34. Fun With Water

Marcus

Two very full bladders of mine turned into a bellyful of piss for you, and ten or so near-orgasms since you were bound in the suit later, I release you. Tubes come out of your nose, and the hood come off. I unzip the overall, loosen the straps, and let you slip out. You're nice and pink and sweaty under there. We'll give you a wash soon, no worries. But first we flush out the bits of you that I soon tend to focus on.

Once naked, I make you get on all fours, feet apart, toes pointing outwards, belly low, butt–up. You look incredibly sexy in that position. Very fuckable. For a while I just enjoy the sight of how tremendously, exceptionally, almost unnaturally beautiful you are and contemplate the fact that you are all mine, in a literal sense, like an object, property with which I can whatever I damn well please. I feel godly. Omnipotent. If you exist, strike me with a lightening now, motherfucker! Or give me a heart attack, hmm? How bout that? Can't do it? Tsk! Whining useless son of a bitch motherfucker up there in the sky somewhere. I'm the god that matters, I think, heretically and cynically, as I take in the perfection of your gorgeous preteen body and the impossible extreme depravity and unfairness of the situation at hand.

I explain the drill to you.

"I'll pop a small tube up your butthole. About half a litre of liquid will squirt up into your butt. Then I’ll pull the tube out. You’ll hold it in for three minutes, no whining, no fussing, it's gonna be uncomfortable, but you just have to put up with it. Then you use the toilet, lightly, briefly wipe your butt, get back into position and then we repeat the process until I'm happy with the result, most likely five times all in all."

I never mention that half a litre is a lot, it's almost double the size of a normal adult enema, enough to make a little girl's belly bulge and ache, especially when she's got a tummy VERY full of piss already. I lube the tube, pop it up the pink rose of your pucker and let the tepid water trickle in. I watch your expressions and reaction as the sensation goes from weird, trough uncomfortable, to pretty much painful, and then really, really super–weird and uncomfortable in a scary sort of way.

Then there is the three minute wait, not a second less, and my expression tells you that to relax your pucker even in the slightest bit and cause a drip would be a bad, BAD idea. I use that time to gently, curiously touch your belly. It's so gorgeous to see your body change shapes like that, so affected by what I do to you. And there's something sexy about your firm, flat, model's and dancer's belly going all round, plump all of a sudden, especially since I know it's only for a brief moment. I lightly poke your belly button. Funny thing, an enema, isn't it? You don't seem amused though. Three minutes seems to feel like a long wait. My intention is for it to be a tense, painedful, teeth–grinding wait. But I have no idea exactly how you will handle it. Then a release. A relief. A chance to relax. A wipe, flush.

And before we know it we start anew. This time the water's a bit warmer. I give your little butt a smack as I pull the tube up. My cock is rock–hard and it twitches with arousal. There's something so incredibly, deliciously humiliating about you being on all fours, red–faced and nervous, your butt raised and exposed and filled with slightly too much liquid while you struggle to keep it all in until I and I alone allow you any relief.

The third enema is a cleansing herbal solution, as warm as I dare (just above body temperature), but the fourth one is when it actually becomes interesting. I use a solution that should make your rear entrance totally germ-free, at least temporarily. When I’m done you’ll be totally clean, making it safe for me to go ass–to-mouth on you if I choose, while at the same time making sure any fissures my penetration causes will heal quickly and cleanly. My goal is to make it a truly sanitary experience; anal fun from a paedophile's dream, in which the little-girl victim is really, literally pure. The thing is that the solution tingles and feels more than a little warming. It pricks around your pucker and feels odd, tingly, prickly, as if there’s a fizzy liquid inside you. It’s also not as easy to hold in, especially since your muscles in that area must be getting tired from all the holding back. I also set the mark for holding not at three, but at five minutes this time so it really gets all the remnants of mess in there and kills all the germs.

And then the last round is to take an edge off of that prickly tingle, to soothe and to give your ass – literally – an aroma of vanilla and strawberries. It will soak into you partially – I've tested it before. You will have vanilla and strawberries even in your sweat and on your breath for a while. Enjoy! I make the last round a bit smaller, but when I'm done, instead of leaving you on all fours peacefully, I tap my leg as I sit on the edge of the bathtub. "Come here," I demand and toy with your hair once you’ve crawled near enough.

"Now suck me off," I smile. "And don't leak any before you've swallowed your prize and rushed to the toilet," I command, setting you up for another unpleasant, challenging, and actually, a very nearly impossible task. It's not just that despite my very acute, now almost-painful arousal I will likely take well more than three or so minutes before I blow my load into your pretty mouth, it's also that holding the liquid in your now pure and clean ass is much harder when you have to move to please my cock. Your movements will cause the fluid to roll and swish against your pucker. Also your little butt will have to be lower than the rest of your body as you suck.

To add to your predicament, I give you a scary warning. "If you leak even a drop, I'll pop a plug up your butt to plug your ass, and blow it up to make sure the stuff stays in while you do what you are told!" I say with that sadistic, self–satisfied cruelty I only let leak every now and then around you. I realise you are probably going to hate me for what I’m doing to you today, but I’m having too much fun to stop. And besides, It hardly matters what you think of me down here, now does it?

Whether you succeed or fail, the sight of you, naked in front of me, your belly doubly bulged with all the liquid I forced into you, makes you look almost knocked up or something. Which is kind of a funny thought, in addition to being fucking precious in its own right, worth even being hated for a little while.

I sit back and watch you struggle with your task, as I sink you further into depravity and degradation -- sucking a sweaty, smelly, musky cock with stomach and bowels all full of liquid. You’re so full of fluid right now that it's actually audible when you move about. I just relax and enjoy the sight and feel of an 11-year-old child giving me a blowjob.

It's really lucky that I'm so horny and you’re such a good cock–sucker, as it makes the task hard but possible. For an average guy and an average girl your age, this would have been a totally unrealistic, impossible task. But you, my little slave, were born to suck cock. Your mouth should be registered and insured.

This is one of those moments where tingles shoot up my spine and into my head. My ego puffs up like a fucking balloon. I committed the perfect crime and I'm getting away with it. I'm getting infinite, intense physical pleasure from an 11-year-old sex slave, and I'm doing it with the kinds of UNIMAGINABLE cruelties and depravities that I could only dream of before. God, if this ever got to a court, I would go down with a proper boom, taking a sick pleasure in describing all the vile acts and insane moments such as this one in all of their terrifying and disgusting details, just to see parents turn pale, just to see the judge's face turn purple in fury and shame and disgust. Ha!

But that's not happening. What is happening is yet another blowjob from my little child servant. I have lost count of how many there were already – and this one's an ultra deluxe edition from a girl who’s absolutely desperate to please. She doesn’t know it, yet, of course, but her reward for getting me off will only be increasingly harder conditions to work in and more suffering to deal with while she is on the job. Which is most of the time.

Laura

I feel awful –– hot, sweaty, and yucky in the suit. My tummy is very full of man piss. I feel bloated and queasy. My tummy is distended. The taste of something bitter –– I think it’s asparagus, but I'm not sure –– has made your pee extra yucky the second time around. It's a good thing you deposited straight down my throat as the remnants that leaked into my mouth were so bitter and nasty that I would have had a hard time taking it directly from the tap, swallowing it down, one gulping swallow at a time. Meaning the way I usually drink your pee.

I am relieved to be released from the urinal, and even more so to be allowed out of the suit. The worst was having the tubes extracted from my nose –– gross and unsettling at the same time. Instantly you position me on hands and knees, and I listen to your instructions and admonishments. My body has a damp, rosy pink look to it as I kneel there, looking up at you with my large, brown, doe–like eyes. I look beautiful. Scared, tired, but absolutely ravishing, kneeling there, naked, slender, hairless. And so young. I look like the young child I am. 11 years old. Naked. Helpless. Positioned as you want me. On hands and knees. My little body properly positioned for so many different activities. Punishment. Leash training. Mounting. Or, in this case, anal cleansing. I am ready and positioned for any of it. Or all of it. As you desire. There are no limits to what you can do to me. After days and days of captivity, I am fully aware of that reality. My obedience is total. My young body is entirely at your disposal.

I'm scared. I know that you're going to fuck my bottom today. Ever since you showed me the videos I know that it hurts when a man sticks his penis in a kid's bottom. I've seen the pained looks on their faces, listened to their cries and gasps. You've made no effort to lesson my nervousness. We've been working with the plugs for days now. You've warned me about getting ready. That's why I tried so hard to mount the size five plug earlier today. I wanted to be ready. But all of the plugs except the first one hurt. The size five was impossible. I tried. I really did. But it was enormous. I couldn't jam it inside my butt hole. ("Yeah, but his cock is prolly as big as the size five, Laur'. And longer, too. He's gonna stick that inside you, and it's gonna hurt," I warn myself.) I'm worried about this stuff going in my butt hole, too. I've never had an enema. Never had anything up my butt hole except those plugs. I'm already shaking before you push the applicator inside me and let the liquid flow.

It's bad. Bad and weird. I have a grimace of worry on my face as I feel the liquid pushing the wrong way inside me. I clench my cheeks together instinctively. My bottom is toned and firm from dance, girlishly slender, a little skinny from my recently erratic diet. In short, my hairless little preteen body is perfect. The perfect size and shape of little girl–ness for the discerning pedophile. At first the liquid just feels weird and yucky, but then it starts to hurt, in a crampy, bloated kind of way. I grimace and groan and shift on my knees as it feels squishy and gassy inside me, like the world's worst case of diarrhea. I groan and sink lower on my hands, my elbows almost touching. I want my butt up, high. I want gravity to help me keep the liquid inside. I clench my cheeks painfully. I'm sure that if I relax the liquid will gush out. The effort makes me pant. My concentration makes me forget to breathe, which in turn makes me pant some more.

I groan again. This is awful. Oh God! It's the longest three minutes of my life. It must be more than that. I'm clenching so hard I have to bite my lip. My face is low to the ground and red, as my belly distended painfully below me. Painfully, weirdly.

Oh no! You're touching my tummy –– feeling me, poking and prodding. I groan again. ("Just hold it in, Laur' –– don't give up," I encourage myself.) It's awful. My belly feels so crampy and bloated. And then, it's time, and I crawl to the toilet, painfully rise –– hunched over, gasping, red–faced, hurting. ("Five times, Laur'. You have to do it five times.") My thighs barely touch the seat before I open my clenched little buns and the solution sprays into the bowl, hard. I look up, my eyes panicked, remembering that you said "lightly." I clench my anus closed again. But I can't help it. I gasp for breath and let the rest of the liquid out in controlled, awful, painful squirts, all the while gasping and grunting with effort and discomfort. I clutch the toilet seat for support, both moral and physical, as I wince and gasp and squirt.

When I am done, I wipe, cleaning extra liquid from the spray off my preteen buns. I flush the toilet, and assume the position. I try to be nothing but an obedient 11–year–old, ready to resume her ass–cleansing ritual, preparing for her master's penis. But it is difficult. I'm trying, but it's hard. Test Day is hard. I'm learning that now.

The process goes on an on. My anus burns from all the clenching and especially from the controlled releases. You can tell from my pain–filled groans and grunts and gasps that this is an ordeal for me. It takes effort and energy. I don't want to spill. Not only because it will lead to punishment but because it's . . . gross. I don't want anything from inside my bottom to leak out. The price for spilling in the past has been to clean the floor with my mouth. I especially, hugely, don't want to have to do that today. Not with with this.

But the clenching is hard. I am panting, hunched over, trying to arch my back, suffering without speaking, as the enemas continues. When I empty the third, I also pee. Recycled pee. Most of it already has been in your bladder. Now it leaves mine, as well, trickling into the bowl along with my anal juices.

And finally the last enema is administered. I can smell this one as you prepare it –– it actually smells nice. Fruity. Like one of my shampoos. The stuff flows into my bowels once again. I gasp. Surely this must be the last. My bottom is tired from clenching for so long, but I still haven't spilled anything. I lower my head again and prepare to suffer through another three minutes, when you tab the edge of your leg and instruct me to come. I look up. You are fearsomely erect. Your cock jutting like a pine tree from your crotch. Carefully, like an invalid, grunting, I crawl with baby knee–steps to you, as you take my hair in your hands and begin to stroke me. All I can concentrate on is the gurgling feeling in my bowls. ("Keep your butt tight, Laur'. God don't spill, please!"). I knew it. I knew you wanted a suck as soon as I saw your phallus. I don't think I've ever seen it that big and hard before. Oh, but raising up is going to hurt, and put so much pressure on my butt hole! But I have to. I have to suck you, and I can't spill. My eyes water with tears of effort as I rise up –– my bloated tummy singing in protest. I manage to take your cockhead inside my mouth, but everything is so dry, Gasping, I try to moisten my mouth, my lips, and your spongy cockhead all at the same time. ("Duh, Laur', you almost forgot how to give a suck, girl," I taunt myself.)

Finally I have you wet enough and I lower head on your shaft. I place my hands behind my back like a good girl but that only increases the pressure on my tummy. My eyes water with effort as I jam my legs close and try desperately to hold the liquid in. But I can’t help it as a trickle of strawberry–vanilla fluid escapes and rolls in a rivulet down the inner back of my thigh.

I suck you, taking you into my throat as my tummy audibly sloshes with fluid. I am trying so hard, working so hard. Rarely has an 11–year–old girl given so much effort at any task as I am giving right now. I can't even feel the loss of fluid as a another little rivulet escapes my overworked anus. No more than an ounce has escaped, but it has trickled down the back of my right thigh to the floor.

Your cock is salty with sweat as I clean it with my 5th–grader lips, sucking, pleasuring, with my exquisite little–girl mouth. I try so hard to keep my cheeks clenched. It feels like I could lose the contents of my tummy at any moment, so I'm very much on edge as I suck and pleasure your adult phallus with my little mouth. Your cock is so hard today. You seem so intense. Unyielding. Eager. Another tablespoon of fluid trickles down my thigh. For the first time today, I wonder –– can I do this? Can I pass the test? What will happen if I fail?

Marcus

The thing is, the liquid, especially once warmed by your butt, is really pungent, so I can smell the leak. I lean forward, palm over your head and look and see the trickle.

"I told you not to leak any," I say, very careful not to put any emotion into the voice; it's neutral. Whatever fear it instills is simply your projection and echoes of previous experience. Although my cock is actually hurting with need now – DAMN – I slide out of your mouth, grab your hair and force you face down into the floor. I get the inflatable dildo – down here, everything is readily at hand -- and lube the tip a bit and push it up your pucker. Of course, to stay tight around something that's spreading you forcefully is a near impossible feat, so your ass leaks further. I pump the dildo up until that stops, simply making it fill your rear so much that your ring, even if you are not clenching it, is stretched around it tautly enough to not let any liquid out.

It's kind of a "hack," really, a trick of sorts. It slid in your butt easily -- roughly the equivalent of a size-two plug -- and it would have been easy to handle, were it not for the pressure of water against it. It is now easily the same girth as the size-five plug, and longer, as the pumping up makes it longer – in fact, while round and soft and sort of pliable, it is now nearing the size of my cock, and you're getting a real taste of what you're in for later. Of course, there is no friction or really much of any motion as it expands. You won't be that lucky when I stick my cock up the same hole. Friction and motion is all that is going to be about. What the plug does, however, is fill your anus though, pushing the water further and deeper back into your flushed and clean bowels, and stretching them a little more.

Your belly now bulges even further, and I touch it and stroke it again. It's so round. So weird. Especially knowing how flat and fit it actually is, the temporary roundness that gives you a six–months–pregnant kind of look now is simply fascinating. The things you can do to little girls . . .

I grab your hair and yank, left and right, to and fro and then back again and then I sit down and guide your face, red and teary eyed, towards my cock. "You will suck now. You will suck good. Deep. Fast. With a lot of tongue and with no hands. And with absolutely no pauses. Anything short of perfect performance will be punished by another squeeze on the pump," I say, waving the balloon that has a hose linking it to the big plug in your ass in front of your eyes. "A squeeze adding about quarter of an inch of length, and a little bit of girth, too," I clarify. "And Laura?" I smile sadistically and look into your eyes to feast on the fear that I'm bound to stir up. "There is no giving up. If you stop sucking I'll just keep pumping until the toy is as big as it can get, which I suspect is . . . huge, as in the size of an extra-large bottle of Coke -- you know, the really big one? I'm not sure what would be left of your butt once that had happened, but your only way to make sure we don't have to find that out is to . . . keep sucking."

With that, I lead you forward to actually get busy. The game is on. The squeezing balloon in my left hand, my right hand at the top of your head, guiding you, my raging, purple-red and rock-solid nine inches eager to slide down your mouth and throat. Of course, what was unpleasant and slightly painful before must now be causing pretty much agony, but heck . . . unless it hurts you, it's not really good sex for me, so while you're relatively painlessly (as far as your mouth is concerned) sucking me off, this is a good way to make sure things are fun for me, by hurting you in another way, another place. Not that what's happening to your belly is really localised pain. I can only imagine just how freakishly painful and sickening a feeling that must be. Especially when you start bobbing your head up and down, hands at the small of your back.

And I don't feel merciful. I'm not gonna be lenient. A steady pace with a lot of tongue involved and a good amount of throat penetration is the only thing that can keep me from making the dildo any bigger. The slightest sign of hesitation gets punished by a squeeze. I'm not sure if it's just me, but the strawberry and vanilla aroma get stronger in the air by a moment. The liquid must be absorbing, to some degree, and is starting to permeate the whole of you, noticeable in your perspiration, tears, on your breath, everywhere. You're getting super–saturated by the perfume, every bit of your body infused with molecules of the delicious scent.

I suddenly realise that I like it a lot. I always had dreams of unrealistically clean, immaculate little girls smelling fruity and flowery. I wonder what impact would it have to give you a scented enema every day. Surely by the time they reach your greater colon and anus most of the nutrition has been taken from the solids in your digestive tract. I inhale. Mhmm. Sweet. A little bit like the shampoo I bought you, but more . . . sugary, sort of like . . . a bubble gum. Yes, I think I recall an old strawberry-flavored bubble gum that smelled kind of like you do now.

As you suck, I realise I want to freak you out a bit. If you don't give me an excuse, I'll find one . . . or a few. "Not deep enough," I murmur, and squeeze. "Not fast enough," I complain shortly after, and squeeze again. "Is this the best you can do with your tongue? I don't think so," I grunt, another squeeze. Once I even squeeze without telling you what it was for, and perhaps it was for nothing at all. Just to make the job harder and more painful as you pleasure me.

You are a damn good cock–sucker, and you've never had a better motivation, though also never quite as hard conditions hampering your performance before. I'm feeling hugely turn on by the free flow of my perversion and sadism. It feels like I'll cum any moment, soon. Almost too soon, it feels, slightly too easy to end your agony. Maybe I could just let you go on . . . get me to cum twice . . . or maybe I should make use of the immense erection that feels like it won't be diminished by a single orgasm by finally popping your "brown cherry" since I've been threatening to do it for so long now. Not that there's anything brown about your rear now. It's pure pink, inside and out, and smells sweet, and is totally germ free. Damn, I'm really making my mad, insane, impossible fantasies come true.

"Just the tip now. I want you to get a very good taste of it before you swallow," I demand as I feel my cock twitching and then tensing, reaching the point of no return, just before a huge, intense, hot, sticky, greyish, and asparagus-infused load of cum -- a lot more bitter than it usually is -- floods your mouth. It's as big as it would be if it was a first one of the day, or perhaps the week. Huge. Multiple mouthfuls to swallow. Another tricky moment which could earn you a few balloon–squeezes if you don't perform perfectly. I squeeze once as you swallow, just 'cause.

Then, very suddenly, your mouth feels too good, too intense. This happen once I have cum. I stop you. "Sss, sss, shhh, gently, girl. Slowly now." I let you clean me up. Even though my cock doesn't seem to show any tendency to decrease in size, I once again have had enough for the moment. I slide out of your mouth and lift you up and stand you into the bathtub. I undo the safety valve of the expandable butt–plug, now seriously huge, and it deflates rapidly. When it's about size three, the water pressure just pushes it out and it shoots out, water – totally CLEAN water, still smelling good – gushes out after it. Your belly finally returning to its natural, sexy, flat state, a belly belonging to a lithe, eleven-year-old dancer.

You look like you want this day to end. But it's barely noon, and we still have a lot ahead of us. Taking the last of your virginities -- unless you take the plugs as a valid way of anal deflowering -- is up next. I pass you a bottle of the drink that should give you a major boost. Sugar, lots of sugar. Stimulants. Minerals. All the shit you need to keep you going. And it doesn't even taste too bad. Kinda like more concentrated coke.

"Drink up,” I say.

Laura

I didn't know I leaked any, I swear. I didn't know. I was clenching my butt cheeks together so hard for so long that I kind of lost feeling down there. It probably started leaking when you made me sit up to suck you. I couldn't keep my butt up in the air,. Gravity wasn’t working for me. Plus, your phallus was taking a lot of my attention. Sucking it right, sucking it good, is important today. Test Day. You’re not being patient with me today. You made that clear. I have to perform or I’m going to be hurt. Starting with my mouth on your penis. My 11–year–old mouth, lips, and tongue have but one mission in mind – to make you feel good, to make you cum. I was concentrating really hard on that.

But I know I’ve screwed up when you force my head to the floor, and I know I’m in for a punishment. I whimper and start to cry. I can’t help it. It's as much disappointment in myself than the fear of pain. I tried so hard. My tummy is killing me – it’s all big and rounded and distended. I tried so hard even though my tummy was cramping and bloated. My insides hurt. Like I have a really bad, bad, bad case of diarrhea. The kind where you have to sit on the toilet forever and ever, until it finally comes out, splashing into the bowl, your tummy feeling instantly better. That’s what these enemas are like. But the holding–in part – holding in something that hurts so bad, feels so weird -- is so uncomfortable. I hate it. But I know you want me clean inside. I can see for myself as each discharge gets cleaner and cleaner.

I know it’s going to hurt when you get ready to press the plug into my butt. I squeeze my cheeks together but you part them easily and the plug slides inside me – miraculously it doesn’t hurt much. But I know it will, and as you start pumping it, I can feel the hugeness of it as it grow inside me, spreading my anus, spreading my rectum. It makes a weird “phissshhh phisssshhh phisssshh” sound with every pump, and there’s a tiny delay before the plug expands. And then it’s just so tight, and it hurts, and I moan with pain. I have no idea how big you’re going to make it, and it hurts right now! And worse, my tummy is expanding and spreading as the last enemas – the fruity-smelling one – pushes deeper into my bowels and tummy.

I have to survive this. Test Day. Just one day, one day of really hard work. Pleasing you, performing, surviving. I want to do everything right, and give you no reason to punish me. But I’ve already screwed that up. And now my butt hurts, my tummy hurts, and I’m already feeling tired and worn down both from physical trauma and from mental stress. I don’t know what you’re going to do to me today. The singing urinal was weird and unsettling – a hose up my nose and all that. (“You sang Justin songs, girlfriend. To him,” I remind myself unhappily.)

Since I’ve been here you’ve touched me everywhere – my mouth, butt, and cunny – but as weird as it sounds, I absolutely hate the way you are rubbing and touching my tummy, all pushed out and rounded like that. Maybe it’s because it’s not even like my real tummy. It’s like I have a baby inside me or something. And you’re not hurting it or hitting it, just rubbing it and feeling it all over, as if you like it that way. But that’s not the way I am! It’s not the way I look! I’m slender and thin and my tummy is taut and tight, not all gross and pregnant–looking. I hate the way you’re touching me. When you grab my hair and swing my head violently to the left and right, I know it’s time to suck again. I cramp up painfully as you pull me partially upright, positioning my 5th–grader body between your legs as you get me ready. You’re just pulling my hair to be mean. Just because you can. I look very unhappy. My eyes are glassy with tears, and my face is wet and red. The pain in my tummy is really sapping my strength. Even the plug isn’t that bad, it’s the horrible cramping, bloated feeling in my insides that is making me teary and miserable.

I try to give you a good suck. Truly. I’m concentrating, using the reserves of my energy to appear eager and enthusiastic. Even though it hurts my distended tummy any more I hitch my head up, angle it slightly towards me and down, and then lower my face on your shaft. I learned that by playing the angle just right, I can capture the head of your phallus in the back of my mouth, at the entrance to my throat, and then guide it into my throat while holding my breath. I am unaware that hundreds of millions of women and girls throughout the ages have learned this exact technique to take their men deep. But I’m 11, and I learned this on my own as a coping mechanism.

I suck. I try. But it’s not enough, and the plug expands inside my bottom. The worst part is that I don’t know how big it is down there. I can’t even feel the usual feelings of butt and anus and bottom. It’s just one big nerve bundle of pain down there, sharp and dull all at the same time. As I suck I wonder if it’s possible for the plug to pop inside of me, like a balloon. Surely it’s as big as a balloon. It feels that way, anyways. (“Just concentrate, Laur’. Give him a good suck. Get him to cum. Swallow it all. Do a good job, and don’t give him any reason to punish you. He’s in a mean mood today.”)

So I suck. I throat you, the walls of my throat providing exquisite pressure and friction all around your shaft and head as I hold my breath and work you. When I withdraw for air my middle–schooler tongue takes over, swirling and circling and attempting to please, all while my hands remain clasped behind my little back. I think I’m doing a good job, giving you a good suck, but it’s not good enough. The plug keeps expanding. My tummy keeps ballooning. Everything hurts. The fact that I am trying so hard and still failing makes me fragile. I want to perform so well for you. But I’m not. I can’t. My eyes glisten with fresh little–girl tears.

And then . . . there it is. I can feel what I think is the pulsing, expanding sensation in the texture and girth of your penis that means you’re about to cum. I’m not sure (“Was that the twitch? Did you feel it?” I ask myself), but then you order me to pull up, and hold the tip in my mouth. Yes, you’re about to cum. I can feel the skin of your cock pull down somehow – I can’t even describe it because I’ve never actually seen your cock do this, or even felt it with my hands. It is only my mouth that knows. It knows from experience – the slight changes in the texture, size, and mouth–feel of your penis that it is about to erupt with sperm.

And thank God I can read your cock. That and your warning gave me just enough time to prepare, as I straighten myself up (causing an audible gurgle in my cramping little tummy), hands behind my back, and prepare my 11–year–old mouth for your load.

Despite my preparations, I am nearly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of jizm that you expel into my mouth. The first spurting jet of warm ejaculate almost completely fills my mouth, causing me to panic as I’m not sure that fire hose of semen will stop in time to give me any chance to swallow. Thank God it does, and I gulp down the first of what I am sure will be many swallows of warm man cum. (“Concentrate Laur’, please! Please don’t spill, or drip, or gag, He wants to punish you today, Laur’. If you give him any reason, he’ll hurt you,” I beg myself.)

It’s hard to swallow all of your load when your cockhead is this far forward in my mouth. When you ejaculate deep in my throat at least I don’t have to worry about swallowing. Gagging and retching, yes, but the swallowing part takes care of itself. But this time, on Test Day, your warm, thick semen is spurting directly into my little mouth, away from my throat. I have to gather it back there, sliding the thick milk over every one of my taste buds as I force it to the back of my throat and swallow. And it has a particularly yucky flavor today. Gross, actually. (“Is that asparagus?” I ask myself? “Why does he taste so much like asparagus today?”) My young brain is actually unable to answer this question with the obvious reasoning. But then again, I am preoccupied with ingesting what is probably the largest sperm load you have fed me since I arrived here, in this place, where there is nothing but you and your enormous, spewing phallus.

I glug down your sperm with at least 10 discrete swallows, all of which are audible. The volume of slimy cum is astonishing. It’s like drinking almost half of a warm McDonald’s milkshake. (“You’ll never get McDonald’s again, Laur’,” my brain reminds me idly). Finally, the spurting stops. But your penis is not yet done, as it continues to pulse and drool ejaculate into my school–girl mouth for several more seconds. I swallow that, too. More confident now. Miraculously, heroically, I have taken all of your semen into my tummy. My mouth is coated with it. I can taste its pungent, asparagusy taste everywhere. But I took it all. You can’t punish me for that.

I clean you, slowing and going ever–so–gently when you stop and warn me. Your penis remains hard, but as I clean it with my little mouth, it has that post–orgasm mouth feel to it that I also have come to know so well. If I had no idea that you had just cum, I nevertheless would be able to tell from the tactile feel of your phallus in my mouth that it is a penis in the immediate post–orgasm phase. I have come to know your penis, its tastes and flavors. Its moods. Its sizes and textures and feels. It is hard for me not to think about it as a living thing. I try so hard to please it. It feeds me when I have pleased it. It is centered on your body, left to right certainly, but also top to bottom. I know that it drives your moods and desires. It is central to your being, and central to my purpose. I know your penis. I know it well.

And finally, I am standing in the tub, tired, hunched, and the relief of release washes over my exhausted preteen body as the plug expels on its own and the liquid sprays out. At least I didn’t have to clench my cheeks once the plug was in. I could concentrate on sucking, trying to ignore the pain, the bloated feeling. But now – my tummy deflates to normal. I feel at peace. Tired, but no longer suffering from the cramping and bloating in my bowels. I even look tired. It’s been a very, very long morning. Things have been coming at me non–stop since you came in early this morning and ordered me to remain in bed. And you still haven’t stuck your penis in my butt. (“And he just had an organism in your mouth, Laur’. Which means he won’t be ready for your butt for a while.”) The thought makes me a little queasy. I want to take a nap. I take the beverage from you, and drink. It’s sweet. It takes the cummy asparagus taste from my mouth. But I know it’s an energy drink, and you only give me energy drinks when you have a lot in store for me. If I didn’t already know, the thought occurs to me that it’s going to be a very, very long day.

Marcus

I watch you drink. You look eager to quench your thirst, get a boost and flush down the yucky, bitter, asparagus–induced stickiness from your mouth and throat. You look so cute. I stroke your hair and smile.

"A brief rinse," I allow and walk out to prepare the next stage in the dungeon. It takes a good bit of fiddling, but even after all that it will look, at a glance, rather unimpressive, I'm afraid. But then, I'm not striving to stun or shock, I can give you a good enough taste of this to fully appreciate the horribleness of the next phase coming up.

Returning to the bathroom, I take your hand and guide you to the main of the dungeon. You are pristine clean now and smell of strawberries and vanilla, like a sweet pink milkshake. I lean in and give the side of your neck a lick and a nibble, and I like the taste so much I just sweep you off your feet and lick and kiss your neck, shoulders, and collar bones, showering them with gentle kisses, and the occasional firmer, sucking kiss, or a long languid lick. Mhhmm. I can't have enough! Momentarily distracted, I kiss and lick and my left hand holds you in position by the back of your neck, my right one explores and teases. I don't even think about it but I'm likely re–stirring the tension created by the buzzing pad between your legs that edged you some eleven, twelve times while you were my singing urinal a mere hour ago. That was before a never-ending cycle of flush–outs that purified you beyond what one would consider humanly possible. I reach to your pussy and slide my fingers through and over those folds and it's only when I feel you tense, and notice how slick my fingertips are that it occurs to me I could make you cum by accident and spoil all my previous effort. So I stop myself, once again leaving you without a relief, cutting the stimulation abruptly so that I can introduce you to your next "test query."

It looks like a comfy reclining chair, padded and all, save for the leather straps to bind you to it. It also has a small basin and is a bit short for you; you can't lean your head onto it. I guess the most likely association is hair-dresser's washing basin. But this, sweetie, is a device for, among other things, waterboarding.

I strap you in, The straps are quite clever on this thing, soft and padded on the inside but firm, thick leather around, so they give you a little bit of wiggle space, and don't abrade or cut off circulation, but at the end of the day, they hold. There's absolutely no way you could get out completely. I take a lot of care this time -- ankles, shins, lower and upper thighs, belly, chest, arms, forearms, wrists -- there are separate straps for each of them. The one thing that is lose is your head.

I don't tell you what's coming. I don't explain. Don't warn, don't command, demand, forbid, anything. For once, I simply keep my mouth shut.

It's not until you are totally strapped down that I tilt the chair so that your head is below your chest, avoiding the actual risk of drowning, and fill the basin with rather cold water, not nice for hair washing, but I can tell by then from your breath and heart–beat and wide–eyed fear that you know damn well you're in for a lot worse than a cold-water hair–wash. You had a tiny taste of the nasty "drowning" sensation when I pissed in the urinal and the stream went up your nose, but that was all fun and games, essentially just passing through quickly and trickling down your throat into your belly, temporary and manageable.

I stroke and caress your body. It was excited, aroused actually, just moments ago, now it seems tense with fear and dreadful anticipation. It's time to finally tell you what this test is about. I stroke your face, ears, hair, and neck. I’m so gentle. There's no hurry. I keep the pace down. I prolong the anxious anticipation. And then I smile, my messed up, crooked, sadistic half–smile, which by now should be a sure sign that you're fucked.

"Your task just now is simple: Just trust me. Trust me. You will come out of this alive. I swear. I promise. One hundred percent sure, not a smidgeon of doubt. So all you need to do is to NOT beg. Not to protest and cry for me to stop. Just . . . go with it. Leave the choice of how long this will take to me. Don't freak out, don't beg," I clarify, knowing full well I'm asking the impossible. What I'm about to do is used to break agents and soldiers and terrorist. It freaks the living shit out of everyone, let alone an eleven-year-old girl. And you're not in for questioning, as people would be. You're in just . . . because. Because I'm a fucked up bastard who wants to push you beyond any imaginable limits.

I grab your hair and pull your head back enough for your nose to get submerged. The water floods your nasal cavities and the top of the back of your throat, causing gagging, and a severe, intense, panic–inducing, horrible, awful drowning feeling. I could start small and build up. Perhaps if I wanted to give you a fair chance to cope with this, I would. But I'm breaking you. You think you're being tested today, what's really happening is I'm looking for any signs of resistance and free–will in you and I'm set on crushing and breaking those. I hold you in for ten long seconds before I let go off your hair and allow your struggling head to lift up and spit and spew and cough out the water, lowering you so your feet are down and not up, and your nose empties and the drowning sensation ceases for a while.

With the intense strain this rather extreme, although relatively harmless torture causes, I probably should worry about your heart failing, but right now I feel such a rush that I'm almost worried about mine. When you're under, I'm completely abuzz, focused, aroused, in the moment. I watch you like the most amazing piece of art ever, the top of your face made blurry by the bubbling, rolling waters. There's something perfect in pure, unadulterated suffering. I watch, and I hold my breath with you, even though you can breath, it just feels like you can't, like you should not, flooded and gagging on the all–invading water.

There's no illusion here. This is a sheer, mindless, pointless act of pure sadism. You're suffering because I want you to suffer, end of story. And while you've been encouraged you in the past to beg and whine and try and "whore" your way out of suffering in one way or another, now I expect and demand the exact opposite. I demand silence. I demand you to stomp down all your instincts and just grit your teeth and bear it. After mere twenty seconds of a break I flip you feet up and dunk your head once again.

Ten seconds. And out and head–up to be rid of the water. But before you even know it, it's back in. Ten more seconds. Pause. Five seconds. Pause. Another long, fifteen- second stretch. Then another pause. A long one as I watch your face, feasting on the helplessness, the way your chest heaves, the struggle. Will you crack and beg even if it means failing? What will you do in this utterly hopeless, god–awful situation with no way out? This isn't really CIA-style waterboarding where they pour water into your mouth from up high; it isn't quite as drastic, and you're tilted head-down under a steep enough angle to prevent actual drowning. But we're still talking about a fully realistic drowning sensation. The sort that makes tough guys break in nine, ten seconds on average. Meaning, when I dunk you for fifteen-second stretches of time, you're taking more than a trained secret agent can take.

I'm aroused, erect. Ready to unstrap you and fuck your butt at any moment I decide to, but first, my hand slides into your hair one last time (whatever you said or did) and I look into your eyes and wipe the drool and coughed up phlegm of off your face and I speak in a dark, deep voice.

"Don't ever refuse me anything, ever again. Even if you're met with my ass, filthy and shit–smeared, for punishment or whatever reason, just perform. Just do as you are told. The price you pay for ever saying no to me, among other things, will be ten times this," I say and dunk you for almost twenty seconds before stopping – in the very last moment, as at that point, you seem to be snorting up and very nearly breathing up water. I position you feet–down and loosen the straps a bit at last, just your chest and belly and upper arms now so you can catch your breath better. But you're still in the contraption. All it would take would be three, four tugs to re-tighten the straps and we could go on. And on. For as long as I like . . .

Laura

I’m relieved to take a quick shower. You said I could have a brief rinse, but what I do instead is take a very fast shower, top to bottom, including my hair. I’m worried that you may return at any moment, and cut the shower short, so I work quickly. I hate being sticky and yucky and dirty, and that's the way 've felt all morning. I have my own sweat on me, and yours. I work fast and I am clean in about three minutes. I don’t want to risk disobedience by lingering in the shower – not today, especially – so when I’m done I cut the water and step out.

My nude, slender, freshly clean 11–year–old body looks stunning. As you well know, I am a lovely child. My nipple rings dangle on my chest, enhancing my youthful beauty and reminding both of us of my status. I dry myself with the towel, running it up and down my lithe, coltish legs.

The energy drink and the shower (with help from the protein in your ejaculate) restore me, and I am not as tired as I was before. I still smell the candy–like scent of the last enema – it smells vaguely fruity to me. I am unaware that I have absorbed the scent and it is emanating from my pores.

I have no idea what awaits me next as you return and take my hand. But your touch is gentle and non–threatening. Sexual. With a glimmer of hope I wonder if, maybe, Test Day is over, and the rest of the day can consist of a nice dinner, a movie, maybe some snuggling. Not that I like snuggling with you – it’s just that it beats just about all of the other alternatives. (“He’s gonna stick it in your bottom, Laur’,” I remind myself. “He’s going slow now because he just cummed in your mouth and he’s not ready, yet.”)

And then you are kissing, licking, tasting my nubile, preteen body. And it feels good. Really good. Suddenly you sweep me off my feet, and you’re just touching, and kissing, and licking me all over. My entire body feels alive and kind of tingly. Your touch is gentle and loving. I can’t help it. It feels good and my body starts to react. I feel tingly and my cunny starts to dampen. I should feel embarrassed but I don’t care. And when your hand slides down and begins to stroke me there, I know I’m already close to an organism. Your hand feels good . . . but then suddenly stops. I have to admit I am disappointed. Sometime you can be so tender and loving and gentle. This was one of those times, and it was spontaneous. Authentic. I was enjoying it.

Disappointment quickly turns to fear and dread as we stop at the funny lounge chair, with straps that are too obviously for securing a person to it. I don’t know what it is for, or what that basin does, but I’m already scared before you guide me into it. (“There’s nothing you can do, Laur’. Just let him do it,” I encourage myself as you strap me in.)

I don’t like this. Not at all. You take your time. There are so many straps. I can move a little, but I know I cannot get free. My heart starts to flutter with fear, and I am trembling and hyperventilating. I’m pretty sure this is going to be another piercing, or something worse. (“Don’t panic, Laur’. Breathe. Remember how he taught you? Just breathe. Stay calm.”). But it’s hard to stay calm. I’m helpless. And very scared.

It’s not until the chair tilts down – not reclines, but tilts – that I start to have an inkling of what is going on. You don’t speak or explain, which adds to my anxiety. Usually you tell me exactly what is going to happen, but not this time, not now. My mind is left to speculate, and what it conjures up makes my blood run cold. (“Don’t panic, Laur’. He’s testing you, remember? It’s a test. It’s Test Day. Just do what he says.”).

It is not reassuring when you resume touching and stroking me. What was nice and spontaneous just a few minutes ago as you carried me is now ominous. Different. Your expression is different. Your touch is different. And your smile – it’s not a smile of lust, or desire. I know that smile. It’s a smile of anticipation. I see that smile before I’m about to be made to do something that I really, really don’t want to do. But what can I do now, tied like this? What can it be? What can you have in mind? My blood runs cold. I am very, very scared.

When you start to talk, your words are terrifying, You say them in a gentle, reassuring way, but the content is positively unnerving. I still don’t know what you have planned. My terrified eyes search for a knife, a tool, an implement. But I see nothing. But it is not at all reassuring to be told I won’t die. What could you have planned that would make me want to beg? Or make me worry that I might die? Why do you want me to trust you? What are you going to do? (“Stay calm, Laur’. He’s ju–“)

My voiceless words are cut off in my head as suddenly, dizzyingly, you pull my head down, into the water, upside down. Instantly my vision is blurred and my hearing is muffled and cut off, as the most awful, terrifying, disorienting, horrible sensations overwhelm me. (“Nooooooooo!” I scream to myself, in utter panic). I immediately commence writhing and squirming in my binds, my naked body twisting this way and that, my muscles corded and taut. Water goes up my nose, backwards, causing my sinuses to burn. My mouth is no immersed but I cannot breathe.

The combination of dizziness and the terrifying sensation of drowning panics me beyond the capacity for rational thought. The most basic survival instincts take over, willing me to extricate myself from the water, to right myself. I struggle and writhe and squirm nakedly in my binds. But I cannot free myself. I cannot bring my head up. I am drowning. I am dying.

My immersion seems endless, but suddenly I am up and out of the water, blinking, wide–eyed. I want to breathe but I cannot. My mouth opens and closes, searching for breath that will not come. The water is so far up my nasal passageway that normal breathing is supplanted by terrified, panicked sputters and gags. You tilt the chair back to a normal position as I gurgle and splutter, my body still trying to escape the inexorable grasp of the leather binds. After another five seconds of spluttering, I manage to draw a tortured breath through my nose, followed immediately by a choking, gasping whimper, a cry of pure, unadulterated little–girl misery, equal parts squeal, scream, and cry.

All rational thought is gone as I draw another quick breath followed by a squeal of fright, and then . . . you tilt the chair back, pull my head backwards, and immerse my petrified, crying face in the water once again. The sounds of the world are replaced by the cloying, thunderous churning of the water, as I scream silently, the water flooding up my upside–down nostrils again, as the terrifying sensation of drowning overcomes and overwhelms me. Again my 5th–grader body contorts and squirms, nakedly, as I try to free myself.

On and on it goes. My head is out just long enough to recover and grab one or two open–mouthed, gasping breaths and a choking, gurgling squeal of fright, before my head is plunged dizzyingly back into the churning, cloying water. My claustrophobia adds to the horror of drowning. Over and over you immerse me. My nose and sinuses tingle painfully with the water flooding deep into my upside–down nostrils, filling my nasal cavity.

Oh God I want it to stop. I am sure that this is what it is like to die, and it is horrible. My caning, my piercing, my brutal mouthfuck on the shores of the pond were child’s play compared to the horror of this. Drowning, upside down, over and over, claustrophobic, disoriented, strapped naked to a reclining chair – it is terrifying beyond measure. It is a sensation and an experience that I will remember all my life. Not beg? I would sell my very soul to the devil not to be immersed even one more time. But I am immersed again. Again and again, each time as bad or worse than the last. I want to pass out. No – I want to die. I don’t want to do this any more. I can’t do this any more. I want to give up. If you pulled me up and gave me the option of death I would nod. I have not lost the will to live since I arrived here, but waterboarding has done that to me. I would prefer death. I would accept death willingly to end this. It is worse than death, but death does not come. When you do pull me up again, I am noticeably weaker. My gasps more desperate as I fight to breathe. My slender young body is exhausted from non–stop struggling. I have lost track of the number of immersions. As I regain the ability to breathe, and gasp in breaths, oddly, despite my exhaustion, terror, and panic, my mind has never been more focused. More alert. You speak to me. I pant and gasp and gag as you clean my face. My eyes are wide and feral with panic. But I hear. I listen. I am not to deny you. Not to fight you. Not to refuse you. And then, to punctuate the point, my feet swing up, while my head is pulled down once again, and my face returns to that muffled, upside–down underwater Hell that is worse than anything, worse than everything. Calling on reserves of energy I struggle and squirm and pull at my binds to free myself, but it is futile. I can’t. Water runs up my nose, backwards, and I experience the near–death of drowning yet again. It has not gotten any easier to drown. I suffer. Little–girl suffering on a scale virtually unknown in the world.

I am an exhausted, sobbing, choking, gasping, gagging little girl when you finally pull me up and loosen the straps. My life has changed. I am changed. This event will be with me for the rest of my days. It cannot be otherwise.

Dear Readers: Please know that I'm still immensely thankful for any and all of your feedback! I tend to respond to emails as best as I can, can't respond to anon comments but I still like to get them very much.

Which you can submit here. Or you can email me.

Thank you!