24. Crime and Punishment

Laura

I'm pretty proud of the fact that I can tell when you're about to cum, just from the way your cock thickens and contracts. But I don't need a tactile guide this time, since you are very vocal as your penis spews another load of warm sperm into my mouth. It's not a lot this time, and I swallow it straight down, easily, without worry, not even concerned about the taste or texture any more. I don't like slimy things –– usually –– but cum is different. I'm used to it now. The taste of your semen is very familiar to me now.

I hold your penis between my lips, being careful not to move. I'm ready at any second for a urine chaser, but it doesn't come. I leave my tongue there, immobile, as I feel your erection begin to soften in my mouth. ("I wonder how it does that," I think to myself. "I know Robbie Waskowicz called it a 'boner,' but it's not like it grows a bone inside it every time." I try to think back to my human reproduction class last year, but I can't remember what I was taught about that. "Maybe I'll ask Him," I ruminate, before realizing the lunacy of such a thought. "He's not your friend, Laur'.

He's a crazy sex pervert person who kidnapped you. Duh.")

I climb out from under the desk as you guide me. My knees are a little creaky and suddenly I feel sore. ("I wonder how long I was doing that for," I think to myself). You seem to be gathering things, but I can't see because of the blindfold. I hear you closing up a case of some sort. I'm not sure what it is, or what it is for, or why you are getting it. For a moment I feel a familiar fear descending, but I banish it from my mind. ("You didn't do anything bad. You did exactly what He asked you to –– told you to," I remind myself).

It's mildly comforting on a subconscious level to return to the basement level. Being upstairs is exhilarating, energizing, exciting, and bold. But being back downstairs is like returning home after an exciting day out on the town. The lower level is familiar, more like . . . home. Of course, this thought does not register on a conscious level. If it did, my nagging mind would taunt and tease me for feeling that way. But down here, I have a bed. A blanket. Comforting things. Possessions, even. I'd prefer to be home with my family, certainly, but the basement is becoming a bit more familiar, a bit more usual. Even the dungeon isn't quite as foreboding as it was when I first saw it.

I am amazed when I see the clothes. Speechless. Spellbound. They look new. They're certainly modern. You've been shopping. It adds a dimension to my understanding of you to see all of the clothes. You've prepared for this. For me. For my arrival. Keeping me naked was a stage, and now you want me clothed. As scared and intimidated as I am by ou and the power you wield over me, I am impressed with your planning. Your organization. Your focus. It's hard not to be. In addition, it almost makes me feel . . . special. Not because of the clothes per se, but because you went to the trouble to buy them. For me. ("Yeah, but don't forget He's got two cells down here, Laur'. And you can't be in both of them at the same time, so how special do you really think you are?")

"Yes, sir," I respond, with the correct answer to any command. "Yes, sir," is nearly automatic for me now, just as you planned. It's easy. If you speak, I respond "Yes, sir." A couple of times I've even slipped up, saying "yes, sir" when you've asked me a specific question. But I just caught myself and answered the question afterwards You seem much more tolerant of misuses of the phrase than non–uses. I'd rather be safe than sorry. Sorry leads to trouble, and trouble leads to pain. It's a very simple progression, and it can be avoided by saying "yes, sir" every single time. It's automatic. Easy peasy.

My head is spinning as you tell me about all of my new privileges and opportunities. ("I must've done a really good job with my mouth upstairs," I think to myself.) I'm thrilled with my new privileges. It's like getting the keys to the car for the first time. The "yes, sirs," come quickly, even eagerly, as you talk to me about my responsibilities, as well as the off–limits stuff. My responses are sincere. I don't want to blow this. I don't want to do anything that would cause you to revoke my privileges. My commitment to the rules is real.

After you kiss me and leave, I look at the assorted butt plugs. The first one didn't really hurt as much as it just felt weird. For a moment I think about taking the number three, but it looks pretty big. I settle for the number two, apply lube all over it, and tug my shorts and panties down. Leaning over, like I'm wiping myself, with a little grimace on my face, I put it against my little pucker ("Oooo! That is so cold!") and begin to press it in. At first my anal ring won't budge, but I worm it a little, and twist it, and the tip pushes past my barrier, breaking free. Biting my lower lip I push it inside ("That feels soooo weird.") until it seats there, inside me, fixed in place. It feels full inside me. Thick and full, but only mildly painful.

I'm wary about this anal sex thing, in part because I'm not sure how it will work without getting poop all over your penis. And since your penis is in my mouth a lot, that thought doesn't make me very happy. I change out of all of my clothes except the panties, and put the footed onesie on. It's a perfect fit. Warm, soft, comfortable, cute, and comfortable. I settle down with the remote and flip the TV on.

You've obviously done something because most of the channels are featuring anal sex tonight. I flip around, but within a few minutes I detect a theme, and the theme seems to be fairly constant. Anal sex, it appears, hurts. Even the women and older girls are grimacing as they take it from behind, and the little girls look very unhappy, with more than a few tears, and some shrieks and screams. There's also a lot of grunts and grimaces and groans even when there are no tears. At least I don't see a lot of poop, but that's small consolation.

Watching the videos is disconcerting. It makes the plug in my bottom feel bigger and more intrusive. I flip around the channels but the most comfortable looking videos still seem to show a lot of grimacing and groaning. And the bondage ones, or the kiddie-porn ones, pretty much universally feature a very unhappy, crying, squealing, begging girl. The smaller the girl, the more it seems to hurt. And I'm not very big. I'm scared and worried, but I can't look away. I watch, chewing my fingernails nervously, as stiff penises penetrate and thrust into tender bottoms.

Marcus

When I go up, pop open a can of beer, and sit down to watch you, its merely out of curiosity of how you will handle you new found 'freedom', which of course is just slightly expanded constriction. I'm curious if you would be more curious about the spaces, if you'd use the time to explore them unsupervised, go through the drawers and cupboards some and so on. But you are sore and tired and settle for watching 'the telly', meaning three streams of videos, educational ones, explicit ones and BDSM ones almost all of which are anal-focused today, mostly anal sex, but there's also but plug play, inflatable butt plug play, anal beads being used, even some anal masturbation, rimming and such. I've quite carefully chosen only scat–less and bloodless videos. I'm sure taking a cock up your ass will be challenging enough as it is, and having you worrying about it being all gross and dirty would be a step too far just now.

Of course I could just dish out some brutality and if it really came to it, you could be eating shit for breakfast tomorrow, but my gradual, pushy, insistent but essentially more charismatic than violent approach seems to be working just perfectly, so I decide to stick to it. Gosh, do I really think about my consistent psychological terror with severe punishments permeating it as "charismatic"? By God, I do. I'm one fucked up guy. But it's the truth; I could be, and if you were any less smart, any less submissive, I swear I would be a lot less sophisticated about having my way. There would be a lot more direct, ruthless, drastic violence involved. As it is . . . I'll take it step by step. We'll keep the anal stuff clean. Except when you stop being squeamish about it, I'll consider giving you a reason to start being squeamish about it anew.

Then, just as I shuffle the videos in the stream to make sure you'll learn about enemas -- what they, how they work, so that you know your ass can be nice and clean for me when I fuck it -- I notice you doing it. The thing I so explicitly and directly forbade, the one thing I don't like about you (I'd really have to think very hard to come up with another), the one thing that makes you slightly less pretty than you could be, slightly less than perfect. You start chewing your damn fingernails. I feel a flash of fury and I'm tempted to yell at you – I could, actually, through a microphone and hidden speakers in the cell – to stop it right now, but you are exhausted, sore, and you know the punishment for biting your nails will be severe. Would you even sleep if I told you off and you knew punishment was coming in the morning? I decide to leave it be, and go pump some iron to get the worst of the anger out of the system, I even box with a boxing bag and do fours rounds of sauna before I've relaxed enough to go to sleep without seething with fury. Nevertheless, you, girl, are in trouble. There goes my resolution about treating your squeamishness as something to be vaguely respected and avoided crossing for now.

I get up early, as in, early–early, 6:00 a.m., go for a quick jog, and then go shopping in town. I pick up stuff at the post office -- including an express–delivery from E–bay -- with a smug smile. I take a quick shower, and take a quick peek at the monitors just to see what you are (plus at a very high fast-forward speed, also what you were) up to. Did you write your letter? That would be an interesting read.

I come down into the dungeon, with the elephant in my hands. Not just an elephant, but the exact copy of your elephant at home. I walk into your cell, and put it on your bed, smiling mirthlessly. "I thought about you," I say and point at the gift. "Put some effort into making you happy. Did you think about me, and keeping me happy?" I ask and the coldness in my voice is probably already a major hint that you are in trouble.

Laura

It's been a long, long, long day, and I can barely keep my eyes open as I watch hard–core, anal–themed pornography on the television while lying on my side and hip in my little bed. I have to be a bit careful lying on my backside due to the condition of my bottom. But I also have to be careful lying on my front, given the rings that protrude from my nipples. Surprisingly, my chest doesn't hurt –– unless the rings happen to catch or pull. When that happens, a sharp, knife–like pain emanates from the incision points. So I'm perched on my side, on my hip. This causes the rings to dangle a little bit, so my arm is folded across my chest, holding them in place.

I am completely unaware that I have been biting my fingernails. It doesn't even occur to me. I'm worried about the upcoming anal sex with you. You have made it very clear that it's going to happen. But I'm not sure how your phallus is going to fit up my bottom hole. I'm pretty sure that it's going to hurt. A lot. After a bit, my eyelids feel like they have weights attached to them, and I am in danger of falling asleep without setting the alarm or turning off the television. I force myself to rise off the bed –– careful to lift off without putting any weight on my backside. I use the toilet to urinate, and then brush my teeth. I set the alarm for 7:00 a.m., which should give me plenty of time if you are not due until 8:00 a.m.

The last thing I do is pull the onesie down and gingerly apply some ointment to my bottom. I'm surprised at the corrugated feel of the welts. I knew you let me have it but I wasn't aware just how bad my bottom had been torn up. I glance down over my shoulder and see raw, reddish–purple skin there. I look away. I don't need to see. I'd rather not see.

I sleep pretty well, all things considered. Mostly on my front. The rings bother me a bit, but I quickly learn how to reposition myself without catching the rings on anything or flipping them up the wrong way. I wake up once to use the toilet again as my bladder finishes processing the liquids that you fed me from your penis. I return to bed and sleep through to my alarm.

The next morning, I shower, brush my teeth, dress, and take my pills. I check the clock periodically. I know that you will be there at 8:00 a.m. I poke around in the kitchen some, opening a drawer here and there. I want to open the refrigerator ("He didn't say you couldn't open it, only that you couldn't take anything out," I tell myself. "Yeah, but what if He sees you on a camera opening it and thinks you ate something? Then you're D–E–A–D.")

Finally, at 8:00 a.m., I return to my bed, which I have made, and lie down on my side. The size two plug is still in my bottom, and it feels weird. It felt weird to shower with it in. I know I'm going to need to go poo later this morning. Time ticks away as I wait for you.

Finally, I hear you entering the dungeon, and I stand. The door to the cell is open as you stride inside. You're holding . . . OMG! OMG! You're holding Alphonso! My stuffed elephant! My best friend in the whole world when I was a little girl. I can hardly believe it as you put him on the bed. I stare. It is Alphonso. Not a copy, not a fake, not a substitute, but him. ("That means he was in your house, Laur'. With Mom. Maybe with Calvin and Jeremy if it's Mom's turn to have them," I tell myself. The thought makes my skin run cold, but only for a second –– it's Alphonso after all!.) I am head over heels at this moment. Surprised. Flattered. Happy. I can't believe you would go to all that trouble. For me. I know that Alphonso was on my chair when I left for school the morning that you kidnapped me. Alphonso was always there. That's where I kept him. But now he's here. I am so excited! Almost giddy. Until you speak, that is.

Something in your tone causes my heart to skip a beat and my buoyant mood to deflate. Your tone, and the way you ask the question. I've done something wrong. You are angry. There is no mistaking it. ("Oh nooooo, Laur'. What did you do?") I rack my brain but I can't think of anything. "Yes, sir," I say, in a nervous voice. My response was a bit delayed. ("You almost forgot to say it, girlfriend.") But try as I might, I can't figure out what I did wrong. I look up at you, my pretty brown eyes wide and worried.

Marcus

I could make a big video–drama out of this again, but I promised you honesty and that much you can have on this occasion. I reach and take your hands, softly, slowly, gently lifting them up, palms to your face first, inspecting the fingernails. I slowly turn then so you can see the recently nibbled on nails, and I grunt, giving you a stern and kind of... grumpy look.

"You have been biting your fingernails," I say flatly, almost neutrally, holding the proof, the result, right there in my hands. "I told you very seriously that you are never ever to bite your fingernails, ever again, and look at this," I say a bit more angrily. "It wasn't easy to find your elephant, Laur'," I state as if it had anything to do with that, shamelessly emotionally manipulative, an evil bastard, and frown. "And you?" I sigh. "I am very disappointed. Sad," I say. I can tell from your expressions that that alone is almost enough of a punishment just now. Of course, only because you're expecting a punishment. Which will come.

"We established yesterday the rules regarding that. They are not nice rules, but you knew them, and you know I'm honest about these things. Right?" I ask, sounding very civil, very parent–like, about this. Like you've done something terrible that hurt me, a well–meaning daddy who does his best to educate you, to bring you up right. "You remember, I hope, I said I would punish your mouth in a way you will never forget. It would start by switching completely to doggy food, which we, therefore, are doing, effective immediately, but it will be worse than that." I pull the electrodes' remote from my pockets. But I shake my head.

"That, my dear, would be too easy. I really, really don't want you to be biting your nails," I muse. "And I know the one thing you really, really don't wanna be doing. It's harsh, but it has to be, because you must never ever forget again. Do you understand?" I ask, almost compassionately, like the insane sentence that I'm about to deliver is a necessity and not an expression of maniacal, calculated cruelty. Like you should almost be wanting the punishment, like you seriously, honestly deserve it.

I sit on the bed and put you on my lap. You look panicky and freaked out; I don't even have to try and tune in. It's quite obvious.

"Here's what we're going to do. We will put very, very bitter fingernail paint on your nails, so you don't forget yourself again. That's a help for the future, not the punishment, obviously. And. Until you have taken size five plug and after that, the whole of my cock -- right down to the balls -- up your bum, you will be surviving on dog food and dog treats only. And," I hold my breath as if I almost don't want to say it, but of course it's just a dramatic pause. I hide it well, but damn, this skips several steps in your training, leaps forward and I have you just in the right state of mind, manipulated and emotionally strained so much that I'm curious about your reaction, actually. "For exactly that long, that is until you've trained your butt enough to take me whole, I will be using your mouth and tongue instead of toilet paper." I drop the bomb and rephrase it, repeat it, just in case you didn't quite get it. "Each time I take a shit, you'll be in the bathroom with me, and you'll lick me clean afterwards. Of course, that makes your mouth filthy," I say, not mitigating but exacerbating your squeamishness, "so there will be no kissing and no cock–sucking in the meantime. When I want sex, you'll spread your legs and I'll use your pussy. From behind, so I don't have to smell your breath, methinks," I add, rubbing it in, making it a shameful, dirty, abnormal thing to be doing even in our extreme context here.

"Now you can cry, beg, you can throw a tantrum, but you only have yourself to blame. That's that. . . . Well actually," I add, after some consideration, "if you throw a tantrum, you will only make it worse on yourself. There's still the electrodes and other things to stop you from making fuss. But frankly, I'm hoping that you are ashamed enough not to put up a fight. After all, you have been warned, honestly and fairly. Isn't that the truth?" I ask, seriously.

Damn, I'm SUCH a manipulative, evil motherfucker I'm almost creeping myself out. Luckily, I manage to keep this train of thought at the very back of my mind, so it doesn't show. On the surface I must seem almost sorry that I'm doing this, but I have to, since I said I would punish your mouth in an unforgettable way.

I look into your eyes and wait for your reaction, focused on you, fully present -- for a moment even switching of the shoulder–patting, self-congratulatory voice that praises me for my messed-up manipulative skills. Your reaction could be anything from a total screaming, fist-flailing fit, but that would be so very unlike you that I doubt it. You could also just resign yourself to your fate; I sure as hell applied my skills toward that as best as I could, but you're not quite there yet, I suspect, so the most likely outcome, the one I'm sort of waiting for, is tears. You are, after all, a little, helpless, and just now deeply shamed eleven-year-old girl who has just received some seriously BAD news.

Laura

Until the moment you lift my little hands up towards my very nervous little face, I had no idea what I had done wrong. None. I had stopped myself several times since you instructed me and warned me about biting them. Several different times I found myself with my fingers pressing to my teeth, about to begin. But I stopped myself each time, always remembering that you had forbidden it. Except for last night. Last night I feasted on my cuticles for probably 20 minutes, taking each of my nails right down to the quick, nibbling away. And not once did it even cross my mind to stop.

I feel ashamed. My cheeks flush red and my ears burn. You told me not to do something and I did it, anyway. Yet, underneath my initial reaction, a little voice inside me is clamoring to be heard. ("But you didn't mean to disobey, Laur'. That matters. You gotta tell him. He thinks you did it on purpose.") But it is not my turn to talk, if it ever even will be. Right now my role is to listen. I look on in wide–eyed horror as you recite the litany of consequences and punishments that will befall me now, as a result of a single mistake. My horror at the depravity of my punishment is supplemented by a pervasive feeling of hopeless unfairness. It was an accident. That's all. An accident. It wasn't an act of disobedience.

I'm not a lawyer and I'm not old enough to think perfectly logically all of the time, but on this occasion I perceive very clearly that there is a vast difference between a transgression that occurs deliberately and consciously –– such as when I cheated on the tip–toe game and then lied about it –– and a transgression that happens accidentally, without deliberation or planning, without even a conscious awareness that the violation was occurring or that the act was wrong. Yet your quick pronouncement of guilt, the harsh and horrible punishment to which I have been sentenced –– they make no distinction between the two vastly different types of transgressions. Of course, I can't put all of this into words –– I'm only 11. But I have an innate child's sense of fairness and unfairness, formed at home and at school.

And this is not fair. It's not fair at all. I have been following every instruction, obeying every command. I sucked your penis last night and drank your pee and your cum, the latter twice. I was good. You said I was. I got clothes. Everything was good. And now I make one little mistake –– well, not little, I guess, 'cause you seem really upset about it, even if I'm not sure why –– and now you're gonna make me eat yucky dog food and lick poop from your butt after you go number two.

The total unfairness of it brings tears to my eyes, and I bite my lip to keep from saying anything. ("Oh God, Laura, don't say anything, don't say a word. Do you want to get the cane again? Do you want him to do the electrodes? You can't say anything –– it'll just make it worse!") But it's totally, completely, utterly unfair. I can tell that you feel bad about having to do it. I can also tell that you think a really harsh punishment is necessary. But the truth is, I didn't mean to bite my nails. I just forgot. And prolly just the bitter fingernail stuff would make sure it never ever happens again. All of the other stuff is unnecessary. You don't have to punish me that way. I want to tell you that. I need to tell you that. And also that already very, very sorry for what happened. For what I did.

An overwhelming feeling of helplessness and desperation envelopes me. The sensation is so real that I feel almost claustrophobic. I want to tell you that it was an accident. I need to tell you that you don't have to punish me like that to get me to stop. As sure as I am standing here, next to the bed, I will never ever ever ever bite my nails again. And since it won't ever ever ever happen again, punishment is basically not even needed, right? And since you're shaking your head and looking all disappointed and don't really even want to punish me, all I need to do is tell you that, tell you about it never ever ever happening again, right?

The thoughts are there, in my head. A pretty good analysis from an 11–year–old –– especially one who's just received some seriously BAD news. Unfortunately, when I open my mouth to speak ("I'm not sure you're allowed to say words right now, Laur'," I warn myself), the translation from thoughts and concepts in my mind to words from my mouth doesn't go very well. Like most children, I lack the vocabulary to express my thoughts, and the speaking ability to convey them.

"But that's not fair," I say, with a hitching, hyperventilating, near–tears little–girl voice, that is not at all what I intended to say. It certainly isn't all that I intended to say. But complicated thoughts about why your sentence is unfair are hard to put into words. Very hard. I'm only 11. In the 5th grade. The words I speak are the best I can do. I am utterly convinced that your punishment is not fair. Not only in its harshness, but especially because I didn't even mean to bite my nails. I didn't even know I was doing it. Surely that will count for something, right? Right? "I d–didn't mean to . . . to . . . b–bite them," I stammer. I want to tell you why I should get a less–severe punishment because of that, but the words won't come. I search your face for a sign that maybe, just maybe, you understand what I mean. Maybe you will sense the unfairness of the punishment. Even though I can't express all of my thoughts, maybe you'll still get it. I know you feel bad about having to punish me so bad.

I don't throw a tantrum. I don't even break down in sobs. I make my two little statements and stand there, shaking and pale, in my Desigual outfit, then one I picked out less than an hour ago, at a time when I thought that today might be better. But today is not better. Not by a long shot. I look like a very upset, very contrite, and very, very worried little girl as I search your face for any sign of hope.

Marcus

Not as smooth as I hoped for, then. And of course I can see your logic, and of course by the rules of Out There, this should, and would, go unpunished. But we are down here, where there is only here, this, and me. Different rules apply. I could leave it at that, and simply ignore your protest. My word is the law, after all; divine almost. Reality–shaping. But I understand where you are coming from, and I think I can at least partially beat your logic, or perhaps not beat it, but I should be able to make that line of unfairness you seem to be so keenly aware of a lot fuzzier. "It's okay. This is quite a big deal and I want us both to have a good understanding of the situation, so I'm not gonna punish you for speaking up. Next time, the best thing would be to ask 'Can I say something, sir,' or 'Do I have a permission to speak, sir'. Then you don't have to shake like you half expect me to zap or slap you 'kay?"

"Let me guess what you mean. You didn't mean to bite your nails, you didn't even really know you were doing it, so you think being punished for it is unfair. Right?" I wait for a nod or something, and nod along, to show that I'm getting this.

"Now, you having nice fingernails is important to me. Very important to me. It might seem weird to you, but it’s very, very important for me that you look pretty and that you don't have your nails bitten down like this. Clear so far? Now I'm gonna use a bit more exaggerated example to show why I think you should be punished.”

“Imagine a guy is driving through your town. It's been a long ride, he's a bit tired, has loud music on to keep him from nodding off and crashing . . . and he's speeding quite a bit. He didn't mean to speed, maybe a bit, but he just didn't check his speed as he drove into the town, and without meaning to, he's going a lot faster than he should be, busy with other things -- you know, like the music -- and thinking that it's only twenty more miles and then he's at home and all will be good. And it's getting dark, really just bad luck, and because it's dark and he's tired, he overlooks a little boy, let's say Jeremy -- so you can imagine the related feelings first-hand -- who is crossing the road. And the guy runs him over and kills him. Of course he didn't mean to do that and he is immediately very, very sorry. He runs out of the car, cries perhaps, but he can’t do anything at all. He didn't mean to, but he was going too fast and that meant that, combined with a bit of bad luck, a little boy is now dead. He'll never play again; his mum, dad, brother and sister will forever miss him, and for rather a long time they will be very, very sad and heart–broken. Now do you think that that man, who in our example runs over Jeremy, should just apologize and maybe get a sticker on his front screen shade that says "do not speed" or do you think he should be punished, having his license taken away, or perhaps even worse, perhaps even sent to prison for a couple months so he has time to think about how dangerous it is not to think, not to be more careful, and how dangerous, whether you mean to speed or not, it is to go too fast." I give you a while to think about it.

"Now imagine I come out of here tomorrow and get a phone call from an old friend. All very exciting -- we haven't seen each other for a long time. I invite him over for a beer, and we have a couple beers and he's still around in the morning and I'm hungover, and don't want to chase him out, so I think you can just wait for your breakfast a bit. But then we have coffee, and chat, and get carried away, and we drink again, and get drunk and it's all messy and I don't remember about you at all . . . I can't come down while he's around, so in the end I don't come down with any food at all, till lunchtime day after tomorrow. And I'm sorry about it, I just forgot and there were circumstances that make it not really my fault, but by then you have been hungry for two full, long, unpleasant days, practically. And also worried about me, and if I will ever come back . . . would you seriously not be mad at me that I spent two days drinking and having fun and left you alone and hungry? And remember, lying is not allowed!" I remind you.

"So, now, you might not have meant to do it, I'll say that I believe you so that's a given, but . . . your fingernails are bitten right down as far as they can be. All chewed and nasty. You didn't mean to, but . . . should I really just let it be? Let you 'drive on'? And do you honestly think I'm not mad?” I pause for a moment. “Laura, it's not always nice, and it may seem unfair, too, but we have to take responsibility for our actions. It's very, very important. Now, if you set aside the fact that you don't want to be punished, which is understandable, do you still think it's so completely unfair and unreasonable and that you definitely should not be punished?"

Now if this doesn't gnaw at your certainty then I'm left with brutality and dictatorship, but I should think it should be more than enough to create a bit of a mess in your head regarding the black-and-white view you had of the situation. I've acknowledged that I see where you are coming from, and I wonder if you'll be able to do the same for me -- not that it's likely to change the outcome of this at all, as we probably both suspect. But you look hopeful, and I want at least to make it seem like I'm giving this a proper thought–through and like I'm seriously considering what you have to say. It never hurts, even with a non–consensual slave, if she at least feels listened to and heard, even if it doesn't make much difference in the end. And something a bit akin to a compromise, that might just squeeze your little heart the right way and make me seem almost like the good guy again, already is emerging in my mind.

But first, let's hear you. Let's see what you have to say now that I've given my speech. Now that I've put your position into a bigger perspective. That's the beauty of it; you're smart and gorgeous and all that, but at the end of the day, you are just eleven years old, as malleable as clay, and bit by bit, I get to shape you -- body AND mind -- till they are exactly the way I want them to be.

Laura

I barely got the words out, and they weren't a good translation of what I was thinking. I'm relieved when you tell me that I won't be punished just for saying something. I make a mental note to ask the next time. You're right, of course –– it would be a lot better to know that I am allowed to say something than to be hit or zapped because I spoke when I wasn't supposed to.

You totally get my point, even though I didn't say it very well. I look a little hopeful, a little eager even, as you say what I was thinking a lot better than I dd. You're 100% right. I didn't mean to bite my nails; I didn't even know that I was doing it, and, while I expect to be punished for doing it, the punishment that you have meted out is unfair and mean. The punishment doesn't fit the crime, so to speak. I nod as you perfectly say what I was thinking, as if you can read my mind, or something. ("Maybe He really can read your mind," I think to myself.)

As you speak, I realize a bit more how grave my transgression was, at least in your eyes. Even though you told me I can't bite my fingernails anymore, I didn't realize that it was that important. I mean, everything you tell me to do is important on some level, for sure. But the way you're talking about me biting my fingernails, you make it sound like I did something really, really bad. I would not have put this into the Really Bad category, almost up there with hurting you or trying to escape. The fact that you are emphasizing how important my nails are to you scares me, and makes me think that my efforts to negotiate a lighter sentence might not work out very well.

I nod as you ask me the occasional question to keep me on track, and listen as you tell the story about the man who speeds in his car and hits the boy. It doesn't make it any easier on me that in your example, my youngest brother ends up getting killed. That, coupled with the oath I had to take on his life, makes me feel very disconcerted. Plus, I have to admit that your story makes some sense. ("But you're not saying you shouldn't be punished at all; just that it shouldn't be that bad of a punishment," I remind myself.) I wait for an opportunity to say something, but you move right into the next example.

I listen as you talk about me being hungry down in my cell while you forget about me for two whole days. This story confuses me a little bit because even if you did that, you're not going to be punished for it. After all, who's going to punish you? You can do whatever you want. In fact, you don't even say that you would be punished, only that I would have a right to be mad at you. I guess I would be mad, but I'm not sure what this has to do with me biting my fingernails. "I would be mad, but–" I start to say, before you cut me off. I wanted to say more. I wanted to say that I would be mad but I would forgive you 'cause it was a mistake. But I don't get the chance.

Finally you finish and I get to say something. Once again, I have trouble translating my thoughts into words, plus my voice sounds nervous and quivery. "Um, I think . . . I think I should be punished?" I admit, my voice sounding introspective, nervous, and uncertain, my fear evident. "But just not . . . because I d–didn't mean um, to, um, bite my fingernails when I did? I don't think . . . I think . . . what you said, about . . . what you said about my punishment –– what it was gonna be when you did it? It's not fair 'cause . . . 'cause um . . . people should get a second chance if they do something bad, but they wanted to be good? Like on the inside?" I look up, my face concentrating as I search for the words. ("'On the inside,' Laur'? Did you seriously just say that?")

I'm not sure that I've convinced you. In fact, it doesn't look like I have. I feel more than a little desperate. I don't want to eat dog food, and most especially I don't want to lick your butt hole with my tongue –– clean it –– after you poop. The thought makes me more than a bit queasy. I feel a little faint. And you still haven't said anything. You're just staring at me, and that makes me most nervous of all.

I decide to resort to begging. "And, um, I'm really, really sorry for . . . for um, biting my nails. I won't bite them ever again 'cause this time I'll remember, I PROMISE," I say, solemnly. I sit on your lap, looking desperate but hopeful. ("Maybe it'll just be dog food, Laur'," I say to myself, for once my mind conjuring up an encouraging thought.) I look and feel very small, and very dependent, as I await your verdict.

Marcus

I listen to your explanation. Your eloquence is limited, but I get the idea very well, not lastly because you're damn right and what you're saying is actually very logical. You're one sharp lass, aren't'chya?

"You make promises so easily. How can you promise? Can you be sure you'll not forget again, you will not just do it without thinking and then you'll feel like it's not fair if I punish you? I don't really like that. I told you I was very disappointed and here you are, making promises again, all for the right now, but what if it happens again? Will you just promise again?" I demand.

"Here's what I think we should do. You've already lost at least a kilo, if not more since you arrived, with the initial trouble. If I make you eat dog food you'll only eat the very minimum to keep yourself alive, and it won't be any good for you. I want you strong. And I see how you feel it's unfair to get a punishment that lasts for days and days of nastiness for something you just did without meaning to. So. We do each of those things just once. Just as a warning. To help you remember, to give you a strong memory that will come up next time you mindlessly bring your fingers to your mouth. You will have dog food for breakfast, and when I go today, you will clean me up. If you do that without fussing -- finish the dog food and do the clean up properly -- and admit that it's a compromise, even though I don't have to compromise, I'll accept your promise. Just once and once only, as a lesson, and then we move on and I will forgive you and you -- you must promise not to hold a grudge against me for punishing you. Can you do that? Do we have a deal?" I demand.

"You will then know what the punishment will be like if you break that promise; you'll know it will be a lot worse than just doing it once and once only. It also means you won't have to rush that much with getting ready for butt–sex. And if you are ready, it will hurt a lot less, might not even hurt at all. Now. Is that more fair?" I ask.

My expression is dead serious and grave and I'm careful to offer it thoughtfully, almost hesitantly, like this already was a big, huge compromise, like I really, really listened to you and heard you and considered it and re–thought the whole thing and this is as far as I'm willing to compromise so that you don't feel like the punishment isn't just and take it without bitter resentment. Of course, it's all just bull, it's all manipulation. It's guilt–tripping and "gold digging"; I'm trying to mine as much out of this situation as I possibly can, an arbitrary situation that I created in the first place. I came up with extreme, overblown punishment and now mitigated it significantly, from . . . what? Three, fours days of dog-food eating and shit-licking to just a one–off experience; the point though? I'm starting to sense that I can go this far, this extreme, and it will not even have to be all that forced; you will hate it, but you will not acutely and intensively hate me for it. Another chip broken away of your dignity, your pride, your character. An atrocity done to an innocent little girl, and odds are, you will now think of it a mercy. A proof that even though I get to decide, I'm not ignoring you or disregarding you. I make it seem like your opinion matters – and I still make you eat shit. Win win. Bingo.

Also, besides all of this, it's a trap. You just volunteered a promise to never do it again, and even you know that there is a difference between a second chance and a repeat offense and that to keep demanding third, fourth chances and so on will not be an option, at least not here, not with me. And while the bitter nail polish might stop you from doing a lot of damage, odds are you will slip again, and bite on your nails some. And then? How can you protest then, having known the punishment, having been given a second chance, a warning, all of that . . . . I'm almost looking forward to it, to that moment, in a psychologically sadistic sort of way.

I wanna hear it from you now, I want you to tell me we have a deal; that this is, if not fair, at least fairer. It's compromise; it will be done and over with quickly. Unlike your breakfast, I bet, as I lead you into the dining room and plop a 400g tin of chicken-flavored dog food into a dog bowl on the floor. You didn't expect to be given a plate and cutlery to eat THIS, I hope, says my skeptical, one-eyebrow-cocked–up look. I happen to have tasted this, and I know it's stodgy, fairly tasteless – no salt, no pepper or herbs, to start with, but it's more than that, even the structure is a lot chewier than any human meal would be, and of course, it's cold and it's a bit smelly; smellier, meatier, muskier than human food would be. When I was tasting it, it took me a couple minutes to force down a few spoonfuls just to prove to myself I will not be demanding the impossible. Like a quarter of the tin. A few mouthfuls. You are faced with a full-sized meal, none too small a portion, and I made it abundantly clear, I hope, that you'll be here, chewing and swallowing for as long as it takes to finish it.

While you are at it, I make myself a strong coffee with a lot of cream, to make sure you won't have to wait too long for the second half of your punishment, either.

Laura

I listen intently to your words, watching your mannerisms and body English. And when you start to speak, a surge of optimism flashes through me. I recognize these words. I've heard them before –– not the precise words, of course, but words like these, delivered like this. They are the words of a cautious, reluctantly relenting adult. An adult who is about to mitigate a punishment, forgive a transgression, pardon an offense.

Even at 11, I have a sense of the game that must be played here. Words like yours always are delivered formulaically. First the adult expresses pessimism that any abatement of the punishment is warranted or that a needed lesson will be learned if any adjustment is made. Then there is a statement of resolve, as if the adult wants to carry the original punishment through and is reluctant to change it at all. Next there is an effort to recommit the child to the preferred behavior with the threat of punishment still looming. Last there is a hint, a suggestion, that the adult is considering a mitigation of the punishment if certain conditions are met.

I've heard words like these before. Delivered in this manner. Every child has. This type of dialogue has happened countless times over the millennia between adult and child. Both have a role to play. The adult must appear stern, unforgiving, reluctant, but ultimately compassionate. The child must appear contrite, apologetic, and committed to a better–behaved future.

I play my role well. I nod at all of the appropriate places, and shake my head no when you suggest that my behavior will not change. Tiny little "no" shakes. Just enough to express my commitment without appearing to challenge or contradict you. My role is to be the contrite, grateful, newly committed child, who, in exchange for mercy, will forever modify her behavior and set herself on the preferred and better course. I know my role, and I play it well. Indeed, my commitment is sincere.

There, is, however, one major difference in the way this particular dance is playing out. While you are paying your role perfectly, you actually are a double-agent. As opposed to an adult who wants to mitigate the punishment, and needs to appear reluctant and cautious about doing so, you are the opposite. You care far more about the punishment itself than the underlying transgression. Indeed, to the extent that the bad behavior continues it will be a good thing, providing opportunities for additional punishments in the future.

I, of course, know none of this. You play your double–agent role very well. You come across as a strict–but–caring adult, who doesn't want to have to punish me, but must do so because sparing the rod inevitably spoils the child. The fact that the punishment has been reduced from its original, horrible, torturous extreme to merely excessive, depraved, and heartless is a non–issue. All of the punishments meted out down here, in this place, are excessive. In fact, I am starting to lose perspective on what a reasonable punishment is. Lying or cheating used to result in me being sent to my room, perhaps even a period of grounding. Now it results in 25 cane strokes, needle torture, and nipple-piercing. Biting my nails used to result in a mild chastisement from my mother that I overtly ignored. Now it warrants the consumption of dog food and feces licked directly from your ass.

When you declare the new punishment, the reduced sentence, I feel relieved, at least for a moment. Days and days of torment have been reduced to a single instance of both of the punishment types. It is a huge concession on your part. Delivered in the well–acted role of a cautious, reluctantly relenting adult. Yet the punishment still is severe, and yucky. I think I can eat the dog food, just once. I'll force myself to choke it down. But eating the poo, eating it from your hole –– I don't want to do that. Not even once. Not at all. Not ever.

Perhaps if I bargain more. Perhaps if I put on my best "cute little Laura" expression, as I used to call it when I needed something from Daddy. It worked better on Daddy than Mom. It works better on men. I try it on you, opening my eyes wide, doe–like "Please can I just eat the dog food?" I ask, in my most–hopeful, pretty–please voice.

My effort is merely a continuation of the age–old dance between reluctant parent and cajoling child. Except you are not reluctant to punish, despite your efforts to persuade me otherwise. You are eager to punish, excited to punish. This is lost on me. I have no idea that my efforts to bargain further are doomed before the words even leave my mouth. I also have no idea how easily you have predicted my future, the near–certainty that I will renege on my latest promise. All it will take is the decision to stop using the bitter nail polish a little too early, before my new, no–biting–my–nails behavior is fully ingrained. It's too easy, really. You know precisely how to train a little girl. And you know precisely how to have her fail at the training and relapse into banned behaviors. Whether it takes a while or happens immediately, a relapse is all but certain to occur. Either way is fine, as long a it leads to failure. Failure provides to the opportunity for further punishment of the best kind. The kind that the little girl knows is deserved, and knows that she caused.

I look down unhappily as you advise me that the new punishment is final, and that I should feel more gratitude than I am displaying. You're right, of course. You've been very merciful. You have eliminated at least 80% of a punishment that was 25 times more severe than was warranted by the transgression. I should feel grateful. I know I should. But it's hard. I don't want to eat dog food and I surely don't want to eat poo. But there is no way out. And I brought it on myself. You warned me. I know this. It's my fault. At the end of the day, I brought this on myself.

With appropriately contrite "yes, sirs" and a long, sad–faced look, I follow you to the dining room and watch as you prepare my breakfast. It looks as bad as I thought it would. Nasty. Still showing the shape of the can from which it came. Colorless. Formless. Awful. And this is the part of my punishment that I'm not even dreading. The bowl goes to the floor, and you look at me as if I know where I should be. I drop reluctantly to my knees in front of the bowl. ("How am I 'sposed to eat this?" I wonder.) You're not going to give me cutlery, I can just tell. I stare reluctantly at the bowl. I'm not sure how to begin. I'm not sure if I can use my hands. I look very, very sad. The morning has not gone as I had hoped. It looks like it will be another long day, down here, where there is nothing but this, here, and you.

Marcus

Your look doesn't work, of course, it doesn't even stand a chance. I shake my head firmly and lift a finger in warning. Discussion over, decision made. I'm tempted to tell you just how useless your puppy eyes are in situations such as this one; you see a cute smile can only take you so far when I know I can ram my cock into that very mouth at any moment that strikes my fancy. Flirting, playing cute and innocent comes, to a great extent, from the girlie power of denial; you tease but don't actually let yourself be seduced. Here, if I want you, I don't even seduce you, I just bend you over and take you. It takes an edge of your flirtatious cuteness. It's like a gun with blanks in; not all that persuasive when I know that it's loaded with blanks.

In the dining room, you look clearly at a loss, and I actually frown a little; I made it clear that a part of the compromise is that you'll take your punishment without a fuss. "Just dig in, face first, doggy style. You'll get a chance to wash yourself after. It's reduced punishment, but it's still a punishment, after all," I conclude. I sit and sip my coffee. There's a certain deep-running, exciting sort of satisfaction to see you eat like that, especially in your pretty Desigual clothes. I thought that seeing you eat like that collared and naked was the best option possible, but this somehow exacerbates the meaninglessness of the clothes; it shows just how little they protect you, how clothed doesn't mean dignified. Sure, I cannot see your upraised butt and admire your hairless pussy while you are at it, but I could change that within the span of a few heartbeats.

It's all really very well thought through; you got a taste of living in the cell with nothing, then, as you started to obey and comply, I give you little luxuries and privileges. Things I can take away on a whim, and it will hurt more missing something you have already had and know you could have, than having never had them at all. Your clothes. Your freedom of the dungeon. Your plush elephant. And your Nestea Peach tea, a pack of which is now on the kitchenette counter. All of it can be gone again instantly, as I decide. I watch you. I know it will be a struggle. I know it will be gross and hard to eat all that. And yet, while it could turn somewhat tedious, the perverse satisfaction of it makes up for that. I'm ready and determined to watch and enjoy myself.

It gives me a rush. I have a collared girl, all prettied up, but ready to strip for me on command, on my whim, about to force down a can of dog food for breakfast -- not even making a fuss about it due to my rather masterful manipulation skill and my, ahem, level of shameless evilness -- who knows she'll get to taste my shit some time today and only really tried to plea against it once, and then was shut up easily, reminded that doing it once is a mercy, a compromise.

I already know how your tongue feels on my rear hole, and inside it, and I know how tremendously arousing it was to force you to serve it unwashed. But today we'll go a big step further, and it makes me hard just contemplating it. Very fucking hard. I'm not even into that kind shit, hehe, really, it's the depth of humiliation, dehumanization, degradation, the taboo of it that makes it an appealing thing to put you through. A very sexy punishment indeed.

I feel the creamy, sweet, strong coffee churn inside me, as it makes sure your punishment will really be completed soon. But first things first: A whole dog can is a lot to force down when it has practically no flavor, but as a bonus a lot of chewy substance, and a rather pungent scent of meatiness -- of dog–can–iness.

I lean into the chair and for a while I am just present in the moment, enjoying it for what it is but also for the sweet anticipation of what is coming and what I can make come, make happen. You still have the size two plug up your butt, and it will get replaced by the size three today. And I can fuck you. I can do anything, and I even have the capacity of still looking like essentially the good guy at the end of the day. What with all my 'honesty' and all that. Fuck drugs, seriously. The day barely began -- all I've really had is coffee -- and yet, I feel high as a kite. Jubilant, ecstatic. You're like heroin. Only better. You're like the first-ever dose of heroin, over and over again. You never get any less good.

It flashes through my mind that even though I have made a well-planned, super–careful, amazingly effective, and a tad lucky act of your disappearance -- which means pretty much a certainty I'm getting away with it -- that even if I ultimately, somehow, at some point, did not, all this would be worth prison time. The rest of my life in prison, after this paradise . . . totally worth it. Damn, I would trade this week and a couple more to come with you and then the electric chair, in exchange for a lifetime of just dreaming, wanting, and never living this. Nothing, no one, ever can take this away from me, this ultimate joy. Not even an eternity in Hell, should it be real.

It's really damn lucky you can't read thoughts, or even guess them as efficiently as I currently guess yours, because then I'd be screwed. A huge part of my success with conditioning you and getting my way easily comes from my being a plotting, scheming, well–prepared, and absolutely shameless person. Sadistic and perverted and egocentric to boot. And because of the advantage of my age, experience and education, I'm getting away with most of it even though you're very bright yourself.

Laura

I knew you were going to make me eat it like a dog even before you said the words. Somehow I knew that you would enjoy watching me stick my face in the bowl. ("Maybe he'll make you bark like a dog, too," I wonder to myself.) I stare unhappily at the huge mound of awful looking stuff before me. There isn't even anything recognizable in it as people food. It's just a big, pasty–colored awful lumpy mound of glop that still looks like the shape of can in places.

I have less than no appetite. I would gladly not eat for days if I could just get out of eating this. ("And it's not even the worst thing he's gonna make you eat," I remind myself.) I swallow, trying to work some saliva into my mouth. I'm going to need it to help me swallow. I make a tiny groan of discomfort, anticipating the taste of the awful stuff. I can sense that I had better start soon, or there will be consequences. I crawl a little closer, and move my hair behind my head, draped over my collar. Still I delay, before I start to move my head down a little closer. I can't help but take a little smell in through my nose. And it's as disgusting as I had feared. Awful. Gross. Maybe the smell isn't even that bad, but it's the knowledge of what I am smelling that bugs me. And the knowledge that it is what I'll soon be eating.

At the last possible moment before I know you're going to go ballistic on me, I lean my head further down and take a nibble of the goo. I take it inside my mouth with a horrified, "yuck" expression on my face. It will take me 200 more nibble–sized bites to finish at that pace. I force myself to chew it, mix it with my saliva, and send it down. I hesitate –– not sure if it's going to stay down. I look a look a little green. But the urge to vomit passes, and I stare at the bowl, preparing for my next bite. As I ready myself, snippets of thoughts pass rapidly through my mind. It's not fair. None of this. Doing this. It's not fair that I'm here. It's not fair that you can do this to me. And you can do it. There's not a thing I can do to prevent it or stop you. And there are lots of things that you can do to me to force compliance. Painful things. Nasty things. Horrible things. It's not fair! Not fair at all!

I take another awful, horrible bite. Tears well in my eyes. It's totally not fair! I don't want to be here any more. I don't want to do any of this. I want to go home ("How're you gonna explain to everybody how you got holes in your nipples, and rings in them?" I ask myself.) I don't care if you think there's nothing but this, no place but here, and nobody but you. You're wrong! I know you're wrong! There's way more than this!

I take another little bite, and chew, and swallow it. I'll show you. I'll eat the whole thing and I won't even give you the satisfaction of thinking I don't like it! But . . . I can't. It tastes so awful. Chewy and yucky and thick and terrible. Every bite is torture. Every moment I think I'm going to throw up. If it were any worse, I would. ("And then he'd make you lick that up, girlfriend.") I have to concentrate on every morsel, every chew, to avoid vomiting. With every movement of my jaw, I contemplate how much I hate this place and you.

I wonder if they'll ever find me. I want to go home so bad. I'm homesick. I miss my Mom, my Daddy, my little brothers, Glenn, Caroline, my teachers. I feel sad and sorry for myself. This has gone on long enough. I've been here too long. I hope that the police come and bash down the doors and take you to jail! I'll be happy if they lock you in jail forever and ever! I've barely made a dent in the dog food. I have almost all of it to go. I've never been less hungry in my life. Each bite is a vile ordeal. I can taste the stuff on my lips, even though I'm being careful and dainty with every bite. I hate this. I hate you. I don't deserve this. It's not fair! I contemplate all of this while bite after bite I take the gross dog food into my little mouth, and send it down into my tummy.

I try to think of alternatives. A way out. A means of opposing you. Escaping. Stopping you. Something. Anything. But there is nothing I can do. Nothing even comes to mind. I am completely helpless down here. Completely at your mercy. You are smarter, bigger, older, faster, taller, and stronger. You can do anything you want. You can hit me and hurt me and make me play stupid games and eat dog food. And there is nothing I can do about it. Absolutely nothing. I am seething with the unfairness of my situation, and struggling to cope with the horrible, definitive, and fairly sudden realization that I am absolutely, 100% positively, completely at your mercy. For as long as you want me to be here.

Marcus

Even if you try to hide it, even if you are afraid to express it, your hatred, your silent fury shows. Of course it does. It would take an expert, a true actor, to truly hide an emotion of this intensity. And so be it. It's a dramatically different dynamic to being loved, but I find it equally enjoyable -- less pleasant per se, perhaps, but more entertaining in its own manner than some sort of puppy love would be. So seethe. Boil on the inside. Your hatred is pointless, helpless, toothless. In fact, it's funny in that aspect, in its futility and uselessness.

Wanna be angry about this? Be. Let the bitterness and anger exhaust you, be hard till you can no longer be hard, till you come crawling for another hug, bawling or silent. It makes no difference to me; in the end you will come to me simply because you have absolutely no one else to come to. For me, this is just a game. And I'm the dungeonmaster -- quite literally, as it happens. You're the player, the character; you have to deal with all of the monsters and situations I create and send your way. And you may not like it -- heck, clearly, you can even hate it with sizzling-hot, bright-burning hatred -- but tough luck. kid. At the end of the day, you still bend softly to my will and do as you are told. I've beaten elementary obedience into you. You've been through too much pain and hunger and fear to have enough resistance to put up a serious fight about something like this. How fucking amazing it that?

I quietly congratulate myself and I make myself sit quietly as you chew and force down mouthful after mouthful. I don't show even a grain of mercy; that has been exhausted and now that you are furious, mercy would just be seen as weakness. No, I'm sticking with this. I watch and I wait and I make you force down every single last little mouthful of the shapeless, tasteless muck in front of you. Bon fucking appetit, little bitch, flicks through my mind, cruelly.

I don't know that you are feeling acutely homesick just now, but overall, I do expect you to miss stuff that used to be in your old life. In a way, the fact that you miss it and will seek to fill the void gives me even more power over you. I can substitute it with myself, with convenient alternatives that will root you even more firmly in your current role. You eat and eat, and I sit and watch, never uttering a word. I feel impatient towards the end. I notice it, accept it on the inside, curiously explore the emotion -- practicing a little bit of mindfulness right there -- and that's that. Fuck everything else. This will take as long as it will; you eventually will finish it. I let my anger rise and abate and all that in a silent, observant mode.

And then, finally, you are finished. You seriously took long, though, and I sigh almost with relief when you lick the last small mouthful off the bottom of the bowl. I get up right away. It would likely be good to give you a break, but honestly, I can't. I need to take a dump now. I lead you to the bathroom, let you wash your face and look at you, as if critically.

"Clothes off," I snap. I don't want shit–stains on your Desigual outfit, and also, somehow, it feels like this is the kind of slave-like, degrading thing you should be doing clad in nothing but your collar. You still have your clothes on when I sit on the toilet and relax, shit immediately spurting out of me. It stinks -- of course it does -- and there's a lot of it. And it's quite soft, good for me and my health, tough on you, because it means there will be more need for a clean up. I push and empty my bowels in pulses, sitting relaxed for a bit, then pushing a bit more. There's splashing and plopping and farting and all sorts of disgusting sounds and another waft of the foul smell, then a pause, and then the same anew. Some five minutes later -- though I'm damn sure it felt longer than that to you -- I'm finally done. I stand up, flush, and get on all fours, elbows leaning on the side of the tub, my ass perked up, knees quite spread, asshole fully accessible.

The pale brown, sort of ruddy-colored shit is smeared around the opening, a bit more on the left side than the right. There's not much of it, not at all. Most of it's gone down the toilet, but it is remnants of shit, still fresh and warm, undeniably and noticeably present, impossible to ignore, and it is your job now to clean it all with your mouth and tongue.

If there was any doubt about my enjoying the act, there cannot be now; I'm rock hard -- throbbing, in fact -- as I relax and wait for you to finish doing what you have to do as punishment.

Laura

My mood doesn't improve as I force myself to eat mouthful after mouthful of the gluey yuck in the bowl. I lean down, nibble a morsel from the diminishing mound, lean back up, and chew. My expression is a seething blank; I am angry, unhappy, and humiliated. Not only is the taste and texture of the dog food foreign and disgusting, but I am as far from hungry as a young girl possibly could be. If the bowl instead held a feast of people food, I still wouldn't want it, and the fact that what I am eating is many, many levels below people food makes it all the worse.

I remain perched on hands and knees, using only my mouth to eat, my only other movement an occasional sweeping back of my long hair as it becomes unfurled from the back of my neck and dangles down, threatening to come in contact with the vile substance in the bowl. My eating is slow and methodical; it would be virtually impossible for me to go any faster, or to take bigger bites, without vomiting.

I make slow but steady progress, but it gets harder to take dainty little bites as the mound diminishes in size. My face goes lower, and I have to use my tongue. My mouth is smeared with yuck, and I look somewhat like a one–year–old baby girl eating cake on her birthday. My appearance is both cute and demeaning at the same time. And the presence of the substance on my lips, and now on the tip of my nose, means that I have no respite from the cloying, untreated smell of factory–prepared dog food.

Finally, almost precisely an hour after I started, I finish. The last visible bits are gone, yet you say nothing. It is obvious to both of us that I am not actually finished until I have cleaned the smears and remnant from the bowl. This is a final indignity, a last slight, a further injustice, that seems overwhelmingly mean, impossibly vindictive. Yet I lean down, and run my tongue back and forth over the smears, until every vestige of the substance is gone from the bowl. Aside from some streaky, greasy imperfections, the bowl is clean. Doggy–clean.

I rise from sore knees as you stand, and follow you into the bathroom. My heart is racing now. As much as I hated eating the dog food, I am dreading this part of my punishment even worse. Part of me is hoping that it is all ruse, an awful, terrible, psychological trauma that you are putting me through so that at the very end you can tell me I don't have to do it, that you were just trying to teach me a lesson about biting my nails. But your command to remove my clothes diminishes my already desperate chances. And when you sit down on the toilet and begin to conduct your business, I am left almost completely bereft of hope.

Forlornly, I begin to remove my clothes, while listening to, and smelling, the outcome of your efforts. I feel queasy and faint as I slowly remove my clothing. Somehow, despite the fact that I have spent the last week buck naked in your presence, and despite the fact that I had almost completely lost any nudity taboo around you in that same short period, the act of removing my clothes, here, in front of you, while you are defecating on your throne, makes me feel terrible, awful, humiliated. My ears are burning with shame and my cheeks are flushed with a mixture of anger and humiliation as I remove my clothing while you stare at me, your preteen sex-slave, your unwilling concubine. When I am finished undressing I clasp my hands together before my prim, hairless little pussy, just like the first time you had me do this in my cell.

I feel sick to my stomach as I smell your feces and farts. The dog food sits leadenly in my tummy, like a huge, undigested lump. Even forgetting what it consisted of, I just had a big breakfast. It's all sitting there, in my stomach, and now I feel queasy and sick. ("Don't you dare throw up, girl. He will absolutely kill you if you do," I warn myself). But I can barely suppress the urge to turn and expel my breakfast in the bathtub. I feel that bad. My face is pale, tinged with green.

("I don't think I can do this," I tell myself. "Just pretend it's more dog food –– close your eyes, and lick it clean as fast as you can. Just do it really fast and think about something else," my mind says, as I try to give myself a pep talk.)

When you finish, I swallow nervously. I'm still holding out the tiny glimmer of hope that you won't follow through with this, that you couldn't be that mean, that awful. ("Please at least wipe, please wipe," I beg you silently). But you make no effort to clean yourself. When you stand up to flush, I see your erected phallus ("He's happy that you have to do this, Laur'. He's excited to make you lick poo off his butt hole," I realize, horrified.) As you kneel down on all fours and prop your elbows on the side of the tub, all hope for me is lost. You're not going to commute my sentence. I will not be pardoned. The most vile and evil act imaginable must now be performed. By me. Here. Now.

Obediently, but near tears, I lower myself to my knees behind you. I've done that before –– kneeling, leaning in, performing, my mouth and tongue pressed to your ass, to your hole, licking it, pleasuring it. My last time was several days ago. I hated doing it then, and I'm dreading it even more now. My tummy clenches and rumbles as I look at your butt. Your cheeks spread, hiding nothing. I can see the remnants of your bowel movement smeared there, waiting for me. You are waiting. I try to will myself to lean in. To begin.

But I can't. I can't bring myself to press my face between your cheeks. I kneel there, staring, a pained and horrified expression on my little face. My heart is racing. My skin feels cold. My stomach is about to expel its contents just at the mere sight of your ass. I can't do it. ("He's gonna hurt you bad, Laur'. Needles. The cane hitting your bottom. Dog food forever. Electrodes in your teeth.") I know there will be consequences for refusing. Terrible consequences. But I'm ready to die if I have to –– at least, I think I am. Lowering my face to your ass and licking your shit would be just like dying, anyway. Both outcomes are equally bad. And at least this one, right now, I can avoid, or postpone, anything –– just by not leaning forward. Just by saying no.

I don't actually say no. I just kneel there, staring. While you may think that you have beaten obedience into me, both physically and mentally, what you have commanded me to do now is a new level of horror that sparks a small vestige of something within me, something that simply prevents me from complying. It's not courage, at least not exactly. I am less tapping into some vestigial bravery than a nascent humanity that resides deep in my 11–year–old brain. It tells me that licking shit from your asshole is lower than death, subhuman, against every natural law instinctively known by every human being from every culture and age since the dawn of the earth.

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