30. The Walk

Marcus

When I check how your morning was, I flick through the cameras at 60x speed; a minute of your life per second on screen, slowing it down only for little bits. You're not even a blur at that pace -- it looks like you are teleporting between locations, a hopping, flickering image of a girl leaping through space and time. You found the Kindle, though, I notice. And it seems like you sat down over your letter, and sat for a long time, though I haven't seen you do any actual writing. Must be hard. I know.

Dear Mum and Dad. Good news! I'm OK. Sort of. I suck cock like a pro two times a day at least, I'm not a virgin anymore, and my ass is getting trained now, too. Yesterday, I licked shit of off the dirty ass of my captor. But I'm fine. The food is mostly good, when I’m not eating dog food. The piercings in my nipples are almost healed now; he's done such a good, clean job of it they never even oozed any puss or anything! I'm mostly allowed out of my cell now, which makes my space well over 100 square meters instead of the original eight or so. It's like a nice flat, really, only there are no windows, the doors that lead out are locked, and soundproof, and most of the space down here is taken up by a huge dungeon full of torture tools. But master is okay, he's only used a few of those on me, and apart from piercing me and putting stuff into my teeth that can make me wet myself with pain, he hasn't really tortured me all that much. I might even get out of here, in like . . . ten years or so. Love, Laura.

My brain conjures the letter up in a cynical, deeply sarcastic voice. I do appreciative the irony of your situation; I'm not a complete mental case. You're not permanently chained up and headed towards a premature death caused by malnutrition. You have not been maimed or crippled, and likely aren't going to be, 'cause I'm smart enough to keep you alive -- and I mean long-term alive, not just struggling-to-survive-for-another-day sort of alive. I like you pretty, so I'm not gonna go Jack the Ripper on your cute face. You are alive, and will live. Other than that? What else can you possibly share that will not freak your parents out so much they'd almost wish you were just found dead, that this horrible knowledge that you are being brutally sexually abused day in day out would end? Writing a letter to describe your situation without causing even more grief would be a task that an adult would seriously struggle with. How would, how could an eleven-year-old possibly handle it? When you actually write your letter you can either be very brief, which will be suspicious, or lie through your teeth, which might end up sounding just as suspicious. No easy choices, no good way out.

I bring a Lebanese lunch box for lunch. Lots of salad, fresh veg, falafel, pita, rice-stuffed wine leaves, an assortment of pickles, small tasty bites, and dips and dressings to go with it all. A good, healthy, fresh meal. Once again, I allow you to eat dressed and seated at the table. I want you to know -- to realize fully -- the difference between good and bad. This is good. If things were bad, you would be eating naked, on the floor, either from a dog bowl or even directly off the ground, and perhaps even something a lot less optimized for human taste buds. "How was your morning, sweetheart?" I ask, and converse a bit. "Do you like your gift?" I ask with a smile. "How about your letter? Did you sleep okay? How is your tummy?” I try and get you to talk. You may be annoyed and grumpy with me from yesterday, but today is a new day, a good day, and I'm determined to bring a smile to your face before it's over, even if I'm to do it my way. As we're finishing lunch, I ask you to make me a coffee. And I don't even mention clearing up; it's pre–verbally clear who does the dishes in here. "It's sunny out there. A nice afternoon. I thought we could go for a walk, perhaps?" I suggest out of the blue. Another random act of kindness that cost me nothing, but is bound to weaken your resolution to hate me and feel nothing else.

"I'm talking the kind of walk where you leave your clothes down here, and follow me on a leash, like a pet, even if you walk straight, on your feet. We might play fetch. Out there, in the fresh air and sun," I outline, as I see your eyes light up. The absurd notion that you're hiding your emotions from me is really naive. "There's only one thing we need to take care of before we go," I state like it's just some small, almost negligible chore, and then I place the size four plug on the table. It’s a size bigger than yesterday, a tad longer, but that's not the issue here, of course. It's more plump. Thicker. It will train your sphincter to stretch another little bit wider. It's a decent-sized plug; I've had adult subs and partners who did not like it, who complained about the size and could not quite cope with it. It's sort of the deciding point; if you can accommodate the number four easily, odds are you will be easy game for further anal play. It means your ass is stretchy and you either like or at least can easily bear it being stretched. Or it will hurt and be extremely uncomfortable and hard to take in and keep in, in which case the whole direction of your anus serving as my nice, tight cock–sleeve is almost certainly doomed to be a path of excruciating pain, blood, sweat, and tears. Well hopefully not too much blood, but you get the idea.

I sit there and sip on my coffee, the lube and plug on the table. If you want to go for a walk, it needs to be put where it belongs, and I don't seem inclined to do the job for you just now. You're gonna have to suck it up, and put it in all by yourself. But there's an exceptional privilege to be earned in it for you. Of course, I don't yet know that while you're pretty much born to suck cock, with amazing control of your gag reflex and all that, and a tongue that really is one in a million when it comes to its skillfulness, and while you happen to be lucky enough to be able to take vaginal penetration, even cervical, hilt–deep penetration of a nine-inch cock, your body just isn't naturally equipped for anal at all. Your ass still is sore and awkward from yesterday. Your poop hole is not built to be played with. Too small, and very, very sensitive, too; good for potentially pleasuring you but right now it just means it's very receptive and sensitive to any pain caused to it. Such as the pain of being stretched too much, around a size four plug, bigger than your poop would ever get even if you were constipated, way bigger than anything that should be getting into a little butt hole as tiny as yours.

I think about what I did, what I'm doing and what I'm gonna do. I love the level of control I have reached, and for some reason, my thoughts keep spinning towards Robbie, too. Having decided I will not come back to see him today make it hard; it feels like he is forbidden fruit and that makes him tempting. I think about him a lot. But here and now, I'm with you, and I have a whole day to go before I wanna see him again.

Laura

I rise with my alarm, take my pills, and shower. I like being clean. I still prefer baths, but showers are almost as good. I know that you like me clean, too. ("Yeah, so he can do sex stuff with you," I remind myself.) Whatever. Regardless, I still like to be clean. I finish and towel my hair dry. I make myself some cereal and have a breakfast bar and a fruit chew with the big fluffy towel still wrapped around my chest. After breakfast I dress –– Desigual top, jeans skirt, panties, and plain white ankle socks. I don't bother with footwear, not right now anyway. It seems so unnecessary down here.

I saw the note before my shower, and found the Kindle when I went to make the bed. But I wasn't impressed. If you think you can win me over by buying me little presents, you're crazy. You can't just be mean to a person one day and nice to them the next. That's not how it works. And you're mean. You do mean things. You hurt people and make them do . . . make them do nasty things. So you can give me a Kindle all you want, but I'm not going to read anything on it, just like I don't watch your silly old sex shows on television unless you make me. You probably didn't even put any books on it . . . oh wait. OK, you did put books on it, but nothing . . . nothing I want . . . to . . . to read. Oh, I like that series. And I read that one last year, and–

Wait! I stand up, drop the Kindle on the bed, and finish tidying up the pillow and blanket. I'm not reading anything on that Kindle! I'm not gonna let you give me stuff and pretend that everything is just ducky peachy with me. 'Cause it's not. You were mean yesterday –– really, super mean. All I did was bite my nails. And I don't care if you told me not to. They're my nails, not yours! You made me eat dog food! You tied me too tight to that chair, bending my knees and thighs back too hard. You peed on me and then you sat . . . you sat on my face and . . . I hate you! I don't want your stupid Kindle. I pick it up and place it by the door, on the floor. The same place I put the remote. My rejection spot. I reject this gift from you. I veto it. I don't want it. You can take it and have it, 'cause I don't want it.

But the rest of the note says I can write to my family, and this I want to do. I go to the little table where days ago now you left the paper and writing instruments –– all sorts of colored pens, ball–point pens, makers, felt–tips, even crayons. I sit down in the chair –– automatically tentative, until I remember that I did not sleep with a plug last night. I sit and stare at the paper for a long while. I am not sure what to write. I don't want to upset my family, especially my little brothers. And I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to be allowed to say anything about where this place is –– not that I know myself –– or anything about you. I've always been a clever girl, and I pretty much have that figured out on my own.

After a long time, I pick up a pink felt–tip pen and start to write. It takes me well over an hour. There are some cross outs here and there. I write: "Dear Mom and Daddy and Calvin and Jeremy:

I wanted you to know that I am okay. I got taken someplace and I have to stay here. I miss you all lots!!! If I could come home I would come home. Jeremy have mom read Curius Goerge to you! You know the parts we liked together have mom read you those and laugh!! If you laugh real loud i will be able to hear you where I am at. Calvin you should listen to Daddy and help. With the trash because I cant do it on Fridays any more. Mom I am sorry when I got mad at you from the other day. I did like the dress you picked out it was nice I was just in a bad mood sorry!! Tell Glenn that I am still practicing my dancing even tho I can't go to dance class while I am here. Daddy I am still your Laura V mine and I will come home when I can. I miss you lots. I miss all of you lots and lots. Mom would you tell Beverly that she can have the poster in my room the one with Jonas brothers on it because I don't like them anymore and she does you can call her on her cell phone the number is on the list on my bulletin board above my desk. Jeremy and Calvin please be good and I am thinking about you and you need to be very very safe all the time. Don't go off without an adult anywhere, its important!!!!

I have to go now. I don't think you can write to me back but maybe. I will write to you again because I am safe and okay.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOO!!!!!!!

I love You!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bye!!!!!!!!!!!!

Laura Vandahl"

When I am done, I leave the note on the table, unfolded. I have no doubt that you will want to read it before you send it. I'm also under no illusion that you actually will send it. I hope you will, though. I worry about Calvin and Jeremy especially. I know that they miss me.

As I write my note, and for the rest of the morning, I wonder where you are. Not that I want you to come. But, down here, if you don't come, all I end up doing is wondering when you will come, and why you haven't come already, and what kind of a mood you'll be in when you finally arrive. Even as I write the letter, you endlessly photo–bomb my thoughts. ("Do you think he'll be in a good mood or a bad mood today? He's probably watching what you're doing right now. He'll probably want a suck when he gets here. I hope he brings lunch.") As much as I hate to admit it –– won't admit it, in fact –– the days down here are utter drudgery until you arrive, and even though you're mean much of the time, other times you bring nice food and we watch movies and you don't make me do super nasty things or things that hurt. Just regular things, regular sex things that aren't so bad.

You do bring lunch. And you're trying to be nice. I can tell that you're trying to make up for yesterday, asking me questions, asking how my morning was. A very small part of me feels a bit guilty for answering your questions with short "yes, sirs" and "no, sirs." But maybe if you weren’t as mean I would talk more. Oh, and my morning? If you really want to know, I woke up in my cell, took my pills so I won't get pregnant from your penis, wrote a letter to my family that I can't ever see again till I'm 21, checked to see how my bottom was healing from where you whipped me with a cane, and cleaned everything up in here like a maid. Oh, and "in here" has a dungeon with torture machines and stuff and a hospital place with a chair where you put rings into people's nipples and stick needles in their bodies all over. So my morning was great, mister trying–to–be–nice sex-pervert person. Thanks for asking!

The other thing about being down here all the time is there are no windows. No windows means no sun, and no sun means no days, and no days mean that time is endless down here. I want to see the sun. I want to breathe fresh air. I was just thinking about that as I wrote my letter. How nice it would be to be outside. In the fresh air. To feel the sun. To feel its heat. To see grass and trees and sky and clouds and stuff.

So when you mention going outside, it’s like you read my mind. I am instantly interested. ("Don't let him think you're so eager, Laur'. Just play it cool.") But I immediately resolve to be better–behaved. Nicer. If only you'll take me outside. But there's a catch. There's always a catch. In fact, I'm starting to get conditioned to the idea that whenever you offer up something I really, really want, or want to do, it is usually a bribe. To do something I don't want to do.

And what I really, really don't want to do right now is put that plug up my butt. It looks huge. It looks twice the size as yesterday's plug, and that one hurt pretty much all day. Whenever I walked, it hurt. Whenever I sat, it hurt. I hurt when I gave you a suck. It hurt the worst when it went in, and again when you pulled it out.

This one is enormous. And you want me to put it in myself. I don't think I can, yet . . . I want to go outside. ("He's just gonna force it in anyway, Laur'," I taunt myself.) Yes, you probably will jam it up my butt if I won't do it. And that would mean I couldn't go outside. ("So just do it yourself, Laur' and then he'll take you outside. Fresh air, Laur'. Fresh ayyyy–er!")

I skin my panties down my supple legs, right there, in front of you. I no longer have the slightest nudity taboo around you. How could I, when you see me naked every day and could keep me naked all the time if you wanted to? I lube the plug. I press the end to my anus and push, wincing, grimacing. But it's not even close to going in. There is no way I could jam it in my butt hole, unless . . . I pull my chair out, and place the plug upright on the chair seat, holding it there. With a little whimper of dread, I back toward the plug, tilt it, and try to reach it to my butt. It's a no–go. I try the floor. I place it upright on the floor, and straddle it. My jeans skirt obstructs some of your view as I seat the end of the plus against my anus. My face is a rictus of anticipated pain –– grimacing, wincing, my expression focused –– as I begin to lower myself onto it, impaling my 11–year–old rectum with the enormous thing.

It takes me a while. A full 15 minutes. I'm too young to understand that I prolonged the agony and dread by trying to do it slowly. You could have helped me but . . . you let me do it myself. My way. Which was the hard way. Slowly lowering my tiny little bottom onto the huge phallus–shaped dildo. Slowly cramming it past my sphincter, into my rectum and bowels. My efforts punctuated by little groans and whimpers, exhales and gasps. It hurts beyond measure. Really hurts. But I really, really, REALLY want to go outside, bribery or no. I try everything. Lowering slowly, withdrawing. Bobbing. Jouncing. Jiggling. Finally, a quarter of an hour after I first squatted to the task, I am done. The plug enters my body. I am shaking from the effort. I moan as it seats itself there. The narrower seat is of little relief to me. It hurts. It hurts bad. But at least now, I can go outside –– if I can walk, that is.

Marcus

We eat. You're a shit companion today. No pun intended. Well maybe kind of. You barely speak and clearly do the minimum you feel you have to, out of politeness, out of fear of punishment. As little as you can get away with. But your eyes do light up when I mention a walk in the open. I have no idea exactly what runs through your head for once, and it's lucky for you that I don't, really. If I had any idea what a cynical "muscle" you have developed and how mocking and rude and sarcastic your inner voice has grown in just a week or so, and especially since last night, I would probably beat you till even your thoughts were submissive and in tune with what I like. But I can read bodies and faces, not brains, so you simply get away with it. Maybe it's better this way, I love that despite all the abuse and stuff I can bring a smile to your face.

I watch you as you struggle, and struggle and struggle some more, laboring and toiling and exerting yourself to the utmost until finally, the plug finally gets deep enough to stay in and soon after is in the position in which it is to stay for the rest of the day. It's sexy to watch you, dressed, with your expensive clothes still on -- sans only your panties -- perform such a lewd, extreme act. Somehow the fact that you're dressed like a normal girl -- well, a bit of a rich, well–dressed girl, almost like for your Dandygirl photo shoots -- but still, dressed, makes the act feel even more perverse and dirty. It sure gets my cock hard and throbbing, but I have other plans for today other than just letting you blow me here and now.

I pocket the letter. Your suspicion that I won't send it is actually unfounded; delivering it, getting a reaction, stirring up emotion and false hope in you, is almost an irresistible temptation. If I were not doing it for you, I might do it for myself, anyway. I'm tempted to send a scan of it with a short video attached. Perhaps the one from just now, of your fifteen-minute struggle to impale yourself on too large a butt plug. Once you are ready, I check the security cameras to make sure we won't be disturbed. I leave the letter there. It's unlikely that anyone would be around, but by kidnapping Robbie, I've caused total mayhem, so there might be a cop or a helicopter in the air or something. It occurs to me that just now, there probably isn't a single unsupervised kid for an area of over a hundred miles. People have to be panicking with the knowledge that a maniac on the loose grabbed a kid who was paint–balling in the middle of a forest park. Speaking of Robbie, I actually check on him briefly, next door.

Walking out of the surveillance room in a couple minutes, via the med–ward, I glance at you and cock an eyebrow. "I thought I was clear about the dress code for the walk?" I ask, but not angrily, more sort of amused. I jingle the chain–leash I intend to use, and cock my head to the side. "Lose your clothes, Laura." Not that you could outrun me even on a good day, not in the long run, but naked, collared, with a BIG fat plug up your little bottom, I have confidence that you won't as much as think about it. There's no way you could even run, let alone run away. I take my cell phone tracking device with me, which confirms there's not a soul nearby.

You actually have trouble going up the stairs. The plug is too big. It's still both smaller and thinner than my cock, but already too big for your butt. I imagine your reaction when I actually screw my dick up that tight hole, and the thought immediately gets me hard. When we get to it, you're in for some serious painal.

For now we take it slow, and I don't tell you to cross hands, wrist on wrist, at your lower back, till we are in the house -- so that you can use them for balance on the way up. No blindfold this time, so you can see that both the dungeon doors, upper and lower, are as heavy as the vault doors in the National Bank, impenetrable. You see that the hallway of my house and in fact my house on the whole has a distinct style to it, inspired, clearly, by ancient Greek and Roman architecture. The walls are white marble, the carpets are hand-woven geometric patterns. There are more than a few statues and objects and decorations from that period. It looks and kind of feels like an ancient Greek mansion, home to a rich and important Greek. Big. Airy. Clean. White really seems to be my color. There's nothing creepy up here. It's a totally different world from down below. A different planet. A stark, shocking contrast. This is a house of a rich and somewhat lavish, indulgent history geek, light bright and airy. It doesn't hint in any way toward the fact that my vault is not my vault at all, but rather the entrance to a blood–chillingly creepy dungeon where I torture and abuse kids for pleasure.

The southwestern side of the house is just pillars with lots and lots of double–glazed glass, sunny, super–bright and warm, like a greenhouse almost. The air outside, in the garden, feels chilly in comparison, even though the day is perfectly mild and nice. I lead you onto the grass on the leash and smile. I know that this feels gorgeous, and makes you happy, whether you wanna be or not. "It's kind of awkward going," I commiserate in a soft voice. "But trust me, when I put my cock up your ass, you will be grateful that I took all this time, didn't do it straight away and that we trained your hole, even if it's not at all nice. If you promise to try and keep from looking all depressed and gloomy, we can walk all the way to the lake. Maybe you could even have a paddle or a quick swim. It's not that far, and the butt plug is lubed well enough not to do any damage even if walking with it is not that nice."

With that, I tug on your leash and we head downhill, towards the lake. Slowly. About half way through, we pass the edge of my garden, the hedge, and the looming fence with very high and spiky "spears" that form it. I unlock a gate and let us out. Like most things in the house, it requires both a key and an up-to-date security code punched in on a number pad. We're now out in the open, the forested landscape opens up towards the lake. If there was anyone anywhere near, they could see us. But if there was anyone anywhere around the lake or near it, we would see them, first, as there's more light and open land down there. But there's no one in sight, no one has triggered any motion alarms and there are no cell phones within a three miles radius from here. I feel safe enough. I pin you to a tree.

"Rub yourself to an orgasm. Show me how quickly you can do it, as fast as you can," I command suddenly. Your training continues even up here. The lake is silver and beautiful down below. Birds chirp and other animals make noises in the forest. The breeze is light and the afternoon sun warm and strong. The whole place smells of tree sap and wood and herbs and earth. The bark of the tree is coarse and rough against the smooth skin of your back and bum, and my palm remains on your chest, pinning you in place so you have to do it in this position and also so you cannot tune me out. I'll be touching you the whole time while you are at it. There is, also, no lube this time. You'll have to use your own drool if you want your finger slick.

Laura

I'm really excited about the prospect of going outside. I've never been a dedicated outdoorsy girl, preferring the creature comforts of inside most of the time. But as they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and my existence in the windowless, basement suite has made the thought of going outside very appealing to me. It was for that reason that I worked to get the size four plug into my rectum, where it remains now, thick and big and ever–present.

I actually forgot about the dress code for outside, and when you mention it, I immediately and obediently strip out of my outfit. My motions are a bit awkward, however, as I try to account for and accommodate the enormous plug rammed in my bottom. In just a few moments I am naked. Viewed from the front, hairless young body is unharmed and unmarked, save for the nipple rings dangling down my chest. Viewed from behind, my lithe, coltishly thin legs give way to the striped, colored mayhem that is my buttocks, still recovering from my latest caning. The end of the butt plug protrudes from between my cheeks.

Walking, as I already knew, is a huge problem. The plug is unforgiving as I try to lift my legs to mount the stairs. I go very slowly, using my hands and arms for support. Each step causes a painful exhale as the plug works my sphincter muscle, stretching and preparing me for the act that you have promised to perform. I am relieved when I finally reach the top. Normal walking is somewhat more tolerable, but still uncomfortable. The plus is a constant reminder of what lies in store for me in the not–too–distant future.

I am amazed by your house. It is beautiful, cultured, museum–like. It is nothing like I imagined it to be. I knew from my past, blindfolded foray upstairs that your entire house was not a continuation of the dungeon, nor was it built like a castle or anything like that. I could tell that just from the materials under my feet –– smooth wood, cold–but–smooth marble, rich carpeting –– and the sunlight on my body as we walked past windows. But my mind had conjured up a different image –– more Victorian, old–style, dark woods, deep reds. This is light and airy and fresh and bright and white. It is breezy and comfortable and subdued, but for the elegant statuary that suggests taste, and refinement, and wealth. I knew you were rich before, and enjoyed nice food. But I did not realize that you had such refined and cultured tastes. Even an 11–year–old can tell.

I can't wait to feel the grass under my feet as we venture outside. There is no grass in the basement. My shapely little feet ache for the feel of it, just as my naked little body anticipates the feel of sunlight playing down. We walk through the light and warm sun porch, and outside, and I breathe in the fresh air, not realizing until that moment just how antiseptic and neutral the filtered air of the dungeon suite is, day after day. As we walk onto the grass I luxuriate in the pleasure of being outside, and for a moment –– despite my collar and the leash –– I feel like I am free. I hear birds, and insects, and the rustle of a light breeze. It is like being in Heaven, I think. I will never forget this moment, the feel of right now, this day, here, this. It is almost a religious experience.

You speak then, reminding me of my impending anal deflowering. On one level, I understand your patience with the plugs, and even appreciate your indulgence in training and preparing me for the event. Another part of me, however, cannot understand why anyone would want to put their penis inside a smelly old butt hole. But you have made it clear that that is exactly what is going to happen to me. And your erect member is larger even than the size four plug currently inserted in my rectum. So I'm not sure how that's going to work. And I know from videos that it hurts. And your words about the plugs make it sound even more like it's going to hurt. And I'm really dreading that. A lot.

We stop at the tree, and as you pin me there, my eyes are wide as saucers as I am sure that I have messed up. But I haven't. You want me to do it right now. Out here. Where anyone could see me. I actually hesitate; my reflexive "yes, sir," is delayed. Out here? In the open? Really? But disobedience is not really in my vocabulary anymore, and my right hand moves to my pussy. I am not the least bit aroused. In fact, I am embarrassed. Embarrassed to be forced to pleasure myself outside, in the open, pinned to a tree.

My initial touches evoke no reaction in me. My eyes are looking up, locked on yours. Him. The Man. My captor. I finger myself, rubbing quickly, up and down, over my special spot. My cunny is dry, but as I rub, it begins to moisten. The bark is rough against the soft skin of my back. A bird calls in the distance and the breeze tousles my hair as I reluctantly try to work my 11–year–old pussy toward orgasm.

Marcus

You hesitate and so while I still hold my palm flat against your chest, I drop the leash with my other hand and slap you. That'll be a thank you, sir, and should suffice to remind you that my rules don't change, even if the setting does, even if the circumstances are different. It's not a hard slap, just a half–hearted smack that won't even leave a mark really, almost just a gesture, a quick means of non–verbal communication. A speedy way of letting you know that I noticed the moment's hesitation, and that I do not welcome it, do not consider it acceptable.

I look into your eyes as you look up. I nod and smile. "That's my girl. Look into my eyes. And focus. I can see you squint when you are avoiding actually looking at me," I inform you. "I'm not Justin, I'm not Robbie. I'm Marcus, your master and owner, and you are rubbing your slit for me, and will be looking into my eyes properly while you cum. You will actually keep your eyes locked on mine, even as you are cumming, no tilting your head up and away, and even after, until told otherwise," I specify, as usually leaving absolutely no wiggle space when I demand you to perform exactly the way I like. I don't just want things, I want them done in very specific ways, and complying and putting up with my obsessive nature is a part of your life now. It's how things are.

I lick my lips and smile. "Harder. Faster. And stop biting your lip, I want your mouth open," I command and make the sort of exemplary "O" I wanna see with my own lips before I speak on. "If there's some noise inside you, I want it to come out, don't hold it back, sweetie." I really am confident that we are alone, but I know that even if I’m right, the outdoors don't feel private, and I understand your self consciousness and worries. It's a bit odd, of course. In a way, you should pray for someone to chance upon us, which might give you a slight chance to escape, to be rescued. But I get a sense that right now you are hoping you will not be seen performing this shameful, humiliating act that you were randomly told to do by your master, on a mere whim. Out here, in the forest. Naked, collared, pinned to a tree with a strong big hand that covers most of it. The bark digging into your back. Your clam going from zero arousal towards wetness and onwards, towards your goal, more speedily than I would expect. It's not that you're that easily aroused -- though your sensitivity and youth have likely something to do with it -- it's just that once you processed the command and obeyed, you really went for it, not really giving yourself a gentle start, just . . . going for it. The way I taught you. I love the way I do things to you influences what you think of as norm, what you then do yourself. It's epic.

I have a raging boner now, but my time still has not come. Delayed gratification, Marcus. Delayed gratification. I spin it in my head like a mantra. All I do is hold your leash once more, hold you pinned, and gaze right into your eyes, so intensively that there's no way you could blur out your vision and not see me without my noticing it. I intend to see exactly what your face does -- but most specifically what your eyes, your pupils do -- as you cum. I wanna know you, I wanna see it and feel it and while the notion of faking an orgasm has probably not even entered your mind, or cumming without permission, I want to know exactly what it looks like, up close, when you cum, to be certain if I ever need to be. I observe with the utmost, fullest focus. To see. To learn.

I manage to keep up the intense eye contact, an almost unblinking, full, wholesome focus, as you get near and as you cum. I continue to hold you there for a while afterwards, before I release your heaving chest, stroke your hair, and with a satisfied, "good girl," lead you on towards the small lake. I release you from your leash there. Dip my hand into the water. It's cold. But not freezing cold, and the day is, while not tropical, warm enough for a swim just now. I pull a foam ball from my pocket and toss it as far as a light thing like that will fly, which means, not that far, really, ten, perhaps fifteen paces sort of distance. At around the spot where the lake gets just deep enough for you to have to swim.

I crouch down. Kiss you on your lips, slowly, softly. Just so you know that I'm not being mean for the sake of it. This is fun, it's exercise, it's a rare treat. "Fetch," I say, neither a sharp command nor a whisper. Just that: “Fetch.” Allowing you to wade and swim over ten paces away from me, onto the open waters of the lake, blue and crystal clear, sky reflected on it, drowning in sunlight. "Use your hand to get it into your mouth, I don't want you drowning as you try to grab onto it with your teeth," I add good–naturedly. I have never seen anyone swim with a butt plug in and have no idea how that will feel, if it will slow you down the way it does when you walk, less or more, but we'll just see. You can wade most of the way, anyway. Almost the whole of the way, if you choose to.

Laura

I wince from your slap, and my eyes glisten, but I make no effort to defend myself. "Thank you, sir," I say I instantly, reflexively, as my cheek starts to redden from the impact. I know why you slapped me. I hesitated. It's as simple as that. I didn't hesitate deliberately, but I hesitated. And you saw it and punished me. Transgression . . . Punishment . . . Expression of thanks. I don't question it, not anymore. When I first came here, my reaction would have been "That's unfair/I didn't do anything/He can't slap me like that." Now the ideas of "fairness" and culpability barely register, and the idea that you can't do anything you wish to do is so perfectly absurd that it does not even enter my mind.

I begin to stroke my preteen cunny as your ordered. I do it fast –– the way you showed me –– while staring directly into your face. I'm embarrassed to have to do this in the open. The act triggers a vestigial memory of appropriate public behavior. The dungeon suite is private, just you and me, and there you have beaten, tortured, and trained my old behaviors out of me. But here, outside in the open, I have not yet been indoctrinated and trained, and my obligation to obey you in all things at all times actually competes, at least momentarily, with lingering, ingrained behaviors from my former life. That is why I hesitated a moment ago. That is why I am going so fast now –– to be done quickly, so nobody can see.

I know what you are doing by making me stare into you eyes while I stroke and finger my little quim. You want me to think about you when I do sex stuff with myself. If I had any doubts about that they are dispelled when you tell me you are not Justin, not Robbie, but my master, my owner. And I do look into your eyes. And I do pleasure myself. And it does feel good, and the thing is, that even though we both know exactly what you're doing, and why, it still works, at least incrementally. One part of my brain is imprinting the image of your face at the same time another completely different, but ultimately interconnected part of my brain is imprinting and recording the pleasure induced by my masturbation. Your strategy is working because it comports with my biology. It would be no different than you telling me, in advance, that you were going to teach me to despise my favorite food by first feeding it to me, and then beating me, every single day for a year, and then proceeding to do exactly that. At the end of the year, I would hate my formerly favorite food, even though you told me in advance exactly what you were trying to accomplish. So I know what you're doing, and I know why you're doing it, and I try to fight it, but it doesn't matter. It's working, and it will succeed over time, and you have all the time in the world. I know this, and you know it, too.

So I look at you as I stroke, studying your face, trying to look into your eyes. It's hard. It's not exactly that I don't want to look at you, as it is that my fear of breaking eye contact is making it harder to concentrate on what I'm doing "down there," and harder for me to appreciate the pleasure, and therefore harder for me to bring myself all the way to climax. It's also weird. I used to do this super private thing only in the darkened privacy of my own room, alone, lying in my bed, under my covers, with a soft mattress underneath me, my eyes unfocused and unseeing if they were even open at all, my brain filled with thoughts and images and different things as I gently and slowly circled and fingered my special spot. But now I am doing it in the bright sunlight, outside in the open, with you, standing up, uncovered, with a hard tree against my back, my eyes focused and latched onto yours, my brain thinking only about you, as I finger and stroke my cunny quickly, with a purpose. Everything to do with the act is different, completely different. Which makes it harder to accomplish the goal of orgasm.

But I will get there. You can tell. My hand tires some but I continue. I've been practicing this motion almost daily and my stamina is increasing. I begin to breathe harder. My mouth is wide open. As much as I try I cannot stop the inadvertent little gasps and grunts and moans that escape me. If my mouth were closed I might be able to stifle and strangle them before they reached the open air, but here, with my mouth open, I cannot suppress them, and as the pleasure builds, I stop trying. My hand is a blur now. My eyes are focused on you. My brain is recording and imprinting. I climax with a visible body–shudder, as the tickle–tingle sensation grows and explodes from my special spot. And then it is over, and I am panting like I just ran a race, and my right arm is almost numb, and as you stroke my hair I realize that it felt really, really good. Again.

We proceed down to the lake, me collared, naked, and leashed. The lake looks beautiful. I like to swim, and the slight coolness of the air has been more than offset by my recent exertions. I'm a little trepidatious about going into a lake, with seaweed and fish and stuff. Most of my swimming has been in a pool. But you gave me an instruction. An order. You want me to fetch the ball like a dog. You even used the word “fetch.” I know that I should be offended. I know that you’re doing this to humiliate me and remind me of my station. But disobedience does not even cross my mind. I begin to walk into the water. What was cold to your adult hand is positively freezing to my slender, naked child body. But you gave me an instruction. An order. I wade deeper, my bare feet touching the silty bottom.

In the last few feet from the ball, I leave my feet, doggie paddling. The plug is an ever–present annoyance between my butt cheeks. I take the ball with my right hand and put it in my mouth, tasting the lake water. I turn, my heart racing, wanting to get back to a shallower depth. I touch bottom, and stand. I walk toward you, the ball in my mouth. I emerge, naked, like a vision, from the water, my 11–year–old body sleek and shiny and dripping. I walk out of the water. To you. And lean down to deliver the ball into your hand.

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