25. A very special Chair

Marcus

At first, I am simply surprised. It was just yesterday that you've felt how extreme my being displeased can go, how far I'm willing to go to punish you, to force you into obedience. You have rings in your nipples, still raw, they actually look a bit swollen today as they start to heal. You are naked, and even as I glance back at you, I can see lines that run from the destroyed arch of your buttocks to your sides, lines and bruises that can be seen even from the front. I look back at you, stroke your hair, shake my head slowly, it feels almost heavy with pity.

This time, though, I don't hide my sadistic smile. I only hesitate for the briefest of moments, giving you a chance to change your mind, perhaps, to beg me to get back down, to break under my gaze and throw yourself at the job obediently, willingly. But even if such emotion were stirring up in you, the glare is too short; it doesn't allow you much time for the idea to ripen. I step back to the toilet, and very obsessively, thoroughly, slowly, wipe my ass with a combination of toilet paper and wet wipes, until it's totally, thoroughly clean.

I flush, erase any skid marks left in the toilet with a brush, and then I go to the sink and wash my hands very, very thoroughly, methodically, with liquid antiseptic hand soap. I'm deliberately taking my time. I walk over to you, but instead of doing anything to you, or with you, I pick up your clothes and put them in your arms. The gesture is a bit brash, but not violent. "Get dressed," I command sharply and this time, if you are afraid that this is a very bad sign, that I am gonna hurt you, you are absolutely, totally right.

I crouch down behind you, hug you from behind with one arm, and point up with the other. "Look," I command, pointing, as you soon realize, at the lens of one of the many security cameras down here. "I want you to look up there. I will make you watch, later," I say coldly. "I want you to see yourself now, and then, I want you to see yourself the way you are when it's all up to me, and you obey. And the way you are when you choose to disobey, the way you are when you get yourself into trouble, quite deliberately. And today, you can't blame not knowing. You deliberately chose to disobey." I speak in a slow, rhythmic way, it sounds almost like a public speech. Like poetry.

I bring a contraption that looks like a sturdy chair, only the seat is like a toilet seat; you can remove the padded bit and the layer under has a hole in it for one's butt. Underneath, the chair is cleverly designed for bondage. It allows for multiple positions, some more merciful than others for extended use. I don't go for merciful. I unfold the device, grab you, heft you up, and shove you in. I fold you like you're a mere cloth. I fold it back over you, locking you in place, and I start to attach you to it. Cuffing your ankles to the wooden board to which the four legs of the chair are bound, wide apart. And your knees. I make you lean back steeply, so much so that your buttocks touch the floor between your ankles. Your knees will hurt like hell after a while . . . but that will be the least of your problems. I tie your hands firmly, squarely behind your back, palm to elbow, elbow to palm. I tie your upper arms to the device as well, and close it and lock it over you.

Almost done.

You are now trapped in a kneeling position, leaning back, your face right under the hole in the bottom of the two seats. You can squirm of course, and even turn your face to the side, but there are different way of preventing this. Two pieces of rope or even a your collar fixated at one point could fix it, but instead I take off the rim of the lower seat; it has pins running around it, pop up pins with flat heads. I wind a lock of your hair around it, and press on it and it clicks and locks, preventing your hair from unwinding. Two or three would likely do the job, but there are twenty pins all in all, and I use every single one of them. I pick up a strand of your hair, pull, wrap it around a pin, lock. And another one. In all directions, most run sideways and up of course, but two copy the outer outline of your face. You not only cannot tilt your head up or down or move it side to side, you simply cannot move it at all; any attempt to do so would be quite painful, and completely futile. The bottom sides of the pins' flat heads are coarse and sanded, and they will not slip. You might be able rip your hair out if you fought hard enough, but given that I've used nice, thick strands, I cannot quite imagine how you'd do that. I go to the medical cabinet, concoct some kind of cocktail, and bring a cup of it to you.

"Do I need to pinch your nose closed and half–drown you to make you drink or will you at least spare yourself that?" I ask in a cold, stony voice. It's a voice that cannot be bargained with, begged for mercy, or anything like that. All attempts to change your situation right now would be futile. I hold the cup over your lips waiting for you to open up, fingers over your nose, threatening to pinch it closed and just force the liquid down your throat if that's what it takes. I make you drink the cup up. It tastes sickly sweet and slightly bitter. I give you another one of fresh water. I check that you are totally and securely tied, then I lower both of the seats so that you're staring into the padded "toilet seat" closed over your face from up close. And then I leave.

I leave the light on, I will be watching you on the camera to make sure you don't choke or something, but I want you to feel alone now. Abandoned. I close the bathroom door behind me as I leave. A tummy full of dog food and a very powerful laxative. A tummy full of water. Your pretty clothes all on, panties and all. Immobile. Face up under a toilet seat, forced to stay in precisely, exactly the same position by cuffs and ropes and the contraption itself which gives you a bit of space to lift your belly and chest a few inches to relieve your knees, but it hurts your arms and tugs at your hair when you do that, even that one–inch shift, and you're bound to start aching and hurting soon. And other things are bound to happen, very soon as well, given what I've given you.

And I am next door, and watching every minute of it.

Laura

I am expecting a quick, harsh, and perhaps fatal punishment, and I flinch as you reach back . . . and gently stroke my hair. I wasn't expecting that. And for the briefest of fleeting moments, my heart surges with hope that this was all just a game, and you were just waiting for me to decline to play it so that you could tell me that it was all a joke, all a test –– that you would never make me do something so vile and awful. The feeling of hopefulness starts to leave as you turn to glare at me, your expression one of disappointment mixed with surprise. Your gaze is almost fatalistic. It chills me as it becomes a smile. I'm not exactly sure what the smile means. But I know that there are just about zero scenarios in which you smiling under these circumstances is good for me.

I remain on my knees as you wipe yourself, a picture of after–the–fact obedience. You didn't tell me that I could get up. In fact, you don't give me any instructions. So I kneel, scampering a few inches out of the way as you return to the toilet. I'm trying to tell you without speaking –– to show you –– that I am not disobeying everything, or even anything other than the one instruction to clean your butt with my tongue. It's just that one thing. I'll obey everything else you tell me to do. Just not that. Surely you’ll understand, right?

I watch as you meticulously clean yourself. I can tell that you're really clean down there now. ("Maybe he's gonna tell you to lick his butt hole now, like before, when it was clean, or at least cleaner," I tell myself.) But I don't really believe it. I would willingly, even eagerly lick your butt now, stick my tongue inside you, and pleasure your anus the way I know you like it. I'm not trying to disobey, not meaning to send any broader message. It's just that I can't do that one thing you told me to do. it's just too gross. Too nasty. I really hope you understand –– that's all I meant by refusing, not some broader message. See?

I'm really surprised when you give me my clothes back, and for the briefest of seconds the old worry I have about being clothed for my own execution re–enters my mind. ("Oh my God –– he IS going to kill you. He's gonna dress you up . . . no, no, wait: he said he wouldn't. He promised. He promised he'd never kill you unless you hurt him or tried to run away. But why is he giving me back my clothes?" I ask myself, confused.) When you crouch behind me my heart is fluttering fast, and I am too scared to breathe. But I look up, and gaze into the camera lens, my brown eyes wide and concerned. My expression is one of tension mixed with worry, surprise, and fear. I look tiny as you embrace me from behind, and speak, as we both look up at the camera.

Your words are soft, but chilling. The way you speak I understand that there will be a before, and an after. Right now is the before. Here. With you. In the bathroom. When everything is up to you. Before I have disobeyed –– well, not before, but before there have been any consequences for disobeying. Your soft, gentle, almost apologetic words make me wonder whether maybe, just maybe, I should have . . . done it. Just closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and . . . performed. As instructed. But I couldn't. The image of your shit–smeared butt re–enters my mind. The color of your feces. I couldn't. I didn't. I won't. I don't care if you kill me. ("But he's not gonna kill you, Laur',” I taunt myself. “He's gonna hurt you. Bad.”)

I dress myself as you leave the room. I'm eager to show you that I'm not disobeying you. This is not the start of some big protest or anything. In fact, I'm really eager to show you my willingness to obey. If I'm really, super good, it will diminish my punishment, right? Right? So I get into my clothes once again, and I'm transformed from a slender, naked, collared, nipple–ringed 11–year–old sex slave back into a normal–looking 5th–grader about to head down to the park to play. Except for my collar. My collar is still visible, thick and metallic and permanent around my slender little neck. I am dressed when you come back with the chair. It looks kind of like a normal chair, but not really, and with a sinking spirit I know it's not just a chair. I just know. I have no idea how or why, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to like it. I give a little shiver, and swallow nervously. ("Whatever happens, it's not your fault, Laur'. You couldn't do it . . . nobody could do that. Don't second–guess yourself," my mind tells me -- helpfully, for once.) When you unfold the device, it looks sinister, and I make a surprised and fearful little yip as you pick me up and put me inside it. Inside the chair. Under it. My heart starts to race and I make little moans of fright. A heavy feeling of foreboding doom descends on me.

I am shaking and whimpering as you fasten my ankles and knees to the floor, and when you bend me back, it hurts. The muscles in my thighs bulge, but in a constricted, flat kind of way. "Owww," I moan, shaking, terrified now. I have no idea what you are doing, but it's different from a anything you've done before. It was one thing to be tied atop the punishment bench, or bent over the upside–down U–shaped thing with my bottom up in the air for a caning. This is different. Scarier. It's like I'm being put inside the thing. ("Inside a chair? Why?" I ask myself, as my brain searches for answers.)

All I know is that I am very scared right now. As you tie my hands and elbows tightly behind my back, I again revisit my decision. ("He's gonna hurt you bad, Laur'. You shoulda just done it. You should licked his butt clean," I tell myself). But that image returns once again. The image of your butt, the smear of feces there, your cheeks spread. There is no way. I couldn't have. Nobody could. I was ready to die. I still am ready to die. What I wasn't ready for is this –– being put inside a chair. A chair that's not really a chair. A chair that has another purpose. A sinister purpose. And worst of all, an unknown sinister purpose. Unknown at least to me.

If I wasn't so scared and my brain was working better, I might be able to figure out some possible uses for the chair. But I am scared, and my brain isn't processing information all that well, and most of my thoughts are dominated by the primal elements of fear and pain. The fear has been there since I disobeyed you; it just got particularly bad when you brought the chair thing into the bathroom, and it's gotten progressively worse since then. ("You shouldn't have disobeyed him, Laur'. Bad move," I cajole myself.) The pain started when you bent me over and put all that pressure on my knees and thigh muscles. It hurts. A lot. And my arms hurt, too. But I don’t think you’ve even started, yet. And that’s very scary.

I can barely move a muscle as you start to twist my hair and pin it to the sides of the . . . of the . . . the whatever–it–is. I'm on my back, bent over crazily backwards, looking up at the ceiling from the seat of the chair. I've never seen anything like this. It's like you're making me become part of the chair, like I'm a piece of furniture. ("He's gonna make you be a chair forever!" I tell myself, in a wave of fresh panic.) I wonder how long I'll have to be part of the chair. My knees and thighs already hurt. I squirm a little bit –– "a little" being all that I can move –– to try to take some pressure off of my thighs and knees.

Each little swatch of hair tugs at my scalp and pulls as you twist it. And then there is a final, hair–pulling pain as you push the pins down, one at a time, all 20 of them. I wince and grimace as you work. ("He's weaving your hair into the seat, Laur'. You're a piece of furniture now. Your hair is the seat!" I tell myself.) None of this makes sense. The chair still doesn't work the way you're weaving my hair. ("It doesn't have to work, Laur'. The point is you're just a piece of furniture now. You're just a chair now, forever Laur; –– you're gonna be a chair forever.")

When you are done I can barely move a muscle. Certainly not my head at all. Each one of the twists of hair are pulling out from my scalp, keeping me in place. They hurt enough if I don't move, but if I do, about six places on my scalp call out in protest simultaneously. This is true no matter which direction I try to move my head. I have to give you credit for ingenuity. When you turn somebody into a chair, you do the upholstery very well. But this hardly is reassuring. In fact, it’s not reassuring at all.

I drink the stuff without incident, after a timid, whispered "No, sir," to your question about whether you'll have to pinch my nose. See? I'm not being full–out disobedient. Not about everything. Just about that one thing. ("You better drink it, Laur'. Who knows when you'll get anything else. You're a chair now," I advise myself). I'm glad for the water chaser. The first stuff was super sweet, and kind of chalky, and made me thirstier than I already am just to drink it.

And then you close the lids down, right above me, and I'm now part of the chair. I'm expecting you to sit there, right on top of me, maybe read the paper or something, just to emphasize that I'm nothing more than a lowly piece of furniture. But you don't. You leave. All I can do is stare up into the bottom of the seat. I can't move a muscle except use my shoulders and hips in concert to lift my chest and tummy up a small little bit –– no more than an inch or so. This helps my knees some, which are becoming really, really painful. But every time I do it my hair tugs at my scalp, causing me to moan, and then sink back down.

It's not comfortable to be a chair. Not at all. But it's still better than . . . you know what. What you told me I had to do. I concentrate on breathing, and withstanding the pain. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be a chair, but if I work really hard at pain management, it won't be too bad. Or at least not too, too bad. ("Yes it will, Laur'. If your knees and back and arms all hurt now, how much do you think they'll hurt tomorrow? Or the next day? He can make you be a chair for a week if he wants," I warn myself.) So that's my punishment. I'll have to be a chair until I give in. But I won't give in. I'm not gonna lick your dirty butt even if you turn me into a chair forever!

I concentrate on breathing –– in, out, in, out, in, out –– and then I feel the first gurgling cramp form in my belly. "Gwirl gwirl grrrr gwril," I can hear, as the dog food and drinks settle down there. "Oh noooooo! Do I have to go poop? Not now!" I think to myself, hoping, praying. I squirm. And then another horrific movement -- a settling, a rippling feeling -- spasms across my tummy. I grunt, trying to clench my tummy muscles, and just in case, trying to squeeze my butt cheeks.

I rest for a few seconds, panting, and then another awful movement happens in my bowels and I know I have to go. ("Too much dog food, Laur'. You ate the whole can, remember?" I remind myself.) This is not good. You just wove my hair into the chair. And I don't just have to go, I have to go now. Right now. "Oh shit," I think to myself. ("Funny, Laur'. Very funny.") But it isn't funny. Not at all. I have to go, and I have to go bad, and I have to go right now. ("It'll take 10 minutes just to unweave your hair, and you don't got 10 minutes, girlfriend," I warn myself.)

I am panting now. ("I'm going to mess my new clothes. He's going to kill me!" I think with a panic.) The movements and gurgles in my tummy continue. I squirm and writhe as much as the binds allow. I grunt and groan and whimper. I try to clench my tummy muscles. I try to squeeze my cheeks together. Nothing works. I am panting, whimpering, moaning, gasping. "Sir!" I call out, in a distressed voice. "Sir! Please! I have to go really bad!" I yell. I'm not even sure if the bathroom door is open or closed. I'm not sure if you are nearby, or can hear me. But it is my last hope to call out to you. My senses are dulled. All I see is the lid above me.

"Sir! Please!" I squeal. And then it happens. I can't stop it. To my chagrin and horror, my cheeks unclench and a torrent of loose stool erupts from my innards and squishes against the cotton fabric of my panties. ("Oh my God. I just pooped in my pants," I think in horror.) It keeps coming and coming. Soft, wet, thick against my butt cheeks, filling my crack like Play–Doh. I can't stop it. I squirm and writhe. It's awful. I feel like a toddler. And I'm well aware that you are not going to be happy with me, not one little bit. ("He hasn't been gone even an hour, Laur'. You know he's gonna think you did this on purpose," I worry to myself.)

Marcus

I watch. With sound, on HDTV resolution, on a big flat-screen. I watch, from multiple angles; I can only see your face from the side, but it shows your distress and discomfort sufficiently. I watch you as you realize your helplessness and discomfort more and more fully, and then also as the brutally effective laxative does it's job, pushing your recently eaten food through your digestive tract with an unprecedented speed. I watch you fight, and I watch you lose, soon, rather pathetically early, as you shit your panties, skirt, as so much of the runny, brown stinky stuff squirts out of you that it ends up pouring out of your skirt and dribbling onto the floor behind you.

Forty-five minutes, now that's quick, that's quicker than I even expected, impressive almost. I wonder how long it will take you to realize that the drink I gave you is to blame, how many times over will you have to shit yourself to get that you have been given laxatives, how will you feel in your shit-filled, shit-and-piss-soggy clothes knowing I will not take them straight off when I come, that this is all a part of your punishment. I sit and I watch. How long can you stay in a position like this? If I wasn't afraid about your butt, still recovering from yesterday, getting infected, I'd give it a couple hours perhaps, but I doubt that that much will be needed.

I contemplate the act. I'm thinking about why you refused, and realise that it really must be a primal, almost biological resistance; one cannot sink any lower than that. Even in a depraved, twisted, perverted world, shit is taboo. Shit is unclean, unsafe, and it's an iffy topic even for the most hardcore kinky people, let alone a schoolgirl like you. What does making you do it, and doing to you what I'm about to do make me? But then, I always knew I was fucked up beyond belief, way beyond the average human imagination. And if we break this limit, if we push you through this, what will you really have left? When I show you the videos and photos and sounds and all from this sessions, how could you ever reach disobedience ever again? Well I'm sure you would, but from now on, there should be less punishments and more obedience, a threat should be more than enough most times. Even when the command seems like a punishment in and of itself. We shall see.

I wait only another 15 minutes or so, enough for the fiery storm the laxative in your belly give you a belly ache and make your bowels move, regardless of our volition, two more times. I first turn on the air ventilation to full blast so I don't have to smell the stench, and then walk into the bathroom. I lift up the upholstered top seat to reveal the bottom seat, that looks very much like a toilet seat, with your face woven firmly into it, mouth right under where one's asshole would be if they sat down on the toilet. But I don't sit. I lift up the seat, take a piss, pissing all over your face, not really bothering to aim much, apart from when I hit your nostril and realize I like the way that makes you squirm, so I finish pissing pretty much forcing the stream up your nose. I say nothing. I do nothing else. I lower the upper seat, and go and wash my hands, and I leave.

This demonstration should be enough for you to realize that you are now not a chair, but a toilet. I leave and watch on the screen how you act, how you cope after that, sound up, close up on your face from the side, piss dripping from your head and hair, soaking into your clothes, slowly drying on your face, making your nose, cheeks and eyes very itchy, but there's no way on Earth you could possibly scratch.

I give it another 15 minutes before I come back. I lift the toilet seat and sit on the contraption, ass looming overwhelmingly over your face, my puckered asshole right over your mouth; so close in fact that you could touch it with you tongue if you stuck it out.

"I showed you mercy and I did lessen your punishment almost what, ten times over? And you? You disobeyed in turn, you back-stabbing, nasty little bitch. You bargained for a more fair punishment, and then after we discussed it, you refused to take it. And so I'm gonna make you. You are now a toilet. And you will be a toilet until I feel you have taken your punishment just right. You will kneel here soaked in shit and piss and I will come use you to piss and shit, until you break. If you don't open your mouth for the stuff that comes, you'll lie here with it smeared all over your face and nose. Your problem, not mine. And until you have licked me clean after I've taken a dump, I will not release you, you ungrateful brat, no matter how badly the position hurts!" It must be weird hearing the words echo from above and around while all you are faced with is the crack of my muscular ass.

Finally my anger shows, and with it the full scope of your punishment. And then, not listening to anything you might have to say – who'd listen to a toilet, after all? – I push and my puckered ring opens and a turd slides out, pushing against your lips. The stench of it being right by your nose must be overwhelming, and it's warm and sticky and . . . not big, since I've already been, but more than enough to soon fold over your nostrils and threaten to choke you if you don't open your mouth at least some. And then, even you didn't take it in your mouth, comes the tricky part – it will just stay there, and make it almost impossible to clean my ass with your mouth, your one chance to get out of this super–painful, super–gross, super–helpless predicament.

Your position, your pain, everything is against you. Any and all resistance only does one thing and one thing only: It prolongs your suffering. It means that you will spend more time with shit–filled panties and a skirt soggy with your own mess, with eyes burning and face itching from piss and shit smeared all over your mouth. I realize you are not being rational just now, but I wonder if it occurs to you just how long it might take before I come again and use this "toilet" again, now that I've been twice, and I secretly hope that you do the math and spare yourself hours and hours of astonishingly disgusting suffering.

Laura

To say that I am a miserable little girl would be an understatement. The cartilage and tendons in my knees are stretched and contorted, and my back is bent rakishly. The pain from my contorted position is actually even worse than the awful, wet, pooped-in-my-pants runniness I feel, together with the accompanying shame of having defecated in my new clothes. I have absolutely no idea what a laxative is, so it doesn't even occur to me that you caused this on purpose. I think it's the dog food. I've never eaten dog food before, and it obviously disagrees with me. The runny, wet, smelly mess, and the ongoing heaving of my bowels, are proof of that, even if I can't quite imagine what caused it to race through my system so quickly.

Still, it is the pain of my position that causes me the most suffering. My joints and limbs and spine have gone from uncomfortable, to throbbing, to agonizing, to sheer torture. Torture made worse by the fact that I barely can move a muscle. Oh, I try to move –– my chest and tummy rising and falling, then rising again, as I try anything to ease my suffering. My movements are punctuated by little moans and gasps of pain. It begins to occur to me that the penalty for my transgression may not be death, but may actually be something worse than death. A pain so unimaginable, so ongoing, that I can only hope for death. I grunt in pain as I try to raise myself up again. The stench from my "accident" is awful.

The next 15 minutes seems like 15 hours. I grunt and groan and gasp in pain as my cramped bowels continue to expel their contents. "Unnhhh," I moan, as more of the awful mess presses out of my rectum. "Uhhhh . . . aahhhhh," I gasp, my face pained. "Unnnhh . . . unnh." My chest heaves as the unbearable pain becomes even more unbearable. My lower back is in agony. Yet I can't do anything to relieve it. I can't move. I am furniture. I am a chair.

The only thing I don't do is cry. I know that it won't help. And beyond that, the pain is almost too great to cry. Crying will cause my body to heave and move, which will cause my hair to pull and my scalp to ache. Crying will cause my chest to rise with hyperventilated breaths. All of that will hurt. In addition, I need all of my concentration to avoid going mad with pain. I once heard that if you hurt yourself, you should try to imagine the pain as a ball, floating a few feet in the air away from you. If you imagine the pain as having a form, you can remove it from your body, and contemplate it. So I don't cry, because I can't. All of my concentration goes into visualizing the pain as a little red ball floating above my head. But I continue to make sounds. Lots of sounds. Sounds of a little girl enduring unimaginable discomfort. Little gasps. Expelled breaths. Grunts. Moans. An occasional whimper. Time stands still for me as I suffer

.

When you return, I try to suppress my groans and grunts of pain, but I can't. My body hurts too much. I don't speak. Speaking won't help. Nor will begging. I know this instinctively. I know that I will suffer as long as you want me to suffer. My hope is that you will let me go before I go crazy with pain. I have discovered that some things are worse than death. I have the courage to face death, but I don't have the ability to withstand this kind of pain. Unrelenting, horrible, fearsome pain. You've already won this battle. I am defeated. But I know that my punishment is not over. Mere defeat is not vanquishing. I am well aware that I am to be vanquished. My only hope is that I can get through it. Somehow.

My face is pale as I look up at you, and my eyes flit about as I watch you grasp your penis and point it at me. My little moans of pain continue right up until your stream starts. I clench my eyes and mouth shut as your urine stream hits me, my breathing temporarily stopped. I am in so much pain, and so humiliated and horrified from soiling myself, that the fact that you are peeing in my face barely bothers me –– until you begin directing the stream up my nostrils. That causes me to flail and jiggle in my binds. Even my head moves a bit, despite the scorching pain in my scalp. The acrid piss forces its way up, into my Eustachian tubes, and I splutter and writhe, my writhing more like a body–wide jiggling motion of distress.

Just when I think it can't be any worse, nasty, burning, acidic taste of pee settles in my nose and mouth and throat. Even my ear. I splutter and expel, forcibly blowing my nose, yet the liquid sits there, deep inside me, and I can't sit up and let gravity help. It's up my nose. I desperately want to tip my head forward. It feels like it's going to roll back, inside me, to my brain. I can feel it in my ear. Deep inside my head. But I can't move. I gasp and chortle and sigh and moan and grunt as the combination of pain and the horror of your piss inside my nose and throat just won't go away. And as you close the lid once again, leaving me there, marinating in urine and poop, preparing to leave me alone again, it dawns on me. This isn't a chair. And I am not a seat. This is a toilet. I am a toilet. A human toilet. To me, this realization is not the horror that you might think it is. The pain in my joints and back is so horrific that I almost am beyond caring. As I regain myself and avoid choking on your piss, my grunts and agonized whimpers and sighs resume. My entire body is quivering, shaking with pain now. My grunts are more pain–filled, more urgent. I wonder how long you will leave me here. Hours? Days? Forever? "Unnnh, unnnh . . . unhhhh," I groan. I can't withstand the pain. My body is covered with perspiration where it is not already covered or coated with something else.

I am in another world of agony when you return, and mount my face with your ass. I can't move. Not a muscle. Nor can I suppress my little sighs and gasps. I am in so much pain. There is nothing matters but the pain. Even having your ass right above me barely matters. I hear your words –– muffled, pontifical. You're right, of course. I brought this on myself. I moan in agony. The punishment is so much worse than the awfulness that I tried to avoid that it no longer seems so awful. What was I thinking? Why didn't I just do it? Pain is my constant companion. Agony my guiding light. My body hurts so much. I already regret my actions. It's not even close. You've proven your point to me. You can make the unimaginable unimaginably worse. It doesn't matter how brave I am, or where I draw the lines. Bad becomes worse. Worse becomes terrible. Terrible becomes unimaginable. And that's just to start. I understand. I get it now.

But when you begin to shit the full horror of what you have planned for me momentarily replaces the pain, and I thrash and writhe in my binds. My scalp sings with pain as I try to move my head side to side, try to escape. But 20 separate anchor points is not merely a painful deterrent to movement; they render movement impossible. I can try to tear my hair out if I wish, but like Gulliver in Lilliputia, 20 different ties together are more than enough to hold me in place as you shit on my clenched lips and mouth.

Oh, the horror, as the thick, clayey substance mushes down on my face, pressing upward, against and partially into my nostrils. I can't breathe –– there is no hope of breathing. My body arches beneath you, my lithe, naked, hairless lower body folded, yet on full display, my legs wide apart, my creamy white little preteen mound taut and bulging upward and outward from the V of my thighs, my thigh muscles bulging athletically as I try to struggle.

The smell, the claustrophobia, the horror is too much for me, and I vomit, a huge explosion of everything that didn't come out the other end blasting up and erupting from my mouth and nose like a miniature human Vesuvius, the mess spraying against your ass and scrotum like a warm, chunky soup. My reclined, bent–over, constricted position makes me feel like I'm drowning. Indeed, the sensation is very similar to waterboarding, and I panic, thrashing and jiggling like I'm having a seizure beneath you.

I can't breathe, and I can't sit up, and I'm choking as the vile stuff goes back into my throat and tries to head back into my tummy, only to be rejected and expelled upwards once again. As you lift off you realize that I am really struggling to breathe, my body and head thrashing. Two of the hair moorings have ripped away, leaving tufts of hair twisted around the push pins, as I struggle, my mouth opening and closing silently as I make little choking sounds.

You realize, probably, that I cannot clear my throat in this position. My eyes are wide as another choking gag brings a fresh, bubbling overflow of goo from my mouth, bathing my nose and eyes and face as it wells from my open mouth. I thrash and wriggle, drowning in my own vomitus, my eyes wide and panicked and blinking hard and quickly as the acidic goo washes over my face.

Marcus

Almost any other human being would immediately untie you if they saw just how distressed and agonized you were the moment I lifted the toilet seat up for the second time, but I'm not any other human being and certainly not like most. I'm deeply sadistic, angered by your disobedience, and totally merciless in my current state. I feel a little pity, perhaps a slight bit of regret, for after putting you through such extremes, it will be hard for you to accept my human, caring, gentler side again. But the vengefulness of my hurt ego, my determination and my twisted sense of entitlement to completely re–make you in my image, easily win me over. I'll do this. I'll have my way. There is nothing but this. Nowhere but here. No one but me. The mantra that I gave you spins in my head, over and over again. Reassuring me. Making me able to ignore all I even knew about ethics, about the outside world, about the sort of things people I know and like would think about this, what they would say, what they would, quite possibly, do to me if they had any idea about the sort of crimes I'm committing. Tony would shoot me like a dog, on the spot. Ruth would leave, call the cops, report everything. Never talk to me again. Even Sid, kinky as a guy can be, would pale and turn away in disgust at this. Even he would denounce me, wash his hands, erase every bond and link between us. I am doing the unforgivable. And it just so happens that I am willing to do it, the knowledge of how wrong it is doesn't stop me, and when I don't stop myself, down here, no one will. Nothing will. The splash of acidic warmth as you vomit against my ass hits me by surprise and I lift up because of it, momentarily I thought it must be blood, you somehow found the willpower to bite off your tongue to kill yourself and this is a splutter of redness that's washing over me, something I could not fix, could not take back, something that I fear would be out of even my control. So I'm relieved to see you just vomiting, and when you start drowning in it I'm actually sadistic enough to give you an "I told you so" glare, a second only, just a proof that I'm calm, that even your utter panic of drowning does not affect and stir me. You are powerless, I'm all–powerful. You are freaking out, I'm calm. You are about to die; me, I'm confident that your body is fixed in the chair firmly enough that if I do what I do, promptly, you won't even rip out any more of your hair.

I tip the whole contraption over, including the heavy floor–board to which your feet and legs are tied. Forward first till you are almost head–down, face down, and then to the side so you can spew and vomit up and out everything that's in your stomach still. The damn thing is heavy with you in it, and slips on the wet tiles of the bathroom, covered in all sorts of muck and phlegm and yucky bodily waste. Even I, over six feet tall and muscular as a Greek statue, struggle with it a bit to make sure you don't drown. I then put the whole thing back in he position, and for a little while, perhaps a minute, do nothing. Just to let the possibility that this could go on sink in.

Then I undo the hair binds, frowning at the two ripped of tufts of hair, hoping it won't show too much, and untie you from the thing. I retrace the whole procedure step by step, noting that getting you out is a lot faster than putting you in. Several times faster, in fact, although it would not have been fast enough to save you from drowning on your puke. At the end, I grab you under your arms and lift you up, dripping with disgusting stinky mess. I stand you on your feet and lift you again, from behind this time, up towards the main camera, silently. Before and after.

I stand you back on your feet but keep holding you for support, as you look like you will collapse on me any moment. "I let you out because I promised not to kill you. If you disobey again, I'll put you straight back in. You haven't been in even for an hour. Imagine being left there overnight," I emphasize.

"Strip and throw all the clothes straight in the bin; there's no way we'll manage to save those. Wash well. Brush your teeth. Floss. Gargle. Drink some water. Clean up ALL the mess, including hosing down the toilet–chair, then wash again. Brush your hair in a way that will hide the missing strands," I say, annoyed – of all that happened to you, your legs nearly crippled by the crazy position, you very nearly drowned, and not just nearly but totally and seriously traumatized, what I care about most is your appearance, your two missing strands of hair.

"You brought this on yourself," I remind you acerbically. I sit you on the edge of the tub at long last, realizing that it will take you a bit longer than just a few seconds to be able to stand on your own, let alone walk and do something. Your legs and feet now must be a flood of pins and needles, feeling like they are on fire. Stabbing pain in your lower back, sore and aching shoulders, and whatever feelings and sensations are left in your throat, mouth, and nose. And your face with piss dried on it, smeared with vomit and shit. Fuck, you look disgusting. I shudder. And I realize how furious I am at you for seeing you so un–sexy, so un–cute, so un–little–girlie. I'm actually, at this moment, not attracted to you. I would not fuck you if you begged me to. I breath out heavily, and it comes out as a grunt, with a growling quality to it. I look at you and raise a finger in warning.

"Don't EVER push me this far again. Don't ever make me this mad again. My direct order is like a physical law: Things fall down, water freezes at zero degrees Celsius, boils at one hundred, you obey me, that's the way the world is," I state. My fist is clenched and there's no remorse or pity at what I've done to you in my voice, my posture, my behavior. No, you can see that I actually am struggling to hold back not to slap you and punch you and kick you around. My tight jaw, firmly clenched, with veins standing out on it, my tense posture, all that they radiate is anger.

"You will lick my ass clean when I next take a crap," I announce. “If I have to spend the whole night pushing needles through you, drowning you, burning you or cutting you up like goddamn beef for a stew, you will lick my messy ass when I next command it. I promised I would not kill you. I never promised I would not make you wish I would do it. I never promised not to do things to you that are worse than death," I state coldly. I then walk over to the medical cabinet and make you a fizzy drink, another concoction. "This will soothe your throat and stomach, make sure you don't get ill and will stop you from shitting yourself again." It will do exactly that and it will also take a slight edge off of your pain, and keep you up; there's pseudo–ephedrine and caffeine in it, and a bit of paracetamol stirred in with the antibiotics and the soda and the herbal (mostly Aloe Vera) extract.

You may be only eleven, but you are my slave. Your age is what it is and I will not take it as an excuse for any behavior that's out of line. I strip and toss away my own clothes -- which got messy when I struggled with the chair on the slippery tiles -- and climb into the shower corner, leaving you to the bathtub. I wash and scrub and walk out in a while, wrapped in a towel.

"I will be in the bedroom. Come when you are done. And do your very best not to anger me any further," I warn you grimly. My voice is dripping with being tense and pissed off, right on the verge of blowing up. The alternative is still quite clear, hanging in the air. If you step on my toes, I'll beat the shit out of you, not that there's much shit left in you after all that If you mess up, you'll end up a bloody, toothless mess, quite possibly with some lasting damage, like broken bones – sophisticated sadism overrun by sheer fury–induced violence and brutality.

Laura

I splutter and choke, vomit and re–vomit, my thrashing like a frenzied seizure, as my tight bonds do not allow much movement. The remaining 18 hair ties hold my head still, as I drown in my own acidic stomach juices. My eyes are open, but I can't really see you, as my entire faces has been washed over by a burbling, gelatinous, gluey yuck of fluids. My face has a greasy sheen to it, like a it was basted with a thick olive oil. I see your blurry outline, looming over me, as you make no effort –– no effort –– to help me. ("I'm going to die! He's going to let me die!" I tell myself, with a mixture of confusion and horror, moderated by a tiny, but perceptible, sliver of relief.)

And then, before I know what is happening, my entire world spins around, and I am upside down, held in place by my binds. Gravity now works with me, rather than against me, as I cough and splutter and vomit the onto the floor, with a huge "Ughh–accccckkkkk! Acccccckkkkkkkk ekkkk akkkkkk ukkkkkk" sound. My veins strain under my skin and my face turns red as I expel the burning fluid straight down, and then from the side, as you manipulate the entire apparatus with brute strength.

When I am finished, exhausted and panting, you plant me back the way I was: horizontal, bent, my face upright. I work my tongue and mouth to expel disgusting, chunky bit of vomitus that I can feel and taste in my mouth. I can smeel the remnants of your poop on my lips and face. I blink my eyes repeatedly, until I can see. I am gasping for breath, my little panting breaths punctuated by moans as the horrible pain in my joints resumes. ("He's not going to do it again . . . no . . . please no, please no!" I beg, silently, my eyes wide and staring.) My joints hurt so bad. My knees feel like they are going to explode. I always thought I was flexible, but there is something awful, something terribly wrong about the way my body is bent right now, and it is letting me know that in no uncertain terms.

Then –– thank God –– you begin to untie me, and within a couple of minutes, my ordeal is over. I am a changed girl, now. Before, there was pain. Horrible, unbearable pain as you flayed my tender bottom, plied me with needles, and pierced my sensitive nipples. There was pain here, too. Pain of a different sort. Positional pain, deep and agonizing, worse by the minute. But on top of pain, there was drama and trauma. I nearly died. There was no way I could clear my windpipe. No way I could free myself. If you had not tipped the chair over, I would have died. It is as simple as that. The memory of that awful, unable–to–breathe horror fills my mind. My fragile state here, my dependence, is now clear to me. You saved me. You kept your promise. You didn't kill me and you didn't let me die. But the memory is there. Helplessness. Dependency. Horror.

I try to stand, but my legs are all tingly and they won't respond to my commands. When you hold me up to the camera I glance up at it, just once, embarrassed. I get it. You won. Everything you said was true. The before, and the after. Just as you promised. Just as you said. And I have no doubt that you'll make me watch it, too. But there is no need. I get it. There are things that you can do to me that are worse than death. It is not enough to be brave, or set limits, or take a stand. You have to be able to defend that ground, and I couldn't. Couldn't and can't, and won't be able to in the future. The lesson is learned. I either do everything you command voluntarily, or you make me do it –– with a lot of very unhappy Laura thrown in as a side dish. I don't need the before–and–after camera shots. I understand. I get it. Everything is clear to me. Crystal clear.

I still can't stand when you let me down. My knees feel arthritic and weak. My legs feel like they are still asleep. Every bit of me is sore. ("Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Laur'? You have to stop giving him reasons to hurt you. Remember how much it hurts?" I chastise myself.) I sit on the edge of the tub. Even there I feel unsteady, like I might topple over backwards. Why do I feel like I'm eight years old?

I listen as you lecture me. You're mad. Really furious. The bathroom is a huge mess. You never even got to finish the punishment. I can tell you're angry. Your hand is all balled into a fist. I make no effort to protect myself. If you want to punch me I won't even try to stop you. There would be no point. And your anger is genuine. I caused it. I tried to be all brave and refuse your command. But in the end, I wasn't brave at all. Or not brave enough. Does it really matter? When you can hurt me as much or as bad as you want? My eyes glisten with tears of self pity at my failure, at my existence, my condition, my helplessness. But I blink them away. I'm not going to cry. I am Laura the robot now. I do what I am told. I'm done being brave or having feelings. That Laura doesn't exist anymore.

I drink from the fizzy liquid from the cup as you offer it. My face and hair look like a day–old battlefield, covered with detritus and slime. I am sitting on my own shit, which sticks and clings to my bottom and thighs. I've never felt more disgusting, yet I am too tired and drained to want to begin the cleaning process. I used to be hopelessly clean and fastidious. But now I am content to sit in my shit–filled panties, wet with piss, dripping with vomit, my hair and face looking like something out of a Creature from the Black Lagoon movie. The clean up takes a long, long while. Once the feeling returns to my legs, I manage to disrobe, and bathe in the tub, and clean myself. I brush my teeth, and floss, and gargle some mouthwash, and then I brush again, and gargle again. When I am done, I look remarkably restored –– slender, lithe, naked, beautiful. My hair looks normal. The little tufts that pulled out in the toilet chair are not even noticeable.

I set about to clean the mess on the floor. The fan takes care of most of the smell, thank god. I mop, and clean, and spray, and clean some more. My legs feel sore, my knees achy. I mop and clean, and dry the chair and the floor with the towel once I am done. The chair looks even more ominous sitting there, unused. ("You almost died in that chair," I remind myself.)

I am physically tired, but not sleepy when I finally finish. It's been almost 80 minutes since you left. I've completely lost track of time. I don't know if it is afternoon or evening. It seems like days ago that I awoke, and prepared for your arrival. I remember that a part of me was almost looking forward to a good day. A day with clothes. Maybe a trip outside. A letter to my family. It all went so bad when I bit my fingernails. And then bad went to worse. And then worse went to unimaginable. Unimaginable almost resulted in my death.

It is a sheepish, naked, but clean little girl who pads quietly on bare little feet to the bedroom. I stand in the doorway for a moment, half hidden behind the jam. "Sir . . . I'm finished," I say, in a soft, neutral, unobtrusive voice.

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