS drive, four TB of movies, lots and lots and lots and lots. Unless you chose something super–obscure, we should be all right. I have – as a part of preparation for occasions like this – downloaded almost everything Disney and Warner Brothers have ever produced. And I have a thing for kids' films, mainly because of the kids in them, but still. Lots and lots of comedies and children/family movies are on that drive. I make sure that you sit near me, within reach for cuddling and stroking and such, though first we'll have to eat at least some of the food, as it is, any maneuvering in the bed is tense and awkward. I almost turn over my lassi drink as I'm settling down. I catch it, and dip my finger into it and make you suck on the yogurty sweetness, only to give your nose a light poke with my finger, still wet.
"You can eat normally, whatever you like, as much as you like. And don't worry too much about making a mess, we'll simply have to wash the sheet after, no big deal. There's an under–sheet that protects the mattress," I comment, already with my mouthful. Somehow, the intense pussy eating session made me ravenous. There's lots of food, and I like naan, and I like to mix and match. All the little chutneys and pickles I've brought with me. I point out those that are spicy to you, so you can pass on them if you'd rather. I took them because I like some fire and the curry itself is medium, two on a scale of one to five, which means mild, almost bland as far as my taste buds are concerned.
I get the movie started, dim the light in the room to a level that's enough to continue eating, put the volume up a good bit, not crazy loud, but loud enough so that out munching and crunching does not tune it out. This way, we have more than enough time to eat our due, including drinking the sweet lassi, and then I cuddle you ever so gently, almost imperceptibly stroking the back of your head and neck, stroking your neck alongside your collar. I realize that that you never once took it off since I put it on you, a week ago now. I realize I'm bad with my keeping you at least occasionally clothed resolution. No one is perfect, but once you totally lose shame and inhibitions in this regard, it will be hard to reinstate them, and you already seem almost entirely not bothered, having a accepted naked, collared state as your daily reality without questioning it or thinking about it much.
I'll have to be more mindful about some of these little things. It's easy to forget. Controlling and planning as I am, on some level it's just too easy to get carried away by you, and the pure hedonistic aspect of having you wholly and entirely at my disposal, without a time limit.
No limits is a big theme, and it's as erotic in reality as it used to be in my dream. Even as my thoughts wander towards later in the evening during the movie, I get an erection. The idea of a repeat, ongoing blowjob, that just goes on and on and on until I've had enough, not stopping, not for you to stretch and rest and not even for me to take a piss, as we've already established that dealing with me relieving myself in your mouth is a given. That, and the idea that you'll be falling asleep with a size two plug in your butt, only three days away from your first butt sex makes a wave of warm, relaxed satisfaction wash over me. This is a good day, and it's not gonna get any worse it would seem.
Laura
I'm hungry again, too. It seems like I'm always either hungry or on the edge of hunger in this place. I'm not sure about the Indian food, but when I try the naan, I'm pleasantly surprised. And the lassi is sweet; I get my first taste of it licking your finger clean. I like the curry OK, but I'm not touching the chutney or relishes. I don't like hot food at all. It makes my mouth burn. In fact, the curry is pretty spicy and I have to send some lassi down after it to extinguish the fire.
I'm still not 100% convinced that this dinner–and–a–movie plan is on the up and up, but at least I'm eating real food, and not from the floor, either. That's something, anyway. So I guess I'll play along with the movie thing, just in case you're telling the truth. I decide to challenge you with a movie choice that I first saw when I was just a little girl. It's been a favorite ever since, even though I'm a big girl now. I'm sure you won't have it 'cause it's got a princess and a prince and it's kind of sappy –– not the kind of movie an old man would want to watch. It's called "The Princess Bride."
But you do have it! I'm amazed. And when you put it on, and it starts, and you jack the volume, I actually start to believe that you are telling the truth, and we're going to watch a movie ("Yeah, and then you gotta suck his penis afterwards, remember?" I remind myself). But I don't care about what the future holds. The future is always so far away when you're 11. Right now, I'm enjoying watching one of my all–time favorite movies. The grandfather is talking to the boy, trying to cheer him up because he's sick. The boy is about my age, and he's in his PJs and doesn't want to hear a sappy story, but then the grandfather starts the story, and . . . I just love how it starts. The boy is cute, too!
I lose myself in the movie, almost oblivious to your little caresses, and certainly not caring about them. It doesn't seem strange to be naked, or to have you touch me while we watch. In fact, it doesn't even occur to me that I should feel weird being 11, and naked, in your presence. I've seen so much nakedness over the last week –– yours, mine, other kids, adults –– that nudity alone is not a big deal any more. It's just one more way that my reality is being shaped and molded down here, where there is nothing but this.
I really enjoy the movie, giggling cutely at all of the funny parts. It's the first time since I've been here that I am totally, completely, and utterly relaxed, and enjoying myself, without worry or concern. While I'm aware that I have to suck your penis and swallow your cums when the movie is over, I'm not terribly concerned about that. I've done it before. As long as you don't jam it really hard down my throat –– I don't like that. Even the taste of the cums isn't that bad, except that you make a lot of it and it's hard to swallow it all without choking.
But right now, I'm going to enjoy the movie. It's one of my favorites.
Marcus
I like this movie, too. It's funny and quite clever and I actually haven't seen it before, so it's all the more fun for me, to get acquainted with something you seem to really like. I just watch it, stroking you gently, relaxing, digesting. I've eaten rather a lot! We both have, it seems, even if you have passed on the chutneys. It's kind of funny to see you perceive the curry as hot, even your cheeks have flushed a bit. Tastes can be so very individual!
We watch the whole thing, which gets us from almost too early for supper to around seven in the evening, and after a bit of the credits has rolled, I tune down the sound gradually and turn the video off, too. "That was a good choice," I comment and kiss your ear briefly, tickling it with my tongue tip.
"I'll go check upstairs is good to go, you clean up and wash up everything – don't put these dishes away, they're from upstairs, I'll take them back." I give you a key to the utility room. "Put the bed sheet into the washing machine, I'll run it later." With that I leave you, only for a few minutes, but still, with the key in your hands, the whole of the dungeon yours to roam, not that roaming is what you're supposed to do, the instructions clear enough.
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