27. Shit Happens
Marcus
Justin fucking Bieber. Win. My inner devil grins. He doesn't hover over my shoulder, he's inside me, sitting at the back of my mind, on top of a closed chest, in which there's the beaten, tied-up, and gagged figure of my inner angel. I actually once made a sketch of that image when I was doing a "therapeutic" exercise of visualising different parts of myself as separate entities. Well . . . I think I know exactly what music will be playing when I first take your ass. The soundtrack will be Bieber’s “One Less Lonely Girl.” What an amazing, perfect contrast that will be to your pained cries and gasps. I have to force myself not to grin like the Cheshire cat. I enjoyed invading your privacy when you still had it -- or at least thought you did; I enjoy it no less now when you have no privacy to speak off, and my analytic skills, knowledge, and experience give you the impression that I am a mind-reader. An absurd notion of course, but one that I'm totally willing to encourage. Let the doubt -- the idea that I might really be able to do it -- set in your mind and fester there, discouraging you from any dishonesty or from keeping any secrets.
Robbie Waskowicz though. Now that is very, very interesting. You have a crush. A crush I can look up. Locate. A crush who doesn't have a bodyguard. I wonder how old he is and if he's cute enough to be worth some trouble. I imagine the pair of you serving me side by side. I imagine what your reaction would be if I walked into your cell with him, naked, beaten, collared, on a leash like my pet. I wonder if I could tame and break him without going at all sexual, and then get the two of you to meet. And to see the shock and fear and disgust as I make you suck his cock, lick his ass, and whatever else I command. I entertain myself with the thoughts and fantasies of having a pair of slaves. One of whom has a crush on the other. The other whom I could totally sissify and emasculate (not literally, of course, as that would not be anywhere near as entertaining as keeping him in chastity, always needy and horny), crush him into dust in front of you. Uncover his fear, his weakness, make him hurt in a million ways you just to please me. Make you hate him. Make you hurt him. Maybe I could brainwash him into thinking he's gay and not into you, only set on serving me . . . . The fantasies are shockingly appealing. I think I'll have some homework to do tonight. It's a pity the whole region is still a mayhem of cops all out looking for you. The odds are, even should I decide to act, I won't be able to make it fast enough.
You cry a little, but I don't really give a shit, it's just tears. It will pass. And it does. And then you perform, and damn, I'm proud of you, and of myself. You perform well. Step by step, command by command, you satisfy me. And several times in between, you give my balls and pucker a decent tongue job, getting me, without failure, rock hard over and over again. I love the way you pretty much volunteer sticking your tongue up my arse; I didn't really ask you to go that far, the fact that despite having an issue with it, you go that extra step pleases me and puts me in a good mood.
You “yes sir” me flawlessly. You perform well. As in . . . seriously fucking well. And then, in the end, without a moment's hesitation, your mouth wraps around my cock and you start sucking like you were born to do exactly that. It feels gorgeous but nonetheless, it takes a while to make me cum since it's not the first time, and as usual, there's less cum now. I haven't drunk much water so it's not as runny as my "seconds" tend to be; it's just a small amount of whitish "spittle" that is very gooey, gluey, and hard to swallow this time. I sit patiently through the whole service -- the suction, the licking, the clean up afterwards. I realise, as I cum, that I partially zoned out while you were at it, that receiving blowjobs has become such a routine that I'm nowhere near as mindful and childishly (well that's not exactly a good word choice, now, is it?) excited about it. It feels good, it feels right, it's something I'm entitled to, something I can demand, something I can have any time. I cum with a relatively discreet aah and a grunt, giving you no warning this time; my orgasm surprises even me, and it snaps me out of my thoughts.
"Good girl. Thank you," I say, my cruelty temporarily exhausted. You did a good job, and now that I'm back down here with you I realise I really don't want you overly skinny, not anorexic skinny, anyway, and that I'm really taking shit care of you. It's all very well that you are a slave -- and it’s certainly not like I have to flood you with a constant dose of TLC -- but I've really been under–doing it even with your basic maintenance, including your feedings.
"Well done, sweetie. Now why don't you go and have a wash, tidy yourself up, put on some clean clothes, and come back here. I'll make us a good lunch."
And I make us lunch, couscous salad with chicken meat and small bits of vegetables. As I chop them up small enough to be a nuisance to pick out, I realise how absurd that thought is; I would bet my pants that you will gobble it up and maybe even lick the bowl clean. There's no way you are gonna be picky and leaving leftovers. I also make us a light soup to start with -- a springy green lime and grapefruit and melon based Gazpacho, and I heat up some chocolate chip muffins and melt a bit of extra chocolate on top. You did well. You deserve a treat. And your poor little body desperately needs some more nourishment to keep you better able to serve me. So there.
I set the table for two; like when we had the date. I want you to eat peacefully, and properly. I give you normal plates and cutlery and everything. I even pour you some juice and a separate glass of water.
When you come back, maybe I'm just projecting or being paranoid, but what seems to be your prevailing emotion is suspicion. This must seem too good to be true. I'm just guessing, but then it's also quite a logical thing to be in your mind just now, so I risk the assumption and once again act like I'm reading your mind.
"It's not a trap. Sit down. Wait for me to start, first," I say, "but other than that, you're free to eat as much as you like of all that you like. Like on our date, start slow. Eat slowly. Chew properly. I don't want you puking, and your stomach is totally empty, so it will be sensitive, okay?"
I sit down and give it a dramatic pause, just to let the doubt and worry nibble on your brain for a bit more. This stillo could go wrong, I still could laugh at your naivety and show you a bowl of dog food under the table. I could spit and piss on the food, toss is on the floor and make you go oink as you slurp the mush up. But I do none of those things. I start eating, and I actually even wish you "Bon appetit, Laura," as I start.
Laura
I really work your cock with my little mouth, bobbing, sucking, tonguing, cramming it in deep, seating it and holding my breath while the walls of my throat squeeze and massage your shaft. I've learned how to spread my jaws, open my throat, and take several inches of your head and shaft directly into my throat without gagging or choking. I have to brace myself, prepare myself, and impale my mouth and throat on your cock in just the right way, but when I do, you can feel your cockhead worming thickly into the back of my mouth, turning slightly, then cramming into an incredibly tight passageway. It's like having your cockhead squeezed my an enormous, engulfing, satin–gloved hand. And then I start to bob up and down –– quick, urgent motions, trying to get as many in as I can before I need to withdraw and breathe. I’m getting to be pretty good at this, and it feels nice. Very nice. When you cum, you deposit your thick spunk directly into my mouth and throat, and I swallow it down into my tummy without choking, gagging, or even grimacing at the bitter taste.
I have no idea, of course, what you are thinking about Robbie Waskowicz. If I knew, I would be revolted, terrified, weepy. To the best of my knowledge, Robbie has absolutely no idea that I have a crush on him. He's so much fun. And so cute! I love his eyes, and his little laugh, and the way he smiles. We're just friends. I certainly don't have a boyfriend and to my knowledge he doesn't have a girlfriend. But if I had a boyfriend, I'd want to it be Robbie, even though he’s a grade ahead of me. I just don't have the courage to tell him, and he doesn't seem interested in me that way. Time will tell. Or would have told, if not for you. And for me being here.
I'm a little surprised when you thank me. You've done it before, but it always seems so weird when you do. Like I had any choice in the matter. Like you had asked me, rather than commanded me, to give you a blow job. Still, it reminds me how subdued you become after you cum. How nice you get. I like nice. Nice beats mean. Nice beats mad. I wish you were nice all of the time. It would make my life easier. Less painful. More tolerable. It's like your moods change as your cock does. When it is stiff and hard, you are mean. When it is soft and spent, you are nice, almost friendly. The problem is, your cock is stiff a lot. A whole lot. And it's up to me to make it cum. To put you in a good mood. I'm starting to see my situation a bit more clearly. I’m starting to get it, starting to find ways to survive down here.
I'm still hungry, so the thought of "lunch" sounds good to me. I've also worked pretty hard, between the effort and pressure–like pain of being womb–fucked, and then the effort and pleasure of rubbing my cum–slicked cunny to orgasm, and then the up–and–down, do–this, do–that effort during the drills, culminating with an energetic blow job. I really could use a shower. And clothes! You're going to let me get dressed again! I thought I blew that chance with what happened this morning. But I've earned the privilege back with my performance and behavior since then. Wow! I feel high as a kite! Thrilled, actually. Thrilled to be allowed to dress like a real girl! And grateful. If you weren't you I might want to give you a hug. But you are you, so that isn’t going to happen. But I still feel grateful. I can't help it. Things are so much better after you cum. When you're nice.
I'm back in about 25 minutes. Clean, freshly showered, dressed in a nice Desigual top, a jeans skirt, panties, some blue-and-white striped, knee–high socks, and a pair of navy blue VANS. I look cute. My hair smells like strawberries from my preteen shampoo and my skin is lustrous, clean, and smooth–looking. I even spritzed a little perfume on the back of my neck, lifting the collar slightly as I did so. I toweled my hair as dry as I could, but it's still a little damp, and that makes me look almost sultry.
I was hoping –– praying, in fact –– for a real lunch, with real food. I don't care if you make me eat it from the floor or take it from your fingers, but I just don't want dog food. Not at all. I think I'd throw up, and certainly I’d cry, if you made me eat it again. I smell tantalizing odors of real food as I walk through the dungeon, and when I walk into the room and see the sumptuous spread, and the table set for two, I look positively astonished. Astonished and ravenous, Ravenous and ravishing. And then my expression drops, as I raise my guard, unwilling to be tricked or disappointed. I know that there will be a catch. A game. A trick. There always is. And I was bad today. Very bad. Earlier, when you . . . when I . . .
Even when you speak, I still don't believe you. Not at first. But I sit, with a small "yes, sir." This is one of those times when I'm not even sure that I'm 'sposed to say it, but I just came from a long drill, and the words pop out of my mouth reflexively. I sit. You said it’s not a trap. Could it be true? ("Don't be gullible, Laur'. Remember what Mom said?") I listen to your instructions, my hope building, my tummy rumbling. I want to start. I want to believe so bad. Your pause is excruciating, seemingly endless to me. Here it is –– the catch. The trick. The awful, teasing, truth . . . But you merely start to eat. My eyes are wide. I'm not sure if I can start. I'm not sure to believe what I just heard. But you say something funny in Spanish or something, and it's the intonation in your voice, the "Laura," the way you said it, that causes me to pick up the couscous, and with a last, suspicious look, spoon a mound of it onto my plate. I am near tears as I begin forking it into my mouth, trying to go slow, trying to chew. It’s delicious. Eating real food is almost an emotional experience for me. Behind the near tears I feel so grateful. Grateful to be allowed to eat like a real girl.
Marcus
You're not only starting to get it, to learn that happy, just–came me is much better for you than my not–yet–released me, but also becoming expert at pleasuring me. I would never have expected, a week ago, that I would be getting blowjobs like out of a porn movie so soon. But then, you did learn how to suck cock from porn movies and unlike most girlfriends around the world you weren't allowed to take your discomfort into account, which kind of explains it. Still, the fact that you willingly, unhesitatingly take me half way down your throat, that you've already learned to put priority on sucking and only sneak in your breaths on the side, making up for the brief lack of depth with a whirlwind of tongue stimulation while you gulp in a quick lungful of air.
It occurs to me that should I somehow have unfathomably, improbably screwed up, should some odd, unpredictable and unexpectedly random little trace somehow end up leading the cops to me, this will be my way out. The dungeon doors will take them a good bit of time to get through, more than enough time for you to suck me to an orgasm, and then I'll just blow my brains out with the larger calibre gun of the two I legally own, or maybe even with the repeater shotgun that I have hidden down here, and which I keep illegally. BAM! Cum into your mouth and red mist of blood and pieces of brain all around the fucking room. While I have absolutely no desire ever to get caught, I find this notion oddly appealing; if I have to go, this would be the way to do it. No prison hassle, and one last major trauma caused as I go. Maybe I could even whisper I love you, just before I pull the trigger, just to fuck you up an extra little step further.
But now, now that I came, there's no imminent danger. You prettied yourself up, I fixed us a very good lunch, and we eat. "Good choice of clothes," I praise. "You look very pretty. Stop looking like you expect me to tear the food out of your mouth. I promise, there's no catch. You need to eat, your ribs are starting to show. If you didn't bite your nails you would have had decent breakfast by now in your tummy, and if you at least licked my butt when you were supposed to, there could have been a snack, too, other than just a handful of treats and a small squirt of cum. I told you, very, very early on, that you are super–pretty, special, and that even though you are here to serve me and have sex with me and do as I tell you whether you like it or not, ultimately, I really like you, as a girl, as a person, and I want you healthy, strong, and even happy – as happy as you can be while there's just here, this, and me. You're learning. You've disappointed me and angered me here and there, and even if sometimes I kind of wanna, I can't let you get away with it. You just have to know that obeying me is not optional, it's mandatory; you cannot avoid it, cheat your way out of it, cry your way out of it, nothing like that.”
“Right now, I'd be tempted to forgive you the last bit of nail–biting punishment but don't get your hopes up, because I will not. I cannot. I'm actually . . . sorry," I say, and on some level it's not complete bullshit, though mostly I'm just playing you. "I think I know one of the reasons why you refused, and it's time we talked about it. My cock was hard, you could see I was kind of excited about it all. We both know I like my butt licked and tongued by now. That was it. It is also . . . being that much in control, knowing that you would do even that for me, even if it's a punishment, means a lot to me and apart from other things, it IS really exciting. And for me being excited and aroused is very similar, very close. This is also why it hurt me and angered me when you refused. A lot. A lot of what we do, what you do for me, only feels good because it's you doing it. You’re an extra-pretty, extra-clever, extra-special person for me. I would not let anyone else do it, and it just would never feel good from someone ugly, stupid, or just . . . plain, ordinary. I guess it's annoying to keep hearing how special you are if it means you happen to be one I want to put my cock in and you're the one who has to serve me, and it can be hard, and even painful -- speaking of painful, I'm impressed how still you're managing to sit on that chair with a butt plug in," I smile. "But that's just the way it is. Punishing your mouth for biting your fingernails is serious, and important, and I cannot not do it, and the fact that even though it's gross, it's also kind of exciting should not make you think you're being punished for the sake of that. I should have made that clear earlier.”
“Anyway, it's not exciting because of the shit. Shit is in fact very UN–exciting, at the end of the day – I promise – it's you that's exciting, it's knowing that you're doing things for me no one else ever would, and that you would also never do for anyone else, ever. I hope, when I need to go and ask you to finish your punishment, that this will help it a bit. I know it's not a perfect explanation, and only gives you an idea of what I'm thinking and not why, but then, why I think what I think is just because of the way I am, who I am, I can't give you a very good explanation for that." I speak calmly, and slowly, and eat small mouthfuls in between but clearly don't want to be interrupted right up until the end.
"Tell you what, if you do your punishment, I'll let your gargle and brush and floss and gargle again, right after, and I promise dinner will be just as nice as lunch, and also by the table, civilized. If you act special, even when it's not easy, even when it's punishment and therefore nasty, you get treated special. If I'm happy, it's much easier for me to treat you nice, and make you happy, too. Are we on the same page here?" I check.
I eat and drink on. Listen to however many words spill from your mouth, not that I expect very many. When finished, I get up. "Clean up. Dishes, sheets in the bedroom. Utility room is unlocked, run a load of linens, too. Sweep where it's needed. Just normal clean up, don't exhaust yourself, no crawling on the floor with a toothbrush," I emphasise that this is necessary maintenance, not play, not a challenge. "You can then rest. I'll come when I'm ready for your last bit of punishment, and it would make me happy if that was the only not–nice thing we do for the rest of the day. I would like to take your plug out after, eat, talk, maybe even watch another movie. Just please be a good girl," I say before I leave the dining room and go into the security room, behind locked, soundproofed door. I replay what I said in my head again and again, to make sure my wanna-be honesty, near truths and half truths stay consistent.
And through a secure online connection, I rather promptly find all there is to know about little Robbie. Who just happens to be cute as hell. And I realise, almost immediately, that even though you and only you are extra super special, two beats one. I imagine one mouth on my cock, one on my ass, tongue inside, and groan. Fucking hell, yes. It would be interesting to be breaking someone I don't love, don't care that much about, too. I research, plan and schedule. And I realize that the mayhem of your post–kidnapping isn't working against me, but for me. So if I decide to take the risk, I need to do it very soon.
And so I learn, plot and scheme and gain as much access as I can from a distance. While my body processes the lunch we just ate towards your – hopefully – last punishment of the day.
Laura
I am perched awkwardly on the chair, twisted a little, on my right butt cheek mostly. This is because I have a large plug stuffed in my little rectum. It's no longer exactly painful –– except when I sit directly on it and force it a bit further in my butt. Hence my position. Of course, perching on my butt cheek reminds me of my recent caning, and the bruised, abraded striping that adorns my slender little ass and flares with pain whenever I move the wrong way. But I can deal with the plug and the pain. Right now I'm concentrating on lunch. Delicious, filling, awesome, people–food lunch. With cutlery. Seated at a table, fully clothed. As much as I can eat. It is a nearly unfathomable luxury. I am a grateful little girl.
I try really hard to force myself to go slow, and to chew. You instructed me to, of course, but I also don't want you to know just how hungry I am. If I eat a little slower and pretend I'm not ravenously hungry, it's just one more tiny piece of information that I can keep to myself and you won't know about. Which makes me feel a bit more empowered, a tiny bit more like I have some control over my own existence.
The other reason I don't eat too fast is that I want to eat like a normal little girl, with manners, not like a little orphan out of some modern–day Oliver Twist remake. Eating normal food, with cutlery, while properly dressed, makes me feel a bit closer to normal. As normal as I can be, anyway, in the windowless cell block of rooms that is my permanent home, with a plug stuffed up my rectum, and a sadistic pedophile as my dining companion. Not that I think of you that way. You are simply You. Him. My captor. The person who controls every tiny detail in my life. The person who does sex stuff with me and feeds me and decides what I'm doing each day and punishes me and trains me and lectures me and everything else. The conscious part of my brain still rebels against this reality, but just below the surface, my subconscious brain is well aware that there is only You, and that my very existence is entirely dependent on You. Each and every day, there is only You and whatever You decide is on the schedule. The only wildcard in the equation is your mood at any give time. But I'm getting better at reading your moods. And I've already made the connection between how you feel and what your penis needs. I've always been a clever little girl.
When you start to speak to me, I can tell that you are being genuine. I know that you don't have to speak to me at all or explain anything. In fact, you've made that very point abundantly clear to me on several occasions. What You say is law, and I must obey whether I understand the purpose, or not. Since you don't have to explain things, when you take the time to do so, I usually listen very carefully, like I'm doing now. Your calm, soft–voiced, almost halting words display a certain vulnerability, a humanizing quality. Your tone is almost one of apology, as if you feel the need to explain why you act a certain way or make me do certain things. And I know that you never have to apologize to me in this place. There's nobody here to make you apologize or be nice to me. And so when you do your best to explain things, and then tell me candidly that even you can't explain certain things –– why you sometimes feel or act a certain way –– I almost, almost feel sorry for you. It's like you can't help yourself. You know you do bad things, but you can't help it. You feel bad about it, too. I can tell you're being very open with me, and that some of the words are hard for you to say.
I spend a lot of my time trying to figure out the reason for your moods, your rules, and your commands. Some of them make sense on their own, and others you have explained. Still others I have surmised an explanation, leading to my discovery about the connection between the state of your penis and your mood swings. And yet, there are other things that I still don't understand –– can't understand –– as my 11–year–old mind simply lacks any context to make sense of them. For example, I am largely incapable of understanding the concept of sadism, and even less able to connect it to your adult sexual urges. So when you say there are certain things you can't explain yourself, your words fit very neatly with what I haven't been able to figure out myself.
And I realize, now, that I actually hurt your feelings when I misbehave. I didn't ask for you to bring me here or think that I'm "special" or "pretty" or any of those things you like about me. You did that on your own. But my 11–year–old mind understands love, attraction, even obsession. And I know that you feel all of those things towards me. I don't like it, and I certainly wouldn't be here by choice, but it is a tiny bit flattering. So I understand why you get all mad when I goof up. It's not just that you're mad; you're also disappointed. In me. Because I'm extra special and extra clever and extra pretty. I know that I'm really not all of those things, but it is kinda flattering when you say it.
I listen carefully to your words. You get my hopes up for a brief moment –– and then dash them a moment later –– when you say you almost want to commute the last part of my punishment from earlier. This resonates with me because I don't want to have to do it, myself. (The photo–like image of your shit–smeared behind enters my mind again, and I wince as I swallow my bit of couscous salad.) So neither of us wants me to have to do it, which makes me feel at least a little better. It's almost like the punishment is being imposed on both of us from somebody else –– only not really, 'cause I know it was you. But I know you wouldn't make me do it if I hadn't been bad, and disappointed you. And I guess I understand, kinda, why it's special and exciting for you to have me do it, even if you don't want me to, 'cause you like having your but licked and you think I'm special and pretty and stuff. OK, well, I don't understand that part at all, not really. It won't be special for me, that's for sure.
"Yes, sir," I say softly, contemplating everything you just said. I look up, my expression nervous. "Um, am I allowed to tell you something?" I ask, tentatively. And when you give me permission, I say "Um, if when– when I do it . . . I think I might throw up again," I say, nervously. I'm afraid of another punishment if I do, but I don't think I can lick the shit from your ass and not end up throwing up.
After you respond I feel a little better. Not much, but a little. And I start to clean up, going a little slow, drawing things out. It seems like it's been a really long day already and it's just after lunch. I am dreading performing the rest of my punishment. I'm scared and worried. Your last words were that you want me to be good when I do it, but I'm really scared. As I clean I worry. I think about it. How I can do it. How I can do it without throwing up. What it will taste like. If I can just get through it, we can watch a movie –– maybe you'll even let me pick it and I can show you another movie, just like I did with The Princess Bride. ("And he said he's taking the butt plug out, too," I remind myself).
Finally I can’t drag it out any longer, and I return to my cell to rest. The effects of the cocktail are wearing off, and I feel sleepy and drained almost as soon as I lie down on my bed. Within five minutes, I am curled up comfortably on my side, fast asleep, my hands tucked together under my chin.
Marcus
"Please try not to vomit. It's mostly in your head, there's no REAL reason you should be vomiting, it's not like it's even a mouthful, just tiny little bits, skid marks. But you'll be next to the toilet and if that's what happens, I will be a bit disappointed, but not mad. Okay?" I ask, as if it mattered and as if any of this could possibly ever be okay, in anyone's book, on any planet. On-line, in my security room, I get lucky. Your school crush has set his i-phone really stupidly, I don't even have to hack it to get access to his location. And according to the data, he is hanging in the forest park less than an hour's drive from here. I lock your cell, remotely. You disobeyed, which should easily serve as an explanation why your freedom of the dungeon has been restricted. You are fast asleep, anyway. And judging from what I know about the sort of stuff I fed you earlier, you will be, for a good while. It's a risk, kind of, but . . . damn it.
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