26. Going Deep

Marcus

I watch you, especially at the beginning, just to watch out for a collapse, and to keep an eye on any suicide attempts, but it seems like you've exhausted your capacity for rebelling for at least the day. Exhausted, shaken, weak–legged and trembling here and there, you wash and clean, scrub and wipe, rinse and dry, cleaning the disgusting mess thoroughly. You wash and clean yourself, with obsessive care, and when you (well over an hour later) finally put away the cleaning props, you look like a perfectly presentable little girl again.

You appear in the door, sheepish, timid, even your speech all soft and careful, to make sure there will be no more trouble. My heart melts. That's my girl. Or to be precise, that's MY girl. "Come here," I encourage with a gesture of a hand and my tone is a lot lighter, my anger gone. I'm relieved to see that despite how horrible and disgusting you looked for a moment there, you still are my Laura V, pretty as can be, your hair looking all right, clean once again and given the extreme degree to which you have just been pushed, you don't even look that much worse for the wear. The main changes that happened happened on the inside; what I achieved was mostly in your mind and brain. I can tell from your tone and posture that this was an important lesson indeed and that it was well-received.

I was lying on the bed and listening to music on the temporarily unlocked TV screen and almost dozing off when you came. You took long -- so long I don't even feel like I need to check the bathroom. I draw you in, make you climb on the bed and I lie on my side and pull you into a hug, head against my chest. You somehow really managed to wash off, to scrub off all the messy remnants, including their residual smell. Impressive.

"Oh, Laura," I sigh, and stroke your pretty hair, "why would you even do that?" I ask, wondering, mostly rhetorically. "I wanted you dressed and pretty and nice, I did do my best yesterday afternoon to make things better for you here," I whisper quietly, accusingly, reminding you of your clothes and your new–found freedom and all that. "Next time, don't get lost in this poisonous silence. If you think it's impossible, tell me, and try, and we'll see. Licking something yucky -- like someone's dirty butt -- isn't nice, but it was also meant to be a punishment, which are, as a rule, not nice, but it's not impossible. It's not like asking to jump five feet high, or hold your breath under water for quarter of an hour or . . . I don't know." My voice is mostly sad, and the way I speak, I'm basically complaining, complaining that you made me do what I did.

I think about how much energy you have left, how much more I can ask from you today, and decide that after the cocktail I've given you, I should be able to have a few more demands. "Size three plug, in the dungeon. Lube is over there, in the top drawer. Go get them," I command, and of course, having spent the night with a size two plug in your ass, it's anyone's guess just what for. The fact that you messed up doesn't mean your training will get delayed, or that I will wait any longer to claim that tight little asshole of yours with my big, thick cock.

"I'm tempted to give you your clothes back and make things all nice again, but you first have to finish your punishment. If you didn't keep your mouth shut like that, things could have been over by now, but as it is, you still need to do it. So no clothes till then, till your punishment is over," I tell you as you return with the "props." Again, I almost sound sad.

I smear some of the lube on my cock and when you flinch, it seems like a pang of panic washed over your face.

"Relax, pet. You're not ready, yet. I will make you ready, first. Remember? I keep my word," I remind you bitterly as I pin you down and slide the tip of my cock over your pussy. For a while I just enjoy doing that, rubbing my cock, the lower side of my shaft, over your folds and pussy making sure everything gets nice and slick. Then eventually I work my cock tip into you, change position slightly, and I start to fuck you, amazed, as ever, how much of me fits in.

"I just need a release," I explain matter of factly, why I'm fucking you, out of blue. "You see, Laura, once you get past a certain point in someone’s butt, it doesn't matter that much how deep I go. It's just a tube, deep and very deep make relatively little difference. With your pussy, if I go deeper than a certain point, it hurts again. It's something you can get used to and that will hurt less and less with time, but . . . to please me well, it has to hurt a little. Breathe and relax for me now," I demand, and after a few more strokes that fill you ever so tightly, ever so snugly, slightly more than half of my cock inside your vagina, filling the whole of it, I push further once more, harder, more insistently, taking advantage of being well-lubed, and push past the resistance of your cervix, entering your womb. I moan loudly as I invade you so deeply. It takes a while, the entrance of that "second level" of penetration is even tighter than the whole of your incredibly tight, preteen pussy. But then I'm in, and after a little fiddling and moving sideways and up and down, I finally find the right angle and bury myself balls deep inside your pussy (and uterus), moaning loudly with the pleasure of it. I imagine this must hurt, but I've never done it to a girl your age, so I'm not sure. I've only had one partner so petite I had a chance to penetrate her this way and while she didn't scream in agony, she still didn't like it even one bit, so my experience is very limited.

Laura

I come to the bed as you beckon, and climb in, laying my head gently against your chest as you hug me close. I can't help being nervous, and my little body trembles a bit as I submit myself to you. Our bodies lie in contrast: Mine is lithe, naked, hairless, petite, girlish, and tiny. Yours is clothed, muscular, tall, rugged, and manly. My hair smells clean and fresh and fruity; there is no trace of any of the contaminants that decorated virtually my entire body only 90 minutes ago. I lie there, passively, quietly, as you stroke me and speak.

I am the true definition of a captive audience as I listen to your words. Your affected tone of sadness and regret at my behavior works marvelously. All of the intended emotions are triggered in my 11–year–old brain. Among other thoughts, I feel silly. Silly and childish for having refused you. ("That was really dumb, Laur'," I remind myself. "You're lucky it wasn't even worse. You could have died, and if you hadn't started to choke like that He might have made you eat his shit right from his butt. You were lucky.")

In addition to chagrin, I also have a feeling of disloyalty and betrayal. My cheeks flush with remorse as you remind me and I recall that you did make things nice for me yesterday. Yesterday was a good day. ("Good for this place," I remind myself.) I am starting to forget what, exactly, would constitute a good day in my former life. How often in my old life would I get a gift of an entire wardrobe of clothes? How often would I get a vast array of new privileges and freedoms? No, yesterday was a good day by any measure, whether in this place or in my former life. And I thanked you by biting my fingernails, which you hate beyond just about anything else. ("Nice going, Laur'. Nice.") And then, after you mercifully reduced my punishment by a whole lot, I acted like an ungrateful brat and wouldn't take my punishment. ("Miss Goody Two–Shoes didn't want to lick his butt, huh? Don't you just think your special, Laura Vandahl.")

You strike just the right tone with me. A mixture of regret and sadness. It works to elicit strong feelings of remorse and unworthiness in me. Yet, I remember well how your erected phallus bobbed in the air as you walked from the toilet and knelt down, spreading your butt cheeks for my mouth and tongue. You were excited to have me lick you. Clean you. ("That's because he likes having his butt hole licked, Laur'. Not because he wanted to punish you with his poo being on it," I explain to myself. "That was your punishment for biting your fingernails, so you'd never forget that he told you not to do it.) I find myself wondering if my refusal to perform was based, in part, on my belief that you were excited to punish me like that. Could I have misread you? Was your erection caused by the thought that I would be pleasuring your butt with my tongue and not just a desire to be mean?

Suddenly I feel even more chagrined. You were sad to have to punish me, even as you were looking forward to the pleasure of my tongue. And I denied you that pleasure and refused my punishment, all after you had already reduced it when I complained. My cheeks flush again with embarrassment at my own misbehavior. I acted like an ungrateful baby. All I had to do was close my eyes and just . . . just . . . get it over with. How bad could it have been? The memory of your shit–smeared butt pops up in my brain like a photograph. I swallow nervously, recalling the memory of your turd squeezing down onto my face, onto my clenched lips. It's much better to be here, with you, lying against your chest, than in that chair thing. I do not like the chair thing. Not at all.

I scamper to get the size three plug and the lube, eager to obey. I want to demonstrate my obedience to you. You can put the size–three plug in my butt and I won't even complain. The only thing that slows me is the achy feeling in my knees. They actually feel rickety and old. And sore. My scamper is a bit odd, a funny gait for a child, as I leave to retrieve the items.

I'm a little alarmed when you start putting the lube on your penis, which is already mostly stiff by the time I return. ("But you're not ready, Laur'. He said you needed to get to size five, first.") I guess my surprise and alarm must have shown on my face, because you immediately reassure me that it's not time for my butt. I look sheepish and remorseful as you remind me that I'm the one who doesn't keep my word. And you're right, of course. I have lied to you, tried to trick you, and repeatedly disobeyed you. I lower my eyes, embarrassed. ("He's right, you know," I chastise myself.) When you lower me down and pin me, I know it's just going to be a regular fuck, inside my pussy. My coltish preteen legs are spread wide, and my arms are pinned to either side of my head as you play with my soft, hairless little quim with your slippery, slickery cockhead. It doesn't hurt and actually feels pretty good, kinda tickly actually. It doesn't even hurt much as you mush the tip inside me. I try not to grimace ("Just concentrate, Laur'," I remind myself). There is a little more discomfort as you begin to fuck me, but the lube helps a lot. You're being gentle, I realize. It's just the size of your phallus that causes the pain, and it's not like you can do anything about that. I can't blame you if it hurts. It's just the way it is.

Of course, I realize that you've never tried to stick your penis all the way inside me. A few times you pushed it deep enough to hit my spine or something, causing me to wince, but you always pulled back after that. Based on your explanation I get why you want to do it in my butt. You want to go deeper than my pussy will let you. Deeper feels better to you. I get that. It makes sense.

My eyes widen a little in fear as you tell me you want to go deeper in my pussy. I don't think that's even possible. And won't it do damage down there, where I can't see? ("What if it goes all the way through you, Laur', like a spear?") But I don't have a choice in the matter. You have decided what you're going to do, and I am not going to disobey or argue. I swallow nervously, then breathe a few times, and try to relax. But I end up holding my breath as I feel your cock deep inside me, worming against my "spine." I can feel it there, thick and full. I force an exhale, a little squeal of fear, as you start to push against me . . . it . . . my spine . . . whatever it is. It feels like something is bending inside me. I whimper softly and gasp for breath as you worm deeper than you've ever gone, pressing something, opening something, forcibly separating something, spreading it.

I am panting and gasping hard now, punctuated with little moans and whimpers. My breathing is distressed -- held little breaths and puffing exhales. Red cheeks and wide–open eyes reveal my distress and discomfort, but I don't say anything. ("Don't say anything , Laur'. Just concentrate. It's not that bad. You can do it," I encourage myself.) It feels like your cock is going to come out my butt. For a fleeting second my 11–year–old mind actually wonders whether that is possible. But I'm pretty sure it isn't.

It's hard to describe the feeling -- the pain, yes, but also the sensation -- as your cockhead worms its way past my cervix and into my womb. There is a dull, throbbing pressure that I feel deep inside me. It takes my breath away. Some of that may be the fear of the unknown, the fear that the pain may get worse. I've felt worse pain than this. Canings, needles, piercings –– all of them way worse. But this is a disconcerting kind of pain. It’s more like a pressure. Like something is boring into me. It's so deep inside me. And I don't know what is happening down there to cause it.

The feeling of pressure and pain continues as you begin to fuck me, the entire length of your cock inside me now. Your pubic hairs press against the soft, white skin of my preteen mound as you hilt yourself in my child body. Whereas before you put four or five inches in me and stopped, repeating the process with half–length thrusts, now you have the full nine inches of your manhood inside me, and you're only withdrawing halfway before re–penetrating. This leaves your cockhead in my womb, past the tightness of my second barrier. My body grips you at the entrance to both my vagina and my uterus, providing delicious tightness against your thrusting shaft. My breathing is halting and interrupted as I concentrate on the discomfort and pain, trying to float it in a little red ball above my head, trying to endure as you fuck my 11–year–old child body with 9" of rock–hard adult cock.

Marcus

Moving inside you slowly, I moan and gasp with the pleasure of it. I always preferred blowjobs, but this is fucking perfect, the sensation could not be any better. Even if you had a tongue down there, I would not really feel it, I'm so intensively stimulated, so firmly held, so intensively rubbed with each tiniest motion that my cock could not be possibly getting any more of this. It's actually a little uncomfortable, if I were any less than fully erect, I would have trouble continuing, and the tightness of actually pushing through the barrier with my cock tip was almost painful. But I'm there and you're still in one piece. Over time, you will adjust. It will become better for the both of us. For now I just decide to take it slowly.

I actually pause as you, quietly receptive and obedient, let out a slightly pained out breath, not even a proper grunt, just a sort of hmph, as I fill you whole, reaching your second bottom, poking against your insides as deeply as anyone, anything could, barely fitting. I could not fit another half–inch in, but when I push against the bottom of your womb, I'm in, balls deep, and the satisfaction of it is immense. The pleasure of it is almost indescribable, the pleasure of the tight cervical entrance holding my shaft so tightly I almost wanna cry with the pleasure of it, my cock tip massaged with even the slightest of motions.

It makes it easy to take things slowly, the pleasure of the motion is so intense it's actually more enjoyable while going slowly. I would likely hurt us both if I rushed now. I'm amazed that I did fit, and that I don't have you screaming and thrashing and that nothing seems to be tearing or rupturing or bleeding, hurting you badly. I'm actually getting away with sticking the whole of my big, thick, nine-inch-long cock into an 11-year-old "loli."

But I do pause, and do look down below, where you're faced with my chest, so little under me it almost defies belief that so much of me is inside you. I look and I think and fuck, I must be pressing against your bowels and even stomach while penetrating you like this. It's a wonder that you're not sick, but then your digestive tract is totally empty -- I made sure of that earlier. And while you're not exactly kicking and screaming, you seem quite clearly in pain.

"How does it feel? It must be pressing quite a lot, does it hurt? Badly? Can you take it if I go on slowly? Can you do that for me?" I sound caring and slightly worried and soft and it seems like I really am checking. Like there are, for once, no right or wrong answers, I want the truth. And right now I care. It's an amazing feeling but it's also an unexplored territory, I could be hurting you, risking killing you for all I know. Well that's not bloody likely, but . . .

I rest, motionless, my balls pressed against the entrance of your pussy, and spilling down, over your butt, my trim pubes coarse and dark and rough against your soft, hairless mound. I'm actually the whole fucking way inside. I've already done that to your throat, for a moment, and now I'm doing it to your pussy. How exquisite! And soon, soon your ass will follow. You will have been taught to "fully accommodate" me all three ways. How fucking amazing is that?

"It feels so good for me," I volunteer. "I know I'm very big and not easy to take, but it feels so very, very good," I say, sigh a little, and look down below, to see what you have to say to that. I wonder if you told me it hurts too much if I actually would stop, or at least retreat from your womb, but the way you're being brave and striving to please and sate me, I doubt you will demand that I stop. It hurts, but you are managing, and you will manage. I'm almost certain.

"I'm going to cum, cum into your womb. Fill you properly, for the first time," I whisper. "Ready?" Really, it's ready or not, here I come, I will start moving any second almost regardless of your reaction, but I wait and give you the illusion, at least, that I waited for your consent. It's easy to wait for an answer when you know what it is.

I keep myself propped up on my elbows and with one hand reach down to stroke your hair, your cute little ears, neck, collar bones . . . I only avoid your nipples because the piercings are too fresh and I don't want to be fumbling around there without seeing what I'm really doing; when I use them to play with you, it will be deliberately and I'll be fully in control.

Shivers run up my spine. I shudder slightly. The pleasure of this whole act, the deep, profound satisfaction is almost too much. I could cum practically without moving, just breathing and appreciating the situation, maybe squirming ever so slightly, but I sense that I will not have to. You've bought my sadness and pity and all that, and you're in your super–good–girl mode now, trying to please me, even if it's far from easy a treat to do. It blows my mind that my consistent terror and manipulation are paying off so much that just a little over an hour since I shat on your face and nearly made you drown in your own vomit, you are breathing heavily under me, taking penetration that's right along your very physical limits, almost, almost impossible to take, consciously focusing on letting me have my pleasure without spoiling it.

Laura

I moan and grunt as your thick cock worms past my cervix and into my womb. It feels strange and uncomfortable. At this moment I have feelings and sensations and pain signals emanating from parts of me that I didn't even know existed. Deep inside me. I know how big and thick and long your cock is, and every bit of it is inside my cunny as you press your pubic bush against my little mound. "Ohhh," I moan, as my discomfort increases, the pressure increases.

I have no way of knowing this, but it is fortunate for me that my cervix is not particularly pain–sensitive. Some women encounter excruciating pain when their cervixes merely are touched during intercourse, much less penetrated. Other women (and girls) are not as sensitive unless the cervix is forced open, and still others even can tolerate penetration. I am in the latter category, and although I feel a painful pressure as your cock enters my womb, it is more uncomfortable than excruciating. Additional discomfort resides in my brain, as I am not sure what is happening down there, inside me, or why it hurts. I'm worried about you going further, deeper, until you come out the other side. It is a childish fear, but I am a child. I'm 11 years old, and your cock is balls deep in my tight, bald, gripping preteen pussy.

My face is a mask of worry and discomfort as you loom over me, your giant, adult body dwarfing my petite, slender, 5th–grader form. My breathing is pained and erratic as I concentrate on the thick fullness of your full–length penetration. The best word to describe the sensation I am feeling is "pressure." I feel a pressure, like a weight almost, bearing down on something deep inside of me. If you grabbed me really tight across the chest and squeezed my ribs, compressing me, the pressure on my ribs would build, and then become painful as my ribs threatened to dislocate or fracture. The pressure in my womb feels like that. And it has a similar effect on my breathing, leaving me gasping and grunting as you fuck me with your entire shaft.

The pressure increases as you thrust, crossing over into pain as you spread my cervix wide, then abating as you withdraw. The lubrication no doubt helps. Without it the pressure would be extremely painful, almost excruciating. I listen as you stop, resting, and speak to me, asking me how it feels, if it hurts. It does hurt, but I think I can manage. I just worry that you will get excited, and rough, and I won't be able to brace myself against the pain.

"It's (grunt) OK," I gasp, breathlessly. "Sir," I add, quickly. "It hurts (gasp) but . . . I can do it," I pant. I don't want to fail at this. It hurts, but it's not agonizing. Failing to please you leads to bad results, and I don't want any more bad results today. I just want to get through this. As I gasp and moan I try to steel myself against the pain, against the pressure at the gateway to my womb.

Your chest looms over me, muscular, masculine, as I lie on my back. My eyes flit up to your face, as you tell me how good it feels, almost . . . almost like you're thanking me for giving you pleasure. You are big down there –– I mean, your cock is. It's huge to me, and I think of it almost as a living organism, something that hardens and softens and needs its pleasure, something that spews jets of cum when it feels really, really good. Your penis has an insatiable appetite for pleasure. And now every inch of it is inside my lithe little body, filling me, deep inside, spreading my vagina, penetrating my womb.

When you whisper about cumming, I am relieved. Cumming means your cock will soften, and you will pull it from my body and rest. That means that I can rest. And it almost always means that you'll be in a good mood. In fact, I don't think you've ever punished me after you make cums. Cumming makes you gentle, and subdued. I no longer worry and obsess about the cum itself, that bitter, thick, warm stuff. I've swallowed it, tasted it, taken it in my pussy and had it leak back out. I've watched a couple hundred spewing cocks on video. It hasn’t been all that long since I first experienced cum, but now I'm a veteran. It doesn't bother me or surprise me. Cum just is. It just happens. It's commonplace to me now. It's just the stuff that comes out of your penis when you orgasm.

And so when you ask me if I'm ready for your cum, I really am. I'm ready for you to finish, to pull your cock free, to roll over on your back and tell me how good it felt. You're always at your nicest after you cum. And I could use some nice today. Nothing about today so far has been nice. "Yes," I whisper. "Yes, sir." I don't move as your hand strokes me, on my soft ears, my slender neck, my slender shoulders and smooth upper chest. Your touch feels good. I'm ready for you to flood my 11–year–old uterus with your sperm. In fact, I want you to. I've been a brave girl, and you should be happy with me. I like happy. Cumming makes you happy. And when you're happy, I'm happy. I want to be happy. I want you to cum.

Marcus

"Good girl," I murmur. That's the way I like you, obedient, compliant, clearly willing and wanting to please me. Accepting that my pleasure is a necessity, just about everything else is optional. Your soft, whispered "yes, sir" is almost physically pleasurable. It feels like a tingle in my ears and at the back of my neck. It warms my heart. If you like me happy, my smile likely shows just now that you are on a good way.

I start to move again, and God, does this feel good or what?! I moan and I groan and I set a pace where I get continually stimulated, continual and even, avoiding sharp thrusts and any rapid movements that could hurt you more than need be, that could hurt us both and injure you badly.

I move. And keep moving. I relish in this first-ever, hilt–deep penetration, first one of many, I should think. The equation is really simple: I enjoy this a lot and you can take it; even if it takes some effort and determination and pain management on your side, this means we'll be doing lots more of this. Why should I penetrate your pussy shallowly, controlling myself, when I can go right in and have the fun I like. I will also not always be this gentle . . . this slow . . . but for today, slow and smooth is the theme.

Fast is not really needed at all, you see, the "incredibly tight" makes up for it ten times over. My cock swells that last tiny extra just pre–orgasmic bit, my balls tighten firmly against its root, I move a few more times, holding my breath after a sharp, hissing intake of air, and then I cum, my breath coming out warm and ragged, as I shudder and arch with the intensity of my pleasure. My cum, thick and ropey, as it tends to be the first time I cum in the day, squirts into you in abundant qualities and fills your womb against the bottom of which I'm pressed hard, cumming balls deep inside your lithe little body, feeling it spraying out of your tiny uterus into your pussy and as my cock keeps pulsing and pumping more and more of the sticky whitish substance into you, also out of the tiny pussy around my shaft. Done.

I grunt. Take a couple more breaths, relishing in the shuddering, tingling post–orgasmic sensation and the now very slick and wet tightness around my cock which is still held in firmly even as it decreases in size. Seems like even if I had a cock half the size, your pussy and womb would still grip me snugly; it only shows how much stretching and extending is going on when your body yields to my sexual invasion.

Finally, I pull out and a mess of cum spills onto the bed as I do. Whatever. By now you've been taught how to take care of the sheets, and you can wash again. Me . . . I don't feel like another shower. I glance down at my cock and raise an eyebrow briefly. Guess what I want you to do? I don't wanna play games though so I dispel any possible hesitation and confusion. "Suck and lick me clean, nice and proper," I demand. "You can clean the rest up later. And then, afterwards, there is one more thing I want you to do," I state a bit breathlessly, on my knees, slightly sweaty, totally blissed out by the intense, good orgasm I just had.

"I want you to lie back down, spread your legs for me and stroke yourself. Not just a little, but until you have an orgasm," I state casually. You've been good, it's a sort of reward, and it's all a part of my plan of conditioning and training you. Making me feel good feels good. Also, I hope, even if my plan to keep you dressed for some time didn't quite work out, making you touch and pleasure yourself while I watch, and not just watch but stare intently, that should be something to bring some color to your cheeks and ears, just the way I like it.

I kneel as I wait for you to clean me up, and then collapse back into a sitting position to watch you obey the second part of my command. I'm a demanding "customer," I know, but hey, there's something in there for you, too, no doubt this time. Not that I intend to make it easy; if you think I'll just watch you silently through the whole process, you're wrong. But before I tell you to stop, giving you just about your first ever experience of being "edged," I'll make sure you're pretty damn near.

Laura

I lie there, my arms to either side of my head, my slender legs spread in a V, as you loom over me, propped up on your hands and elbows, and feed your adult erection into my tight, gripping, 11–year–old pussy. Just a short time ago I had only an anecdotal idea of intercourse –– health class gave me the technical basics, but giggling little preteens at sleepovers and school recesses supplied the tittering details. Caroline Vargas was always the best source of information. How and where she came to learn all of what she knew was a mystery, but she was the youngest in her family and had three older siblings. She not only knew how sex worked, she knew all the words to make it seem so naughty and taboo. Of course she knew all of the common bad words, like "fuck" and "cock" and "cunt, and "tits," and the common sex things like "blow jobs" (although I did learn what those were from her) and "fucking." But she had a secondary inventory of more–exotic words, like "spunk" and "cum," and a list of jaw–dropping descriptions of things that people having sex can do together, like "69ing" and "cream pie" and "doggie–style" and "tit–fucking." The way the bad words rolled off her lips, and the rapt attention that she commanded when she spoke authoritatively about all things sex–related, made Caroline Vargas a kind of mini–celebrity at school. I used to imagine doing some of those things with a naked Justin Bieber. Oh, how naïve I was back then.

It took far less than a week of actual experience having sex for me to pass Caroline by in the knowledge department. In fact, my base of practical experience and actual skills leaves her completely in the dust. If you had taken the time to give me the proper terminology, I would already have an intimate knowledge of terms like "mouthfucking," "cunnilingus," "golden showers," "scat," "analingus," "puppy play," and "bondage" –– each accompanied by one or more interactive, demonstrative lessons. To this list can now be added "cervical penetration," which is what I am experiencing right now as you hilt your rock–hard erection in my preteen cunt and womb.

Your slow, deliberate, intensely pleasurable thrusts are matched in time by my tiny, mewing little grunts of discomfort. "Unnhhh . . . unhhhh . . . unnhhhh . . . unnnnhhh . . . unhhhhh," I say, as I will myself to remain passive and under control one deep, penetrating thrust at a time. The pain and concentration show on my face as the "pressure" peaks, then falls, peaks again, then falls again, the process repeating as you pleasure yourself against the double–ringed grip of my wide–spread vaginal opening and the impossible tightness of my clutching cervix.

I am eager for you to cum, to climax, to send your man sperms jetting into my pre–adolescent little quim. Cumming marks an end point, a finish line. To you, cumming inside one of my 11–year–old orifices brings bliss and pleasure that until recently you could only covet and contemplate in secret in your hidden, perverted mind. Now your under–age sex is real, your climaxes every bit as pleasurable as you ever imagined they would be. To me, cumming means the end of pain and discomfort, and a rest period while you recover. Cumming makes you happy, and tired. Cumming brings a kind word, a smile, a gentle caress, and often a reward of some sort. A privilege. A luxury. Even a present, once, in the form of my favorite candy bar. Yes, I want you to cum. I want your jism to surge into my 11–year–old snatch, to paint and fill my vagina and uterus with your hot, sticky sperm.

I know you are about to climax when you breathe in sharply, and drive your cock deep inside me, your hairy balls dangling warm and soft against my butt cheeks, your pubic bush pressed tight to my mound, as if the hairs there belonged to me. I can't feel the enlarging of you shaft and cockhead this time, but I don't need that to know that you are about to cum hard deep inside me. You keep your mancock pressed to the back of my womb as you shudder and spurt. I can feel a wave of wetness and warmth from your copious semen filling me, squishing and squirting deep inside me. When you pull out, a thick puddle of sperm oozes from my gaping pussy and runs down the crack of my butt to the sheets below. I feel its warmth and sticky wetness as it flows out and dribbles past my anus.

I find myself breathing hard, and moist with perspiration, as you kneel up. You were providing the motion and doing most of the physical work, but I was concentrating really hard, trying to cope with the pain and pressure, trying to be a good girl and provide you with pleasure without crying or begging or . . . ruining it for you. That took real effort, and I am physically drained from the literally millions of little muscle adjustments and flexes and reactions that every part of my slender child body made while you slow–fucked me and fed me your spunk. Despite my passive, prone position underneath you during our carnal coupling, I was working, too.

I kneel up myself, and obediently bend to the relatively easy, and now–familiar task of sucking, licking, and cleaning your semi–flaccid phallus. My vaginal opening squeezed most of the cum from your cock as you withdrew, but the entire, softening length of it is coated with a filmy sheen of semen and little–girl pussy fluids. I lick you clean, starting at the root of your shaft and moving up, using my hands to angle your penis to my open mouth as you told me I could. When I reach the head I take it entirely in my child mouth, massaging and slurping the goo from your corona and piss slit with my kitten tongue and suctioning lips. Finally, I return to your hairy balls, lifting and studying them, licking and sucking little spots of now–clear, shiny semen remnants from the hairy, leathery, dark skin sack. When I am finished, your cock is still wet and shiny, but now the shine is not from spunk and pussy juices, but the saliva from the tiny mouth of your 11–year–old sex slave. My eyes lock onto yours –– then flit sheepishly away –– as you tell me to pleasure myself to orgasm. I've never done that to myself, but I've experienced it at your hands, and I know what you mean and what I must do. There is no hesitation in my obedience. My response to your commands is becoming almost reflexive now, as you knew it would be, eventually. The precise time it would take me to reach reflexive, unthinking obedience was a unpredictable, a mystery even to you. But the certainty that I would get there, whether sooner or later, never was seriously in doubt. Before this state of reflexive, automated compliance is achieved, there is a brief hesitation, as the brain contemplates the questions "should I?" and "do I have to?" and "is there any way out?" When obedience becomes automated, the questions no longer are asked, and the hesitation vanishes. You detecte no hesitation at all as I immediately lie back, spread my coltish loli legs, and begin to finger my Special Spot. When you did this before, you rubbed my Special Spot with your fingers, your motion fast, urgent, hard, and on the edge of painful. I emulate this now, my little fingers working my clit and cunny as I close my eyes. I know that you are staring at me, watching. But I concentrate on making myself feel good. If I close my eyes, it's almost like you're not even there, and I am at home, in my bed, at night, when I used to touch my Special Spot in privacy, with slow, gentle, tickly–tantalizing little circles. It's almost like you're not there. But not really, as my cheeks tint pink and the tips of my ears burn with embarrassment.

Marcus

Sexual education has never been so much fun. So very hands on. Cock on, mouth on, that kind of education. I've taught you a lot about sex in this past week, almost as much as I taught you about obedience and servitude and myself, and what it means to be only here, with only this, and only me.

Even though my spying was fairly impressive, it was not quite extensive enough to know about Caroline, and the sort of things she told you and taught you. Shame. I would probably send her a card to thank her for making sure you didn't arrive here completely utterly unprepared. But in truth, whatever you knew, and could have known, you now know a hundred times more and you are still learning. And not just theory, you've done things in the past week that no 11-year-old should ever do, should ever have to do, should ever even know about, and yet, here you are, having been fucked -- womb–deep even -- mouth-fucked, deep-throated, forced to lick up cum of off the floor. You’re in the middle of having your ass trained for anal sex. You tasted my ass and my feet with your little mouth and tongue, and you’ve drunk my piss without even putting up a fight, without even a complaint.

I think about all those depravities, and more, and I think about what I taught you, and what I need to reinforce, and what and how I can build on, and what yet new and fresh I can introduce, how I can pleasure and amuse myself further. How else I can entertain myself. Yes. There's still a plenty of fun to be had. Going physically filthy and into extremes of pain is one direction, but there's so much more I can do to your mind. I think about hypnosis, and conditioning, and of just how far I can push you. I think of the sorts of experiments many psychologists and neurologists possibly would like to try, but never will, on ethical grounds, while me, me I will do whatever the Hell I like. Talking of Hell . . . unleashing it notwithstanding.

As I think, I watch your fingers and hand, mesmerised by the motion, by the idea of the kind of feeling it stirs in you. I am hypnotised, silent, and mindless for several minutes. Finally, I snap out of my thoughts and notice exactly what you are doing, the whole of you.

"I didn't tell you, or even allow you, to close your eyes," I growl in slight dissatisfaction. "Eyes wide open. Eyes on me, actually. I want you to see that I can see. I want you to watch me watching. I am here. I am making you do this, and I am close by, and I am watching. You cannot hide anything. I can see your pussy, your hand sliding over your little clit, I can even see the tingly feeling rise in your belly," I claim, lying about the last bit, though not really: I can tell from the tell–tales, even though I cannot actually see the sensation itself as it happens.

"I can see you do this. And you are doing it like a shameless slut," I rub in, "legs spread and knowing that I am watching. Exactly as I want you to," I reassure you, in case you took the insult as a sign that something was actually amiss. "And are you blushing?" I tease. "There's no shame in being a little whore; whoring yourself out for a little praise," I muse. "I like you that way. And I am all that matters."

I'm making sure you realise just how compliant you are with all this, not that you have any other option, but you've gone into an obedient mode almost too easily after your punishment, which should keep you in line for a while now, your knees still sore, and so I push and prod and poke. I test you. I strain your patience. I make it hard to be nice and to obey.

I am quite deliberately trying to throw you off balance, trying to make it hard for you simply to enjoy your pleasure. Using nasty words, even in a sweet tone, even emphasising my acceptance, is meant to remind you that what you are doing, willingly, and what you are good at and being praised for, is totally unacceptable and dirty and filthy and shameful by the outer world's standards. You were blushing a bit, but not enough. I want you to visualize the faces of your friends and family and imagine their reactions to what you are doing...

"I am all that matters," I push further, "even if your mother walked through that door just now, you would not dare stop, now, would you? You would not like me angry, you would not like anyone getting hurt, right? So you would continue, as you WILL continue now," I insist. "You will look at me, and we both know right now I made you upset and a bit angry, too," I grin, reading you like an open book and seeing you flinch as I mention your mother, "but you will go on, you will keep going Laura, because that's what I'm telling you to do and because we know it would be a bad, bad idea to disobey. Especially today, when you've only just managed to please me some after I was really really mad at you," I conclude. Perhaps you'd see this taunting as a punishment for making me angry earlier. All it really is is making you blush, shaming you, fucking with your little head just 'cause I can and I enjoy it. Nothing can or will stop me.

"Come on, little one. Rub yourself. This isn't over until you have cum. Until you have had your orgasm," I say, and we both know that with how good I am in getting my way, this will likely be the case.

But just as I see you swallowing your pride and all the taunts, teasing and insults and forcing yourself into pleasure, just as it builds up and approaches culmination, I suddenly, sharply, and loudly command:

"Stop!"

I lube the size-three plug and lift your legs up as you are, face up, exposing the arch of your pussy and butt without allowing your legs to spread any further, and I slowly, but resolutely screw the slick plug in. I meet a good bit of resistance, but you should know the drill by now, so I don't offer any advice, any encouragement. I simply push and turn and twist and screw until the four inch and something long and fairly chubby plug is neatly deposited inside your butt. Then I lower your legs back as they were.

"Now go on. This time, you are actually not allowed to stop until you've made yourself cum. No excuses, no what-ifs, no nonsense. Do it," I command resolutely. I watch you, with the medium-sized plug up your butt, legs spread, pussy still gaping a bit and leaking the last remnants of my cum, and wait for you to obey. I expect you to obey. And there's something about my eyes, the silent storm inside me, that warns you that of all moments that you could choose for resistance this is a bad one. A dangerous one. And you've already been down that path once today. Now, even if you might not like it, even if you are hurting, physically, and emotionally and god knows how else, this is the time to obey.

"Eyes on me. Speed up. And don't stop when it feels like too much. We want too much, we want an orgasm. I want to see you cum, Laura."

Laura

My breathing is getting faster and deeper as I stroke and finger my little quim. Your jizz still is oozing out of it and the smell of cum and sex permeates the room. Man/child sex, to be specific. A glistening puddle of cum is soaking into the mattress as I work. My hands are sticky and wet with your semen, but it provides a convenient lubricant as I work. I’m doing it the new way, the way you taught me, because I have to admit that your fingering technique is better than mine ever was. Mine was dainty and gentle and slow and refined and tentative. Your method is better. Hard and fast, in up–and–down, multi–fingered motions, and I use it now, the pads of my little fingers grinding and massaging my sensitive, preteen girl parts. It feels good to finger my special spot and my cunny. My eyes are closed and this place has disappeared. I don't think about anyone or anything in particular as I finger myself. I just concentrate on the pleasure emanating from my child pussy.

I can feel that strange tickle sensation building inside me. The one that you made come out, but now I am doing it. Myself. I didn't know I could. I'm doing it with my own hands. If I angle my fingers like this, they perfectly stroke my slit and then slightly squeeze my special spot, and if it go a little faster like this, th–

Your words startle me out of my revelry, and I react with a full–body spasm, my eyes flying open, my expression panicked, my masturbating movements instantly halted. ("Oh nooooo! What did I do now?" I wonder, with a sinking feeling.) I look petrified. I've heard that same, gravely voice from you before. It usually presages a punishment of some sort. And I don't even know what I did wrong this time!

You want me to keep my eyes open. More than that, actually. You want me to look at you, to watch you as I do this with my hand. I take the opportunity to switch hands, since my right hand was getting tired. And I begin rubbing my little hairless quim again, this time with my eyes latched on yours. My expression is no longer one of self–satisfied bliss; now my face looks unhappy and chagrinned. And I feel that way, too. It seems so taboo, so wrong, to be fingering my girl parts while you watch. Not just watch, but stare. I can't help but blush, even as I continue. The tingle sensation is gone, completely gone, even as my little hand continues to finger my cum–slicked preteen slit while you watch.

It's bad enough that you're watching me, ogling me. But you keep talking, saying mean things, using bad words. Calling me a "slut" and a "whore." But it won't work. I know you're being mean on purpose. It won't work 'cause we both know that you're making me do this to myself. And a person isn't bad or a slut if she has to do something even if she doesn't want to. So you can call me names all you want but you're just being a big fat jerk. A big fat jerk! And I hope the police come and smash down all your doors and everything else in your stupid old dumb house!

I seethe with anger and helplessness and humiliation. The tops of my ears are burning and tingling with indignant shame, and my cheeks are flushed. But my eyes remain glued to yours, and my left hand continues to masturbate my young pussy. There is no enjoyment in it for me now. There is just helpless humiliation, seething indignation, and raw hatred.

You've humiliated and physically hurt and tortured me a great deal since I arrived here, but you've never teased me like this, never bragged about you being the only one, being in control, being able to do whatever you want to me, with me. And you've never before degraded me verbally or called me names, or made me feel bad about myself. I know you're just doing it to be mean. But your words strike a raw, vulnerable chord inside me. I may be a naked, freshly fucked little preteen sex slave. And you may be able to make me do anything you want me to by hurting me. But I still have my pride. And your words are cutting me to the quick, carving at the last vestiges of my self–respect.

I flinch as you mention my Mom, and I nearly –– very nearly – burst into tears. It's just the mention of her that does it. Even though we fought and didn’t always see eye to eye, I love her and I miss her so bad. Her and Calvin and Jeremy, especially. In my entire life I've never gone this long without talking to them, or being with them. The only thing that keeps me from crying is that I don't want to give you the satisfaction of seeing me cry, you big fat stupid jerk! Stupid-face! Jerk!

I hate you right now. Really, totally hate you. When you caned me, it was a punishment. When you fucked me, it was for you pleasure. When you made me lick up the cum, it was because I disobeyed. Even when you pooped on my face, it was punishment for biting my nails. None of those things was fair. None of those things should have happened to me. But at least there was a meaning, a purpose, a reason.

Right now you are being mean just because you're a big fat jerk! I did everything you wanted me to. I cleaned up the entire bathroom from the mess you made. Even my runny poops were because of you! And your pee and poop and my vomit. That was your fault, too, not mine! It got all over everything and I cleaned it up until it was all gone. I even cleaned that chair. The toilet chair–thingy that you used to poop in my mouth. And I took a shower and let you fuck me all the way inside where it hurt, and then I licked and cleaned your penis where you got cum and inside stuff all over it. I did everything you told me to without a word of complaint or a moment's hesitation.

But now you're just teasing and taunting me, about disobeying, about how bad things will happen to me, about how you can do anything you want. Yeah, well if my mother was here, she'd be here with about 50 billion ten thousand police officers and they'd smash your entire house down and take you to jail forever! And then I wouldn't even have to be here anymore and I wouldn't rub my pussy ever again! Ever ever ever ever ever, you BIG FAT JERK!

My face is pouty and angry but I manage to avoid tearing up. I look right at you, but deliberately focus my eyes behind you, so I can't see your big fat stupid face. I switch to my better hand again –– my right hand –– and continue to smear your cum back and forth over my bald little quim. I think about Justin Bieber, and Robbie Waskowitz from school, and it's Robbie who is rubbing me there, and touching me, not you, and I'm not even thinking about you, or looking at you, and it feels good, and Robbie's fingers are making me tingle, and–

Your command to stop scares the dickens out of me once again, and I pull my hand away as if I touched a hot coil. My face looks panicked, as I focus back on your eyes. ("What did I do now?" I wonder. "He can't tell what you were thinking –– can He?" I worry.) But you grab the butt plug I retrieved earlier, and the next thing I know, my legs and butt are being lifted in the air, like I'm a two–year–old toddler having my diaper changed. I feel the cold, lubed tip of the plug against my pucker.

You don't give me time to prepare this time. And I want to spread my legs more but you don't let me do that, either. It hurts as you push this one into my butt hole. "Ahhhhh," I gasp in a little voice, not struggling, but my gasp is filled with discomfort and pain. That hurt! A lot. It still hurts, feeling like my bottom is being split apart. "Unnnh," I sigh, as you set me back down. ("They get bigger, Laur'. Way, way, way bigger," I remind myself.) I don't like butt plugs. Not this one. Not big ones. And I'm pretty sure I'm not going to like your penis in my bottom, either. In fact, I dread it. I’ve dreaded the thought ever since you told me that that’s exactly where it’s going to go.

My child bottom still hurts as I resume my obscene pussy–fingering, my eyes on yours as you watch. I use the trick of looking at you, but focusing past you, to finger my snatch back to an intense, pleasurable, tingling sensation. I have to admit it feels good. Like a giant tickle, but inside me. In my body. Your fingering technique really does work good. I speed up as you command, and my legs start to twitch and writhe. I groan with the intensity of it, thinking about Robbie, drawing the pads of my tiny fingers over my little nub, my special spot. It feels good now. Better than before. Really good. I arch my head up off the mattress and groan as I orgasm, grimacing with pleasure, my legs snapping together at the ankles as the intensity of my first self–induced orgasm washes over my lithe, preteen form. ("Wow oh my God," I think to myself, amazed at my ability to do that.) For a very brief moment, just a few seconds, it's as if you are not even here.

Marcus

I watch as you -- shamed, mocked, emotionally hurt, butt–plugged, and unhappy -- bring yourself to an orgasm. I watch and I smile. It's such a lovely, yummy, delicious sight, such a splendid, glorious thing to be witnessing I actually bite my lip and cock an eyebrow devilishly. It's fucking perfect. The way you arch, twitch, and writhe. The sweet, sexy sounds that escape your mouth, the groans. Your tense grimace. There's something so very, very satisfying on a gut–deep, bone–deep, primal level about seeing your pretty young face contort with pleasure. Eleven years old, riding your clam like a pro, on command, right up to an orgasm; twice delayed and by the looks of it, quite intense. It's a perfectly delightful moment, right here and now. I enjoy it mindfully.

Even though I just came, it makes my cock twitch. It's really lucky for me that there effectively is no limit on what I can require of you; if I decide I want another go, or a blowjob, I'll get my balls off again. And again. As many times as I like. Night and day. A memory of your evening down under my desk comes back and my cock swells back into a full erection. You swallowed cum, and piss, and then more cum before I decided I was done with you. We haven't really practised ball worship since, maybe it's time for a practice session. I definitely feel like I should put you through some drill, just so you realise that getting prematurely exhausted and drained because of punishments does not excuse you from your duties. And anyway, the cocktail I gave you less than two hours ago should keep you reliably up and alert for at least two more; why should I give a damn that after, you will likely have a headache and feel like a sorry piece of shit for a while? Here and now, you're good to go, good to obey and perform.

It reminds me of my plan B, getting you addicted to a drug, heroine, most likely, should you not be sensual, sexual enough to be manipulated that way, but I fear going down that way. I love the brightness of your eyes, the alertness and intelligence in them, the way you're with it. Heroin makes people not give a shit, not even about themselves and their pain and misery, it's the perfect escape drug and I don't want you escaping. Especially since the withdrawal, while a powerful motivation, would eventually become so strong and acute that it would render you useless, or at least . . . not pleasing enough. No. I can boost you or dull you occasionally, when and if it suits me, but I should keep chemicals out of the things I use to manage you, I decide, as you lie there red-faced, a cute dew of perspiration on your face, naked, collared, with a decent-sized butt plug up your preteen ass.

You little slut. When I think it, it's not in the taunting, provocative voice, but in a voice that shows that there really is no limit in what I can do to you -- insulting and mocking you simply is on my "can–do" list. I might show bits of mercy here and there and care for your well–being, but I don't care for your pride, and crushing it, hurting it, not only is fun, not only . . . sadistically enjoyable, but also useful.

I need you obedient, unthinkingly obedient, which you are slowly becoming, I need you devoted, awed, determined to please, respectful, submissive, meek, accepting, pliant, and willing. The list goes on, but note that adjectives like strong, proud, opinionated and confident are not on it. I'm very careful about what I encourage in you, what I ignore, and what I work towards uprooting and ripping out and beating out of you, whether figuratively or actually, literally, with a cane in my hand.

A small step for a little girl, a big leap for a plotting, scheming, manipulating evil bastard like me. You are now getting used to the sweetness of having an orgasm; slowly, but surely. You now know you can make yourself cum, and it's not even that hard. And it feels good. It's a sensation that calls for repetition, perpetuation. One that I've been dishing out freely in the past days, one that you can now make happen if you feel like it; down here when there is little else to do.

It's only the very start of getting into the habit of cumming, getting used to orgasming daily, or more, getting -- ever so slightly -- addicted to sexual pleasure. But it is a start, nonetheless. And even in all my seeming omnipotence, I cannot do anything but wait. Wait and bide my time. Wait for this to develop and grow stronger, before I can use it as a weapon against you. For now, though, it was just a small step, a surge of pleasure, a flushing of cheeks. Time is a powerful tool though, and I have it on my side.

"Your eyes weren't focused," I state neutrally, to show that your little trick did not slip unnoticed. I love when your eyes widen slightly in the "oh, fuck!" way before you even realise that you are reacting, the way your body betrays the truth to me before you can even begin to deny it. "I told you to watch me and you did not. Not properly. You just pretended. If you tell me the truth, tell me who it was you were imagining with your eyes closed before, I'll let it pass unpunished, this once. Next time I tell you to watch me, your eyes will be set, and focused on mine," I state calmly, firmly, in the tone that always means that there is zero wiggle space, that you've been busted, and that facts you can do absolutely nothing about are being stated. Way to get your attention. Way to snap you out of your brief, post–orgasmic, relaxed, careless bliss. Very brief, this time. The way you are so slim now means every slightest change in your muscular tension can be seen, you have no "padding" to speak of and when you tense, naked like this, it shows deliciously.

As soon as you've spoken, I slap you; I said I wasn't gonna punish you, but I think you've learned by now that being slapped is just a relatively subtle way of putting you in your place; punishment is a whole another level of misery. I wait for a thank-you-sir. I kind of suspect what the answer is anyway. I hacked your phone, computer, Youtube channels, iTunes. You are a Belieber. And damn, I would fuck that kid's pretty face myself if it came to it. He probably would not live to tell the tale; I'm a lot more violent with boys and guys than pretty little girls, but while the little faggot's pretty voice regurgitating sappy pop doesn't quite classify as music in my book, he's cute, I'll give you that.

I know you are hungry now; you'd be getting sickish with low blood-sugar soon, the dog food pushed through your digestive tract with laxatives so fast you pooped it down your panties almost undigested isn't exactly a good source of sustenance. I open the fridge and fish out some snacky things, pieces of fruit mostly. Cookies from the larder. Oat crackers. Bits of sweet cereal. Human food. Good food. Nice and nutritious.

"We'll practice. If you see my cock going limp, you'll ask for a permission to suck on my balls and rear hole for a while to get it back up, before we go on. When the treats are used up, you'll suck me off – give me a blow job, starting, one last time, with a very thorough job on, around, and under my balls and pucker."

And then the drill begins. Each time, I expect prompt obedience and a clear “Yes, sir.” That's the only way to get a treat. If you show even a little bit of hesitation, I hesitate with the treat, and then, rather than feeding it to you, I drop it to the floor for your to suck up. Just to show you that thinking is not encouraged. The commands keep coming like a flood. Almost, but not quite meaningless, a lot of them are about making me feel good, some are not, and during those, my cock usually starts decreasing in size and stiffness.

"Suck on my big toe.

Kiss my knee.

Show me how many push-ups you can do.

Pathetic. Now with your knees down on the ground, and do more.

Do ten sit-ups.

Head stand.

Go lick the door handle.

Head over heels.

Roll sideways.

Open the fridge.

Come here.

Have a drink of the orange juice in the fridge.

Come here.

Kneel.

Get up.

Close the fridge.

Roll again. The other way now.

Make a back flip.

Left thumb in your pussy, right thumb in your mouth, deep, hide them both right to the last knuckle.

Swap thumbs.

Swap thumbs.

Wiggle thumbs.

Swap thumbs.

Lick me from my big toe as high up my body as you can reach, in a single big lick, without pausing, making a continuous tongue–trail.

Lie face down.

Twist your plug, like a screw, around its axis.

Stand up.

Lie face up.

Stand up.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and whenever you ask for permission, you get it, pronto, and I lean back to expose my balls and my clean pucker, likely a reminded that there's still a punishment ahead you will not avoid. After the last treat is given, I lean back and relax one last time. I'm ready for my blowjob now.

The fact that this whole exercise in futility -- in obedience for the sake of obedience and my mild entertainment -- followed your bitterly shameful experience of bringing yourself to orgasm while mocked and insulted makes it extra fun, extra yummy. I stirred anger in you, and I love it when you obey even with residual anger inside you. Yet I also want your anger to burn away to nothingness so that you are focused singularly on me. Your obedience must be instinctive, and I push you toward that objective with every little bit of feedback I provide. Good girl–ing you when you are quick enough, frowning and dropping treats when you are less so.

It should be dull -- this is something like the third session of the same kind -- but it's not dull. I still feel drunk on the power, the control, and also, to see you progress and improve even when I throw in some totally random commands, feels good. Especially since I know what waits for me at the end. I drill you, tire you, humiliate you, and yet you will suck my cock at the end of it. Grateful, I bet, that you're getting off the hook so easily.

Laura

Whatever happened earlier today, and whatever happens for the rest of it, I have to admit that masturbating my 11–year–old self to orgasm felt really, really good. I'm spent, and my right hand is tired, and I just want to lie there, reveling in the afterglow of my first–ever, self–induced climax. My eyes are only partly open, unfocused, my expression far–away and dreamy. I'm thinking about Robbie Waskowicz, and how it was his hand, and I can picture him, and–

My eyes spring open as you speak, drawing me instantly back to the present, where there is only this, here, and you. My slender little hand withdraws guiltily from my sticky, moist, cum–slicked quim –– almost as if I shouldn't have been doing exactly what it is you commanded me to do. My cheeks flush with color as I can't rid my mind of the thought that what I just did was taboo, nasty, and vile –– made all the more so because you were watching me the entire time. Watching me as I fingered my hairless little quim to orgasm not two feet away from where you sat, ogling me, on the bed. And, to my chagrin, I'm busted again. You knew I wasn't looking at you as I fingered myself. ("Of course he knew, silly. Haven't you figured out that he knows everything?" I taunt myself). I'm starting to think you can read my mind. ("He can't really, can he? I mean, really really read your mind, like a magician or one of those hypnoist people, or whatever they call them?") I look worried, remembering what I was thinking as you teased me. I swallow nervously as you explain how I can get out of it this time. Who was I thinking about? How did you even know I was thinking about anyone? How? How?

I blush. I don't want to tell you. ("You have to tell him!" I say to myself, slightly panicked at my own recalcitrance.) My love for Justin Bieber goes way beyond his music. But it's a private love, a secret love. I haven't mentioned it to any of my friends –– how Justin's image comes to me, at night, when I finger my special spot. Not the way you do it, all fast and hard, but softly, slowly, in a little circle the way I like it, while I mouth the lyrics to his music. I can see him on stage. Shirtless. Hot. Sweaty. He's singing and dancing, and I'm singing right along with him and fingering my pussy. When the other girls talk about Justin, and how "hot" he is, I always demur. My love for Justin is private. Not to be shared.

"Justin," I say, embarrassed, averting my eyes. "Bieber," I add, since as an adult, and especially as a man, there is no way on earth that you would ever appreciate the awesomeness of Justin and his music, or know who I am referring to if I use only his first name. You probably don't even know who he is, and if you do, you automatically hate him and his music because that's how every male shows how macho he is. ("Yeah, they hate him 'cause they're jealous," I tell myself. "Even you aren't as awesome as Justin, so there!")

You slap me. Not ridiculously hard, but hard enough to make a "clap" sound in the bedroom. "Thank you, sir," I say, as tears leap to my eyes. I wasn't expecting a slap. I wouldn't cry if I'd known it was coming, but it surprised me and I didn't have time to prepare. ("Darn it Laur'! Don't let him see you cry!" I reprimand myself.) Another little voice inside starts to lecture me. ("That wasn't the whole truth, Laur', and you know it. And if you know it, he knows it, too.") My eyes flit up to yours again. I blink away the tears so that your face is not blurry. ("Does he know it wasn't only Justin? Can he know? Can he?")

You can read my expression, my eyes, my slender, naked little body. Even before I utter the words "And Robbie Waskowicz . . . from my s–school," you knew I was hiding something, and you could tell that I was debating with myself whether to tell you. After I speak I avert my eyes again –– sheepish, embarrassed –– another giveaway, another tell. I was holding back, but in the end, I didn't. You can tell that I didn't want to tell you about Robbie, my secretest–of–all school–girl fantasy boy, even more secret than Justin, so secret that I would crawl into a hole and die if anyone at school knew. And I just told you. I had to. You can read my mind.

I sit up on the bed, naked, cross–legged, watching, as you depart the room. My 11–year–old body is noticeably thinner than when I first arrived in this place, when you first stripped and prepared me. My body then was slender and lithe, my skin soft and lustrous, so smooth. A perfectly fit, tiny little body, with some padding. Now my body is much the same, only thinner, skinnier, more-waifish in appearance. Two–inch rings dangle from the lower third of my nipples. Healing cane stripes in a medley of colors adorn my bottom. I am the same girl, but different. Changed. Altered. Definitely skinnier.

And I am hungry yet again. Hunger happens a lot for me in this place. Between vomiting and defecating, both violently, my tummy and bowels are about as empty as they have ever been. Even that first day, when you cleaned me out with multiple enemas, you couldn't get to the partially digested food in my tummy. Right now I am completely empty. My tummy aches for food. My bowels are ready to begin absorbing nutrients. My blood is circulating, round and round, but there are no nutrients for it to carry. I eye the snacks hungrily. I sit up a little more alertly. If it means being fed, I'm ready to practice. Eager, in fact.

With you perched on the edge of the bed, I stand, ready. "Yes, sir," I say neutrally, as I drop to my knees and take your big toes in my little mouth, not just one, but both, giving each of them a tongue wash and an up–and–down, bobbing toe–job, fully wetting them, tasting them. I stand for my treat, then with another "yes, sir," I drop down, and kiss your knees, my eyes on your cock. I stand for my treat.

When I notice your cock starting to sag, my voice is clear and beautiful, high–pitched and soft, child–like. Yet the words are anything but childish. "Sir, may I suck your balls and– and lick your hole, please?" As you lean back I drop to my knees and press my little face to your wrinkled skin sack, and begin to lick. My tiny pink kitten tongue traces across your hairy testicles and then drifts down to your asshole, wetting your taint, before drawing a wet little circle around your brown ring, then spearing inside. Once, twice, three times, four times, I tongue fuck your anus, my lips pressed hard against it as I send my little pink tongue as deep inside your rectum as I possibly can. I resume licking and dragging may face across your balls, looking up at your shaft to see if it is stiff again. I can't tell for sure, so I repeat the process, returning to your puckered entrance and tongue–fucking it several more times. Afterward I stand, and await my treat.

My little 11–year–old mind is focused, concentrating on my "yes sirs," oriented to the task at hand, while keeping an eye fixed on your cock. In my mind, your phallus almost has a separate existence from the rest of you. It is almost like it has a life of its own. I fear it, yet respect it. It can be hard and insistent and ruthless. Yet it also can be soft and satiny smooth and almost vulnerable at times. It has moods. It responds to stimulation. It likes being petted and licked and sucked and pleasured. In many ways it is like a pet. It is very needy –– it doesn't like to go without attention for very long. It needs to be taken out so that it can pee and cum, several times per day, in fact. It can be exhausting. It doesn't clean up after itself, but it likes nothing more than to be cleaned and loved. It likes to be the center of attention. In fact, it loves attention. Lavish attention. You can pet it and play with it for hours and it rarely tires. When it's done playing it rests, but only temporarily. Sometimes it takes only a few minutes before it is standing straight up, eagerly awaiting more play time. It is very demanding, and it insists on loyalty and devotion. I perform the tasks flawlessly, almost eagerly. Physically I feel sore and a bit worn down, but I'm wide awake, and hungry, and I just put myself on auto–pilot, not even thinking about the inanity of some of the tasks you give me. I am focused. I want to perform flawlessly. Not only does it give me something to do, but it is getting me fed. And if I do it well, if I do it flawlessly, I won't be punished. At least I don't think I will be.

I suck and lick and tongue your ass for food as you train and drill me like an aquarium seal. Whenever your cock starts to flag, I ask to lick your balls and anus, then drop to my knobby little–girl knees and do exactly that. With my lips pressed tightly to your rectum, I lick and pleasure and wet you, then spear my little pink muscle inside your body, probing, withdrawing, repeating. I seem to have stamina to perform. The stimulant you provided gives me the energy to perform all of the tasks, and I perform them well. I give you very little reason to be disappointed or to find fault with my performance. Even my brief hesitations are not what you think –– they are merely my 11–year–old mind not processing quickly enough the tasks that I have been given and the steps required to carry it out. When this happens and you drop the treat, I kneel without complaint, sweep my hair back behind my collared little neck, and use my mouth to retrieve it from the floor. You didn't even tell me to do it this way. But I knew instinctively not to use my hands.

By the time the last treat is consumed, your entire scrotum is wet with spit, and your anus is the same way. Little–girl spit. Preteen–girl spit. It is time for your blowjob, and I obediently sink to my knees, and clasp my hands behind me in the small of my back. I have to rise from my knees awkwardly to coax your bobbling cockhead between my lips –– my eyes flit up to yours with worry as I have some trouble corralling your bouncing erection –– and then sink back down with four inches of man flesh embedded in my soft, warm, wet little child mouth. I begin to suck and tongue your shaft, and the sensation is absolutely wonderful. Exquisite, even, as my 11–year–old lips, tongue, and mouth work their magic. Nothing could possibly be softer and better than a child's mouth pleasuring your cock. Nothing on this planet, anyway.

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