33. Test Day

Marcus

I check on you well after midnight, after introducing your crush to the 'ups' of life down here. By which time you're sound asleep. I replay the videos, sped up, slowing here and there, but it seems like I have thoroughly exhausted you; you haven't been up to much at all. No wonder, to be honest. I'd have passed out cold myself if I were you. Even on an average day, I'd be sleeping by now, but the MDMA is keeping me wide awake. I haven't used it in years, and it's almost as good as it was the first time around. It definitely affects me a lot, keeping me up in a non–jittery, pleasant, sensual way, the way coffee never possibly could.

I scan your letter to your family. Run a mild diffusion filter, just in the unlikely case the scanner picked up any fingerprints or whatever. I remove the exif data. Change the format from .tiff to .jpg, just to stay safe. Encrypt it. Upload it to a remote secure server, via SSH. Decrypt it. and from there, via a private super–safe proxy and TOR, I email it to your mum and dad, attaching a small note. It's sent from a secure, anonymous e-mail provider -- I created the account just prior to sending the note and cancelled it straight after. The e-mail reads:

If you want to send a message back to your daughter, have the Green Springs Herald publish your response within the next 3 days. You can also pass on the message that RW is alive as well.

Green Springs Herald, a local paper, has several thousand readers. It’s available at many cafés, libraries, and such. Too many people read it to form a decent suspect group. It also happens to be printed the other way away from your town than we currently are; you cannot really get it in the town here. So if the police use it as a lead, it will only lead them astray. I rely on the fact that someone will reprint it, or that it will appear online on tabloid websites. In the worst case, I will wait a fortnight and get the scanned version from the online library archive. So that is sorted. I'm getting tired now, but I know the buzz won't allow me to sleep for a good while longer, so I pour myself more whiskey, and start making a video, a couple of videos, in fact, from the surveillance cameras down here. Kiddie porn starring Laura Vandahl, my own private cock–sucking, ass–licking, deflowered, butt–plugged Dandy tart. With a little clever work with angles, takes, timing, muting sound here and there -- adding music and only letting the words be understood when it’s convenient for my purposes -- I can make you look like a total, willing, eager slut. All a part of my long-term plan.

You’ve not been here all that long, yet, but I already have over a dozen hours of decent hardcore material, most of it from multiple angles. I make sure that the video captures every single orgasm you had since you arrived, mostly focusing on your face as you cum. It makes it seem like you cum a lot, like you really get off on what happens down here. It makes it seem like there is no more innocence to protect or to worry about. I imagine when I force Robbie, horny, a couple of days into forced chastity, to watch these videos over and over and over again, what his response will be when I then take the cock–cage off and just . . . let the two of you interact. What will happen then? Will he rape you? Will he fuck you while you stand? But maybe I'm fantasizing too much here. Maybe he's too much of a good boy ever to lay a finger on you, no matter how much I brainwash him. But then . . . I also thought he'd hate tonight. I smile. I knock back one more shot of whiskey, check that the cells are both closed and locked, with no unusual activity, and I go for a 2:00 a.m. jog.

I come back at 3:00 a.m., sweaty, breathless, sore, and have a long bath before stumbling into the bed, finally falling asleep just before dawn breaks. I promised you a late start tomorrow, and it will be an easy promise to keep. It takes drinking up litres of water, a swim in the lake, a shower, a drastically strong coffee and a sugary breakfast, stroking myself to near–orgasm, and stretching as best as I can, to get myself to look passable. Last night is taking it's toll. I'm not a teenager any more, and amphetamines take stuff out of you when the buzz is over. Magic comes at a cost. As I down a few Paracetamol pills to take an edge off of my headache, I decide first to bring Robbie a decent breakfast with lots of fruit and juice and a few pain-killers, too. I can't have the poor lad feel dumped and forgotten; he's bound to be feeling nearly as shitty as I do at the moment. Perhaps less head–achey and beaten, but with a very sore bottom.

After all of that with activity, I come to you with a smoothie and a tepid chamomile-honey tea even later than I expected to, around 1:00 p.m. At least I don't look so shitty anymore by then. I slide into the cell, give you the food and the drink and look at you with a weak smile.

"How you doin' Laura?" I ask and stroke your hair. "You can put some clothes on, like the onesie or whatever. Easy day, okay? And the bare–butt dress code was only for during the walk." I slip you a piece of paper and a magic marker. "Might be a good idea not to speak,” I advise. “Any special wishes today? Do you have enough lozenges and all that? I also brought you a soothing syrup, with aloe and lime–balm . . .." I put the bottle on your nightstand. I promised today would be an easy day, and while my motivation for not being hyperactive, demanding, and rough is actually almost entirely selfish, it must seem like I am really struggling to stick to my word, and being really, really super–chilled and nice to you. I feel so weird right now that I wouldn’t want a blowjob right now, even if you volunteered one. For once, resisting temptation is a piece of cake, or rather, there is no temptation to resist. That's a first, and I'm gonna make sure to make the very best of it. You don't need to know I'm hungover, having woken up after a night of drug–induced ecstasy and bliss. My mood and slight tension could easily be explained as restraint and holding back, especially now that the pills have kicked in and my head is not killing me any more.

"I thought maybe a nice, long, hot jacuzzi bath might do us both good?" I suggest once you have managed to force down the smoothie and whatever meds you decide to take. Your butt and nipples are now both healed enough to withstand a longer soaking; they sure seem to have not been made any worse by your dip in the lake yesterday. "You can even wait till after the bath to put the plug back in, so you can properly relax without feeling all funny down there. Okay?” I offer kindly. “You don't have to yessir me today, just nod. . . . Am I being nice?" I ask, checking with an eyebrow raised, only really expecting, and then receiving, a nod from you. "Good. Remember this tomorrow when you start serving again."

In the end, I ran us a nice hot bath, and set it to bubble and jet–massage us both. I ask for a bath-time foot massage, emphasising I just want a gentle, hands–on foot massage; you don't need to use your mouth, and when you are done, you can just relax. I don't expect you to go on more than five minutes or so with each foot. At the end, I cock my eyebrow at you playfully and smile a mischievous half–smile.

"What about your feet? Could they do with a rub?" I ask lightly, to assure you it's a question and not a command. It's so easy to be gentle having spent yesterday and a better part of the night emptying my balls over and over again. I'm about as placid as I ever get. It feels good and the upside is, you really have no idea just how much today's tranquillity is really not about you. It's totally effortless to be playing a nice guy just now. On the inside, I feel really fucking smug. This day is a total win–win.

Laura

As you leave my cell, erect and without cumming, I remain on my knees for a few moments despite the pain, half expecting you to return. In the time that I have been here, I have come to understand your moods and needs in various ways, one of which –– perhaps the very best of which –– is the state of your cock. It's actually a very simple equation: If your phallus is erect and hard, you need to cum, and I inevitably will be involved in that process. There is no longer even the slightest doubt in my mind as to my role here.

But not this night. For the first time that I can remember, you exit my cell with your erection bobbing, unsatisfied, unfulfilled. I frankly am astonished that you did not cum. The only possible explanation for your forbearance is your stated desire to start fresh with me, to forgive me my transgressions, to start anew. I continue to contemplate this as I finally rise, wincing, from my aching, abused knees. ("He didn't cum because he knew you were tired, Laur'. He's not trying to be mean unless you act like a brat.")

With these thoughts still rattling around in my mind, I walk gingerly to the little sink and brush my teeth. My throat is killing me, and I am careful not to swallow anything. When I am done rinsing, I take a small sip of water from my cup, confirming that drinking and swallowing are, indeed, very painful for me right now.

I feel completely drained, and I slide into bed with my eyes half–closed already. It has been another long day of captivity and sexual servitude for me, and I am tired. Yet, each day, my private thoughts are less and less about my former life of friends, school, dance, and modeling, and more and more about this, here, and you. Especially you. Serving you. Pleasing you. Surviving you. What you will want from me tomorrow? What you will give me tomorrow? What kind of mood you will be in? What privileges I will be allowed by you? Mostly I think about what it will take for tomorrow to be a good day. I want good days. I covet and crave them. ("He punishes you when you goof up, kiddo. Just concentrate on pleasing him and being good. That's all you have to do.")

Within moments of my head hitting the pillow I am asleep. I sleep hard, a deep, tired 11–year–old girl sleep. If I have any dreams, I don't remember them. Less and less my dreams are about my former life. More and more they are about my life here.

When you enter my cell the next morning I jump out of bed and stand quickly, momentarily forgetting that today is an "off" day. You surprised me by your entry and I look nervous. My doe–like eyes are wide as I stand there, naked and collared, lithe and 11. But you stroke my hair, and speak calmly, soothingly, and reassuringly, reminding me that today is an easy day. ("Oh yeah, right. He promised. An easy day, Laur'. "Don't goof it up, OK?")

I take the pad from you as you encourage me not to speak. I see the soothing syrup, and hear your question about the lozenges. I listen as you mention a warm bath, the onesie, and the fact that the butt plug doesn't have to go in until later. An overwhelming sense of gratitude permeates me. I feel almost emotional. You are keeping your word. I know that I can be an ungrateful little brat sometimes, but this is you being nice and keeping a promise that you made to me. My eyes glisten slightly with the onset of tears, but I manage to suppress them. I take the pad, and write: "Thank you," and look at you with a sincere expression.

The bath feels wonderful. Warm, soothing, cleansing, relaxing. When it comes time for your foot massage I actually am grateful for an opportunity to repay your kindness and generosity. And I would have taken your toes in my mouth, and licked your foot the way you like it, but all you want today is my hands, so I work each foot as best as I can, determined to give you a super–good foot massage. My small, soft hands lack the strength to give a truly good foot massage, but the effort is fully there.

And when it is my turn, I sit back in the water, and offer you my soft little feet, closing my eyes and reveling in your touch.

Marcus

That was a damn good foot massage right there. Somehow, it seems, my subconsciousness has a bit of a nice–guy side to it, too. You don't at all suffer doing this, we're being all cool and nice and what normally would make me wanna “puke rainbows” (an expression I stumbled upon online when something's just too cute, one that totally stuck with me), but it feels gorgeous, actually, properly, seriously gorgeous, and my cock goes half way up as you do it.

I make sure, as you offer me your little feet, to "accidentally" let it flick over my near–erection before I reciprocate, just so you know that I am hard-ish anyway, and easily could demand a blowjob or worse. Instead, I rub your little feet super, super thoroughly and sweetly, as firmly and seriously as I dare without worrying about causing an unpleasant level of pain, though I make it hurt a little, a tiny bit, the sort of hurt that does not yet make you wish the stimulation would stop, but just leaves you fully focused and present and perhaps a little wary -- the satisfied, dull, almost-pleasant kind of painful. I'm damn good with a thousand-and-one sorts of pain, so even this, even with you, a sensitive and relatively recently badly punished girl, I can find and stick to this line of juuust painful enough, but not too much. It takes some effort and concentration; it means I have to stick to your flow, and it means that I have to hold back, but I manage. It feels important to do it. You need the odd nice moment to counter all the pain and suffering, to have something to strive and work for.

I do both of your feet, each heel, each toe, each nook and cranny, every side and line and arch and whatever else I find. I even kiss and gently bite your toes – again, hard enough to be more than a playful nibble, but not truly painful, more like an implicit promise of pain -- before I let go. I then relax for a while and when I pull the plug and turn on the shower, I reveal yet another full erection that you will not have to deal with.

I rinse both of us off, and dry you with a fuzzy towel. I let you slip into your onesie and lead you to the bedroom. Not to your cell, but to the bedroom with the king–sized bed, for cuddles and a movie. It’s my choice this time, and I pick “The Labyrinth,” with David Bowie. An old movie, but a good one. When it's over, I fetch you another big bottle of smoothie stuff -- nutritious but as painless to swallow as it gets -- and lead you back to your cell and make you sit down cross-legged before taking each one of your small palms and five little fingers in one of my large, strong hands. I hold your hands firmly, and look into your eyes and ask you to do the same as I speak.

"You can have the syrup. More smoothie. Gargle the chamomile. Rest. Sleep. Whatever. Today is your day off, as promised. You had the day off so you can heal,” I explain, before continuing. “I think it's the last one like that for a long while. There will still be good days, nice days, I hope, but none effortless, none without you contributing to them being nice. None without pleasing me,” I add. I pause for a moment. “And tomorrow, tomorrow will be a test. I will test your obedience. I really will. I will see if you really try to please me even when it's not all obvious and easy and effortless. I will test you. And if you fail, I will punish you. And it might not all be nice, and might not all feel easy, or even fair. But you will be tested, and given a GOOD chance of succeeding. After all, we both know, I want you to please and pleasure me, why would I want otherwise? And if you do, it can still be a good day. Perhaps a bit tiring, but good. Good, Laura. Do we have an understanding?" I ask and all I expect is a nod, all I really permit is a nod.

I stroke your hair gently. Kiss your brow. And leave you. I need a release, but I have other ways of getting my rocks off now, only a few steps away. Not that you know. Not that you have any idea that neither one of my "passed up" erections got wasted. And you will not know for a wee bit more.

I hope you did go to sleep early as commanded, because if you did not . . . if you did not then this, my little pet, will be a H E L L of a day.

I wake you up at six am with no warning whatsoever. I march into the cell, tear you blanket of off you, grab you under your throat and command. “Piss yourself. NOW!!!"

I hold you under your throat, ready to actually choke you a bit, to cut off your air supply if that's what I need to do to fully wake you up and to force you into obedience. I clamp my hand over your throat and simply hold it until there's a wet patch on your onesie. I toss a HUGE bottle of the nutritious smoothie and another bottle, of weak, cold chamomile tea, onto the bed.

"Eat up. Drink up. Every last bit, every last drop. Stay in the bed. Keep the onesie on. Stay in the bed until I come and get you. And Laura?" I toss a size–five plug to you and a tube of lube. "Do whatever you like with this. Toss it away if you will. But I will fuck your ass at some point today. Whether you're prepared, or not."

And with that, I leave you be for another four hours of eating, drinking, lying nervous and afraid in a wet bed, and more than just likely wetting it repeatedly, if not worse, given the stuff you have just been given to eat and drink.

Today is a test day. A trial. And you will not pass easily. My mercy, abundant as it was yesterday, seems all dried up all of a sudden. Whoosh. Gone.

Laura

I see your semi–hard erection as we switch positions, right before my own foot massage begins. I am so accustomed to taking my cues from your cock. If it’s hard, I will be called upon to make it cum. It’s as simple as that. Except, you’ve been forbearing for the last couple days. Sparing me. Allowing me to rest. I am grateful. I don’t understand exactly. But I’m grateful nonetheless. You are delaying your pleasure to allow me to heal. I didn’t expect that. I’m surprised and grateful.

I feel your cock as my feet touch it. And then my foot massage begins. It feels good at first, really good. Your hands are firm and strong and they work my little feet all over, everywhere. But you’re pressing just a tiny bit too hard. It kinda hurts a little bit. But I have no real way to tell you this. I think that you think I like it. And I do. Except for – oww, right there – where you’re doing it a little too hard. But there’s no real way for me to tell you it hurts, other than my tiny grimaces and a little body English. And when you’re biting my toes, I’m a little scared, ‘cause it hurts a bit more and it’s right on the edge of really hurting.

When you dry me off and I climb into my onesie I’m not sure what is going to happen. Your cock is fully hard now (“He’s gonna need to cum, girlfriend. You know it,” I tell myself.) When we head to the bedroom, I’m expecting some kind of sex stuff, but instead it’s a movie and a snuggle. I didn’t like the movie at first, but it got better. The snuggling was nice. Both of us fresh and clean. You are so big and warm when we snuggle. And I’m pretty sure by now that you were going to keep your word and not have me make you cum.

Back at my cell, I can tell that my day off is nearly at an end even before you sit down across from me and take my hands in yours. I look into eyes. A test? What kind of test? Before this all happened a test was something I took in school, with paper and a pen or pencil. But here, in this place, tests are different. Physical. Sexual. Unpleasant.

I want to ask you about the test. Anything. Something. So that I can plan and prepare for it. But you provide no information, and neither ask me to speak nor provide me with the pad to write on. It will be a test. Of unknown dimensions. And I have a chance of succeeding, but if I fail I’ll be punished. I don’t like being punished. But I wish I knew what kind of test it will be.

It’s an obedience test. I know that much. A test about pleasing you, showing effort. I know that it was my lack of effort at pleasing you that got me in trouble before. I paid the wages of my lack of effort down at the pond, and my mouth and jaw and knees still hurt from that mistake. You were so mad at me. And you had every right to be. I didn’t give a good effort when I gave you your suck the night before. You came, and I swallowed, but I was feeling sullen and put upon, and you must have noticed. You did notice. It won’t happen again. I don’t like being punished.

The thing is, though, I’m not really tired. I’ve had a light day. Rested. Slept a lot. Didn’t do anything tiring or physical. Not even sex stuff. So I stay up a bit. Later than I should. Reading on my Kindle. I don’t feel tired at all. I finish my smoothie, and my throat is feeling better. I can swallow now without wincing. I gargle the chamomile right before I brush my teeth. Then some more reading. It’s 11:00 p.m. before I set the Kindle down, and a bit longer before I drift off to sleep, thinking about tomorrow, my test, a test of obedience . . .

Tomorrow comes soon. Sooner than I expected. I hear a rustle as the door swishes open and you stride into my cell; my blanket is torn from me and your hand is around my throat before I am even fully awake. Sleepy, terrified eyes look up at you as you command me to wet myself. You scared me nearly to death. Wet myself? Here? In my bed? I can’t do that on command! Not with your hand around my neck! It won’t come out – even though I have to go. But then – thank God – it does. And I’ve never been so glad to have an accident, to pee myself. My onesie wets through. I am shaking in terror. The kind, warm man I snuggled with last night is gone.

And then, suddenly, you are gone. I am left with the lube and the tea, the smoothie and the plug. And I am left shaking. Shaking and wet and with both my onesie and the bed getting cold. My heart is racing. Waking up like that scared the life out of me. And worse, You are in a bad mood. A scary mood. Mad. Like the beach. And you’re going to fuck me in my butt. Today. I’m scared. I’m dreading today. Really dreading it.

I set about to drink the smoothie and the tea. I have no idea when you’re coming back, but I know that they had better be finished before you do. It’s a struggle. The smoothie is huge. I drink and drink and drink. I drink some tea. Then back to the smoothie. You could return any moment. But if I drink any faster I could throw up. My bed is wet, my onesie cold. But you said to stay in bed and keep the onesie on. There is no chance I will disobey. Disobedience leads to punishment. I don’t like to be punished. Not at all.

I manage to finish everything within about 25 minutes. Forcing it down. When I am finished my tummy is bloated and I feel full. And then the wait begins. I am sure that you will be back soon, but you’re not. I know you can see what I do. I know that you know that I’m finished.

And then it dawns on me – the plug. The size five. The really big one. The one I need for your cock. I spend the better part of the next two hours trying to find a way to coax it into my little chute. With the onesie all but off, down around my knees and ankles, I try pushing it in, sitting on it, forcing it. I use a lot of lube. My hands are slick with it. The plug is slick with it. There is lube all over the bed. I wince and groan and turn red–faced with effort. I want to be prepared. I want to obey. This is part of my test (“He said you could toss it away, Laur’. It’s not part of the test,” I remind myself.)

But it’s hopeless. I can’t get it in. It won’t go. The laws of physics are at play here. My anus is 11 years old. It’s small and tight. The plug is massive. Even lubed, it won’t go in my rectum without considerable pain. Tear–inducing, jaw–clenching pain. And I’m a little girl. I don’t like pain. Not at all. Hate it, in fact. And so I try, and I try some more, to find an easier, less–painful way. But there is none. The plug will not enter without pain. After a long effort, I give up. I don’t toss it away, but the glistening plug lies unused on the bed next to the depleted tube of lube.

And still you don’t return. I have to pee – bad. And I would have debated violating your instruction to stay in bed – calculating, perhaps accurately, that you didn’t want me to wet myself. Except that you DID make me wet myself. I am wet. So I pee myself again. Feeling awful. And dirty. And scared. I wet myself three more times before you return. And when you do, I am a cold, wet, defeated, scared, chagrinned little girl, who knows, simply KNOWS, that she is going to be in for a very long day.

Marcus

I spend the four hours rather . . . productively. Actively, anyway. I put on warm thermal underwear, woollen socks, heavy boots, and go for a hike, walking at a near–jogging pace most of the time I'm out, a better part of the four hours I leave you to stew, and wet yourself, and wet yourself again. And again. I'm sweaty and musky even with my clothes and boots still on as I enter your cell, it must be clear that I'm sweaty, and more than a little smelly. I haven't washed in any way since bathing with you yesterday afternoon.

I briefly check the cameras at high speed to make sure you obeyed and did not leave the bed. I'm pleased to see you got that I meant the command literally and never even laid a toe on the floor. Good girl. Good start. You struggle to plug your ass with the size five. It’s about seven inches long and rather bulky, and what you do with it looks hilarious at fast speed. I watch it for a while even slow it down to normal size a few times. You really tried. You really did. Too bad you failed. You're in for a very painful experience, later, because unlike you, I will not stop pushing when it hurts, even if it hurts A LOT.

It's 10:00 a.m. when I walk into your cell again, and I stretch and crack my neck by tilting it left and right and rotating my head slowly. I stretch like I'm about to race or something. I have a bag with some stuff with me, mostly plastic bottles with dark-brown liquid, looking a little like Coca-Cola. They are actually strong, sugary infusions of caffeine, guarana, theobromine, taurin and such, the kind of stuff that Europeans put into extra-strong energy drinks, but that's mostly illegal on this side of the pond. I look at you seriously.

You look kind of beat and we haven't even started yet. I make sure you notice the threat in my disapproving glance at seeing you looking so miserable, unhappy, and feeling sorry for yourself, even if you have every right to be all those things and more already, and even if we both know that there's more coming. That early-in-the-morning-up was just a "teaser," a provisional taste of things to come.

"If at any point today you start feeling dizzy, woozy, weak, vision blurring, anything like that, you will tell me immediately, no matter what we are doing, you'll even try to communicate it if your mouth is gagged or full of cock and I'll give you a drink of these to keep you up and about,” I command. “If you fail to please me or to obey smoothly, you'll get a whole lot of nasty punishments for it. But if you pass out on me, if you faint, you'll wake up to so much pain I swear you'll wish for me to kill you, wish that you were never ever even born. No passing out. Are we CRYSTAL clear on that one?" I ask, my voice deep and rumbling. The way I'm serious about it must be hair-raising; being told you'll be pushed to such extremes that you might pass out but you aren't allowed to . . . must be freaky even without the threat that I connect to it. But I do, I'm not kidding, either. I demand your full and conscious attention and devotion.

"Remember what you got punished for last time. Obeying a command with hesitation, a sour face, and clearly a poor spirit. Just to do the minimum that you think is required is almost equally as bad as disobeying,” I explain. “I want to see an eagerness, enthusiasm, so find them, show them . . . or passably fake them – faking liking stuff is a part of being my whore and my sex slave down here, and it counts as much as really liking it. But if I ever ask you how you are actually doing, you have to speak the truth. Otherwise, you can be eager and enthusiastic, or you can pretend to be, as long as you do a good job of it, and show some determination to please and do your best.”

There isn't much more to say. I start to undress. My aroma fills the air in your cell. Quite strong, a bit sharp. Not as rancid as when I didn't wash for three days before, to push you early on, but in a more musky, manly, Übermensch sort of way. I keep undressing and even pull my pants and underwear down to my ankles to give you a good whiff of the muskiest, most feral area of my cock and balls that now really emanate "Eau De Real Man" I then take of the heavy boots and the woollen socks underneath and pull off the rest of my clothing. The sharp, sour stench of my very sweaty feet and toes fills the air. They are slick with the remnants of lots and lots of cold sweat, slimy with it, and they are slightly hairy, not with my own hair but with little hairs that stuck to the clammy, sticky skin from the dark socks.

Normally, I don't really go for very dirty, and normally, I also make sure you are clean and little-girlie and nice almost all the time, apart from brief patches of post-coital or post-punishment messiness. Today is not a normal day. I reach into your hair and grip it at the back of your head, tilting your head so you are looking into my eyes. My other hand zips up your onesie right up to your neck, to make sure that you know I want you in your smelly, soggy clothes and I want you to keep them on.

"You will now tongue-bathe and mouth–wash my feet. Ankles down, both of them, extra–thoroughly. You will NOT pause for a breath. Not once. In fact you will make sure I can feel the air coming in and out of your little nose tickling my skin.” With that I guide you by pulling at your hair to get of off the bed, down on the floor, while I sit and lean back at the dry end of the bed, and stretch my smelly slimy feet out sighing relaxedly. Today, we're playing dirty. And that's still just the test. One has to wonder what a punishment will be like if at any point you actually don't perform to my satisfaction and fail to please.

Laura

I can tell that this is going to be a very long day. You told me it would be. You warned me. I got the day off yesterday, unexpectedly, and it was rejuvenating. Slow even. I stayed up late. I shouldn't have. I know that now.

There's something about you, and your demeanor, as you re–enter my cell. You're calm, and serious. Ominously, you're giving me all sorts of warnings about what lies ahead. Like I might pass out. Why would I pass out? What would you do to me that is so horrible on this Day of Tests that would make me pass out? I don't know. And the thing is, I don't think I want to know.

I have no idea what you brought with you, but I'm supposed to tell you if I feel like passing out. Great. Now I have to anticipate that I might pass out, so that you can give me something to prevent it from happening. And if I fail . . . well, you've promised me a punishment. A bad punishment. I vow not to pass out. I won't. I don't want to be punished.

I sense a change in you today. You are different somehow. More ominous. Above all else, I don't want to mess with you today. Eagerness will be my mantra. Instant obedience. I will pass the test. I am not interested in failing, in appearing disinterested, and especially not in being punished. You said that I would have a fair chance of passing the test. I vow to myself to pass it.

I can smell you as you take your clothes off. You look all sweaty and yucky. Your clothes are wet with sweat. I know that I will be up close and personal with you and your sweat. Today is not an off day. It is a test day. A sex day. A do-it-in-my-butt day. But it's going to start with your sweat and musk.

As you pull my hair back I try to look neutral. I don't want you to see any signs of disobedience or hesitation in my eyes or my expression. There is not a shred of doubt in my young mind that today is not the day to be anything other than a very well–behaved girl. And that's what I'm going to be.

As you guide me down by my hair, I respond with a "Yes, sir," and breathe through my mouth so I won't have to inhale the scent of your sweaty feet. I kneel before you on the floor, and immediately press my face to your left foot. My mouth opens. My soft, pink tongue comes out, and I begin to lick your nasty, sweaty foot. I start at your ankle, licking, tasting, cleaning, as I work around, tilting my head this way and that. The taste is bad, but the knowledge of what I am tasting –– hot, smelly, sweaty man feet –– makes it even worse. Still, I lick and lap with vigor, even eagerness, not wanting to fail the test, not wanting to be called out for disinterest or lack of effort. I will clean your feet. I will pass the test. I will not fail or pass out or give you any reason to punish me.

I wipe my hair out of my eyes and swing it back behind my head –– a now–familiar motion as I bend to a task involving my mouth. I continually re-wet my tongue as I press my face to your foot, never once losing contact as I bathe from your ankle to the top of your foot. I work your toes carefully and completely, Running my tongue between them as you helpfully flex them apart. I take each toe in my soft little mouth, delivering a toe–job with several cleansing bobs on each toe.

Then onto the bottom of your foot, stooping, bending, and angling my face down to clean the soles of my master's foot. I look young and cute in my sodden onesie. Performing. Showing effort. I know that today will be hard. I will take it one task at a time.

Marcus

I only manage to stay reclined for a little while, I'm too tempted to watch your tongue dance on my feet so I prop myself up on my elbows and watch. Damn, I can smell my feet and it's not very nice at all, and I'm my whole body's length away and they are my own feet. It must be quite a challenge down there.

It's weird, I bet most people, most normal people totally wouldn't get this, but my cock turns painfully hard, the sort of really, seriously hard that actually refuses so bend or move much, pointing firmly upwards with very little pliancy. And it's all from feeling and seeing you down on the floor, on your knees, face against my feet, tongue sliding and gliding over the sweaty skin, pushing into the gaps between toes, swirling around as you suck on each toe. It's incredibly erotic. And it's intensified and multiplied because I know my feet are gross and smelly, and I know you are getting lots and lots of aroma and taste, both of which you hate. I know it's gross and demeaning and hard for you, and that makes an act that would otherwise just be nice and enjoyable truly epic. It's that awareness, that knowledge that makes shivers run up my spine and makes my cock twitch almost as if it was my crotch, my sensitive pucker or my balls and the dick itself that you were "working" on. I let you take your time, I'm enjoying this and in no hurry to announce that it is over. Girl, you're in for so much today; and it's gonna be great fun for me either way. Either you will surprise me with the extreme intensity and quality of your obedience and effort, which would be... glorious, delicious and amazing, or I will have just as much fun punishing the hell out of you. Taking my time and letting my sadistic imagination run wild and indulge. I'm sorry, girl, but today it's a win–win day for me, and pretty much a lose–lose day for you. You will either do horrible stuff that will be almost as bad as being punished, or you will have things done to you that will make you regret not pushing yourself into those extremes willingly while you had the option.

Finally, it's just too much effort to stay up and watch so I relax and lie down on the bed, close my eyes and just enjoy the sensation and the level of perversity of this situation. I let you do my other foot while I almost doze, just floating on the warm, fuzzy waves of indulgence. Every muscle in my body soft and limp, cheeks slightly flushed, I'm warm – I have cranked the heating in the whole dungeon up a few degrees for the day – and sweating anew; there's more flavour, more to clean up even as you work on the feet, this could go on for hours, until I got dehydrated, or finally bored with it.

In my head, I'm trying to count the days since I brought you here. Apart from the first two or three where we were at a sort of impasse, I've kept you cumming every day, multiple times on most days. Has that been enough of a taste for you to start missing it if I took that privilege from you now? I don't quite think so, but I can give it a small test and see. I'm briefly tempted to let you go on with my ass, cock, armpits... but simple worship is just so predictable, and I can always make use of your mouth later, when you will be genuinely grateful to be "resting" and only doing something as easy as rimming my sweaty pucker.

And so, once finished with my other foot, I guide you into the bathroom. I have an outfit for you, made of fairly thick latex as the inner layer, and patches and stripes of PVC on top. It has all sorts of rings and straps which make it a bondage device in itself. I don't even command it, I unzip your piss–dampened onesie and let it fall off you, and start helping you into it, expecting you to be compliant and helpful. It takes a while and a good hand of talcum powder to get you in. The overall covers the whole of you, and only reveals the lower half of your face, nose barely poking out, mouth showing.

I use the straps and several extra leather binds to lock you in a kneeling position next to the urinal, your butt on your heels, face slightly upwards. You cannot see. Your world obscured by the plastic hood sounds muffled. I cuff your wrists to your thighs. Plug in the suit’s sensors to a computer, and activate the vibrating pad over your pussy briefly. "If you have your fists clenched, the buzzing will go on. I want you to take as much of it as you can. But you are not allowed to cum. If you get very near, and you know the feeling well enough by now, you stretch your palms out and that will stop the buzz. Cumming without permission would be a big punishment, no need to remind you of that, right?" I then pop hooks to hold the corners of your mouth uncomfortably wide apart, slide plastic tubes up your nose – you cannot see but they are hollow tubes attached to the outlet of the urinal – and make the last announcement.

"You are now my singing urinal. When I take a piss, it will go into these tubes," I tap your cute little nose. "And spray up your nose and trickle down your throat. And while that is happening, you will do your very best to sing for me, some cheerful, happy melodies," I announce with satisfaction. This test of obedience is now fully set up. I turn the buzzer on, and the pad neatly, tightly pressed against your pussy starts to hum.

What you don't know is that the suit won't allow you to cum. It measures muscle tension and nerve activity near your pussy, and will turn the pad off by itself when you are literally right on the very verge of cumming, less than a second away. A light will come on, green if you were just opening your palms to stop it yourself, red if you had them clenched still and would have failed. But either way, you don't get to cum -- reasonably reliably.

I let the system run for a while, just long enough for you to start squirming in there, and realise that you will soon have to open your palms to stop it from forcing you over the edge, or so you'd think. But before that happens, I give you the first taste of what it feels like being my singing urinal. It takes a lot of willpower and most of that time that you are getting aroused to get my raging erection to decrease to a slightly softer, even though still large and mostly upright state, soft enough to allow piss through painlessly, and I take a piss into the urinal. The piss, still warm, flows down and into the tubes, and because the outlets are way lower than the beginnings of the tubes, it sprays quite quickly and intensively right up your nose. And with no warning, too. With the hood on, you cannot hear as soft a sound as piss gurgling against the solid ceramic urinal. If you did, you could perhaps have taken a deep breath or something, but that would have been about it, anyway.

I immobilised you well into this contraption in which you are bound in my service and for my amusement in a situation that very likely feels like a punishment already. I don't go easy on you, either, I empty the whole of my bladder all in one go. I know that the way the tubes are angled, you're extremely unlikely to drown on the stuff. It just trickles down the back of your throat making you feel like you are drowning, without actually getting into your lungs. Nonetheless, to even attempt to sing means going against all instincts and body's natural reflexes.

Laura

I work hard, licking and sucking and cleaning your feet. It's gross. Horribly gross. To think that not all that long ago I was just a young girl, 11 years old, in the 5th grade, enjoying the kinds of things that all little girls like, plus my modeling career, which was kind of different and special. But mostly I just did girl things, and acted girlishly, spoke in a girlish way, and had cute little middle–school girl friends that I talked to and played with. Two weeks later and I am on my hands and knees, on the floor of the cell that I call home, dressed in a full–body onesie–type outfit, marinating in my own pee. Worse, I am licking and sucking –– no, making oral love to –– your feet. Worst of all, your feet are dirty, sweaty, and smelly. I can taste the sweat, sweet and pungent and almost vinegary.

My mouth is getting tired. I'm hot. My face is red and sweaty and slimy. But I dare not lift my head away from your feet for a second. In fact, I'm so worried about this that I'm not exactly sure how I am going to switch feet when I finally get this one all–over clean. I resolve to do it fast, so my face is out of contact for only the shortest of split seconds. But I'm not done with your left foot, yet. Despite my aching and dry tongue, I continue to rewet and lick, rewet and suck, rewet and clean. I go over some spots twice, even three times. I want to show enthusiasm and eagerness. I want to pass the test. It's Test Day, and I really want to pass. In the 5th grade, if I don't pass, I get talked to, maybe chastised, and possibly grounded. Here, in this place, I get punished, maybe tortured. I want to avoid that. With every fiber of my being I want to avoid pain.

("Just concentrate, Laur', lick and clean, lick and clean, lick and clean," I remind myself.) It's going to be a long day. It's so darn hot in here, in my onesie. I must be working hard; either that or you turned the heat up, or both. I can't understand why you like being like this, all hot and sweaty –– why you don't just take a shower? ("Maybe you are his shower, girlfriend. Or at least the bath. Did you ever thing of that, hmmm?" I ask myself). I hadn't thought of that. Not until just now, anyway. Could you be deliberately getting all sweaty just to make me clean you? With my mouth? Oh, gross! Awful! Disgusting! But I can't do a thing about it. Nothing. I fact, I have to pretend I am eager, and enthusiastic.

So I suckle and nuzzle and lick and mouth and clean your left foot. I spend 20 minutes on it. 20 endless minutes until every single speck of it is covered in my saliva. Not a single sock hair remains. Every single smudge of sweat has been tongued away. I have cleaned between your toes, and the soles of your feet. Your foot is, actually, quite clean. It is time for the switch. I lick to the inside of your foot, and move to the right foot –– only to be greeted by the same pungent, nasty, sweaty–old–man foot scent and taste. The only slight saving grace is that your right foot is not as damp and clammy as your left was when I first started. It's been air–drying for 20 minutes now. The sweat is vaguely damp, more like a dry rub on your foot.

I am perspiring now, my own body feels damp and clammy and yucky and disgusting in the onesie. I wish I were naked. ("How weird is that, Laur'? You actually want to be naked in front of him.") At least if I were naked I wouldn't be so hot. And I would be rid of the clammy, pee–wet onesie. But I can't take it off, not without breaking face contact with your smelly foot, and not without violating just about every instruction you've given me today. So it stays on, and I stay at the task of licking and sucking and cleansing and mouthing your foot, ridding of it of sweat and woolen sock hairs. I drag my preteen tongue up and down the top of your foot, bathing it, washing it, making sure to clean every bit of surface. I take your big toe in my mouth and give it a mini toe–job, cleaning and swirling with my tongue. Next I wash in between the big toe and the second, my little tongue worming around, kitten–like, cleaning and bathing. And on and on. One toe at a time, one gap at a time.

And finally –– finally –– it is over. I stand. My mouth is dry, and aching, as you lead me into the bathroom. I am thrilled to be rid of the onesie. In the time I have been here I have completely lost the nudity taboo around you, and it doesn't even dawn on me to be bashful –– or even that it is anything out of the ordinary –– for me, an 11–year–old middle–schooler, to strip stark naked in front of you. We're both naked all the time down here. It makes no difference to me now.

I don't like the urinal suit from the first moment I lay eyes on it. ("Where does he get this stuff?" I wonder. "Does he make it? Does he buy it? Who would sell stuff like this?") I immediately dislike the suit because I am at least mildly claustrophobic –– I don't like tight spaces or constricting clothes. Even multiple layers of clothes sometimes make me feel hot and constricted. When my Aunt Martha (actually she was my Great Aunt) died a couple of years ago, I went to the wake and saw her coffin. For several months afterwards, I had nightmares about being enclosed in a coffin, buried, alive, unable to breathe or escape. Mummies scare me. Not because they're mummies and dead and all that, but because they're all wrapped up and unable to move and they put them in those sarcophagus things –– it makes me shudder. I do shudder. Perhaps you saw it.

But today is Test Day. And I am getting in that suit whether I want to or not. And it doesn't look that bad –– mostly, it just looks like it will be hot. Very hot. It's so darn hot in here today! I actively help to get into the suit. I'm going to pass all of my tests today. I won't fail. I don't want to be punished. But the hood part is awful. Constricting. It cuts off my sight and most sounds. ("Don't panic, Laur'. You saw the rest of the suit. He's not putting you in a coffin or anything. Just stay calm," I admonish myself.) It's hard, but I do manage to stay calm, even as you secure me into position. At least I am upright, kneeling. The last time you did this (I shudder with the memory) was in that horrible chair. The mouth–open toilet chair, with the hair ties all around it. When you . . . you . . . pooped in my mouth, and I panicked, and threw up, and couldn't breathe. . . . The memory of that horrible, awful, terrible day, that ordeal, sets my heart racing again. That was the worst day since I was brought here. Or was it? There was the caning day, and then there was the day at the pond, crawling back after being brutally mouthfucked. That day pretty much sucked. And so did the way you caught me lying. So many days.

Finally I am strapped in the suit and positioned. Then the buzzing starts, right on my privates. And you explain about my hands and fists. It feels good, but I won't cum. No way. I like organisms, but not enough to defy you. I'll take some, but if I feel the tingle, I'm gonna unclench my fists way before I cum. Way before. And then –– oh no! ewww! yuck! –– you press tubes up my nose. That is the weirdest, most awfulest feeling. They're like –– back there. In my throat. And you're gonna pee into me that way? ("It's better than Him pooping in your mouth, Laur'. You drink his pee all the time. Just swallow as fast as you can and don't throw up, like always, 'kay?" I encourage myself).

But nothing happens. For a while. And that buzzing thing in the suit –– I hate the way you can make my body react that way. I know it turns you on to make me cum, and I resent that. But it feels good. It takes my mind off the "Singing Urinal" stuff. I don't even know what a urinal is exactly but I think it's one of those things the boys use in their bathrooms. At least I know what the tubes are for. I am about to unclench my hands when I taste your pee flowing into my throat. Directly into my throat. Like a bad nasal drip. Warm, raw, pungent. I swallow, but I almost don't have to. ("Sing! Sing, Laur! Oh God, you're 'sposed to sing!" I remind myself urgently.)

I try to sing. The first song pops into my mind. "Baby" by Justin. One of my favorites. It's almost sacrilege to try to sing that song here, like this, in the bathroom, on the floor, as you pee into my throat through my nose. But somehow, in fits and gasping starts, my young voice tiny and untrained, nervous and meek and distressed, I sing. I sing Justin for you. To you:

Oh Whoa

Oh Whoa

Oh Whoa

You know you love me, I know you care

Just shout whenever, and I'll be there

You are my love, you are my heart

And we will never, ever, ever be apart

Are we an item? Girl, quit playing

"Were just friends," what are you saying

Said "there's another," and looked right in my eyes

My first love broke my heart for the first time

I manage to gasp the lyrics to you, vaguely melodically, unaware of the actual words but partly aware of the message of the song, as you feed me your urine. I'm an 11–year–old singing (actually gasping) urinal. Your urinal. Singing a love song to you, lyrics courtesy of Justin Biebs.

Marcus

I laugh, in a smirking, ironic sort of way. The staggering irony of you singing a JB love song to me, especially "And we will never, ever, ever be apart . . ." while I piss and let it spray from the tubes into the back of your nasal cavities and trickle down your throat, causing a slightly nauseating and potentially panic–triggering sensation to totally overwhelm you, is not lost on me. It is the fact that the situation is hilarious and a bit absurd that keeps me laughing, mostly silently so you cannot tell, and prevents my cock from getting too hard to empty my bladder. I shake it out, squat down and rub the tip over your forcefully open lips until you get the message and stick out your tongue to clean the remnants and get a taste of very musky, salty, sweaty cock before I straighten up.

I turn the intensity of the buzzing all the way up, so far up and intense in fact that most girls would cum from it in mere two or three minutes, if it just went on. Only, as I mentioned before, this one does not. When you stretch out your palms, or even when you don't and get too near, it stops dead for fifteen seconds before resuming, and then depending on how long it takes you to another edge, it pauses for a bit longer (if it was straight away), for fifteen seconds again (if it took over a minute) or for less, mere ten seconds, if it takes the whole two minutes or more to get you to another edge. Point is, this devilish device can force a girl to the very brink of an orgasm a large amount of times in a fairly short span of time. If everything goes as expected, you could be near a release and denied it as many as ten times within the next quarter of an hour or so.

Which is precisely as long as I give you. I rush to the kitchenette to get myself a big bottle of water, a coffee and a large (0.5 litre) can of beer and then return, sit on the edge of the large bath tub and watch you and I drink, lots and lots and lots and lots. I also have a small snack, a few pickled sticks of asparagus. Just for extra fun; if I'm diluting my piss, I at least want to give its taste and aroma an edge of some sort, and asparagus will quite reliably provide that.

I sit and I watch. I bet you'll be surprised how short a reprieve stretching your palms out earns you, and that the torture goes straight on. I can also disable your ability to disconnect the circuit altogether, should you try and go too easy on yourself, but even if you do do cut yourself off from more buzzing soon, and not right on the edge, your arousal and frustration are still bound to grow with each new way of intense, clit–focused buzzing that you have no way of avoiding.

I force the whole bottle of water down, drink up the coffee and sit there, sipping at my beer, ready to use other tricks to make myself need to go sooner, like pouring some cold water over my feet, should that be necessary, but I have to say that seeing you immobilised, struggling with such intense arousal, wave after wave with no relief, belly full of piss, face red as the thick latex and plastic suit clearly is too hot and marinates you in your own juices, is so perfect I'm nowhere near getting bored.

I could sit here for a long, long time. My feet feel heavenly, they still echo with the sensation–memory of your thorough, eager licks. Heck I can't even smell my feet, which after how well I made sure they would be stinky and gross is a small miracle. You couldn't possibly have been more thorough. I'm hard now again, from thinking about that, and from watching you in your current predicament. I prepare a set of enemas anyway. I want your pucker as clean as a pussy, germ–free, safe, better–than–real–life for fucking. And I can, of course. Because I can do things to you that no consenting girl would ever remain consenting to once they started happening. A multitude, plenitude of enema rounds, including an antiseptic and a fragrant one, until your ass is nothing but a pure, pink, tube closed of by the sweetly scented rose of your pucker, delicious and fuckable, ripe for plucking. I mean fucking.

Step by step, I intend to drive you nuts today. You are a very fearful girl, determined to please, and rightfully so, but you haven’t been here all that long. It's not like your personality is totally, in–depth re–programmed. You will lash out or fuck up at some point. And there will be the "oh fuck" moment which I will let you stew in . . . and then we'll go from testing to punishing. That's the plan, of course there's the unlikely option you really will succeed, despite my efforts and despite all odds. But my thoughts, sitting here watching you kneeling and writhing in a near–orgasmic state, are getting way too ahead of myself. It's step by step. Just now, you are still my singing urinal.

But just now, you're getting a first serious taste of what it is like to be sexually frustrated beyond what I could realistically achieve manually. The pad in the suit is in fact one of the most expensive toys in the whole dungeon; custom made in Japan, something not yet obtainable by normal, legal means and something that cost me a bloody fortune. Also something that was worth every damn cent of its price if you ask me.

I can see where you stretch your palms, in fact there is a digital counter attached. Gosh girl! Don’t hurt your fingers. You seem to be really really trying to stretch your fingers apart, and hold them that way now, only to realise that the buzzing resumes anyway, and you have to clench firmly and hold a bit before you can turn the thingie off for another short moment. For a moment, I'm biting my hand not to be guffawing in torrential laughter, glad that you can't see me, red–faced and tears of mirth in the corners of my eyes, because as you are figuring the functionalities of the suit and the pad out, you momentarily look like an Angry Bird, flapping your palms, trapped and clumsy looking and it's just so fucking hilarious! I don't even know why I'm hiding my laughter from you, mockery would also be a form of torture and it would surely piss you off and hurt you, but somehow it would also take an edge of seriousness of off today and I don't want that.

I'm a bastard. I want you edged ten times, that should create a pretty extreme state of horniness and frustration, but as we get near the mark, I'm tempted to just go on, to just make you fail. To wait till the control light goes red, till you don't stretch your palms in time once. But no, no, no. Let's let you think you're doing well. It will be all the more fun to crush your hopes later. After ten edges, a few more cycles than that because you stretched your hands way too soon a few times there, I finally turn the pad of. So you still had a fair chance to succeed. I'll check the light later (green – managed to stop herself, red – did it too late at least once). Right now the huge amount of liquid I chugged down had made it's rapid way through my system and is pressing on my bladder again. It takes a few painful flicks to the tip of my cock and staring into the ceiling multiplying, dividing and so on till my cock deflates to a pissing–friendly state. I approach the urinal and take another piss. My urine is almost transparent, it will barely register as salty I bet, but the aroma – and I bet also the slightly acrid and bitter taste that asparagus gives it – is unmistakably there. I smile smugly. I'm such a clever bastard. Evil bastard. Cleverly evil bastard.

Once more my cock is presented for a clean up, and then I check the result of this test and start to untie you from the binds, releasing your from the suit. I can't wait to see your expression. I don't think I've really seen you very needy or frustrated by more than one briefly denied orgasm, so I'm in for a whole new treat. I can't wait.

Laura

I manage to swallow all of your pee and to sing –– gasping, mostly intoning the lyrics –– as you finish. I'm not going to fail at this. Not today. Not on Test Day. When your cock presents itself to me for cleaning I get it, and open my mouth, and take it inside, and swirl and clean your bulbous, soft head. I rarely have your flaccid cock in my mouth. It feels different flaccid –– more like a squishy worm or something. I clean it off, tasting the musky sweatiness of it. But I clean it willingly. Even eagerly. I'm not going to give you any reason to punish me. Not today. Not on Test Day. I plan to pass.

I hate the suit. I can't figure it out. First of all, the buzzing pad at my privates is devilishly good at what it is designed to do. It is buzzing and pleasuring me in precisely the right way at precisely the right spot. But I can't figure out exactly how the clenching/unclenching thing works. At least you're not peeing down my throat or making me sing, because it's taking all of my concentration just to prevent myself from orgasming. I mean, it shuts off if I unclench my hands –– just like you said it would. But it doesn't stay off. It just starts up again. At first I tried to stretch my hands out even more, until my fingers were almost hyperextended and the webbing between them was stretched and almost painful. But the only way to get it to turn off is to re–clench and then unclench again –– only unclenching right away doesn't work, and the buzzing only stops for a bit when it does work. It's broken. Something is wrong.

In fact, it's maddeningly persistent, that buzzing sensation against my private parts. I was totally sure that I could pass this test. I would simply unclench my hands long before I felt The Tingle. And I'm sure that would have worked, too, if only the buzzing pad responded the way you said it would. But it doesn't. It's broken or something. It stops, and then starts right back up again. I want to tell you that something is wrong, that the thing isn't working right. But I dare not speak. I clench and unclench my hands several times, trying to signal to you that something is wrong. Of course, I can't see, and I don't know if you are seeing my signals. But I sense that you are, and worse yet, I sense that you don't care. I even sense that you are laughing at me. I can't hear laughter, not exactly. But there's something in the air, something that reminds me of laughter. ("He knows it isn't working right, Laur'. He doesn't care. He's enjoying seeing you squirm, and trying to turn it off.")

But there is a very real risk that I might mess up and orgasm. Rather than easily controlling the process myself, the buzzing pad with a life of its own is taking me closer and closer to orgasm, right to the edge, as I desperately try to turn it off. I squirm, trying to move the pad just a fraction of an inch away from my special spot –– up, down, left, right. Anything. Just away. But it won't budge. And it keeps bringing me right to the edge of an organism that would feel really good, probably, if I allowed it to happen. But I can't allow it to happen without facing a punishment. A punishment that is sure to be painful, nasty, horrible, or maybe all of the above.

I've never been edged before. I'm unfamiliar with the term, as well as the concept. All I know is that something that up to this point that has been relatively pleasurable –– even to the point that I wonder, sometimes, whether maybe you'll cause me to have an organism –– is now filling me with dread. Not that I like it when you make be have an organism, 'cause I don't. But on the scale of things I don't like here, with you, being brought to an organism is way better than a lot of other stuff we do.

But not right now. Right now I am terrified of having an organism. And I'm trying to fight it. My hands are clenching and unclenching furiously, but I can't keep the buzzing down for long. It's hit and sweaty in the suit. And my sexual arousal makes me even hotter. My nervousness is causing me to perspire and I feel wet and yucky inside the suit. I come close to having an organism so many times I lose count. A couple of times The Tingle started to launch from deep inside me and threatened to explode, but I clenched down my pussy muscles and managed to stop the sensation from spreading –– thankfully the buzzing cut out right then, granting me a further reprieve.

I'm about to give up, and allow the organism. I'm too tired to stop it. The next time surely will be the one I lose on. But, suddenly, it stops. And then, as I am trying to process this, trying to recover, trembling with effort, hot and sweaty, I feel the trickle of something in the back of my throat. It's pee again. Your pee. It tastes strange –– not that I can taste it very well, since most of it is going straight past my taste buds, down my throat, and into my tummy. But not all. It taste pungent and bitter and I wonder if it is pee at all. And I concentrate on swallowing it and not vomiting and not cumming, since my preteen cunny still feels alive and tingly.

("Oh shit! Laur'! Sing! You have to sing!" I remind myself.) I am tired, hot, and sweaty. And the feeling or urine flowing into my throat is disconcerting and awful. But I manage a gasping, halting, struggling rendition of Justin's "U Smile."

Oh

Yeah

Mmmm

I'd wait on you forever and a day

Hand and foot

Your world is my world

Yeah

Ain't no way you're ever gon' get

Any less than you should

Cause baby

You smile I smile (oh)

Cause whenever

You smile, I smile

Hey hey hey

I am singing the words from memory, not really listening to them or processing, but it occurs to me once again that this is an odd song to have chosen –– seemingly at random –– to sing to you. I don't know why. I just sing. And swallow. And sing. I'm hoping that my delay in starting to sing went unnoticed. When your cock presents itself for cleaning, I mouth and tongue it eagerly, as if atoning for the delay. All of my taste buds can taste the bitterness of your pee now as I suck and lick the soft, bulbous head.



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