Taken 35. Hitting the Bottom
Marcus
There's a whole new level of sadistic satisfaction in hearing you mewl and squeal and scream and mutter half–wordless pleases for the process to end. And you fight. It doesn't make a blind bit of difference to the process but you struggle and fight and damn, I'm almost tempted to hold you in a little longer, dunk you a little lower, just to see you go down fighting like that. It's fascinating, mesmerising and mind-blowing. It's addictive. But I want you alive, and eventually, it's not mercy but fear from giving you a heart attack or a stroke or something from the extreme strain that stops me from continuing.
Not bad, this session right here. I decide, there and then, that this is not the last time you're having this experience. It would be interesting to see just how much we can fuck up your instincts and your body's natural reactions, how much obedience I can instil into you with enough time and practice. I may have just found another favorite thing to do to you. Given your sorry, pitiable state just now that's probably very bad news for you. Very, very bad news, but do I give a damn? No. I'm on a roll here, having the time of my life all day.
Seems like after discovering your fear of needles a while ago, I finally found another major weakness, even though this one was to be expected; odds are this would be anyone's weakness, really! It’s a no–brainer. You certainly look like you're not ready to do any rational thinking anytime soon; I reduced you to instincts, to a basic, survival mode of thinking. Now it's time to see if I went far enough.
I unstrap you completely, each limb, your torso, and help you up from the chair in which you just spent something like twenty minutes undergoing heavy drowning torture. A relatively short period of time, but you look like you've been abused for hours on end. Which, all in all, if we count it from being woken up so brutally very early on, you really have been. I lead you into the bathroom, sit on the toilet and make you kneel in front of me. I spread my legs, sigh, and fart, and then, soon after comes the splashing of shit and the stench of it. I grab you by your hair and let you suck on my cock as I empty my bowels. I'm quick about the business, and limit your motion, curbing your enthusiasm. You're not to get me off, we're just killing time, really, but your mouth doesn't get to stand idle. When I'm finally done, the room now quite smelly, I grab your head and impale your face on my cock, balls deep. With your air cut off, I command sharply.
"Look up. In my eyes."
It's a planned, conscious decision to cut off your breath for the duration of this short speech, as an acute reminder of what you have just been through.
"Your mouth is my toilet paper now. You are to lick and tongue me clean. You are not allowed to pause, spit, wash your mouth until you are done and told that you can. If you vomit, we'll do this again tomorrow. And again, and again, every day, until you learn to keep it in." With that I pull out of your throat, get off the toilet, force you to lie back so you cannot squirm away, and squat over your face.
"Oh also if you vomit, just turn to the side and do it. Then go on. It's not a good enough reason to leave the job unfinished," I add cynically.
You have a choice to make now: Finally accept the role of a toilet slave, giving up any illusion of limits or boundaries, or it’s back to the water-boarding chair. Before, you could not physically bring yourself to do it. I doubt that after what you have just been through, you will be physically able to stop yourself from doing it. I felt every fiber in your body rising in panic trying to avoid any more of the water–boarding. Now it's this vile act, or back to the chair, and you know it.
I can't see, but I know my asshole is dirty, filthy with remnants of shit. I didn't wipe even once. The crack that hovers above your face is as it was when I finished taking a shit, plus perhaps some smearing from when I moved.
"I'll run a paper over it when you're done. If I find even a smidgen of mess, you get to try again tomorrow." That's two ways in which you can fail now; if you vomit, and if you perform less than perfectly.
Of course, by now my cock is fully hard, from the torture, from the sucking and from the situation at hand, and I doubt it will get a chance to go down when you inevitably break that barrier and do as you are told. And if you're hoping for a thorough flush–out and cleaning straight after like before, you're in for a nasty surprise; I never promised that this time. I have your ass clean, and that's the hole I'm interested in in the near future. Once you're done cleaning up, I don't care if your mouth tastes and smells like shit.
My big, slightly hairy crack arches over your face and I adjust, pretty much pressing it into your face so you don't even have to lift your head. All you have to do is open your mouth, stick your tongue out and start licking. The downside is that the aroma must be overwhelming, and some of the shit gets smeared on your face, especially your cute little nose.
I sigh. This is so perfect. And soon enough you'll lose your rear–hole virginity. You’re probably thinking that your day will end with that. But let’s just say that you're in for a long, long day full of nasty surprises.
Laura
I'm disoriented, trembling uncontrollably, and weak–kneed as you guide me from the chair. I step down like a cautious geriatric, unsteady on my feet. My breaths are shivering, shaking inhales, each with an extra hoarse–sounding rasp –– like a moan, but only on the inhale. If it weren’t for the support you give me with your hand on my forearm, I might just fall. As it is I am a bit out of balance as you walk me to the bathroom. I look exhausted, and a bit confused as I kneel before you. My eyes are wide open, but they look a little vacant, a little dilated. Peering deeper, it almost seems like my pupils are shaking. Indeed, they are moving –– almost appearing to vibrate –– as you begin to do your business. I look like I have just seen something utterly terrifying.
In fact, I am a changed little girl. Nothing –– not the caning, the needles, the piercings –– has had this effect on me. The only thing that has come close is the horrible, excruciating pain in my teeth and jaw caused by the implant. That pain was awful. That pain brought me to my knees in agony. But it was only pain. What just happened was worse. What just happened was horror. It was pain and terror and claustrophobia and death all in one. It was unrelenting and unbearable. It was multiple, terror–inducing nightmares playing out over and over again in a bewildering, upside–down, churning, bubbling, muffled basin of unmitigated horror.
As you pull me to your phallus my mouth opens instinctively, wet and warm and soft, as I begin to pleasure you. Simultaneously and almost absent-mindedly, my hands go to the small of my back and clasp together there. I suck and pleasure you robotically, from rote. I wince in pain as you suddenly impale me to the root of your cock, and, at your command, I look up, my preteen lips stretched wide and thin around the base of your shaft, your pubic hairs tickling my nose. My body is still as you speak, both of us knowing that I cannot breathe.
I listen to your speech. My eyes are focused and fixed on yours, but my face and eyes give no reaction. If anything my expression is neutral, almost blank. My mouth slackens shut as you pull off and lower me to my back on the floor. I lie there, on my back, slender, naked, collared, 11 years old, with a pair of rings through my nipples. I make no move to fight as you squat over my face. My arms are at my sides and remain there. I look up, and see your hairy hole, smeared with shit. Yet I make no move to fight –– no rolling away, no squirming, no interposing a hand, nothing. Nor do I speak. I am not crying. There is a difference about me, and it's noticeable.
In the end, I capitulate without a fight, allowing this final barrier, this last horrific taboo, this ultimate line in the sand to be crossed without so much as a whimper. You lower your shit–smeared ass to my mouth, and I simply begin to lick. My little mouth opens, and my tiny, almost dainty pink tongue comes out. I press it to your ass, and begin to lick the shit from your hairy ass crack and hole.
Oddly, it is not so much fear of being returned to the waterboarding chair that motivates me to perform. It is something deeper than that, something even more compelling. It is the knowledge that what happens in this place, down here, with you, happens without my permission, without my say, without any input from me. It happens because you want it to happen. My concerns, my thoughts, my desires do not even so much as influence the outcome. All my life to this point I was able at least to influence the things that affected me. But not here. Not in this place. Not with you. If you want me to lick your feet, I lick. If you want me to suck your cock, I suck. If you want me to drink your pee, I drink. And, yes, if you want me to lick the shit from your asshole, I do that, too, just as I am doing it now.
My little tongue licks and drags, cleaning your hairy ass of the fresh remnants of your bowel movement. My arms and hands are at my sides as you squat over my preteen face and present your ass to me for servicing. I make no effort to fight you. I lick back and forth, and swallow. And lick some more, and swallow. I angle my face up into your crack, and lick some more. And swallow some more. I am being very thorough. You feel my middle–schooler tongue swirling and caressing your anus, and then poking gently inside your rectum as I work. I withdraw, swallowing some more feces–infused saliva. And then I resume.
Another oddity is that I don't feel an overpowering urge to vomit. Although I can smell the nastiness of your ass, and taste your earthy, foul shit, the trauma of the water torture, coupled with my new understanding of things, has left me in somewhat of a robotic, workmanlike state. Your ass has been presented for me to clean, and so I clean it. Your ass is smeared with shit, and my tongue is there to lick it away. It's simple, really. I don't question it, not anymore. I lick and swallow, lick and lick and lick and swallow again. Methodically. The soft smacking sounds of my tongue on your ass emanate from underneath you as I clean the fetid shit from your crack and hole...
The only difficulty is that I cannot see. I am cleaning by taste. I am not sure whether I have missed a spot so my tongue visits and revisits your cleft and hole, working, licking, and probing. I arch my neck up and lick as much of your crack as I can, and then return again to your anus, cleaning there for the third time, poking and probing inside, licking the ring, licking out from the ring in a sunray pattern.
A final oddity is that I go over and over your ass with my little preteen tongue not because I am frightened of missing a spot and having to repeat the performance tomorrow. Rather, I lick and tongue all over your ass because you presented it to me with the instruction to clean it. That's my task, and so I perform it. It's very simple, actually. I continue to lick, on my back, my face buried underneath your ass. A changed little girl.
Marcus
I breathe out, lips in a pleased, satisfied "O" that of course you cannot see. I take full advantage of not being seen, and let the expression of pure bliss wash over my face even though I bet it'd make me look demented if anyone looked. The loose, open mouthed, half–wit's smile that arises and stays plastered on my face throughout the process is something almost uncharacteristic for me; it is not the mischievous and conscious crooked, thin–lipped way I normally smile. I, too, am transformed, utterly relaxed and present and just basking in the sensation, for a moment not planning, not thinking, not doing anything except just letting this happen.
Your tongue is a bit ticklish on my ass with some strokes, but most of them feel genuinely amazing, sweet and perfect, as you lick and lick, cleaning all the mess up. Swallowing. And not even gagging, I notice, surprised. I have only a faint idea just how far I've just gone in breaking you. I certainly don't realize that your little dunking session put you into a nearly robotic state, in which not just your mind and will, but even your body obey me unconditionally. On that count, you're lucky, If I knew, I'd be immediately tempted to mess with you, to test it out, to see the real boundaries of it. But all that's on my mind right now is the sensation of your little tongue cleaning my shit-smeared hole and damn, I like it. I never much cared for paper, and now I know why. Somehow, in the very back of my mind I must have suspected that there's a better solution all along. And now I found it. A million times better, more-pleasant solution; the only disadvantage being that it gives me a raging, painful boner.
Though is that really a disadvantage? I have you, a perfect, naked, collared, eleven-year-old girl, the most beautiful girl on the planet, or at least the girl I consider to be the most beautiful girl on the planet, right there below me, within a hand's reach. I can pull you out of there and fuck you senseless in any goddamn way I please on a whim. Mouth, cunt, ass, or jack of in your face, or . . . absolutely anything. As you go on and start darting in, rimming my dirty ass, I near–silently moan and my cock twitches. This is good. This is better than good. It's one of the most pleasurable things ever done to me; the combination of the amazing sensation along with the deeply, profoundly satisfying wrongness, the taboo–breaking perversity, are enough to make me dribble precum by the time we're done.
Which funnily enough isn't where you stop -- you seem to be set on cleaning me until my ass is as clean as yours is now. You never stop. I wonder if you would even stop if I pushed some more and just shat into your mouth like that day when you had your head tied into my human–toilet contraption. But I'm empty, and this is more than sick and perverse enough. It doesn't need addition or extension, it's perfect as it is. In the end we stop because my knees and legs start going sore and they ache from squatting down.
"That took long enough," I say, neutrally, perhaps to explain why I'm not waiting for you to give up. I slide a piece of folded over loo paper over my crack. Super soft? Hardly! It feels like sandpaper, compared to a little girl's tongue. My hole is indeed clean, but further up the crack is the tiniest smudge which marks the paper, the one that got there from your nose. I show the paper to you and use the same piece which just slid over my crack to wipe the small bit of my shit off of your little nose before I toss it into the toilet and flush.
"Almost perfect. We can try with me on all fours tomorrow," I conclude in a pleased, satisfied voice. "That actually felt very, very nice," I say, to offer at least some praise even though I suspect at this point, you simply don't give a shit. Your real accomplishment is that I’m not angry, and there is no punishment. You even earned some praise, but this will happen again. I mean, why not? It feels good and you've been broken badly enough not to offer any resistance. Your mouth has just been promoted (or demoted?) to the role of my personal toilet paper. Not much you can do about it either, especially at this point.
"Up," I command. I slide my hand into your hair, and lead you in a yanking, dragging sort of way out of the bathroom, through the dungeon into the bedroom, and pin you to the bed face first. I collect one of the bottles of the powerful boosting drink on the way and once you're on the bed, I let you roll over and give it to you.
"Drink up. We're nearly done. All you have to do now is lie down on your belly . . . and let me have my way. I don't really expect much more activity and cooperation than that when I first fuck your ass," I announce. I watch you drink, then take the empty bottle from you a bit impatiently, tossing it onto the floor. I push you over and turn you face down again, straddle your legs, then lube my cock and lower my face to your little butt. I kiss it and nibble on it, I lick your butt crack, much like you just did mine only yours is pristine clean and smells only of strawberries and vanilla and is pink and hairless and perfect. I tongue your ass, going as deep as I can with my tongue, at least a small mercy on my part before I reposition myself and start pushing my cock into your pucker.
My nine inches slide into your rectum gradually, but without pausing, without all the beginner's, good ass–fucker's stuff and care. I just screw myself in as far as your lithe little body physically lets me, and then start thrusting in and out. My cock is thicker than the plug -- well not thicker than the blow up one -- but . . . longer. Deeper. And as advertised, there is of course friction. I used enough lube to get in without tearing your ass brutally, but I didn't use tons of it. I want this to feel good and intense on my cock, tighter, with more friction even then when I fuck your perfect preteen pussy. I also want the occasion to be memorable for you, and too much lube might just get in the way of that.
Laura
Your cock in my tiny, virginal, preteen bottom is unfathomably painful. I knew it would hurt. I could tell from the videos that it would hurt. You warned me that it would hurt, promised me it would hurt. I believed all of this, and I braced for it, and yet –– it still hurts way more than I thought it would, way more than I thought it could. Which is to say it hurts a lot. And you show me no mercy, not like when you introduced me to vaginal sex, even cervical sex. Those hurt, yes, but you were gentle. I had time to brace for the pain, adjust to the pain, grow accustomed to the pain. Not now. Not this time.
I scream and wail in agony, flailing beneath you, as your cock sinks into my rectum. “Aiyeeeeeeeeeee!” I shriek. I can't help it. Panicked, I try to writhe, try to escape, try to free myself, but of course it is no use. You outweigh me by so much. There is simply no way that I can dislodge you, especially not with your phallus anchored in the center of my body. But the pain is so great, I have to try. It hurts so bad. I know that resistance leads to punishment, and punishment causes more pain, but every animalistic instinct in my young brain and body is desperate to unseat your cock, desperate for this to end.
I squeal in pain as you take my anal virginity. My child voice is high, and pain–filled. But there is also a timbre of disbelief to my wails –– as if I simply cannot fathom the pain I am experiencing, not to mention the fact that it is getting worse, not better, as you thrust into me. You gave me no time to adjust. My anus simply disappeared into my rectum with your cockhead, and then you proceed to batter my backdoor with thrust after thrust from your powerful, firmly–erected organ. And that hurts. A lot. Each thrust hurts more. I can't believe the pain.
My gasping, horrified shrieks of pure little-girl pain are accompanied by struggling and writhing as my arms and legs and upper body move beneath you on the bed. My hands clutch into fists, then unclench, then grasp the bed sheets beneath me and pull. I hold on for dear life, the bed sheets somehow grounding me and helping me to steel myself against the pain. I cannot move –– like a beetle impaled on a pin, your erection pounds into me, cleaving my soft, buttocks in two as its thickness pounds my 5th–grader rectum and bowels. My butt cheeks still display the fading, but clearly visible cane marks from the punishment that I endured endless days ago.
I try everything. I try to control my breathing –– just like you taught me –– but even as I hitch in a breath and momentarily stop screeching, not two thrusts later I am compelled to expel that air in a long, heart–wrenching wail. It simply hurts too much to concentrate on anything other than the pain. My anus is stretched so thin. Every single in–stroke of your veined phallus burns like sandpaper. The withdrawal strokes give me almost no respite before you plunge in once again, causing another tortured, strangled wail to erupt from my mouth.
My little face is a mask of tears, my nose dribbling snot, as I cry and wail and shriek and squeal and scream. Sometimes my cries are muffled as I slam my face into the mattress. Sometimes they are elevated, almost broadcast, as I tilt my head back and squeal into the air. Nothing helps. Nothing works. The pain is constant. My bottom feels like it is being split by a meat cleaver, as if I am being sliced open. My face is bright red from the exertion of wailing and trying to brace against and endure the unendurable pain.
Somewhere, deep in my brain, I am surprised that anal sex can be multiple times more painful than vaginal sex. As a naïve little 11–year–old girl, I would have assumed that having a big cock in my pussy would be more painful than having it up my poo hole. After all, sometimes big turds come out of my poo hole. Rarely, but sometimes (when I am constipated) they seem almost as big as your cock and for a flashing moment, they hurt when they squeeze into the bowl. Prior to being abducted the biggest thing ever to enter my pussy was a finger –– just a bit, and not too deep. I would have thought that my bottom was more ready for something big.
But all of that pseudo science and little–girl reasoning can be thrown out the window. There simply is no comparing the pain. Even cervical fucking was merely uncomfortable. This . . . this is torture. Every thrust an agony. Every grunting, driving insertion hurting me more than the one before.
And then, finally, I hear you grunt, feel you thrust deep, and know (because I know you and your cock and your needs all too well) that you are about to fill my backside with a load of hot, viscous semen. And I have never wanted anything so much in my entire life. I want you to shoot your frothy cum deep inside my bowels so that the pain will stop. So that the damage that I'm sure has been caused down there can be explored. I'm pretty sure that I'm bleeding –– nothing could hurt that much without blood. I may even be torn. ("You could die, Laur', if he doesn't pull out soon you could die.")
The lubrication from your jizm almost instantly makes the last few thrusts slightly more bearable, slightly more slippery. And when you withdraw, I gasp, and it feels like a pipe has been extracted from my rectum. I am sweating and gasping and crying with pain as you pull my head around to your cock by my hair. I clutch my way 180 degrees around on the bed and automatically lower my teary–eyed face to your cock, taking you inside my middle–schooler mouth. I detect a tinge of pinkness but do not see the blood that I was expecting. I also expected to taste foulness on your cock considering where it has been, but I don't. Your penis tastes of cum, and of sweet berries. I suck and clean it, as the first dribbles of frothy ejaculate begin to drain from my pucker and roll down the inside of my right thigh to the mattress below. My little hole no longer closes fully. It gapes open with the diameter of a nickel, my anus red and inflamed, framing a puddle of grayish semen as it bubbles out while I suck and clean your penis. I think that at least some of the gaping is, from this point on, probably permanent.
Dimly, as I suck, my eyes still blurred with tears, my entire rectum and bowels on fire, I wonder what the punishment will be for my failure and misbehavior at waterboarding. I shudder at the thought that this terrible day still is not yet at an end.
Marcus
We're so doing this again. And again. And then some more. This is perfect, absofuckignlutely amazing on so many levels I can't even begin to describe it. The sensation alone is different, but in its own way just as good as your sucking -- given that you're an Olympic gold–medal level cocksucker that says a lot -- and your thrashing and screaming, the sheer brutality of the act, and how helpless you are against it, damn!
I love this so much I could just go on, and on, and on. An act like this would keep my cock up continually through several orgasms, I bet, but I don't want to cripple you for good; it's cute when you piss yourself every now and then, but I don't want a rectally-incontinent pet. Plus you're in for a punishment, and my desire to hurt the living fuck out of you has now been fully unleashed. Your sweet childish screams, little yelps, and keening, tortured wails make me want to hear more, more, MORE!
Thumbs up for anal child rape! Everything we do is fun -- for me at least -- but this is extra-special. It is gorgeous on so many levels. Physically intense, and it appeals to my sadism and fucked up-ness probably more than all the things I've put you through so far -- although admittedly having your cute, sweet, girlie mouth lick my dirty, smelly asshole as it did just a few minutes ago definitely is a close runner up. Your screams and wails alone are enough to make this especially enjoyable. That it also comes with intense, physical pleasure for me is a bonus. This right here will be tough to top. Anal child rape might just be the pinnacle of pleasure, at least for me.
I let you clean me off thoroughly and then turn you around to have a closer look at your gaping and slightly bleeding ass. I can slide my little finger in without even touching it, how cool is that?! I've only ever seen good images of gaping in cartoons, hentai and stuff. This here is real, and it's . . . wow! It's hot. And the knowledge that I did that to your little ass with my cock makes it even sweeter.
Your freshly-fucked, devirginized little ass looks so gorgeous right now that I tell you not to move, fish out a camera, and in addition to this being captured on the usual security cams, I take some high-res close ups of your little butt. I also take some of you, especially your red, tear-soaked little face. I get a bit carried away; in the end it's almost like a full photo shoot with Glenn, only I'm not Glenn, and you're not wearing any cute sexy clothes. You're naked except for the solid steel collar you’ve had on around the clock ever since I first put it on your neck. The camera shots all focus on your ass and pussy, especially on the gap that seems really unwilling to close up just yet, and the cum leaking out and glistening on the insides and backs of your thighs. Click, click, click. A thorough, detailed, close-up, quality record of what probably has been the most painful experience of your life so far, at least by the sound of it.
By the time I've taken enough "evidence" of what I have done to you, some fifteen, twenty minutes have passed, and well over a hundred images were taken. A good, solid set. I put the camera aside and look at you. The upside is that you had a while to recuperate while I was snapping away. I slide fingers through your hair.
"You are going to be punished now. I thought you were really trying to please me, to pass the test, but all it took for you to swing totally out of control was a little water," I murmur. "I'm not happy about that and we'll practice again. And we'll end today with a punishment." With that I lead you from the bedroom into the dungeon and to the kitchenette. I make myself a snack, and I of course notice your hungry, envious look; you were given nothing solid all day long and exerted yourself a lot. I bite down on my sandwich and narrow my eyes at you a bit, and just then your tummy gurgles loudly. A lot more loudly than I would expect from a little girl.
"Test day, remember? And I wasn't too impressed with your obedience," I say as if you said something, and I go to the larder and pop open a can of dog food. The can says “chicken flavor” -- like these things really have any flavor at all. I plop the slimy, brownish-red contents of the tin into a silver dog bowl. Dog food. Slimy, cold, smelly dog food. Harmless enough, but the only good thing that can be said for it is that there's enough of it. It's a 400g tin, more than enough to feed a dog twice your size.
We both gaze down at the can-shaped mound of glop in the bowl. Bon-fucking-appetit, girl. Either you eat that or you’re in for a very, very hungry night. I notice, impassively, as you begin to sob softly, almost silently. This latest indignity apparently is too much for you to bear. You can't even be sure that if you refuse to dig in, there isn't another punishment in store for you. I’m actually curious to see what you’ll decide to do. Having quite literally eaten shit today, dog food ought not be that big a deal.
And so we eat. Me with my sandwich, some chips, and a beer, and you with a pair of dog bowls, one holding water, and another with actual dog food. After you have made your decision on that, you're still in for the actual punishment. Exhausted or not, a pitiable little creature, today my nice-guy side remains very well hidden. There's no mercy. No reprieve, no compromise. Command after command, demand after demand, abuse piled upon abuse and more abuse to go with it as a side. A big learning experience; nothing can stop me from doing absolutely anything, and you still have to obey and try to avoid at least the worst of the pain. And no performance that is short of perfect is good enough, unless I'm feeling very generous, which is not the case today.
I push the bowl away from my feet this time, and make you eat facing away from me. I want a view of your ass, and your only-reluctantly closing puckered little hole.
Laura
Still traumatized, shaking a bit, I clean your penis with my little mouth, licking, sucking, making sure I address every bit of surface, every bit of your vein–ridged shaft, as well as your bulbous cockhead and slit, and the hairy, darker area at the base. Considering where it has been, your cock is not too foul, and it has a definite sweetness to it, in addition to the sour taste of semen and sperm. ("It's from the last stuff he put inside to clean you – remember? It smelled like strawberries," I remind myself, thinking back to that last, cramping, pain-filled enema.)
When I'm done, I remain on the bed, on hands and knees, as you finger my bottom. It doesn't hurt. It's not even tight. I feel loose and strange back there, and, in fact, my normally tight, pink-puckered star is gaping open still, closing, but only slowly. The milky-white appearance of your cum is gone, but my anus and thighs glisten with the thin, sticky, watery remnants of your orgasm as it continues to leak from my rectum. I'm worried about my bottom. I'm worried that it's damaged and bleeding. But I remain in position as you touch me. The bedroom smells of sweat and sex and semen. The camera comes out, and you take dozens and dozens of shots of me. Part of me wonders why, and what they are for. Another part of me, the larger part of me, doesn't care. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter whether they are for you, for somebody else, or for the whole wide world on the Internet. Nothing matters. I have no reputation to protect now, no life to return to. My body is not my own, and what happens to it, or me, is not my concern. I belong to you. My body belongs to you. If you want to take photographs of me, naked, teary–eyed, with cum dribbling from my ass, that is your prerogative. I can't stop you. I can't even protest. Either reaction would bring immediate punishment. I know that. We both know that.
So I remain on the bed, on my hands and knees, my head hanging down, my long hair shrouding me, as you take photograph after photograph of my naked, collared, nipple–ringed 11–year–old body. I make no effort to hide when you stroke my hair back and photograph my tear–streaked face. I make no effort to close my legs, or shield my nakedness. It doesn't even occur to me that I should. This is my life now I am a changed little girl.
I listen, not even reacting, as you tell me it is time for my punishment. I knew that I would be punished, and I knew that you would not forget. I disobeyed you in the dungeon, in the chair, with the water. Looking back on it, my mind either can't re–create, or refuses to re–create, the horrible, claustrophobic drowning sensation that caused me to fight and twist in fear. Did I panic over nothing? Did I overreact? ("It's your fault, Laur'. It was only water, and he told you that you'd be fine at the end of it. It's your fault. The punishment is because you didn't listen," I chide myself.)
I walk softly, on bare feet, as you lead me from the bedroom to the dungeon. I am oddly unconcerned about the impending punishment, too tired to be worried. I wonder idly, almost abstractly, what my punishment will be. There are so many implements and devices to choose from in the dungeon. But to my surprise, we walk right through it to the kitchenette. And as we do, I suddenly realize how incredibly, god-awfully hungry I am. I am starving. I have had virtually nothing to eat today, all day, except for some sugary energy drinks and your ejaculate. My tummy is empty. My hunger is exacerbated by the complete flushing of my bowels from earlier today. There is simply nothing in my system for nutrients to be absorbed into my blood. Adding to that I have had a long, trying day. Test Day. It hasn't been easy.
For just a split-second -- like an eternally-optimistic Charlie Brown -- I think maybe you are going to feed me before my punishment. Feed me real food. And I'm so hungry for it. But my face falls as you go to the larder, the part where the dog food is kept, and extract a can. I know what it is. I know what you keep on that shelf. I've seen it. I've eaten it.
But it's just too much. It's been too long a day. I hurt too much. I'm too tired. My eyes immediately well over with silent tears as I stand there, watching you, looking like most unhappy 11-year-old girl on the planet. The tears literally stream down my face. My expression is pure boo-boo –– like a little girl who has been informed that her puppy got run over by a car while she was at school. I slide down to my hands and knees, not because I want to eat, but because staying upright takes too much effort. I am exhausted and defeated. I am hungry and tired. I want real food and a real bed. I don't want to be punished and I don't want to eat dog food. It’s not fair. None of this is the least bit fair
I try to keep my weeping silent, but I can't. Silent, running tears give way to full–body shaking whimpers, and little sobs. I manage to crawl forward, closer to the horrible gelatinous goop in the bowl. It looks worse than awful. Worse than the first time I ate dog food. My tummy clenches and I actually give a little gag as nausea washes over me. I can't eat this. But I must. I close my eyes and ever so slowly lower my little face to the bowl. I can't see, but I feel as my slightly parted lips touch the awful, cold, pungent mass. I force my lips to nibble a tiny piece of the greasy mush into my mouth. It is awful, and I cry. I can't eat it.
And it is at this moment, naked, on hands and knees on the floor at your feet, that for the very first time in my young life, for the very first time since I've been in this place, that I no longer want to live. I want this to end. I can't do it any more. I'm too tired and hurt and sore and sad and hungry to do it anymore. I want to die. I want you to kill me. I want to go to sleep, forever, where I don't have to feel like I feel right now.
I can't eat the food. I remain on hands and knees, head down. I can smell the pungent mushy yuck. I contemplate death. I am not sad. Death is the answer, not the problem. I ponder this. I ponder the end of my life. I will stop obeying, stop performing, stop doing what you ask. You will kill me. It's OK. Death is OK. I don't mind. I just want this to be over. I don't want to do it any more. I know that, soon, you will notice that I am not eating. I won't eat. I won't obey. Inevitably, you won’t be happy. You will react. I will continue to disobey, and your anger will grow. I’ve seen you when you’re super anger. You can’t control your temper. You’ll lash out. Death may come tonight. My last day on earth. I won't mind. Really, I won't. I just want it all to end.
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