23. Desk-a-llatio

Marcus

After I've checked the security of the house and the surrounding perimeter, I come back. The air is clear, no one on the grounds or headed this way. I need to be careful, though, as the police search for you is just about peaking now. They are everywhere, even down in the town, even though we're so far away from where you disappeared. They seem me be scouring the whole of the state. Obviously, in vain. Nothing will lead them here.

I unlock a lockable wardrobe and pick clothes for you. Desigual, my favorite brand; almost everything else strikes me as boring. They know how to play with colors and all. It's a very short jeans skirt, and bright t–shirt, white with flowers, ladybirds, butterflies, and dragonflies and such on it. I think for a while and throw in a pair of white- and red-striped above-knee socks, the red a soft shade that matches the ladybirds, and even a pair of good old plain-white cotton panties. Even the blindfold is a sheet of white soft cotton to match the theme.

I bring these down and give them to you to wear. They were bought to be a perfect fit, and they are ever so slightly too loose, a clear sign you've lost some weight. Seriously, I have to be careful about that.

And now, we both know what's coming. I blindfold you, take your hand, and slowly, carefully lead you upstairs.

Laura

I just had a good time. Down here, where there is nohting but this. I watched one of my favorite movies, and I relaxed, and giggled, and laughed like I always do. ("Yeah, and now it's time to suck his penis for the rest of the night, Laur'," I remind myself morosely.) No matter. My tummy is full, my bottom doesn't hurt as much, and, surprisingly, my nipples don't hurt at all. I can't believe that –– they both have steel rings protruding from them. But unless they get tugged or jostled against the incision points, I don't feel anything there except the weirdness of the cold steel against my skin. I’m not sure that I’ll ever get used to that.

I giggle as the movie ends, and the final credits roll, and the director's outtakes and jokes appear on the screen. When you kiss and lick my ear I giggle again and tilt my head away slightly. I'm glad that you liked my movie choice. It makes me feel like I still have some value, somehow. I picked the movie, and we watched it, and you admitted that you liked it. For some reason that gives me a satisfied feeling.

When you give me your instructions I respond with a dutiful "Yes, sir," and set to work placing the dishes into an orderly stack on the dresser. I gather the sheet up carefully, capturing some crumbs from the naan, and take it to the utility room. I open the door with the key. It feels a bit empowering to have the key, but I don't do anything with it except what you have directed me to do. When you come back holding clothing, I look surprised, and perhaps a little confused. Actually, my expression is one of worry –– a strange, dark, thought suddenly jumps into my head for no real reason. ("He's gonna kill you now. That's what the movie and dinner were all about. It was your final meal, like a prisoner about to be executed. Now he's giving you clothes, and he's gonna blindfold you and take you upstairs and kill you and dump you in a ditch somewhere by the side of some road.") I stare at the clothing, and take the items from you, but I don't look happy. ("He's gonna kill you! The clothes are so nobody will know you were naked and the person who did this was a sex pervert person," I tell myself.)

But down here, in this place, obedience is my default, and I take the clothes, and put them on. I don't pay much attention to what they are, but if I did, I wouldn't be disappointed by your choice. I would wear these clothes if they were in my wardrobe –– well, perhaps not socks that boldly striped and high on my coltish, preteen legs –– but the shirt is nice. Nice and colorful. ("He's not gonna kill you. He just wants you to suck his penis until he cums," I reassure myself.)

The rings feel totally weird under the shirt as I present myself for my blindfold. It's like I can feel them there, mushed by the fabric, pressed against my skin, cold and foreign. I don't like the feeling. It's almost better without a shirt on. They flop around a little when I'm naked but that's better than having them just lying there, pressed in place by the fabric. I look down. The rings are evident through the cotton, even if the shirt is a bit loose. In fact, everything is like a half size too big. But then again, there's no way you could know my size, is there?

I look nervous as you prepare to apply the the blindfold. ("If he's not gonna kill you why is he taking you upstairs? You could suck his penis without a blindfold down here," I respond, holding a full conversation with myself in my mind.) The blindfold is applied, and I cannot see. I take your hand, and you feel a little shake as I tremble. My hand is a little clammy. We walk upstairs.

Marcus

I actually stop on the landing, halfway up the stairs, sit on them, and take the blindfold off, and take both your hands in mine.

"Oh come on, pet, don't freak out on me, OK? I told you what I want from you and for the night, that’s honestly, seriously it. Then back into your cell for a good night's sleep. You look pretty in the clothes. I wanted to see you in pretty clothes, so I gave you some to wear. I know you will take them off just like that," I click my fingers, "when I tell you to. That's why you're allowed to wear them. If you make a fuss taking them off for me, that'll be it. No more clothes. I know that you've learned, though, and I trust that you'll be a good girl. You know that the clothes are a privilege, not a right. Am I wrong?" I check.

"Now. You're breathing quick and shallow. Fidgety and tense. Palms sweating." I touch the side of the front of your neck gently, pressing down a bit. "Your heart is racing. Tell me, what are you afraid of and why? Share your thoughts with me, honestly and seriously. No lies, no secrets, right?" I remind you, looking at you. I'm actually a bit worried. I know I've pushed you VERY far today, but a constant state of deep, uncontrollable fear -- anxiety that will tinge everything that we do -- is not what I want. Respect with a fearful edge, yes. Obedience, definitely. But I don't want you to be a nerve–racked, shivering, pitiable bundle.

"I know that I played you at lunchtime, but that was an exception; you lied to me and that was very bad and it was a part of the punishment, so you know what it feels like to be betrayed like that. I needed you to understand why it felt so horrible and why it was so serious that you lied to me. Other than that, I do what I say I do, don't I? I promised pizza for lunch, and there was pizza for lunch. I promised curry and movie for supper, and what did we just do? I promised that the punishment you got was enough, that you are forgiven. And it really is the case. I want your mouth on my cock for a very long time, doing your very best, even though it's not gonna be easy or very nice, we both know that, you know, jaw getting tense, tongue-tired, all that. But that's all I'm after. Honestly and seriously. It's not that little, after all. Imagine, two weeks ago when you came home from dancing, if someone was waiting in your room and told you you will have to suck on their penis for hours and drink pee, too, would that be okay? Would you expect there's more to it than that? See?" I stroke your hair.

"You're a very pretty girl and I like you making me feel good. You look gorgeous in these clothes. And you are about to make sure that I have a very, very nice evening. Are we on the same page here?"

"Now, if you really dislike the blindfold, we'll keep it off; you'll get to know my house sooner or later anyway. But I'd prefer if you wore it for me tonight. Your choice," I say and give the blindfold to you. Making it, all of a sudden, your choice, and not my command, whether to have it on or not. I've done tons of work on your obedience this past week. It's time to start giving a chance for Stockholm syndrome to kick in. Positive conditioning. I'm the only one here, the only possible attachment figure, and you are getting attached to me. It's moments like this that allow it, and I need to make them happen and get the most of them. Like I'm doing just now.

"Before we go," I conclude, "you did cry after the caning and the needles, but you didn't have that much time for it then. Do you need a hug or a bit of a cry before we go up? Or both?" I offer, reaching out and sliding you into a hug. "After that, I'll want you to do your best, and sobbing will not sit very well with that," I smile.

Laura

I start to walk up the stairs to my doom. I am so certain that you intend to do me harm ("You shouldn't have lied, Laur'. It's your fault," I remind myself) that my heart is racing, I'm trembling, and my legs feel a little wobbly ("What is it about your legs in here, that they don't want to hold you up anymore?" I ask myself.) I am very close to tears. My mind races with little snippets of thoughts and unanswered questions. ("Does it hurt bad when you die? Is it like going to sleep? Will worms eat my body? Will they ever find me? What will Calvin and Jeremy think? Is he gonna stab me with a big knife?")

But you stop me on the stairs, and remove my blindfold to reveal my worried–looking face. I listen, wide–eyed, to your words, as you explain the clothes, explain the reason you gave them to me. I'm not sure what to think. All of a sudden, though, I feel . . . a bit silly. More than a bit, actually. I feel childish. As the my fears of death start to evaporate from my young mind. I feel relieved. A wave of relief and something else –– gratitude? –– washes over me. I feel thankful, almost grateful that you're not going to kill me. I nod as you ask me about the clothes being a privilege, and then add a quick, small–voiced "Yes, sir." I look embarrassed.

When you touch my neck, and ask me to tell you what's wrong, I can't help myself and tears form in my eyes. I try to blink them back but they are big, fat tears and they immediately start to roll down my cheeks. Now I feel super dumb and childish ("Way to go, Laur'. Crybaby!") but the feeling of relief and gratitude and remorse for my silliness is too much for me to handle. I know I have to tell you why this all started. why you had to stop here, on the stairs, and why I'm crying. But it all seems so ridiculous now, my bad thoughts, my silly, childish worrying. In a stammering, sad, halting, chest–hitching, embarrassed, remorseful little child voice I tell you the source of my fear. "I–I thought . . . wh–when you (full–body tremor) gived me the clothes . . .(sniffle) th– th– that you– (full body tremor) you– (full body tremor) it w–was a (sniffle) trick a–and . . . and . . . (full–body tremor) and . . . (my voice grows super high, tight, and tiny, as I squeeze the last words out, sad and embarrassed) you were gonna kill me."

I cry silently as you speak, a very, very upset little girl. I listen as you explain what happened earlier, why you tricked me with the video of me cheating and then lying. And I realize, suddenly, that was my fault. You needed to trick me to teach me a lesson. It all makes sense now. And you did keep your word about everything else. I feel like an idiot. And an ingrate. And worst, like a baby. It was my fault that you tricked me. It was my fault for lying and trying to deceive you. I feel sheepish and childish and embarrassed all at once as I realize that I'm the one who can't be trusted, who doesn't keep her word. This realization stuns me. You've been honest with me all along. Strict, and mean, and a sex pervert person, but always honest. And I've been an ungrateful, horrible, mean, lying, awful little girl.

I nod and the tears fall as you stroke my hair, and tell me how pretty I am, and how I make you feel good, and how gorgeous I look in my clothes. I feel like an idiot for questioning your intentions. I feel like a baby. Worst of all, I feel bad. Ungrateful. And unworthy. It's a horrible combination of feelings for a little girl. And I can't stop the tears.

When you offer me the choice of wearing the blindfold, or not –– a real choice –– it just reinforces how silly my fears were, and what a baby I was being. I thought the blindfold was so you could take me upstairs and kill me without me knowing what was coming. But all it is really is you aren't ready for me to see your house upstairs. It's that you can't trust me, not the other way around. That's it. That's all. I feel like a total baby. You have good reason not to trust me after the way I acted today. I get the blindfold now. I want to wear it, now. You prefer it, and it will be one small way I can show you that I trust you –– a kind of apology for my silly, babyish behavior. "I'll wear it," I say softly, remorsefully.

When you finish, and offer me a hug or more time to cry, I have an overwhelming, intensely emotional reaction. Fresh tears form in my eyes as I lean toward you, with a little sob, my face contorted in a sad little–child boo–boo expression, and give you a hug with my slender little arms. My entire body is trembling with emotion as we embrace, on the stairs, a man and a sobbing little girl.

Marcus

Well that was a good move, I think cynically. I showed a little bit of compassion at the right moment, and the results are beyond what I even hoped for. Damn! You're now quite upset, but it quickly becomes obvious you're not upset with me, but yourself. I put on a straight, neutral expression, almost manage a compassionate sort of look when you start to cry – it's not that hard, I do kind of feel sorry and it is quite sad to see you crying like that. I’m glad to have conjured up a semi-authentic smile, however, because otherwise I'd confuse you with the terribly pleased, self–satisfied, smug smile which right now is at the back of my consciousness instead.

All I need to do is play this act out through to the end, and I'll have a grateful, thankful little girl on my hands. How fucking awesome is that? I raped you, abused you and humiliated you in a thousand different little ways in the past week. I caned you, forced a terrible oath out of your mouth by sticking needles through your skin and caned you buttocks bloody just today, mere hours earlier, and here I am, Mr. Good Guy. Because I don't lie. I'm straightforward about what I want. I'm honest, and, well, when I'm not being quite honest or at least not fully open in expressing what's really going on for me, such as right now, you don't have a chance to find out. All the spying and surveillance works in my favors. I have a head start of weeks -- well, all in all, actually months; you had only one week to get to know me, and when I'm gone I'm gone. I've read your texts, emails, tracked you, followed you, observed you for a long time before that, and even when I leave, I still can see and hear whatever happens down here in your cell.

You pour your little heart out, and, still on the verge of tears, you let the barrier of emotion break open again when I offer you some support. And so I hug you back, and I hold you tight, gently rocking, kneeling so we're (almost) of equal height and just . . . give it some time. Seems like that's really all you need now. Being held, nice and tight and warm, but not too tight, softly, so you can relax into it, and to be given enough time to cry, and then, eventually, stop crying and collect yourself so that you can suck my cock for a couple of hours. It takes a while, but one has to be patient with these things, and the satisfaction alone, of your accepting comfort from me, your kidnapper, tormentor, torturer, and rapist. There's just something epic about it all.

When you're done bawling, I release you from the hug, hold you by the shoulders at an arm's length and smile a bit. "There are only two things, and nothing else, ever, ever, ever doing which really puts your life in danger. I make no promises about what will happen if you ever seriously hurt me, or try to run away. None at all. Other than that, sweetie . . . there's rewards and punishments, some quite serious, too, for sure, but that's that. You don't have to worry about your life. I don't want you anxious like that. I want you alive. And I promise, whether in training or punishment, even when things are hard and not nice, I'll always take a good enough care of you so you don't have to worry about dying. Should it ever happen that you break the two unbreakable rules and we come to . . . that, I will be very sad about it, and upset and mad, and if I decide that I have no other way but to do it, trust me, you will know. You will. I know I've done some nasty stuff, but I'm not really a sneaky, shady kind of guy. I would not make things nice and okay and then, I dunno, stab you in the back when you’re not looking. That's just not me. I know life's hard now. I know you didn't chose to come here and that makes it all hard. And I can't promise you it'll all be fine and dandy, but as you get better trained and more used to things, it will get better, and as long we go on like we did so far, you never ever have to worry about dying.” I pause for a moment before continuing. “Tell you what, I'll actually make sure, if something ever happened to me, that a friend finds out about you and comes to rescue you. As a gift to you. Feel better now?" I check.

I nod at the blindfold. I want you to take it on. I want you to take the responsibility just now. And then, once on, I lead you up, through the second, sturdy, sound–proof door, via the security room, just to make sure no interruptions are about to happen, and since there don't seem to be any coming, I lead you up another flight of stairs, into my study. Warm, softly carpeted, smelling a bit of plastic – there are lots of electronics in here. I gently guide you under the desk where I work, lower my chair so I'm sitting lower than usually and so that you have enough space under the desk to suck me without banging your head. I let you touch and feel the space under there, a bit cramped, but not too badly. I take off my pants, sit at the desk naked from waist down, turn the computer on, guide your mouth towards my cock, and give you a gentle stroke.

"Two orgasms, one leak minimum. Then you are allowed to give up. We'll see how well you can do, how long you can go on. But two cum loads and piss are the least you'll get away with," I announce. I start working, just checking my stocks and stuff like that to begin with, but it's mutually incompatible, takes me away from cumming, and the sensation takes me away from concentrating, so I switch to porn soon, and with that, start getting close to cumming a lot faster.

Another super-fantasy that I never believed to happen ticked off, an under–the–desk quiet service like this, unseen, quiet, not requiring my attention or anything in turn, just sucking. What guy would not like this? A depersonalized mouth with no demands making him feel good while he views images of other girls and women, ready to swallow should he cum. And how many guys get a service like that? I how many of those lucky bastards get it from a gorgeous, stunningly pretty twelve-year-old? Hah! I might just happen to be the one. That makes me feel elated, high, jubilant. I'm loving this evening already, and it barely just started.

Laura

I hug you, and have a good cry, and while it feels weird to be comforted by you, it's not like I have a lot of other people to go to for comfort. I'm relieved that you're not going to kill me. I'm embarrassed that I thought you would. I feel like a baby for crying, but I can't help it. I need a cry. I'm 11, and I've been through a lot just today, not to mention this entire week. So I cry, and tremble, and hug you, and cry some more. I wince just a little as my nipple rings press against you, but they're OK once I back off a little bit. After a bit, my little sobs abate, my trembling stops, and I'm done. There. I got it out. We separate and you speak to me.

I'm relieved to hear you say that I won't be killed. I'm scared of dying, so that makes me feel good. Of course, you told me all this before, but after you tricked me today, I wasn't sure. Now I am. You're not going to kill me. That's good. In fact, you're going to have your friend come over and make sure that I don't starve to death if you die. Which could happen, 'cause you're old. At least to me you are. I'm really relieved to hear about your friend. It doesn't occur to me that you could be, like, lying or something. Since you're being super honest and forthcoming and stuff.

I nod, and give you a "Yes, sir," as you ask me if I feel better. I do. Better, but still kinda silly, and contrite. ("Baby!" I chastise myself.) When you nod at the blindfold, I take it, and attempt to shape it to my head. I need a little help straightening it but then it is back on. I can't see. But I trust you now. I donned it voluntarily to show that I trust you. Even though you gave me the choice of not wearing it.

We go up two flights of steps, which gives me the sensation of your house being enormous. I've never been on this floor. The carpet in your study is soft under my bare little-girl feet. I barely feel any soreness on the arch of my left foot where you tortured me with the needle. I climb under the desk and kind of feel my way blindly around in the small area. It's small, but so am I. I fit. I turn to face where I think you must be. I know what my assigned take is. I know what you expect of me. Disobedience and refusal don't even cross my mind. The option of saying no has been thoroughly beaten out of me. It took less than a week to reprogram me that way.

Your caress signals that it is time to begin, and I open my mouth as you guide me to your penis. I place my arms behind my back because I know that you like that. I kneel up and take the thick head of your manhood in my 11–year–old mouth, and begin to suck. As you read through the days news and check your stocks, my preteen tongue and lips seek to pleasure your phallus to orgasm.

My soft, warm little 5th–grader mouth feels delightful on your erected organ. I suck, and lick, and bob, and hold it deep in the back of my mouth. I'm not tired. I have some stamina. I try to pace myself, knowing that I have a long, long time to go.

Marcus

Oh yeah, oh yeah, that's it! I'm amazed that even down under the desk where I cannot see you, you reach for my cock with your mouth only and lower it with your lips and start sucking, licking, and bobbing your pretty face up and down the shaft, hands–free without even being reminded. But then, I should not really be surprised; other than sleep and some early periods of extended boredom and starvation, most of your time here was about learning how I'm to be pleased.

I flick through photos, focusing on the especially pretty ones. But I soon realize this isn't really gonna work. While having you tucked away under the desk and de–personified has it's appeal, I don't want any other girls just now, not even on my screen. I almost blush as I open the folder where I have every single modelling photo of you ever released, including bonuses and extras and some behind-the-scenes pictures that I think very few people ever got their hands on.

It's surreal, to see pictures of you from Before, all dressed up and decent and pretty, slightly flirtatious on some, but mostly just a doe–eyed, innocent girl, mommy's good little girl, virginal, intact, dream–like, fairy-like, a fantasy, a wet dream, untouchable, secret, distant, something I wanted so, so badly and could not have for a good, long while. And at the same time you are right here, right now, your mouth on my cock, sliding up and down, sucking, licking, and pleasuring me.

And yet, the girl on the pictures and the girl under my desk are not quite the same girl, are they? In a single week, I've turned you from a girl who nearly starved herself in the process of refusing to take off her clothes, to a girl who got freaked out by being granted the privilege to put something on. A girl who clearly felt silly and embarrassed and even a bit guilty at fearing more harm coming from my hands, despite such fear being very much evidence-based. And a girl who right now is very, very willingly sucking my cock, without protest, obediently, hands–free, just the way I like it, even though . . .

. . . even though you know I'm gonna cum in your mouth, then piss, and hopefully cum again. A week ago you would not have even considered this an option. Now, today? Here? I own you. I finally feel like I own you, not because I have you physically where I want you to be, kidnapped. No. Today I finally crossed the line, I broke the crux of your resistance, and while I expect bumps and glitches on the way, those will be fun now. The essence, the "norm," has been established, quite firmly, and the norm is obedience and compliance. Heck, I don't even need to do much to guilt trip you anymore; you seem guilt-stricken each time I'm displeased, without me having to employ my skills of manipulation.

I've claimed your body and now, slowly -- but more and more surely -- it feels like I'm claiming your mind, too. Not just your mind, but your soul, your very personality re–molded and reshaped to my use and liking. Those are the thoughts that are coursing through my head as pretty images of you flick in front of my eyes, before I no longer can click the mouse, tensing, and before thoughts -- even pleasant, victorious, ego–boosting thoughts -- no longer are an option, but instead just a flood of bliss overpowering my nervous system, as I tense, and shudder, and my cock pulses and a my balls press tight against its root and I groan and shoot a big load of thick, hot, sticky cum into your mouth, losing myself in the moment, in the sensation.

I hiss as the sensation becomes too much, and yet not, because I love it, even if it's causing me to tense, and it feels like being tickled, near unbearably but oh-so-wonderfully, as you suck and lick on.

"Easy. Slow down," I instruct, and take a few deep breaths waiting for my cock to diminish at least partially so that I can painlessly take care of my other need, and then I do, letting a trickle, weak and hesitant at first, and then stronger and more continuous, flush through your mouth. My piss tastes and smells a bit stronger today than before; it was a busy day and I haven't drank quite enough water. It's saltier and more acrid. More of an experience of what it really is like, undiluted.

I almost cry, in fact tears do appear in the corners of my eyes as the last droplet leaves my cock with your mouth still on it, ready to suck on... because this is pure bliss on all imaginable levels.

Laura

From under the desk, I suck your cock, hands–free –– the way you like it. I can't see anything because of the blindfold; my world is your penis. Your manhood is erected and firm, the head bulbous and spongy as I polish it with my preteen mouth. My tongue is swirling and licking around the head as I bob. For an inexperienced 11–year–old, I'm actually quite skilled at the art of fellatio. I have a keen sense of what makes your penis feel good, and I attempt to provide that pleasure. Perhaps the only deficiency is the fact that I am unable, or unwilling, to throat your shaft entirely with my downward bobs, choosing instead to cram your head into the back of my mouth and the narrow beginnings of my throat. Yet it feels good, and there will be time to practice. A great deal of time, in fact, should you choose.

Certain other techniques are lacking, such as an occasional foray down to your testicles to lick and suck there. But you have not yet trained me to do that, having concentrated our prior sessions on servicing your shaft appropriately. Eventually I'll move to your balls on a simple command: the word "balls" or a snap of your fingers. That will come. But for now, it is pleasurable enough for my middle–schooler mouth to be bathing your cockhead and a good half of your veiny shaft. It feels good. Very good.

I am unaware, of course, that you are scrolling through my modeling photos, including the special shots that I was starting to do a few more of with Glenn before my untimely disappearance. As you no doubt are aware, one of the reasons my Mom and Daddy divorced was Mom's singular focus on my career. Before the divorce last year she and Daddy used to argue constantly. Daddy always argued that Mom should "Let me be a normal girl, dammit." Mommy was adamant that modeling, and dance, and photo shoots were a ticket to my future that should not be squandered. "A ticket to your future, or hers?" Daddy asked angrily before the conversation ended like so many others, with Mom storming off.

What Daddy didn't know is that in the last six months, some of the modeling sessions had been different from the others. More-revealing clothing. More-seductive poses. To me, the transition was relatively innocuous and seamless. Glenn started using the word "sexy" more in our shoots –– "That's sexy, Laura. Do that. Be sexy. That's right." Mom was never in the room for these shoots, which was weird. She held more whispered conversations with Glenn. I didn't think anything of it, really. Glenn explained that now that I was a big girl, the agencies wanted big–girl shots or I just wouldn't be marketable. It was fine with me. Like, whatever.

You are now viewing some of those special shots. And the changing shots that Glenn sometimes took as he checked his camera. I'd been changing right in front of Glenn for a couple of years. Mom explained that it saved time, and it was OK to do so anyway, because Glenn wouldn't look. He preferred to be with other men, she told me. I had a vague understanding of this then, but later learned that Glenn was gay. It meant nothing to me and didn't lower his status one iota in my mind, as Glenn was always kind and sometimes funny. (In truth, although I didn't know this and Mom only suspected, Glenn is a pederast and a pedophile, quite enjoying the modeling shoots, and more, with some of his younger, male models.)

I continue to work your adult penis with my child mouth as you scroll through some of my "sexy" photo shoots. The first time Glenn ever shot me topless I was in a small bikini, and he pulled the bra portion up over my nipples, casually, as if the suit had slipped. My little nipples appear in the photos as dime–sized, pink, and totally flush with my undeveloped chest. They were taken only four months ago. Now, of course, those very same nipples are decorated with tiny steel rings that dangle onto my chest. They flop about a bit as I bob on your cockshaft, still feeling cold and foreign against my soft skin, but remarkably pain–free despite the earlier trauma of the incisions.

As I suck and bob and swirl my tongue, I await the tell–tale signs that you are about to cum. Usually you make some groaning noises, and I like that, not only because it gives me some warning that you are about to seed my tummy with your man juice, but because it makes me feel a bit proud, or useful, even powerful that I have this effect on you. That I can, with my mouth, bring an adult man –– a man who I regard now almost as some kind of omniscient God–like person –– to an intense, toe–curling orgasm. Me. Laura Vandahl. Age 11. It's not much, but it's something. Something that you need me for if you want it to happen.

As I suck and pleasure your penis, back in my home town, Mom and Daddy are meeting once again with Detective Graylen. There have been so many meetings. Too many to count. But at this meeting, Det. Graylen informs them that the possibility of a stranger abduction is starting to be regarded as the most likely explanation for my disappearance. As I lick and swirl the head of your cock with my tiny, pink tongue, Det. Graylen informs them that it is possible that the abductor is a sexual predator. Daddy leans back in his chair with a discontented sigh, as Mom stares at the wall and bites her lip. As I cram my little face down on your engorged member, stuffing it into the entryway to my throat with my hands clasped obediently behind my back, Det. Graylen tells my parents that the police are interviewing known sex offenders in a wide area, hoping to find a lead. As my pre–adolescent drool flows wetly down your shaft to your pubic bush, he tells them that every resource the police force has to deploy is out looking for me. "We'll find her, I'm sure of that. Not to worry," he says, with a falsely optimistic smile.

I feel you tense, and shudder, and a hard–to–describe enlarging, building feeling in your penis as you prepare for orgasm. And I'm glad for these signs, as there would be no way for me to guzzle your cums down into my tummy if I didn't have the opportunity to pull back as I now do, and await the thick, wet spurts of your man seed. I prepare to swallow just as quickly as I can. ("Just send it straight down, Laur'. You know how fast it comes" I remind myself.) My body tenses as I expect your cock to explode at any moment. And then it does, the squirting sound muffled but reverberating inside my mouth.

I gulp and swallow and swallow and swallow some more as you feed me your copious load. Spurt after spurt explodes, thick and warm and wet, inside my child mouth. I'm used to the taste that floods my senses as your sperm washing over my taste buds. Thick and slightly bitter, warm, slightly salty. It is the taste of cum, now familiar to my 11–year–old self. I glug and swallow and drink from your shaft. I don't miss a drop, and as I sense your orgasm diminishing, I resume sucking and swirling my tongue over your sensitive cockhead with vigor, until you command me to slow down.

As I hold your softening penis obediently between my lips, I know what is coming next. And sure enough, my mouth suddenly fills with another flavor –– this one intense, bitter, acrid, pungent. Your piss. I immediately begin to swallow, as the stream of urine comes out even faster than your cum. It taste really strong, really yucky today. But there is no thought of rejecting it. I swallow and swallow and swallow, the nasty liquid causing a hot, burning sensation in my throat. But eventually your stream starts to diminish, and I know I have taken it all and not missed a drop. The way you want it. The way you expect. Spilling piss from my mouth on your carpet would be bad. Very bad. I know that instinctively. I spill none. Your pungent discharge joins your cum in a cocktail of man juices in my 11–year–old tummy. As your stream abates, my little tongue begins swirling around your bulbous, soft, cockhead once again.

Marcus

As soon as you resume a higher intensity of licking over my glans, I realize that in practice, this is not as great an idea as it was in my fantasy. It feels ticklish and too much and soon starts feeling almost as irritable as it is pleasant. I wonder what to do, briefly, how to deal with this so you have to keep up a continuous effort while I have a bit of a break. And the solution is obvious; indeed it comes like a flash of blowjobs to come.

"Enough on my cock now," I murmur. "Lick and kiss and suckle on my balls," I instruct and shift a bit forward on the chair and spread my knees wide to make this easier. "I like licks underneath the sack and between it and my leg, that wedge right there," I say, and in case you don't know what I mean, I reach down, grab your arm, slide it through my fingers releasing it from behind your back until I'm holding your hand and while you are still blindfolded, I show you, at least with touch, what and where I mean. This chair would not be very comfortable for me to receive rimming and anyway, we are cock–focused today. But your tongue will not be too far from my ass if you slide well under my balls and that's good; a little light teasing that's close to actual rimming, but not quite, is something I can quite enjoy, too. And nothing is stopping me from asking for more of exactly what I like, at any point.

I take both your hands, put one on my shaft and the other on my balls. It's hands–off only when the cock is in your mouth. When you are licking, kissing, and working on the areas around it, feel free to use your hands," I encourage you. And then I relax and let you do whatever you are gonna do; you've been instructed well enough, I should not need to say anything further. I switch from pictures to videos, to early ones, when you were first forced to strip, our early interactions, your first caning. I play them without sound because I don't want you to know what I'm doing; somehow, on a really weird level, I feel boyishly guilty like I'm doing something wrong, like a kid who could get caught watching porn by his parents. That kind of feeling.

I didn't mean to communicate with you while we're at this, but again, reality proves a bit more demanding than the smooth, idealistic fantasy where everything happens like I have a telepathic control over the situation. This new sensation is just as good, though, and it will make the whole treat last longer; it will make you last longer before you totally exhaust yourself.

I reach under the desk and gently stroke your hair. Your tongue is small and a little ticklish, but damn, knowing how it can get me off, I would not trade it for anything.

"'Bout five more minutes of this," I instruct, "and then back to sucking. And take me a bit deeper this time. Gagging, coughing kind of deeper. I want you to practice on overcoming your gag reflex to make me feel good. I know it isn't as easy and nice, but it feels extra extra good for me, that makes it kind of worth it, right?" I imply selfishly, furthering the paradigm that ultimately, what matters, is exactly and only that -- me feeling good, me being pleasured. That's the measure of right and wrong, good and bad, of all things in this little world. It's mind-blowing and staggeringly sexy that you've accepted this narrative, and even internalized it somehow. It's really shocking, in the best possible way (from my point of view, of course), that you adapted to this pattern in which making me cum and happy is what really matters, and whatever is not in tune with it, like you hurting or getting tired, is a hindrance that needs to be dealt with but that is essentially secondary.

As you worship my ball sack and the surrounding areas I wonder what will your letter to your parents be like. How cheerful will you make it to make them worry less? Will you realize that your parents knowing that their daughter has been abducted and that they cannot do a thing about it is likely worse for them than thinking the more likely thing happened -- that you have been raped and are, by now, already dead?

I think about the size-two plug,and wonder if I could perhaps guilt-trip you or sweet–mouth you into taking size three instead, advancing the timing of our eventual first anal encounter forward by another day.

I think I should keep you dressed from now on, and enjoy watching you blush when you undress. I think I should take pictures of it, too. Continue your modelling career in a way, moving onto soft and then hard kiddie porn. Shame I won't be able to share it, likely; the risk of that seems not worth it, but . . . even just having those videos as a sort of memorabilia would be gorgeous. I suddenly freeze and think. "Have I given you your pills today?" I ask. I think I did, when I brought the lunch pizza, but I'm not sure, and your pills are not something I should be forgetting about. I don't want you, among many other things, unexpectedly knocked up.

I rack my brain and it frustrates me. I'm normally quite obsessive and never forget things like this, but today was VERY busy and intense. Suddenly a genius solution of training your obedience, your diligence and sparing me some stress arises in my head. I pull back from the desk and look down at you, sliding the blindfold off, pointing at my eyes so you know that's where your eyes are supposed to be.

Of course: Peach-flavored ice tea; I knew there was something else, a bit weird, that you really liked.

"You would like to prove to me that I can rely on you and trust you, right?" I ask. How about this: I'll put a big pack of Nestea peach-flavored ice tea, small bottles, into your cell. And the pills. Each day, as soon as you wake up, you will have one of the ice teas, and the pills. Something nice, and something useful combined. But if you ever forget, or if you cheat, and have a tea without it going with the morning pills, there'll be a punishment," I suggest.

Laura

I don't have a very good way to confirm it, but I'm pretty sure that you make a lot more cum than a normal person. I have a distinct memory of being told in my 5th–grade health class section on human reproduction that a man would make about a tablespoon of stuff come out of his penis when he reached an organism. I'm sure it was a tablespoon Mrs. Graham said. I remember thinking about a tablespoon measure in the kitchen, visualizing it, a spoon full of man stuff with tiny little sperms swimming in it. Now maybe, possibly, she said that that was what a boy would make, not a man. But I'm pretty sure it was a man.

Anyway, you make way more cums than that. It takes several full swallows of –– what was that stuff called in class again? Not cum, but "semen" –– semen to take your full load. And not little baby swallows, but full–throated, drinking–from–a–glass chugs as I swallow your spunk and send it down into my tummy. It's so weird the way it spurts into my mouth, with a liquid "Thwiittttt" sound, slightly muffled, but yet so close to my ear canal that it kind of reverberates as it hits the top of my mouth. Mrs. Graham called it "semen" or "ejaculate" but we all called it cum or sperm. ("And didn't Caroline call it something else? Was it 'spunk' or was that something else? And she used to say "jizz," too, whatever that is.)

I not only swallowed copious amounts of your ejaculate, but also your urine. I think I like the taste of semen way better than pee. Way, way better. Your pee was yucky tonight, and I know without even being able to look that it was an orangy amber–brown color. Because when my pee smells like yours tastes tonight, it's really dark in color and nasty. Yours tasted really yucky. And I still have the taste in my mouth right now, dancing on my taste buds. The thought of it makes my tummy clench a little bit, so I quickly change the subject to avoid throwing up. I resume sucking on your cock as soon as I have swallowed the last of your urine. You told me at least two cums and a pee. I have at least one of the former to go. Fortunately, my mouth and lips and jaw aren't really all that tired, yet. If only I can get you good and rock-hard again. Right now your penis is kinda squishy and thick and only semi–hard. It's hard to suck it that way, especially because my hands remain clasped behind my back.

I busy myself sucking it as best I can, trying to get you hard, trying to get back on track. Yet it almost seems like you want me to stop, the way you're almost pulling away from my mouth instead of thrusting towards it. I wonder if I'm doing something wrong, and when you tell me to stop, it pretty much confirms what I already was thinking. Now you want me to suck on your balls, and the sides of your thighs and stuff. I can even use my hands –– wow! Your cock feels soft and kind of floppy in my soft, preteen hands. Your balls feel heavy and thick as I touch you there.

I don't want to suck your balls, or lick them, because of the crinkly hairs and nasty dark wrinkles on your scrotum. But what I want doesn't matter at all here, in this place, so I obediently commence to lick and suckle and mouth your testicles with my preteen mouth. Actually the hairs aren't that bad. Especially once I get them kind of wet and matted down. It's weird the way your balls move around inside that floppy sack of skin you have down there, I never knew until this week exactly what that part of a male's anatomy looked like, much less what it felt like, or tasted. But now I know. The texture of your ball-sack is soft and wrinkly and kind of smooth–feeling, even if it has hairs all over it. The taste is fleshy, a little musky, but not really unpleasant. Not sweaty or nasty like that time (I shudder with the memory) you made me lick your butt hole before you even showered.

I lick with my tongue and drag my wet lips over your scrotum and the hairy skin of your inner thighs. Right where you showed me. My tongue is getting a little tired now. Probably the hardest thing, though, is keeping my tongue wet enough to glide over the skin I am licking. I've wet and re–wet my little pink tongue so many times that my mouth is starting to dry out a little bit. And that's not good because then it doesn't glide as smoothly. Your balls feel kinda weird on my cheeks and nose as I press my face in the little wedge between your penis and your thigh and lick you there.

As I lick and attempt to pleasure your testicles I think about the letter I'll write home –– if you'll still let me. (Do you really think he's gonna mail it, Laur'?" I ask myself.) I'll tell Calvin and Jeremy that I'm all right. And Mom and Daddy, too. They'll be relieved, I think. Maybe I can drop a hint that will help them to find me? But what hint? I don't even know where I am myself. Plus . . . it would be bad if I tried to do that and you caught me. You always catch me when I'm being bad. And I really don't like being punished. No, I don't think I'll want to risk that, I conclude, as my little tongue continues to bathe and pleasure your hairy, adult testicles.

I freeze when you suddenly ask me about the pills. I stop licking and tilt my head up, as if looking into your eyes, even though I am still blindfolded. My heart skips a beat. I can't remember whether I took them, or not. It's been a somewhat . . . long and trying day. I just can't remember. ("Think, Laur'. Remember breakfast? Did he give them to you then?") I feeling of foreboding comes over me, as if I've done wrong, or let you down. I know that's not true, and you don't seem mad, but that's the way I feel.

You remove my blindfold and ask me about trust. My eyes remain fixated on yours, squinting slightly from the increased light. "Yes, sir," I respond, softly, obediently, wanting you to know that you can trust me. You tell me about the iced tea. I absolutely adore Nestea's peach flavor. It is the best ever. I'll gladly take the pregnancy pills because I don't want to have a baby. I'm happy with the deal that you offer. "Yes, sir," I reply, willing to take on the task.

Marcus

"There's a good girl," I say and slide the blindfold back on. "Now back to sucking," I instruct and fast forward through my coming into the dungeon on the videos. Nope. No pills. I reach into a drawer, pulling a tablet of pills and stretching for a glass of water on the edge of the desk – all with my cock in your mouth. I stroke your face and I make you pause, give you the pills, pushing them into your mouth with my fingertips, pass the glass of water down under the table, realize you can't see it so I reach for your shoulder, arm and eventually hand again to give it to you.

"Drink up."

I'm not even aware that I'm solving a problem for you, your mouth didn't feel dry enough on my cock to be noticeable, if anything the little extra friction felt good, but there. That problem is – accidentally, but just the randomness of my train of thought – solved.

I write "peach ice tea" on a sticky note, so I remember to buy it, and relax back into receiving this by now rather long-lasting blowjob.

"Is your tummy okay? I don't want you to puke the pill out, it's several hours past the time you should have taken it as it is," I ask. It's my mistake, and obviously I have no idea that you feel like you've let me down; right now I don't expect it. I fucked up. Kind of. It's only lucky that the combination I'm feeding you and the dose of it is so big that even skipping a day would not be an issue, but it's best not to mess with these things. Why give you mood swings and whatever other side–effects taking these pills haphazardly could have when we can be punctual and organised about them? It seems like your tummy, even cum- and piss-filled, is fine, I've fed you well today, three meals, heck, that may actually be the first time since you arrived that you had an OK breakfast, lunch, and supper. Still no snacks and sweets, and a kid your age should eat what? Five or six times a day, really. But it's a major improvement.

As you "uh–huh" around my cock I groan. Damn that felt good! I think someone tried that before, but it didn't feel very exciting. I guess my post–orgasmic cock, which has slowly filled up and hardened into its full size during the time you spent paying attention to my ballsack and especially (oh how I loved that!) the line between my torso and my leg, especially down at the level of my scrotum. You rock girl.

"Can you hum some more?" I ask, not even realizing that I’m asking and not commanding. My voice is curious and a little excited, because I'm not sure how it's gonna feel like. You start to hum, and it feels good. It's fun. It tickles a little and there goes my idea of leaving you under the desk, ignoring you, for good. I pull back a bit and lean back so I can see you.

"Louder. Deeper. Now a higher note. High and low, like fire engine, tuh–deeh," I demand, and chuckle. What girl would go on at this point, continuing something this ludicrous and undignified? But you and I are past arbitrary concepts like dignity, it would seem. "Quieter, louder. Now . . . uhm . . . Can you go hmm–hmm–hmm–hmm–hmm," I suggest, loud sharp hums with distinct pauses between them. I don't realise that while this may feel a bit silly, it gives your tongue a rest, as well as your jaw, as you just hold my cock in your mouth and make noises, without putting pressure on it this way and having to do much with your tongue.

"Do you know ode to joy?" I ask, feeling really boyishly lost in the game now. "Na na na na na na na na – na na na na – Naaa na naah," I sing, badly, let's be honest there, I probably don't hit a single note right, but recognizably, the rhythm is correct and the melody is off key but vaguely similar to what I'm trying to convey, likely you've heard it before. I wonder what my favorite tune will feel like on my cock. I laugh. It's a merry laugh, not the sadistic smirking, sarcastic and cynical kind of brief "bark" that you've heard from me mostly in the past couple days.

"Now your favorite song, see if I can recognize it," I add, ready to guess.

I'm having a great time, and while it's kind of one–sided, even selfish on my part, it feels like despite that, we kind of share the light, fun atmosphere in the room; a painful chore has become a fun little game. A bit silly, but at least its non–threatening and painless.

It's gotten me a good bit horny, though.

"Now deeper and faster sucking and make me. It should not take long, and I don't want you to continue after that; that'll be more than enough cock-sucking for one night. You're doing good. I haven't had this good a time for a long while," I admit. I'm feeling really cheerful, blissed and relaxed. It's the movie, and good food, and having things done to me I always wished for and never got up until now, that just makes me super happy. It's easy to be a relatively nice guy when I'm super happy.

A vague nagging thought tries to enter my consciousness from the back of my head somewhere, I know I can't keep this up, I know this will not last, I know this is the good–guy me and I can't be a good guy for too long; it's just not who I am. I will need to challenge and command and even hurt you again, soon, as in not today, maybe even not tomorrow, but soon, and then you might feel disappointed and even betrayed by my loss of this attitude which is so relaxed and casual and feel–good just now.

I push the thought away. All I know I'm very seriously close to blowing a second load into your mouth, this feels good, this is a good moment, I sense, actually, for the both of us, and that's all that matters right now. It makes me feel better about myself, too. I worried you'd hold more of a grudge against me for putting needles through you.

I tense as you suck on, a brief thought flashes through my head. This will be a first, too; not just the pissing bit, but the double–orgasm, too. I groan. I'm close.

Laura

My little pink tongue is working your scrotum as you command me back to sucking. I place my hands behind my back as you taught me to do, rise up a bit higher on my knees, and press my open–mouthed, blindfolded face forward, as if bobbing for apples, trying to find your cock. I press my nose and cheek against the shaft, and I'm actually happy to see that it is hard once again, ready for my mouth. It takes just a bit of maneuvering to guide it, hands–free, between my lips. My tongue immediately swirls the now–familiar helmet shape of your bulbous head as I begin once again to fellate you.

It is not long before you bring me to a stop, and for a brief moment, I am fearful that I have done something wrong. But you stroke my face, and I can feel your fingers dance across my little cheek toward my mouth, then inside. I assume you want me to suck them, so I close my lips around them as you push the pills against my tongue. As you remove your fingers I'm not sure what to do. I've never taken pills without drinking. And even if I knew the technique I don't have enough saliva to give it a try. For a few seconds I am concerned, but then a glass is pressed to my lips and I drink, sending the pills down, thirstily finishing the entire glass.

As you remove the glass from my lips I can hear you settling back in the chair once again, and I lean forward and repeat my "bobbing for cock" search for your member, sliding my lips up the shaft and over your glans until I can capture the head in my little mouth. My re–wetted lips and tongue slide over your sensitive skin as I settle in for another suck. "Uhhnnhh hunnhh," I hum, as you ask me if my tummy is OK. Actually my tummy feels fine, if a bit full from all the fluids I have ingested. Comfortably full, with a mixture of Indian food, spunk, piss, and now water.

With your cock deep in my mouth, I commence humming at your request. It doesn't occur to me that you asked rather than instructed. We have pretty much reached the "your wish is my command" point in our relationship, where the manner of your request is of far less significance to me than the known consequences of disobeying it. You have made clear with the cane and the needles that I am not in any position to refuse, delay, or modify any of your commands. A "Pretty please will you kindly lick my balls" is really no different in my young mind than "Lick my balls now!" Both must be obeyed instantly. Both will be obeyed instantly. My striped and purple backside is a testament to what happens when I fail to comply, just as the shiny steel rings dangling from my nipples remind me of the consequences of lying.

And, actually, I don't mind the humming. It's kind of funny, in a way. I can tell that I am making my lips and mouth vibrate on your penis as I do it and I instinctively know that it must feel good for you. So I modulate the frequency of my little hums to try to achieve the greatest vibrations. For you. Because that's my responsibility right now. It's what you want me to do.

Your cock is large and fleshy in my little mouth. I'm getting kind of used to its tastes and texture. My tongue especially is intimately familiar with the shape of your cockhead and glans, the hollow indentation of your piss slit, even the veins that ridge the smooth skin of your shaft. My taste buds are familiar with the musky, fleshy taste and musky aroma of your penis when I first mouth it. The slightly tangy flavor of your precum is very familiar to me by now, as well.

In addition to your cock's tastes and textures, I also am familiar with its different levels of hardness, the different feel in my mouth when it is still erecting, when it is about to make cum, when it is starting to soften after I've swallowed your load. The skin of your cockhead sometimes has a different texture and smoothness than the skin below your glans. Sometimes it is stretched almost shiny, and my tongue glides across it easily. Sometimes it is more malleable, softer, with a discernible texture to it. I know all of these tastes and textures and feels. I know them intimately with my 11–year–old mouth and tongue. Your penis is a part of you, obviously, but to me it is almost like a separate being, with moods and mannerisms all its own. All this is known to me after just a week; yet, in reality, my relationship with your penis has only barely just begun.

I'm quite enjoying the humming game. Not with a "I'd rather not be doing this at all but the humming is better than just sucking" view, but with a "this is actually quite fun and I'm enjoying myself" frame of mind. In fact, my preteen mind is not even teasing me with the usual little thought snippets, reminding me that this is shameful and evil and bad, and that I should feel remorseful for performing it, much less tolerating it, or –– God forbid –– enjoying it. For once, my mind leaves me alone, allowing me to fellate you in piece. So I hum as your instruct, with your penis crammed deep in the back of my mouth. I try to find the right hums to provide the most vibrations. I'm quite enjoying the game, consciously unaware of my descent into depravity.

Of course I know Ode to Joy. I hear it in church every year. I hear it all the time, it seems, in advertisements and movies and what not. I quite like it, as well, so it is with gusto that I begin to hum it with your cockshaft embedded between my stretched, preteen lips. "Ummm ummm ummm umm umm umm umm umm umm ummm ummm ummm ummmmmmm um ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm," I hum. I even take a stab at "Ummm umm umm ummm, ummm um um ummmm ummm, ummm um um ummmm ummmm ummm ummm ummmmmmmmmm," but eventually I am just humming to the gist of the tune in my little head. My mouth vibrates around your cock as I willingly, even eagerly perform Bach's Fellatio By Child for an audience of one.

When we're done with the humming game, I set about with gusto to try to get you to cum. Once I do, I'll be done. You said so. And you keep your word ("Yeah, and you don't," I remind myself, as my mind kicks back into taunting mode). My tongue swirls your cockhead as I bob deep on your shaft, my drool flowing wetly into your pubic bush. I kneel up, and press my head down hard on your cock, willing my throat open, and manage to take your wide head into my narrow passageway. I hold it there, and you can feel the muscles of my throat spasming. I withdraw, and do it again. And again. Impale, hold . . . withdraw. Impale, hold . . . withdraw. My tight orifice provides an exquisite, gripping pleasure to your phallus.

As I suck, I am unaware of the dark thoughts re–entering your mind, thoughts of pain, and screams and cries, of unhappy, hurting, lachrymose little girls –– indeed, thoughts of a certain, specific little girl, who bears a remarkable resemblance to me –– and the things that can be done to her. Painful things. Horrible things. Revolting, disgusting, fear–inducing things, things without limit other than the most–creative depravities your mind is capable of forming. I do feel a twitch in your cock, a change in its texture, its very shape, as dark thoughts pass through your mind. I feel it in my mouth. But I don't know the thoughts that caused it. If I did, I might collapse in fear. And there is no possibility of my child–sized brain ever fully understand the complicated scenarios that cause certain men to revel in the pain and cries and fears of little children. But my understanding is not required, or even desired. All that is required is my participation. And my circumstances here guarantee my full participation, 24–7.

When you're 11 like I am, the world is simple, usually black and white. I lack the capacity to understand the complexity of thought that brings exquisite pleasure to you when you bring pain, revulsion, and fear to me. In middle school, a child who torments and teases others for amusement is just a bully. The deeper connotations of such behavior are neither recognized nor understood. And the extremes to which such behaviors can be taken are beyond the contemplation of an 11–year–old. Which makes the opportunity now available to you –– perhaps uniquely to you –– all the more sublime.

Marcus

When you take me deeper and your throat starts tightening around my cock–tip, as if milking it, as if begging it, urging it to feed you some more spunk, I arch in the chair look up, gasp, hiss, and then cry out loudly.

"Yeah, yeah, y–y–yaaaah, yeaah, yeah, fffffffFUUUUCK!!!" I cry loudly, very loudly, powerfully as my cock once more starts to twitch and pulse and another load of jizz squirts into your obediently awaiting mouth. Now this time it's a lot closer to what you have been told and taught, a bit more than a spoonful, unless it was a big spoon, but not more than a single good mouthful. It's as hot as before, the same nutty salty taste and musky smell, but it's a lot runnier this time, and if you got to see it, you'd notice it's also more towards transparent and grey than the earlier load which was pearly white.

"Stay put, don't move," I instruct, wanting the warmth of your mouth present for a little while longer but not wanting to be licked and sucked anymore. I relax and feel my cock slowly diminish.

There's nothing in my bladder it would seem, which is the only thing that stops me from using your mouth as a toilet again, I don't have any scruples about that anymore.

Eventually I sigh and pull out. I move back, the chair is wheeled so I can, and reach for a tissue to clean up my pubes and the root of my cocks of off the worst of your drool and my pre and whatever else the froth around there consists of. I don't even feel like a tongue clean up, I'm utterly and totally spent. This might, I think, be actually the first time ever since I first heard about blow jobs, that I really don't want one right now. You managed to sate me. I'm impressed, and proud of both of us, of the progress we've made in the single week of your time here.

"All right," I take your hand and place my other palm on top of your head so you don't bang it on the desk from below, getting out, and help you crawl out of there, and walk you out of my study, into the hallway and onwards. There's something oddly intimate about leading you through the house blindfolded, trusting, in your nice new clothes.

I stop and collect a bag of stuff on the way, quickly putting it into an airport trunk, the wheeled, hard–case sort, and I lead you down slowly, your arm in one hand, the trunk in the other. Two pairs of soundproof doors and we're back where there, this and me are everything. The only things.

I undo the blindfold and walk on into the cell. I let the door slide open and put the trunk on the floor. Open it.

"Laura. I think the time has come for some important changes. Here in this trunk are some clothes. I'll bring more down soon and show you which of the chests of drawers in the bedroom are for you to use. You will wear clothes now," I say. I pull out a white and purple "total" onezie, with feet and even gloves and a hoodie, so if you zip it up, only your face will show. It's nice and soft and super comfy. There are two summer style dresses, some more t–shirts, skirts, socks, a hoodie pullover. Panties. All your size. It's almost all Desigual, some of it other brands but the theme is clear. There's nothing black. Not a single thing that would be plain and only of one color. Very few things have mild, pastel colors, and if, they're always complemented by others or in combination with something. It's all vivid, bright, colorful, girlie–girl stuff. There's a pair of fluffy bunny slippers (pink, of course) and purple VANS sneakers. Nothing else would fit in the trunk, though there's more to come. I've done a LOT of shopping before I got my hands on you – and tricky job that was, too, to not make it a lead towards me should someone try and connect the dots. "Of course when I tell you to undress, you will, any time, any place, quickly if I tell you to, slowly, like a strip–tease, if I tell you to. There's only one correct answer to a command, after all. Tell me," I demand even though by now, damn, you would probably thank–you–sir me and yes–sir me even if I slapped you awake in the middle of night.

"That and the pills being your responsibility are two of the big news. I will also leave the cell open from now on, so you have more space to do some exercise, stretch your legs. You can use the bathroom, so when you go number two, you don't have to do it here and make your cell smelly. Unless told otherwise, you are allowed showers – but not baths – when you need to. Twice a day. You can use the kitchenette to make yourself a cup of tea or have a snack when you want to. I will leave snacks that are allowed out on the counter, you are not allowed to take stuff from the cupboards, nor from the fridge. Be careful not to hurt yourself or break anything if you explore the dungeon. I'll keep the utility room unlocked for now, too, for cleaning and such. Med–ward and that whole wing will be locked and off limits." I stroke your hair.

"Laura, let me emphasize this. It's very important. This gives you responsibility. I cannot tell you all the things you are not supposed to do. There are just too many. But anything that could hurt you, or me, or damage this place is forbidden. You have to be smart enough to know what that means. I'm not gonna tell you not to touch the needles and the pills in the cabinet or not to drink bleach and so on and so on. You're not four, but eleven, and very smart for your age on top of that. So you get a freedom of this place; but it's a privilege. If you mess up, you lose that privilege and it will take a long time before you earn it again. Okay?"

Before I go, I give you a tube of cream, it should take an edge of the itching of your healing butt, and make sure it will not scar. I also give you a tube of lube. And take you to the shelf with butt plugs, number one cleaned up and replaced in its rightful position.

"So. Soon after I leave, you'll pop one of these into your butt and it will be there when I come tomorrow morning. Taking it out briefly for going to the toilet is okay, but then it goes straight back in. Now. This is the smallest you have to take," I point to plug number two, about the size of my thumb. "If you want to make me happy and impress me, you can try and do better than that," I look at plug number three and slider further right over four and five. "Sky is the limit. If you decide you are brave enough for a bigger one, you can always take a bigger one, but you cannot swap back. Once you have a plug in your butt, it stays there, unless for a brief pause or to be replaced by a bigger one. I think the rules are clear?" I check.

"This," I point at number five, thick as my cock near the root, and good five inches long, "would make you ready for butt–sex, and it would make me very, very, very impressed and happy, perhaps even inclined to grant you another wish or something."

I pass you the remote. Show you the light switches.

"Watch some videos of anal sex for me. We'll talk about it tomorrow," I say and bend over to kiss you good–night.

"I'll be here at eight. Your clock is set to a correct time and has an alarm, the TV also shows you time when you are choosing between channels. I want you clean and dressed nice for me when I come. Good night."

I don't give you time to ask any additional questions and leave -- having just expanded your "world" more than ten-fold, and even more when it comes to its options and complexity.

Dear Readers: Please know that I'm still immensely thankful for any and all of your feedback!

Which you can submit here. Or you can email me.

Thank you!