32. Esophageal Discipline

Marcus

"Good girl," I smile and take the ball from you. I meant to throw it again, but you're shivering; clearly the water is too cold for you. So I just shake the water of off and pocket it. I stroke your wet hair. Fuck. You are SO pretty. I look around briefly. To Hell with this, no one in their right mind is coming. They are all afraid of me, of what I have done, without even knowing me, who I am, where I am. That thought alone gives my cock a twitch. The power I have extends, subtly and obscurely, but nonetheless, way beyond the boundaries of the dungeon.

You did spite me, subtly, last night. When I told you to suck me off, you performed well, but your attitude still wasn't right, it lacked enthusiasm, really. It was, psychologically, as pleasing as it could have been, because your approach was emotionally flat and detached. I remind you of it.

"Remember when you sucked me last night? You did a good job yourself," I start, "but it seemed like you were bored, really, not very excited by the prospect at all. I'd hate to be getting boring for you," I note sarcastically and you immediately know that you are in trouble. Even out here, which is a privilege and a reward, you're not safe. You displeased me, even if it was ever so subtly, and you are going to pay for it. Here. Now.

"On your knees. Hands behind your back. Open up. I'll make sure it's more exciting this time. More interesting. Just so you don't look like you don't give a shit. Like it's a B–O–R–I–N–G thing to be doing, pleasuring your master." My cock is hard. It has been for a while now, and even as I speak it grows into its full size as I unzip my pants. I reach into your hair, grabbing a handful on each side of your head. I move my hips to adjust the angle, and then, without a warning, hilt myself balls deep in your throat, and remain lodged there, nine inches deep, the tip of my cock perhaps a third of the way down to your stomach at a steep downwards angle that kind of hurts me, but then, I'm sure that right now, between you and me, I'm still the one feeling a lot more comfortable. I went from sweet and kindly and allowing you a nice little treat into brutal so fast you look more surprised than anything. It's not easy to process such a rapid change or approach, seemingly not triggered by anything at all in particular.

"The next time you are told to do something to please or pleasure your master, you will show some spirit. You’ll put some energy and focus into it. I don't want you looking at me like you are half asleep and like you don't give a shit. When you serve me, you will serve me like the eager little slut you are. With a smile on your face and a spark in your eyes. And if you can't quite do that, you had better learn how to fake it really fucking well. Are we *crystal* clear on that one?" I ask, and only at the end of that whole monologue pull out of the brutal depth at which I was penetrating your throat via your cute mouth, lips wrapped around my shaft in a tight, cute "O". The sounds you make don't sound much like an answer to me. I slap you.

"What did you say, bitch?" I ask, and slap you again. I give you enough time for a thank you sir and a yes sir, slap you again just for good measure, and before you know what hit you, I hilt myself into your throat again without a warning, cutting off the next coming thank you. I hold you by your hair and pull your face against my hips and I thrust forwards against it. I face fuck you. Rough. Fast. Oxygen soon becomes a scarce commodity. When I'm in, I'm all the way in, my pubes and balls smacking into your face with every single thrust. When I pull back, I'm slightly less than half way in, barely enough to slide out of your oesophagus enough for your larynx to open and for you to sniff in a sharp, nasal in–breath to stop yourself from passing out.

I go in with sharp rough thrusts, and it's a messy business. Even if you pretty much were born to suck cock, even if you have amazing control over your mouth, tongue, and gag reflex, it would take a bird – at least I think I read once that birds do not have a gag reflex -- to take this kind of abuse without it getting very nasty and messy in short order. Indeed, within half a minute your mouth and face are drool–slick, snotty, and not exactly helped by my own input – a generous amount of precum adding into the mixture. Pulling on your hair, I force myself into the tightness of your gagging, contracting, pulsing, squeezing throat and down towards your chest, which is heaving as you try to cough. It must be painful, I imagine, to try to cough when your air tubes are shut tight, again and again and again, as I pump my cock fast enough to froth the mixture of bodily fluids up into a whitish foam that is spilled each time I pull out and leaks along my shaft. You cough bits of it up in the brief moments when you manage to steal a breath.

I have face-fucked you before, but I take special care today to not care about your breathing and other such needs. I take you rough. When I pull out, seeing your face turn from dark red to a disturbing shade of purplish blue, it's only to make sure that you don't pass out on me. I want you conscious throughout the ordeal, and while I'm out and you struggle to take a breath I slap you, just for good measure. There's absolutely no way you will manage to speak comprehensibly now, not even if I gave you a lot more than I give you, and I only give you some twenty seconds or so, as soon as your face fades from the sickly, death–threatening shade back towards tomato–red, I jam my cock right back into your mouth again and start fucking it at two thrusts per second, a pace and violence of oral abuse that has been insofar unprecedented during your time here.

"You can thank me later,” I grunt, as I feed you my cock to the “thwicka thwicka thwicka” sound of hard oral sex. “Actually I will expect you to remember to thank me later, twice, once for each of those," I muse. I don't give a shit if you vomit; it would not even make me slow down, let alone stop, and I find appealing the fact that you are starting to drown on frothed up phlegm and snot as it foams and dribbles and shoots out of your nostrils -- meaning your airways must be practically full of it. I ride your face hard and deep, only just barely not ripping your hair out, right up until I cum, once again balls-deep and lodged in as I feed you a decent-sized cumshot, right into your stomach, taking my sweet time to enjoy the orgasm.

I finally pull out and let go of you, the lack of being held up by my hands gripping your hair sending you tumbling to the ground. At this moment you're probably closer to dead than alive, and the sounds that are coming out of your mouth and nose, as well as the sort of mess that's almost all over your face remind me that you won't be doing much talking any time soon. I let you writhe on your side, semi–curled into a ball, gasping raw, pained breaths one after another, slowly reaching the realization that somehow, miraculously, you have survived the ordeal.

"The next time I give you the opportunity to empty my balls, you better be squealing and hopping up and down with enthusiasm, you ungrateful little cunt, thanking me for the chance,” I snarl at you. “I can and when I feel like it, WILL be emptying my balls at the cost of hurting you. Unless you want it like that all the time, you had better never, ever dare look unenthusiastic, bored and ‘oh–so–over–this’ when I'm being nice and allowing things to happen the easy way." That said, I grab you, drag you a few steps into the water and wash your face in the lake before pulling you up to your feet on the shore, cupping your chin in my fingers.

"Now clean my cock up," I demand, and present you with my froth-, phlegm-, cum-, snot-, and god-knows-what-else covered member. "And then you will crawl on all fours all the way back, and you will practice showing me how eager you can be when you tongue my asshole good night, stroking yourself to orgasm while you are at it," I add. "But that will be once we're back in. Now crawl!" I command, and without even bothering to put the leash on you, I start walking back towards the house. So much for serving me blank-faced and nearly rolling your eyes at me when you receive a command.

Laura

The water is so cold. I know how long your games can go on –– hours on hours –– and I'm afraid that "fetch" could be one of those. I'm not only cold, but I hate the feel of the silt and mud and plants and twigs at the bottom of the water against my bare feet. Yet even that feeling is preferable to leaving my feet and swimming -- more like doggy–paddling -- in the cold water, up to my neck, in a strange pond full of . . . whatever might be in it. I’m not scared of the water, and I'm a decent swimmer, but I don’t like swimming in the outdoors. I’m also very slender and trim these days, and not very buoyant. My collar adds a bit of weight to my neck, as well, which I find is precisely the wrong place to have a strange weight when you're trying to keep your mouth out of the water to breathe. All in all, not an optimal combination for swimming.

I bring the ball back, fearing another command to fetch, and another. Would that I could be so lucky. Because instead of commanding me to fetch, you remind me of my lackluster and unenthusiastic performance during my suck last night. ("He did notice, Laur'. I warned you," I remind myself.) During your suck I was unhappy, brooding, and at best matter–of–fact about it. Everything you say is true. I don't know why I keep doing it but every once in a while I forget myself, my position, my place, my role. When you tell me you'd hate to see me get bored in sarcastic tone of voice, I know I'm in for a punishment. And when you direct me to my knees, I don't know exactly what's going to happen to me, but I am absolutely 100% sure I'm not going to like it.

With an obligatory, contrite, and worried "yes, sir," I drop to my knees and place my hands together in the small of my back. My mouth opens automatically, even before you instruct me. I simply know that this punishment will involve my mouth. Almost all of my punishments do. Truth be told I am unaware just how angry you are. I am expecting a tummy full of urine. But then I see that your cock is already hardening, and watch as it reaches full mast, I know I am in for a mouthfucking even before you grasp my hair and line up for entry. ("Just try not to gag, Laur' Relax your throat –– let it in, don't try to stop it. It'll be OK.")

But it's not OK. Your first thrust takes me completely by surprise in its suddenness and brutality. Your cockhead smashes against the roof of my mouth as your shaft spreads my jaws wide apart. My eyes bulge as you pull my head toward you by my hair while simultaneously thrusting and cramming and grinding your stiff member back, down, and into my throat. My air is cut of before I can get a decent breath –– in fact, you manage to catch me on an exhale, leaving me with even less breath than normal. The membranes in my throat flare with pain as your insistent erection grinds its way down to the hilt, leaving me with a hurting jaw, a closed windpipe, and a nose full of pubic hairs. ("Oh, no, Laur'. Oh no! He's really, really mad.")

I look up at you with terrified, surprised, hurt brown little–girl eyes. Only the strength of my training, reinforced by fear, enables me to keep my hands positioned behind me as you impale my 11–year–old face on your engorged phallus. I can hear your words with an almost magnified intensity, as if the enormous size of your cock has opened up my ear drums somehow. My tortured, terrified little eyes are locked on yours as you explain the right way to suck master's cock. I am a true captive audience for your words. They resonate. I understand. I see the error of my ways. ("Oh, please, please, please let him give you another chance. You can give him the best suck ever, Laur'. The best suck ever given.")

But a reprieve is not in the plan for me. I try to speak, or nod, or something that will express my understanding, my assent, my eagerness to obey. But I have an aroused adult erection jammed between my jaws. You slap me, and it hurts. It hurts worse than usual because although you withdrew a bit, my head remained skewered in place on your rigid member, unable to divert at least some of the blow by turning hard to the side. This slap hits me full–on, rattling my entire head from my cheek to my jaw. The words "thank you, sir" form in my mind, but are impossible to express. ("You have to thank him," I think to myself in a panic.) Then you slap me again.

Following the second slap your cock rams back into my throat, causing my eyes to water. You can feel my throat spasming around your shaft, as I force myself to keep my hands together at the small of my back. ("Don't make it worse, Laur'. He's really upset with you.") As you begin to fuck my 5th–grader face, thoughts race through my oxygen–deprived child mind. Mostly what I think about is how there are different ways for my mouth to be employed in giving you a suck. There is the kind where you are passive and relaxed, and I am tasked with performing on my own. And then there is this kind, where you are controlling the pace and the action, and I am the one who is supposed to be passive as the suck happens. I much prefer the first kind. By a lot. I had gotten to the point where I almost didn't mind being told you wanted a suck. "Almost" meaning in the relative sense that if I am going to be the child-sex slave of a sadistic pedophile, and you are going to need to have your balls emptied in one way or the other several times per day, then giving you a suck is one of the least–bad options. You seem to like my sucks, mostly. The taste of cum no longer makes me want to gag and vomit. I can even handle its slimy consistency.

But you didn't like the one I gave you last night. And it's my fault. I didn't perform with enthusiasm. I wasn't into it, and you could tell. Truth be told, I was feeling sorry for myself and angry with you. And I let that get in the way of my performance. I thought I got away with it. You didn't say anything, and you fed me your cum as usual, and everything worked out. Or seemed to. The punishments that get delayed are probably the worst ones. Like the time I lied about standing on my tip toes, and you pretended that everything was fine, and I was sure I had gotten away with it. But then the movie started, and there I was, on the surveillance video. That was bad. Very bad. I still remember how cold my blood ran. It was the same when I realized that I had bit my nails. Your completely calm demeanor, coupled with the severity of my transgression ("You lied to him, Laur' What in the world were you thinking?") Those types of delayed punishments always seem way worse. They also have more of an impact. It was very unlikely that I would ever have lied to you again even before you made me swear on the lives of my little brothers, just because of the methodical way that you went about my punishment.

I kind of feel the same way now, on my knees, my hands clasped behind my back, as you fuck my face and teach me a lesson in enthusiasm. I know I screwed up. It doesn't even cross my mind that your accusation, verdict, and sentence are unfair. The concept of fairness has been eradicated in my mind over my time here. Each thrust of your hips and tug on my hair reinforces the lesson that you wish to impart, and the sentence that you have imposed. I let my own pride get in the way of giving you a proper suck. There's no denying it. We both know what I did. It won't happen again, certainly not deliberately. I know what will happen if I give you a sub–par effort. Punishment will happen. And I have learned to fear punishment. Every bone in my slender, preteen body wants to avoid your punishments.

Your erected phallus plunges between my jaws, choking and gagging me, making breathing impossible. My throat is taking a terrible pounding and will be bruised, aching, and painful for days. I can feel your balls curling up and smacking the underside of my chin with every thrust. I am only vaguely aware of the messy medley of fluids drooling from my mouth, and nose –– phlegm, snot, precum, saliva, and stomach acid. The toxic goo is running from my mouth and chin down my flat little chest (dribbling over my right nipple ring) and tummy as I kneel there before you, receiving my punishment orally from your cock.

The mouthfucking seems to go on forever, and I can't breathe, and it hurts, and I want to say thank you but can't and my eyes start to roll back and everything goes a little dark. You pull out, and oddly, it is the act of pulling out that causes my tummy to heave and send a brownish, partially–digested gruel of tummy contents and stomach acid out around your cock, adding to the vile glop glistening, and dangling in a stringy, gelatinous streamer from the point off my chin. I manage to breathe –– I don't know how –– before my punishment resumes.

By the end of it, I am completely spent and only semi–conscious, and when you cum deep in my throat, and hold me, I start to fade again, and I am barely aware as you unsheathe your member and drop me to the ground, there to vomit your cum and the contents of my last meal into the grass. So much for your revised feeding plan –– keeping enough calories in me is starting to become an almost daily problem, and I just took another backwards step. I lie there in a near-fetal position, unable to lift my cheek from the puddle of glistening fluids. But I hear your words. Reinforcing the lesson. I hear them clearly. I understand.

When you drag me to the water’s edge I am sure that I will drown if you pull me in, and I don't care. I don't even fight. Drowning in the cold pond water would be almost blissful at this point. Sinking to the bottom and lying atop the silt. It would be OK. Really. I wouldn't even mind. It doesn't matter if anyone ever finds me. It would be peaceful. This would be over.

But cold water sprays in my face, and your rough hands clean most of the slime and slop from my face. I blink and my hands press into the silt, trying to lift out of it. My head spins as you upright me, supporting me, cupping my chin. It is amazing how strong you are, how tiny I am. My eyes are red and glassy, but I look at yours. My mind encourages me to thank you, but I can't -- speech is impossible. I lack the energy, and I'm not sure I could make an audible sound the way my throat feels.

I sink to my knees, shivering now, and prepare to clean your cock. It is a very, very miserable little child who kneels before you. A child who has just been given a serious attitude adjustment. I lean my face in, shivering, and my little tongue prepares to bathe your manhood. ("Look eager, Laur'. You have to look like you want to," I tell myself.) But I can't. I don't care if you kill me or jam needles in my foot or poop in my mouth. It takes every ounce of my energy just to lick and clean your member. Actual enthusiasm would be impossible. But as the color of my face begins to return to normal, a small reserve of energy allows me to lift and angle and reposition your softening, semi–hard penis as I lick and suck it clean. When I am done, I turn, settle down to my hands and knees, and begin to crawl back up to the house of horrors that I call home, thinking about how I will be able to muster the energy to tongue your asshole later with appropriate effort and enthusiasm.

Marcus

I make you crawl the whole way. Fuck you and your attitude, and you better remember what kind of a response it earn you! I'm not really angry anymore, I'm just pushing you to make sure my sick point comes across wholly and properly. In my mind I'm already halfway with Robbie, tending to him after a long, nearly two-day pause, having thought things through really carefully and thoroughly, having prepared stuff for a really, really special night. By the time we make it to the house, your hands are filthy and abraded and your knees are a bleeding mess. You are pale and shaking, wincing with every “step.” I pick you up, so you don't smear mess around the house, and carry you back into the dungeon like a baby.

I take you to the bathroom first. Lower you, feet-first, into the tub, and rinse you with a nice, warm, but not painfully hot shower. I've learned by now what kind of temperature you can easily handle without feeling like the water is just tepid and unsatisfying. I wash you, thoroughly, properly, obsessively, getting all the dirt and muck off of your knees (in the beginning, I have to use a brush and further abrade the already raw skin) so it doesn’t get ingrown, so you don’t scar or whatever. I clean you up well. Dry you softly, tenderly. Use antiseptic on your knees, and even on your hands which is a bit excessive, but then, better safe than sorry, right?

I then carry you (it seems like I gave up on you walking today, aware of just how "used" you are right now) back into your cell. I bring you a pack of lozenges and a soothing, herbal tincture to gargle. And a super–nutritious “smoothie”; not a fresh one, but one made from instant milk and cocoa and coconut and banana powder. Low in acidity, bland in taste, easy-to-consume even if you throat really isn't up to much. I then sit you on the bed and sit next to you.

"Laura . . . I have to admit it's kind of fun for me to spank you, maybe do something like this," I tug at the ring in your nipple, right on the verge of painful. "But it's not fun to constantly have to actually punish you,” I explain, lying through my teeth. “You can be so silly sometimes for such a clever girl. It's like you keep underestimating me. Do you really think I will let you get away with disobedience, half–heartedness, poor effort? Really?” I pause for a moment, then continue. “After all we have been through? You have a clever head behind this pretty face of yours. Please use it. Okay? I wanna be nice to you, and would like to try. Starting tomorrow. We'll have to take it easy tomorrow, anyway, but the day after. It's like a clean slate, I'll forget all mishaps and mistakes and you can just keep amazing and impressing and pleasantly surprising me. And if you do, I promise you will notice the difference,” I say, and then pause for effect. “I have a gift for you, a very special gift, but I'm not giving that to you until you actually are trying your best. Because you can be amazing and you and I both know it, but you are not amazing unless you actually try."

“About tomorrow . . . I’ll get you some soft, easy-to-eat food in the morning, and you’ll be excused from sucking cock tomorrow. That’s the extent of your being excused from stuff; after that, we’re returning to our normal regime -- food-eating, cock-sucking, all of that,” I tell you matter-of-factly. “I don’t care how painful it will be, you simply will do it. You’re going to keep the butt plug in at least till midnight. And you will stay in your cell. If you have any questions or comments, keep them to yourself until the morning. You don’t have to upsize the plug tomorrow. As a part of the resting we’ll wash this one and pop it back in, without making you take a bigger one.” I pause, wondering if you’ve forgotten what I promised down at the pond, what with all of this talk about tomorrow and the day after.

“Now, stick your tongue up my butt and give me a nice rimjob, and keep licking until you rub yourself to an orgasm. Here’s an electric egg to make it a bit easier,” I offer at least a small compromise, if you can even call it that. “And Laura -- I don’t care that your throat hurts just now and you’ve just been punished; that punishment was well-deserved and you only have yourself to blame,” I comment dryly. “You just got punished for bad attitude, lack of enthusiasm, that kind of stuff, so that tongue better be moving good, making a damn good job of making me feel nice regardless of it not being easy,” I finish. “Oh and no pausing, no moving away for a breath. I want you to lick continuously,” I add after a moment, as an afterthought.

I stand and lean on your bed, legs wide, as you kneel and position yourself behind me. In my mind, the egg is a serious mercy. I suspect without the intense buzz that effortlessly will yank an orgasm out of you, you might be too tired actually to obey this command. As it is, there’s no reason why you should not manage, I believe. Anyway, you simply will have to, regardless of the circumstances. I don’t care how exhausted or beat up you are. I want to feel your little tongue on my ass -- it’s as simple as that. And down here, I get what I want, and 11-year-old girls do what I say. Exactly what I say.

I don’t make it any easier for you, even though I can easily guess how well-used, exhausted, broken you are just now, and I push your obedience when about two minutes into it, just as your little muscle worms its way into my rear, I relax and fart a bubbly, stinky fart straight into your face, the stench of which you just gotta put up with, because you were told not to pause, not to move, and I don’t do anything to imply that this small inconvenience changes the rules.

When you are finally done, whimpering rather than moaning into my ass, or so it feels, when you finally stop, I turn around to show you how nice and fully hard I am again, and pause for a bit, just for the realization that I only said you would be spared the cock–sucking duty tomorrow and that, as a part of your punishment, I could just command “suck” now and watch you get on with what would now would be a nearly impossible, tremendously painful task.

Instead I point at the smoothie, mess your hair briefly and leave you with a “good–bye”. I’m done with you for the day. And yet, I have a long, good night ahead of me, not that you know. I leave the cell, lock it, and go wash well and have a change of clothes -- for the sake of my new pet.

Laura

Looking back on it, I'm not sure how I ever made it back, crawling, on hands and knees. I already was tired, and sore, and after only a few hundred feet, my knees started to sing with pain. I tried to avoid the really rough patches –– staying on the grass where I could –– but my hands and knees weren't made for crawling outdoors. And part of the crawl was on the path, which was studded with sharp little stones. They embedded in my knees, and stuck there, until I risked punishment to brush them away with my hand, trying to do so without breaking my gait. You allowed me this small mercy. There was no punishment for that.

What made it worse was the plug in my butt. The awful plug. Walking with it was bad enough, but when you crawl, your butt moves more, kinda swaying from side to side, and I could feel the plug moving inside me with every single step. Do they even call them steps when you're crawling?

When I finally got to the house, you picked me up, which was a surprise. I expected to have to crawl to my cell, and I wasn't looking forward to the marble part. As it is my knees were bleeding from dozens of tiny little abrasions, and there were several more on my hands. And I was so tired. Crawling is hard work. And I never fully felt fully recovered from my mouthfucking ordeal. All I could think about was going to bed. But I knew I wouldn't be allowed to do that, at least not right away. There would have to be a bath or a shower –– you almost never let me be dirty for long. And there was also the matter of the ass–licking that you want me to perform. And ass–licking almost always leads to some kind of sex with you.

But I get a shower, and it hurt like blazes when you scrub–brushed my knees. I sobbed and whimpered in pain, but I didn't fight you at all. I just stood there. Moving would have resulted in a punishment. You didn't need to warn me or say anything. It hurt, and my knees were bright pink and still bleeding in places when, finally, it was over.

I take the smoothie in my hands, but my "thank you, sir," is silent. All I can do is mouth it. No words come out of my throat. And I mean nothing. Not even a hiss. It's really weird to have no voice at all. Not even a hoarse voice. I try to re-wet my larynx by swallowing –– which is a mistake, 'cause it hurts a lot. I wince as I finish the swallow. My throat feels like it's burning inside, almost like a case of strep throat, only it burns and feels achy at the same time, like an abraded bruise.

I listen to your words, and I know I goofed up last night. I know that I should have performed better when I sucked your penis. I'm so exhausted, it makes me a little emotional, and I feel bad for what I did. My eyes glimmer with little tears of sadness and remorse. You are nice to me. At least some of the time. And I know you don't have to be. But just when you give me privileges or special treatment, I always seem to manage to find a way to goof it all up and make you really mad.

I’m exhausted, and your words really have an impact on me tonight, especially coupled with my lesson about the dangers of complacency. I promise myself I'll improve, and just stop trying to test you or give you any reason to punish me. I don't want to be punished anymore. Both of my sad, tired–looking eyes leak tears at the same time, and they roll down my cheeks in parallel rivulets. I'm feeling sorry for myself, remorse for what I did, and sadness that I chose to repay your generosity by being a little brat.

When you tell me you're going to give me a second chance, and that bygones will be bygones, and that I won't have to suck tomorrow –– giving up a full day of your pleasure just for me –– I nod gently, and the tears really come down now. I don't even have to have the plug in all night, and I don't have to take the bigger plug tomorrow. You're being very generous, especially after I misbehaved. I know that You don't have to be this nice. You don't ever have to be nice. But you are, when I'm not disobeying or challenging you or just being an ungrateful little bitch. ("You have to stop that, Laur'. You're messing up the opportunities he's giving you.")

When you position yourself to have your ass cared for, I am still sad and sobbing. I kneel behind you, wincing from the pain in my knees, and place my soft hands on the sides of your hips. I take a breath and lean in, pressing my teary little cheeks to your crack, before affixing my mouth to your anus like a baby latching onto a nipple. I am determined to give you the best rimjob ever. It hardly occurs to me that this is the part of your anatomy through which solid wastes exit your body. That no longer really matters. I place my mouth there, quickly and obediently, because that it what you instructed me to do.

I pull my right hand with the egg away, and begin to finger myself with it, running it over my slit, up to my special spot, all over. My little cunny begins to react to the stimulation quicker than I expected, getting moist, and then almost slick. I accidentally drop the egg to the floor, and I nearly have a heart attack ("That'll be at least a slap, Laur'. Clutz!" I chastise myself.) But without removing my face, and still vigorously licking your hole, I manage to find it and place it back against my little clit. Somehow I escape punishment. ("He knows that was an accident, girlfriend. He's not trying to be mean unless you goof up on purpose, right? Got it?")

As you might expect from an 11–year–old girl who just learned a lesson about the dangers of complacency, my rimjob tonight is special. My tongue flicks and licks all over your pucker, even through your fart ("Don't pull off, Laur', just keep licking,” I beg myself, as the warm, fetid odor washes over me.) Fortunately I was between breaths, and I hold what oxygen I have in my lungs for as long as I possibly can before taking a breath with my face buried in your ass. Your anus tastes earthy and a little sweaty tonight as I swirl and lick and draw circles around it with my tongue. When I spear my little tongue inside, it is with a delightful plunging, licking, lip–nibbling sensation that is better than my prior performances. I’ve done this before, and my tongue is getting stronger. With all of the practice I have had I can keep the pleasure going for longer and longer before my strength gives out and I can no longer force my tongue past your anus to enter your rectum. When this happens I have to lick and swirl at your brown puckered hole until I have enough strength to press my tongue back inside your ass. But my mouth never leaves your ass, not for a second. I show enthusiasm and effort and vigor. You should be pleased.

Even when I orgasm, my body quivering, my face hums and moans muffled little whimpers of pleasure directly against your ass, as my tongue continues to worm its way inside your body. I keep going for almost a minute after the egg has done its job before you stand, and turn. It is with wide and tired eyes, and a wet, red mouth and cheeks, that I contemplate your aroused manhood. I have rarely, if ever seen it that hard without somehow being involved in making it cum. I'm hoping it will be a vaginal fuck tonight, because my throat couldn't possibly take any more abuse.

But then, to my shock, you point at the smoothie, tousle my hair, and leave, with a perfunctory good–bye. You were erect as you departed, and I don’t think that’s ever happened before. The only possible explanation for you depriving yourself of a cum is your commitment to start anew with me, to give me another chance to redeem myself. I am amazed at your forbearance and kindness. Indeed, I am incredulous that you would do that for me. I remain there for a while, on my knees, flabbergasted at your generosity, half expecting you to return . . .

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