29. Tasting It

Marcus

I stir you awake. I've showered and covered up all traces of having kidnapped this "Rob Weasley" look-alike. I have him scared shitless now and that's where I want him. I let him stew. He has food, water, and a big enough bucket to last him a couple days, so I decide to make myself scarce and forget about him for a bit. Two full days of nothingness, of total solitary confinement, of recovering from the worst of the beating of his life in a stinky little cell, should take the fight out of him, but we'll have to wait and see about that. You have no idea what i’ve done. It doesn't show on me. I wonder if you'll somehow notice -- when I start regularly raping his ass and perhaps his mouth -- that there’s an extra orgasm or two missing from your routine each day. One less time you’ll need to service me and get me to cum. Will you notice? Will you wonder?

But now . . . you're awake. You've had a plenty time to digest your lunch and rest. And before supper time, we have business to take care off. I don't take you into the bathroom this time, I unceremoniously lose my pants and plop on the toilet in your cell and do my business. You're lucky I guess. It's quick, and I've had lots of healthy stuff like veggies earlier and no legumes or anything too gassy, so the smell isn’t too strong. It's quite solid doesn't even leave me very dirty at all, so it looks a lot less gross than it did in the morning. It kind of feels that way, too -- not that I'm gonna check.

I get of off the toilet, flush even, to minimize the odor and make it clean -- empty for you in case you really need to puke -- and get on all fours next to it. I look at you, almost hopefully, to remind you of my explanation, of the serious talking to I gave you earlier. I look like I want this over with, and really, so should you. Why bring any more pain on yourself? It must be done, and I'll make you do it, sooner or later. Now is as good time as any. Obeying will just spare you further pain, and not just that, there's a supper and a movie in it for you, on the upside. And there's a happy me, a nice me, the satisfied and sated me that you like and prefer.

If you refused again now, it would be REALLY humiliating, and it would make me furious. The punchings and beatings of the day would have no end. But...

Somehow, it feels like this is the time now. And as I wait for you to obey, my cock is even mostly limp, my body seems to be playing along with the "unpleasant necessity" bullshit I filled your head with earlier. Of course it will stiffen the moment your tongue touches my dirty hole, but we've been through that. I've explained it, given you a plausible excuse, even though I don't need to make apologies and excuses down here. This is my domain. You do what I tell you to do.

It may not show in my expression, but I’m in my glory right now. To have a semi-famous child model -- a gorgeous-looking, perfect little girl -- sink so low that she will, without much further ado, lower her face between my butt cheeks and lick my hole clean . . . wow! It’s not filthy by any stretch, but we both know that I just took a dump and it’s certainly not clean. In a very few seconds you will kneel behind me and clean it with your mouth and tongue. And rim it to boot. Clean it inside and out.

As I kneel there on all fours and look down I realise if it wasn't my ass you were focusing on, you could guess that I’ve been up to something. My knuckles, even if washed perfectly clean, are a bit abraded and bruised. I've given little Robbie the beating of his life, after all, and while not badly, it does show some on my hands. I don't hide them though. I act naturally. I've used a punching bag before and that's what he is now, so if you ask I can tell you the "truth": I was working up a sweat with my punching bag.

While another toy's training is just beginning, though sped up significantly as I care much less about brutally hurting him, yours is reaching one of its pinnacles already.

Laura

I was really deep asleep when you re–entered my cell. I didn't even hear the door swish and you had to shake me awake –– all groggy and disoriented, my hair a little disheveled, my doe–like eyes soft, unfocused, and bleary. I look confused, still half–asleep, the way little kids look when you awaken them from a deep REM stage. I take the glass of water in both hands, clutching it uncertainly almost like a baby bottle, and drink from it with a blank expression. When you tell me it is punishment time, my eyes turn to yours, semi–alert now, my world coming back into focus. I know what that means. My expression is very unhappy and worried. I've been dreading this most of the day. And now it's time.

I'd already steeled myself to the fact that I’m going to do it. My time on the toilet chair removed any possibility of defiance from my mind. But the knowledge that I'm going to do it doesn't make it any less difficult when the time arrives. I stand up slowly and unhappily from the bed, my expression solemn but resolved. I am ready to strip and head to the bathroom, or head to the bathroom and strip, whichever you may decide.

But you just step out of your pants and do your business right in my cell. You haven't ordered me to strip, so I stand there in the same little outfit that I had on for lunch, slightly wrinkled now from my slumber. I watch you with trepidation, that just–woke–up, worried look still on my face. When you stand up and go down on the floor on your hands and knees, looking back at me with a hopeful expression, I know what I have to do. Your cock isn't all hard this time. You don't look as into it as you did before. It's almost as if we both just have to get this done. That's my mantra for this: I just have to get it done, and then there will be supper and a movie. You promised.

You didn't tell me to strip, so I don't. I kneel down behind you, my heart racing, and knee–walk a couple of inches closer. You're so tall compared to me that I don't have to crouch down much to position my lips and mouth where they need to be. And I know where they need to be. I've done this before. Only –– not like this. Not with poop all over your hole. With dread, I peer at your ass, as my mind produces that indelible, earlier image of your shit–smeared hole. But it's nowhere near as bad this time. I almost sigh with relief. It's . . . not as visibly horrible. I survey your anus for a moment, evaluating the task ahead of me.

When you feel my little hands alight on your buttocks, you know that further beatings likely will be avoided –– over this issue, at least. You know that I am going to perform. I am shaking with dread as I close my eyes, push my tiny pink tongue out from between my lips, and begin to lick and clean your ass.

My tongue feels soft, dainty, and tentative on your just–used rectum as it flicks and licks, as it cleans. If I didn't have my 11–year–old face buried between your ass cheeks, I would be impressed at the speed with which your cock goes from barely semi–flaccid to a rock–hard. But I am "otherwise occupied" with the task of cleaning your anus with my preteen tongue. I lick, tentatively at first, then more urgently as I try to get as much cleaning done as I can on a single breath. ("You forgot to take a big breath, girlfriend. He doesn't like you to pull your head away to breathe, remember?" I remind myself.) ("But I'm not –– I'm cleaning it," I reason. "That's different than when I'm just licking it –– I can probably stop for just a second to take a breath.”)

After 30 seconds of ass–tonguing, I take the risk and pull back for a quick exhale and inhale, like I'm just surfacing and about to go back under water. My tongue returns quickly to your hole and begins to lick and swirl and circle again. Your anus has a different taste than usual –– muskier, almost with a sharp, vinegary flavor. Worse, my sensitive little tongue encounters some textured, granular things, like sand grains almost. I know what they are. I know what they have to be. ("Oh God, Laur', please don't think about it, please don't throw up!") I force myself to swirl and clean –– and swallow –– before coming up for another breath.

My little hands are perched on your muscular buttocks as I bring my mouth and lips to your anus for the third time. Your hole is wet now with little–girl saliva as I lap at the brown outer ring, circling it with my tongue, cleaning it thoroughly. I'm not encountering any of the granular things now. I have to admit to myself, with relief, that this wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it would be. I lick your anus outward from the center in a sunray pattern, all the way around, my little oral muscle dainty and flicking as I draw it across your puckered brown skin.

I withdraw for a quick another breath, and press my mouth back to your anus once again. This time I form my tongue into a stubby little spear and press it firmly against your hole, penetrating. I dart my tongue in an out of your rectum –– once, twice, thrice, and on –– my lips pressed hard to your hole in a depraved, alternative man–child French kiss. I hold my tongue inside and try to circle you there, but your anal ring is so strong all you feel is a kind of quivering sensation as my tongue tries to move.

One more quick breath, and my little mouth returns to your asshole, plastering itself there, while my tongue finishes the task –– licking, flicking, probing, inserting several more times, swirling, circumnavigating, making sure that I have not missed a spot as I tongue–bathe your asshole with my middle-school mouth. Finally, with my hands still perched delicately on your cheeks, I withdraw, my lower face wet, and flushed. "I think it's– it's clean, sir," I say, In a soft, meek, obedient little voice. I remain there, my face inches from your ass. You know that I instantly will obey any command to continue, whether your hole is clean, or not.

Marcus

I wait. Hopeful and believing it will happen, but then, as your hands land on my butt softly, I suddenly know, with certainty. And then you part them and dive, head first, to do one of the most gross, most hardcore imaginable act that one human could ask another to do for them, you start licking my shitty asshole clean. The feeling is divine; this is so wrong on so many levels it immediately shoots up through the list of best, sexiest things I've done, the event placing very close to the top. By the time you are done, I have to be really focusing not to groan openly in pleasure, my cock rock fucking hard and leaking droplets of sticky white pre.

You lick, and lick again, in an organised, efficient sort of way, really making a good clean-up job. This is like . . . a million times better than toilet paper. When your tongue actually darts into the almost-clean hole, I cannot hold back a groan any more. There's no point denying it, so I might as well at least score points for honesty.

"That feels absolutely amazing," I admit. It may sound worrying or gross or whatever to you, but at least you know, and my statement potentially opens the door to a repetition at some point. Perhaps if you ever have to come up with a really serious punishment, this will pop up. I hope it will.

You swirl and lap and circle and push in and tongue fuck the last little bits out and away from my ass. By the end of it, it makes me so horny I could probably make myself cum by stroking my cock in a “one, two, three, shoot!” manner. My pucker tightens and twitches under and around your tongue. This really is a heavenly sensation. It is just so fucking awesome on so many levels, in so many ways . . . and it goes on and on. Given the fact that you must hate every moment of this, I'm pleased to say that you are definitely thorough. You don't try and rush your way through it, don't do it half heartedly. On that part, you've clearly learned your lesson; you got to know me enough to know that would be a bad idea. And so the sensations that push me right on the verge of an orgasm just go on and on. They make me moan and gasp.

And then you stop and I feel almost a painful sense of loss.

"Stick your tongue back in," I command sternly, emphasizing that you’re not done until I say you’re done. "Laura, you have done well and now your punishment is over, these are the last moments of it. But if you ever bite your nails again, ever, you know what your punishment is and it will be more than once, then. I have the bitter nail polish here for you, we'll put it on as soon as you've washed and flushed out your mouth.” I pause for a moment, your tongue still inserted in my anus, and then release you from your task. “Thank you for being a good girl and accepting your punishment. You can pull your tongue out and go wash. I'm proud of you, because you have now been good and proper and as good as your word. I'm pleased. Good girl," I say, getting up because you sure didn't linger with your mouth on my ass once I allowed you to leave it.

I pull my pants up, sit on your bed, wiggle a little, it's a weird feeling to not have wiped myself at all, but I trust that you did a good job. It sure felt a lot better. I'm hard and horny but I promised that you will be able to do your oral hygiene properly as soon as we finished. It's one of those promises that’s easy to keep because it costs me almost nothing, but makes me seem like a reliable, honest guy, so I stick with it and give you your time.

I sigh in relief and lie back across your bed. I briefly think about my other cell, about the other slave, about how safe it will be to learn more about him now that cops will be all over his case.

All I know so far is that while a tough trooper, soccer player, and paint–ball enthusiast, he's also quite the mother's boy, kind and soft hearted in an enthusiastic, teenage sort of way. A good kid. Another good kid who totally doesn't deserve to be here. Oh, well. No one ever promised life would be fair, did they? Here it's not, anyway.

When you are finally done, as thorough as you could have been, it seems, I sit up and look at you. My pants are bulging. Big time. I'm insatiable, or maybe not, but having just received THAT sensation sure makes me feel like my cock will never diminish.

I give you a small bottle of pre–mixed stuff to drink. "Drink up. It's just to make sure you don't get a belly ache from the little poop you had to swallow," I explain, almost apologetically. I then paint your fingernails with the transparent, invisible polish that will make them atrociously, tears–in–the–eyes bitter should you even just start to nibble on them. It smells bad, but that will pass. At least it dries quickly. And I suspect that you will be almost thankful for it, since it prevents (or so you think now) a repetition of this punishment.

"Now . . . make me cum," I say, a different approach to my usual one, since I don't at all specify how, "There will be supper after and you can choose a movie. Whatever you like," I state, to affirm that you really are getting more decent food straight away and that you have a pain–free, peaceful evening ahead of you before I let you drift back to sleep.

I wonder if you'll opt for yet another blowjob, or if you'll be more creative, if you'll be as bold as perhaps straddling me and riding me, or whatever else. I just want my balls emptied with no effort on my part and I'm happy to leave you "in charge" for this one. I try and imagine how that must feel to you, whether it's scary or empowering, or what . . . but I don't ask. I don't really care that much. I care for the tension to go away so I can enjoy a relaxed evening alongside you, sated on all levels. All anger and violence left me as I beat young Robbie to a pulp; now my ego has had a star–high trip as I put you through the lowest of lows, while getting high on the sensation myself. All I need now to have a nice evening is to not be horny. And I suspect that you already have an understanding of that, so giving you a freebie to take care of it without me acting sadistic, tense, or irritable must feel almost like a relief.

I have plans, both for supper, and the movie, but right here and now I just need to let off steam via the channel of my cock, since balls are the only area in my body where I still feel some pressure; otherwise I'm just about as relaxed and sated as a man can be.

Laura

It wasn’t all that long ago that I was just a little girl. I had friends, went to school, and dance class. I liked to arrange my stuffed animals in a row on my bed and talk to them. I had sleepovers with my girlfriends. I played soccer and modeled and liked to shop. I had a Mom, and a Daddy, and two little brothers I adored. I had an iPhone, a tablet, a Facebook page, and a Twitter account. I worshipped Justin Bieber, and my favorite television channel was Disney, my favorite show re–runs of "The Suite Life."

Now I am kneeling behind you, collared, my hands resting on your buttocks, my mouth and face wet with saliva, fresh from licking and eating the shit from your ass. At your command, instantly, I return my mouth to your brown puckered ring, and slowly but repeatedly spear my 11–year–old tongue back into your rectum while you talk. I listen to your words, my face still buried between your ass cheeks. You are pleased. I have done well. I am a good girl -- at least in the way that “good” is defined down here.

It wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, at least the physical part. I couldn't exactly taste your shit, not really, certainly not as I imagined it tasting. For one, there wasn't that much to clean. And I held my breath and licked and swallowed my saliva as fast as I could, not really allowing enough time for any awful tastes to linger in my mouth. My plan to generate as much saliva as possible so I could swallow everything down whole, like medicine, seemed to work. Whatever the case, I didn't feel like I was eating your shit, even if I know that that's exactly what I did.

Mentally, however, I am no longer the little girl who played with stuffed animals and blushed at the thought of admitting to having a crush on Justin Bieber. That innocent little preteen girl is gone forever. There will be no bringing her back. As long as I live, no matter what happens from here, I always will remember the day that I lowered my mouth to your ass, without a fight or a word of complaint, and carefully cleaned your asshole and rectum with my child tongue and mouth, inside and out. I won't ever forget performing that most unimaginably depraved act on you. I am changed now. Different. Things are different now. My life is different. Now I understand my place, my position, my role.

When you say I am free to wash, I push off your buttocks with both hands, rise, and speed–walk to the little sink with a hand over my mouth. Suddenly, the full horror of what I just did rushes into my consciousness, and I gag, spluttering, almost vomiting, at the residual taste in my mouth. I get to the sink, turn the faucet and palm some water into my mouth. I repeat the process. Over and over. Rinsing my mouth. I lean down, on my tip toes, and tilt my head, allowing the water to cascade into my mouth as if from a drinking fountain. I leave my mouth there, open, as I reach awkwardly for the toothpaste and toothbrush.

With the water still running, I lean up, and quickly put at least double the normal amount of toothpaste on my brush, and cram it into my mouth. What follows is the most thorough brushing of my entire life. I go up, down, around, switching hands, upper plate, lower plate, tongue, roof of mouth. Usually when I brush I am very prim and proper: Hating the drooling feeling of toothpaste leaking out around the brush, I usually keep my lips sealed and brush daintily, then spit. Not this time. My mouth is open as toothpaste and saliva cascade from my mouth. When I am done, I cup some more water into my mouth, rinse, and then repeat the entire process all over again, even brushing my lips. I slosh mouthwash around and around and around, and even try unsuccessfully to gargle. Finally, after nearly 10 minutes of effort, I rinse my mouth one last time from the faucet and dry my face with the towel.

Finally, my mouth is clean, but I still feel soiled. Dirty. Unworthy and embarrassed. ("You licked poop from a man's butthole, Laur'. What would your friends think? Huh? What would Mom say? Would anybody even talk to you if they knew what you did? Would they? Wouldn't they hate you? You didn't even fight, Laur'. You didn't even fight!") I am disgusted with myself. My eyes glisten with tears of shame. With a sinking feeling in my tummy, I realize that I have crossed a Rubicon. Even if nobody else ever finds out, I know what I did. And they'll all probably know, too. I'm damaged goods. And they'll know, somehow. All of them. If I ever escape from here I'll have to run away. They won't want me back. None of them. Even my family. I won't have anywhere to go. I can't ever go home. When I return, I look sad and defeated. I can see that your loose pants are tented from your erection. I'm sure that it will be my task to make you cum. I feel drained. I drink from the glass you hand me with a soft, unenthusiastic "yes, sir." I stand still as you paint my nails. You don't even need to, as I'll never, ever, ever bite my nails again. When you instruct me to make you cum, I'm not surprised. Making you cum is my never–ending job down here. The never–ending job for a useless, butt–licking little girl who nobody would even want to talk to ever again.

Unenthusiastically, I utter another "yes, sir." With a sad face, I climb back on the bed, and crawl between your legs. It doesn't even occur to me to do anything other than fellate you. Sucking is easy now. I know how to do it. I know it will make you cum. I know I can do it without gagging or choking now, as long as you don't force me.

I reach for the waistband of your cotton pants and ease them over, and off, your erection as you lift your hips. Your penis springs free, hard and ready. It is so familiar to me now. I know every ridge and vein, the shape and texture of your helmeted head, the loose skin of your corona, your circumcision scar, the shape, and depth, and elasticity of your sunken piss slit, everything. I know the flavors of the skin on your head and shaft, the taste of your pre–cum and ball sweat. And I know how to suck. I sweep my hair behind my head with a practiced hand, and once again extract my tongue from my mouth. It's still cool and tingly from the mouthwash as I use it to wet your cockhead, swirling all around, making it glisten with my saliva, before lowering my mouth and taking your penis inside my warm, wet, preteen mouth.

Marcus

It's the third time I'll cum today, and it should therefore take a while, but I'm not surprised when I start to feel the tell tales of an approaching orgasm after just a couple minutes. You've done all the work of arousing me before, when you did the practically unimaginable, the totally taboo. I don't know how I know you’re upset, as it would be easy to mistake your slouched shoulders and glassy, teary eyes and overall limpness of body and spirit both as mere tiredness, after all you had a tough morning and I did wake you up for this task from a deep sleep. But somehow, I know. I know your sense of pride and self worth, your self esteem, self respect, your very sense of self all just hit rock bottom. You ate shit. A mere symbolic quantity, and you got to wash your mouth out really thoroughly immediately afterwards, and were given a drink that will take care of any germs that could otherwise cause issues, but you did eat shit.

Very few things are true for all human cultures all around the globe, but the sense of feces being impure, dirty, lowly, as far from holy as it gets, bad. People who deal with shit are always the lowest caste, class, sort. And even they don't let the stuff go anywhere near their mouth. You licked it, sucked it in, and swallowed it. I fully realise how staggering a thing that was to do. How dispiriting, soul–crushing, heart–wrenching thing that was. How all your gut must have rebelled, how your stomach turned, skin crawled, hair rose at the back at your neck, but you, as a person, have been beaten into such level of submission you did not stand up against it. You did as you were told. And on some level, now, and only now, you really are broken.

You are less of a human being, less of a girl, less of a woman–to–be than you were before you met me, and even that you were an hour ago, before you performed this vile, lowly, tremendously degrading act. And you know it. What you don't know is that in becoming less, you also became more. More in my eyes. You don't realise it, don't know it, and most certainly, don't appreciate it just now, but you turned from a mere victim into a true slave in my eyes. And if you are less of a respectable human being, then whatever creature you are, I love you more than ever. As I see you, a broken little angel, cracked open, no defences and resistance left, at least for now, you are perfect. You are what I meant and wanted you to be. I, the god of Down Here, have re–created you in my image.

It's a pity the concept is, for now, beyond your comprehension, the irony of the lowest point also being one from which you can now rise is lost on you. But you will re–emerge, eventually. I killed your pride and self esteem as they were. I shall re–build them now to my imagine. You will find pride in servitude, you will find a sense of worthiness in it. Your self esteem, your knowledge that you are good in what you do, slowly will emerge. Welcome, slave, I think loudly and proudly, but also wordlessly, as your eyes reflexively glance up at me to check that everything is all right. You look pitiful as you suck my cock. Maybe you won't find pride in the perpetuity of emptying my wrinkly big ball sack, the repetitive softening of my hard shaft. On some level, that would be sad. On another . . . it's an arbitrary problem. Really, much as I like to think of myself as a deep, smart, and thoughtful guy, what I really care about is enough entertainment to get my cock up, and enough suction, friction, or penetration to make it squirt and soften, day in, and day out. And there don't seem to be any further battles coming on that front.

I smile. I won. I think of Game of Thrones: "In the game of thrones, you win or you die." It seems that this is the opposite case; in the game of dungeons, you lose, or you die. You lost. Essentially, that's good news. You'll live. It may be a horrible, dreary, grim existence that awaits you, although not as dull as it may seem just now, when you are exhausted, freshly broken and resigned. Things change. And this equation you think you've learned how to solve now has another variable. A Y to your X. Or rather, an R to your L, not that you have any idea just yet. Now will you for a while.

It takes a little while of sucking, bobbing your head, tonguing me, taking me a bit deeper, the usual stuff, but again, give it's the third time today, I don't last anywhere near as long as I ought to. I squirt into your mouth with a grunt and a deep gasp and a relieved sigh afterwards. I let you clean me; I don't even feel like being meticulously cleaned up just now, but it's a good habit you've fallen into and I don't wanna break the pattern. I let you do it. Almost as a returned courtesy, I gently, slowly, with you on all fours, head low, but up, knees wide apart this time, to make it painless, or as close to it as can be, I remove the butt plug, finally.

Then, however, I want to stick to my resolution to "maintain" -- or at least sustain -- you a little better, and I go fix us a good dinner, a vegetable bake, potatoes, and stuff. I tell you to have a quick shower while I cook. The food is yummy, juicy, smells of herbs and I don't make it spicy. I want you to like it and eat as much as you can. I'm determined to get you to regain at least a part of what weight you lost here, and I'm definitely not allowing you to wither any more. I don’t want to make you any skinnier than you already are.

I pour myself a glass of wine, and pour you a glass of grape juice. Looks almost the same and odds are, you'll like it better this way, though a few sips of booze might be just the thing to take an edge of that pain you feel inside. No alcohol for you, though. That stuff is bad for you. When I realise I'm thinking these thoughts, I almost spit out a mouthful of wine, and have to force myself to not do that, and to stop laughing enough to swallow. My laugh startles you; it came out of blue. Yeah. You've been through just about everything but anal rape, and even that is soon to come. I fucked you, beat you, pierced you, tortured you, and a mere while ago made you lick my ass, but wine is fucking bad for you. I'm hilarious. In an idiotic sort of way. You look confused, of course, since there's nothing at all funny, and we weren’t even talking when I started laughing. This is one of those moments where I pretty much can be honest.

"I carefully poured you juice because you are 'too young' for alcohol, and then realised that if you are old enough for sex and the kind of things we do, a glass of wine really isn't gonna harm you. I don't think you'll like the taste,” I add. “I still remember tasting it for the first time, thinking how sour it was, and how silly adults were that they drank it, but you may just like the warm, relaxing feeling that it causes. Want a sip?" I offer. If I'm doing "bad parenting" I may as well go all the way, right?

Wine is optional. You can try it, or pass up the chance. I don't really have a preference. When we sit down in the bedroom bed to watch the movie, however, I ask you to undress before you slip under our shared duvet, lube my fingers, and start to tease your little clam. And that, my dear, is mandatory. I work your little slit and eventually clarify the situation, just in case you have doubts, just as I speed up gliding my fingers slickly over your clit.

"I want you to cum for me. I'll leave you be after," I muse and rub you in a way that could give you a good orgasm if you relaxed into it, and in a way that's probably gonna pry one of out of your little cunt even if you don't. I use my skilled, nimble, well-lubed index finger, the pad of the last segment of it, teasing and toying around, and eventually straight over your clit in a repetitive -- un–inventive perhaps -- but efficient manner. It may just make you feel a bit less depressed, but more importantly, it ingrains another essential fact, another rule into your life here: Not just my pleasure, but also your pleasure, is up to me, and your mood and wanting and state of readiness have nothing to do with it. You will cum as and when I please.

I rub till you cum, and then we watch the rest of the movie in peace. I'm not too surprised that you fall asleep before it ends, a bit surprised that in your sleep, despite everything, you seem to instinctively curl up against me, but I don't flatter myself much. It's just that I am soft and warm. Right now, you hate me with the whole of your soul. But as long as you obey, that's something I can cope with, for the time being. I carry you into your cell without waking you, tuck you in, lock the cell, dim it, and let you sleep.

I check cameras in both of the cells, and do some more homework on your little pal, whose presence here is yet unbeknown to you. He doesn't seem to have that many obvious weaknesses -- good little trooper that one. I'll have to be blunt, and go all out with him. I decide that letting him stew is the right call, and leave him alone. Undisturbed. I leave you both, sleeping, and go up and do the same.

In the morning, I leave a message on your screen: “There's porridge on the stove in the kitchenette. Also, have as much food from the fridge, fruit, yogurt, etc. as you like.” Remotely I unlock your cell, the bathroom, the dining room and even the bedroom. The surgery and security room remain locked, but otherwise you have the run of the place. More instructions follow: “Tidy up. Wash up. Have you written your letter yet? I got you a gift. It's wrapped in red paper. Hidden somewhere where you have access to. Look for it. You are allowed to unwrap it and use it when you find it.” It's a Kindle Touch, with Internet disabled, of course. It’s fully charged, and with lots and lots of books for children, teenagers and young adults books. All different kinds too: fantasy, sci–fi, and even a couple classics. No porn or erotica. It's in the bedroom, under the mattress of the bed in the bedroom, near the edge. Even if you just make the bed, you should find it. But since it cannot be seen unless you move the sheets or mattress, it might be a tough search.

Both the treasure hunt and the gift will keep you entertained while I'm in town, working, meeting with people, shopping, picking stuff up from the post office, that kind of stuff. Commiserating with the news agent guy about the tragedy of yet another kid disappearing. Our friend made the front page of the local paper – how fucking impressive is that? But as before, the police seem clueless. I can relax.

I take my car to the garage for a clean up anyway. To wash off the dust, the only proof I've been driving off road lately. I also have the interior of the car cleaned and the tires and engine checked up, which they do for me regularly. It will not raise suspicion. I have a coffee with a friend while I wait. I feel oddly surreal, I always slightly faked my normal, daily life, but now it feels like a total farce. I smile. I nod. I don't show it one bit. And I'm home early enough for a late lunch – and whatever else I fancy – with you.

Laura

Despite my seeming lack of enthusiasm and despondency, my soft little mouth works your cock well, just the way you like it –– hands–free, with my fingers clasped together behind my back, both to keep them out of the way, and lest I should forget and want to use them. I easily can suppress my gag reflex now. There is no real risk of me choking as I guide your 9" phallus into my tight little throat and bob there, vigorously, using the tightness of the membranes there to massage your glans and shaft. When I withdraw your cockhead back into my mouth, my bobs become slower, and more elongated, as I catch my breath through my nose and swirl your cockhead with my tongue, basting it with saliva. And then it's time again, and I ease it to the back of my mouth to the entrance of my throat, impaling my mouth down on it until three or four inches of head and shaft enter the tightness there. 30 seconds of faster bobs ensue as I essentially mouthfuck myself on your engorged penis. The process repeats itself, but varies, as I occasionally tilt my head to the side and run my mouth and swirling tongue down your shaft to one side, then the other -- keeping it wet and lubricated with my saliva.

My progress in fellating you has been nothing short of amazing in the time that we have spent together. Despite my circumstances, despite my captivity, there is no doubt that I possess innate cocksucking skills. Even when I am noticeably disengaged from the task, my little mouth still pleasures you as well or better as any mouth you have experienced before. And the fact that my mouth is only 11 years old makes it all the more amazing. You were prepared, of course, to train me in the fine art of fellatio, how to use my tongue and mouth in the proper, most–pleasing way. And with all of the tools at your disposal, including pain and deprivation, there is little doubt that I would have developed sufficiently to be at least adequate, if not also good, at the task. But this –– this is a blowjob that could not be taught, even with the help of the cane. It is a blowjob of innate and natural skill. And I am a natural–born cocksucker, who, if given the opportunity to live a normal life, would have given exquisite oral pleasure to boyfriends through my school and university years. Their loss, however, is your gain.

My mouth senses your coming orgasm, and I hold you there, in my mouth only, my lips slowly caressing 4" of your shaft, my tongue swirling your engorged cockhead, until you begin to spit your load of thick, fresh cum into my mouth. As this is your third load of the day, your semen is thinner, almost watery, and there is less of it. I gently caress your spurting penis with my mouth, as I dutifully swallow your ejaculate. Even this third, depleted load requires several audible gulping swallows as I send your sperm to a certain death in the acidic depths of my tummy. When I am sure that your cock has finished oozing jism into my mouth, I proceed to clean it with my tongue, using my soft little hands to tilt it this way and that as I search for contaminants and lick them away. But there aren't any, really. When I'm finished, your spent member glistens wetly, polished by my preteen tongue...

I grimace as you extract the butt plug from my bottom. A flash of pain, almost like a cramp, passes over me as the thick part clears my anal ring and pops free from my gripping rectum. My anal muscle has stretched somewhat, but each successive plug seems to have less effect, and to take longer to accomplish the goal of widening my passageway. I didn't like this one in my butt, not at all. I never got used to it. I couldn't sit right. I'm glad it's gone, finally.

My spirits are lifted by the knowledge that I can shower, and eat, and watch a movie tonight. You promised all of those things. And I was a good girl. I did that icky thing, where I had to . . . when I used my tongue to . . . that thing I had to do for my punishment. And I sucked your cock until you cummed in my mouth. I did everything you told me to. I luxuriate in the warm water of the shower, leaning back right under the head and letting water spray down on my face, my mouth open, letting the water cascade in and fill me there, pushing it out with my tongue, repeating. I let the water gush into my mouth for a while, cleaning it, from earlier, just in case there's any . . . any of that . . . of your . . . ("His poo, Laur'. His shit,") . . . any of that bad stuff still in there. When I'm finished showering, I dress in a new set of clothes –– a nice print floral Desigual summer dress, panties, and sandals –– and walk through the dungeon to the dining room to join you for dinner.

I'm hungry again, and I eat well. I've been eating better the last day or so, and I've noticed. I'm not sure why. But I'm not questioning it. Hunger no longer is my constant companion, and that's good. I have a bit more energy, too. I'm instantly afraid as you start to laugh ("Oh noooo!" I say to myself), and my eyes are wide as saucers. I'm relieved when you explain about the wine. And it is kind of funny, in an ironic sort of way. I try to suppress a little smile and mostly succeed. I don't like to show you my emotions. I don't know exactly why –– it was probably one of my many little passive–aggressive protests from a few days ago –– but now it's habit. Still, I have to admit that that was funny.

"I'll try some, sir," I say softly ("Laur', seriously? Think before you speak, puh–lease?"). The words just popped out. I wanted to take them back even before the "sir" left my lips, but I sensed from your reaction that you were pleased. You even got up to get me a second glass, which was nice 'cause you didn't have to do that. I tried the wine, but I didn't like it. It was sour and bitter and gross and didn't taste like grapes at all. I don't know why people like that stuff 'cause I never will. "It's OK," I said ("Are you 'sposed to say 'sir" after that, Laur'?") when you asked. But I didn't have any more. And when I was done eating, the glass was still nearly as full as when you poured it. I was hoping you wouldn't be mad, and you didn't say anything.

You let me pick the movie again, and I chose "The Suite Life Movie" with Cole and Dylan Sprouse. I'm pretty sure you won't like it. But you don't say anything other than telling me to take my clothes off before we get in bed together. ("But he said you were done, Laur'. He promised!") When I see you lubing your fingers it is with a sense of betrayal, since all I wanted to do was watch the movie and not have to do sex stuff any more today. But you just want me to cum again, and I grudgingly acknowledge in my mind that that that probably isn't breaking your promise to me.

I dutifully spread my coltish young legs as your fingers ("Oooh that's cold!") go to my freshly cleaned little quim and begin to stroke me there. I watch the movie as you use your fingers, and I don't really even mind. I'm concentrating more on the movie than your fingers, but every once in a while you touch my special spot and it feels really good. I'm writhing and moving after a while, reacting to your touch, even as I watch the movie and giggle at the antics of the Sprouse twins.

By the end of it, when you're working my clit over and over and over with your fingers, I am moving my hips and writhing absent–mindedly as I watch. I'm still very mad at you but I have to admit it feels good. It lasts a long time, and when I start to feel that tingly, tickly sensation, I pivot my hips up and spread my thighs wider, giving you total access as I begin to squeal softly and buck with orgasm. I don't say anything as I slump back down, and neither do you. But that was the best one so far. It felt really, really good. It isn’t more than 10 minutes later, after my heart rate returns to normal, that my eyelids feel super heavy and I fall asleep, naked and collared, in bed with you...

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