Taken 37. Deepthroating Mastery

Marcus

It's past midnight now. It’s been a long while since I have first grabbed you, and a good few days since your ginger-haired crush joined you here; not that you know that. I make a middle-of-the-night stop in Robbie's cell, just because I can, and then I go back to sleep for a while, but I don't really manage to fall asleep properly. Five hours was almost enough shut eye for me. I end up going out. A jog, a swim, a workout, and then a shower. Of course, I deliberately don't wash my ass crack nor my cock, making sure to leave whatever is in my underpants nice and musky for later. But for now, a shopping trip. A little bit of showing my face in the town, and a few friendly smiles. I spend some time making chit-chat and friendly little exchanges, just so no one worries about me and pokes around. I don't want any unexpected visitors. I make it sound like I'm really busy with my IT work, turn down two invitations for a drink and one for supper. Once, I ostensibly ignore my neighbors' effort to invite themselves over. Very busy, you see. I barely leave the house these days. So much work. Not a good time. Oh, yes, the weather has been amazing. Oh, yes, it is terrible about the kids disappearing. People these days . . . blah, blah, blah, blah fucking blah. It's lucky that this routine only makes me vomit on the inside, and I can hide my annoyance and boredom with a very believable fake smile. Done smiling at all the neighbors and acquaintances, I gotta fake it the other way round, and not smile when I see the faces I've seeing night and day lately – often fucking them in their tight little holes – all over the fucking place. Posters. Leaflets. Milk bottles. Fucking hell. Your parents have really gone wild. That reminds me of the letter you wrote and I sent for you, as promised.

I go to the library and skim through newspapers of the last days, looking for your parents’ response. The library is dead this early in the day, so I don't even have to be discreet about what I'm doing. I look for the response, find it and photocopy it. Still, just to stay on the totally safe side, I also photocopy articles about how to get rid of hornets and copy some ads of local handymen, though the librarian barely spares me a hello. I always wonder whether that bloke actually does spend his days stoned senseless, or whether this blank, idiotic, loose-jawed, unfocused glare is his natural state. He’s a miracle of nature – someone in a vegetative state who not only doesn't need hospital care but actually has and does a job. Kind of.

Done with all that, I come back, just after noon. You are still asleep so I tend to Robbie first, and only then make a breakfast for you and walk into your cell. By now, you’ve had enough sleep by anyone's standards. I give you good food. Scrambled eggs, sausage, toast with butter, and orange juice. Some grilled veg, stir-fried onions with a drop of balsamic vinegar. Some baked beans in tomato sauce. A big, yummy, nutritious breakfast. A mug of tea and as much water as you like. It seems like you are not even believing your luck. I remember how the first time I offered you a square meal like that; you picked at it, despite your hunger. After 36 hours of starvation, you seem a lot less picky than you used to be. Maybe also because I can better judge now how much you can eat and only give you an amount you can manage, so you can eat it all, without picking.

There's an atmosphere of wariness. You now know that there's nothing I can't do, and that there's no avoiding my demands and whims, not even deciding to die is an option and that seems to give the whole dungeon an aura of clarity. I made your role clear to you pretty much on day one; or well, in the first few days as you memorized your mantra and learned to serve. But it's only now that we have a crystal-clear mutual understanding of how things are, and so showing mercy when I absolutely, totally don't have to must seem all the more special.

After breakfast it’s shower time, and then brushing your teeth, brushing your hair, and the usual maintenance. I even check your butt and squeeze in some cream to help heal the fissures and abrasions I caused yesterday. My finger slides in with relative ease. No wonder, really, since your ass is not virginal any more and it will never be quite the same way it was before being penetrated by the whole of a thick, hard, nine-inches-huge cock. Your pussy gets some cream, too, though that does almost nothing considering how horribly bruised it is. Even smearing the cream on makes you wince. Sore ass. Destroyed pussy. I wonder if I gave you a choice which one of those I will fuck, what you would choose, not that I actually bother. I can have both, and a handful of blowjobs on top.

I take things slow so by the time we make our way to the dungeon, you've had a chance to digest and wake up properly and all that. I walk to the horse and lean on it, casually. The computer, the electrodes, the ropes, it's all still lying around. I could put you on the horse, right now, and we could go on where we paused in the small hours of the night. I look at the items that were the source of the most hellish experience of your whole life, and back at you just so you have a time to fully realize that the option exists.

"Your mantra. The whole of it. Old bit and the new," I demand and wait for the words, which you give me. I make you repeat it two more times after. And then back to front, from the last line to the first one, seeing panic briefly claim your face as I demand this; fear that you get it wrong. But I give you enough time to regurgitate a passable answer.

I point at the horse, which is sticky and smelly with your dried piss, and the piss stain on the floor and the sticky toys that were up your butt and pussy. "You left a mess behind last night. I want you to clean it all up with your mouth and tongue," I command casually, and while you are at it, I find the next source of fun. A silicone dildo that's almost as thick as my cock, albeit softer and more bendable that my member when fully erect, but also roughly three times as long. It is "realistic," with a cock head on one side and balls on the other. Basically big enough so that if you take it into your mouth down to the balls, the cock-tip will be inside your stomach. Literally, not exaggerating; this thing is long enough to fill the whole of your esophagus end to end. I put a video camera on a tripod, turned on, and take the same camera that recorded your fucked ass yesterday and get ready, passing you the dildo as soon as you are done cleaning up.

"If you wanna please me, you'll be a smart girl, and you'll guess exactly what I want you to do with this, little cocksucker, without needing specific instructions," I offer in a light, amused tone. I sit, camera in hand, ready to record your effort. Impossible as the task may seem, you have learned last night that giving up is not an option. The game is on. Light, camera, action.

Laura

I finish reciting the words, still shaking and bedraggled, my eyes bloodshot yet alert as you hold my chin. I listen, despairing, as you appear to consider leaving me on the punishment horse, which is by far the worst thing I have experienced in my 11 plus years of life. I grunt and gasp and pant in pain, and then finally with relief, as you untie me. My arms and shoulders sing in pain as you lower them, and I groan as the beleaguered muscles complain about their treatment.

Despite my fatigue and pain I hear your admonitions about my lack of effort, my bad attitude, and the fact that they resulted in this punishment. I know they did. I know you are right. I feel contrite and apologetic and very, very relieved to be off the horse.

Despite the fact that rubber band is removed and my arms are untied, I remained hunched forward – my lower back has been almost frozen in this position. When you lift my slender, naked, preteen body off the metal edge of the triangle, my underneath parts flare with pain, causing me to gasp. It hurts so much as blood returns to those areas that my eyes water over with fresh tears. I remain somewhat hunched over and bet awkwardly as you carry me. It is a good thing you do carry me as I could not possibly have walked. You can feel my over-tired, over-stimulated body shaking and trembling from the vestiges of my punishment as we return to my cell.

I sit on the bed, with a groan, still leaning forward, nipple rings dangling beneath me, as the muscles in my lower back remain in a tight, painful, knot. I drink the water, using both hands like a toddler, gulping the water down, barely aware that I am thirsty on some level. I remain still, almost trance-like, as you clean me. When I am done I turn slightly and fall to the side, lifting my legs after me with some effort and a groan, as you tuck me into bed. I am in a semi-fetal position, hunched over on my side. All of a sudden I am ridiculously, stupendously tired. My eyes close. I am asleep before you finish cleaning up my cell.

I sleep deeply, stirring occasionally, with a little moan, as if my dreams are disturbing me. I sleep almost nine hours. When I awaken, to my surprise, you serve me a delicious breakfast. I am so hungry, and so afraid it would be dog food, that when I see it, my eyes glisten with grateful tears. “Thank you, Sir,” I whisper hoarsely. All of the crying out for you and screaming I did last night has left my voice sounding sore and overused.

I eat my fill, eating all of it, filling my 11-year-old tummy properly for the first time in nearly a day and a half. Food is sporadic and variable down here. I need to eat a lot when I get real people food, and I do. I finish everything. I am sated.

When I go to walk for my badly-needed shower, I still am a bit hunched over. My entire body is sore. I walk splayed-legged, a bit like a handicapped penguin, trying not to have anything rub on my underneath parts. I am so sore down there. My anus, my rectum, my perineum, my cunny – they all feel sore and abraded. And they are. Adding to that my arms, lower back, shoulders, and especially my neck are throbbing and aching. The neck pain is new. It’s obviously from the endless fight against the rubber band that I waged to save my clit and cunny from the pain of the horse’s unforgiving metal edge.

I have never needed a shower more. I clean my lithe body slowly – everything is sore, everything hurts, and the soap and warm water sting a little down below. Despite the pan and achiness, however, my bedraggled, stringy hair and sticky body clean up nicely, and when I step from the shower I look like a preteen vision of beauty – smooth, incredibly slender, a bit skinnier than my modeling days. My wet, dark-brown hair cascades onto my shoulders. My nipple rings and collar shine against my soft, moist, pink skin. I look lovely.

As we re-enter the dungeon, I can’t help it and I begin to shake. The dungeon no longer is a curiosity – it is a den of agony and horror. I don’t like it. I don’t like to be in it. And as we approach the wooden horse, my heart starts to race, and I start to hyperventilate. I am very, very concerned that I’m going to be placed back on it. I know you can do it as easily as you tie your shoes.

I recite the mantra. I think I get it right, but I may be interposing one word in the new part – even you can’t be sure. “I am not allowed to give up” becomes “I am never allowed to give up” each time I say it. I struggle with the backwards recitation – you can see my mind working over time and my naked little body tensing with fear. But I get through it – mostly well. Certainly the effort is there. I was a bit more enthusiastic last night, on the horse, but that might be expected given the incentive I had to dismount the thing.

When you command me to clean the mess, my response is instant. I sink to my hands and knees, lower my mouth to the dried puddle of pee on the floor, and begin to lick and clean. There is no argument. No hesitation. I clean the floor with my preteen tongue, and then work my way up sides of the punishment horse, first one side, then the next. My mouth and tongue tire fairly quickly, but I don’t even pause. My tongue licks the entire contraption clean.

I don’t stop there. I lick the butt plug and dildo clean, making sure that they are spotless. I fold the electrodes into need strands and place them on a nearby punishment rack. I place the computer there, too. Within 20 minutes, everything is at least spit-clean. I stand, eyes averted down. “I’m finished, Sir,” I whisper a bit hoarsely, as I look over and see the dildo. The dildo is utterly enormous – a caricature of a cock. I watch you activate the camera, and then take it from you with a “Thank you, Sir.” I hadn’t been saying that every time recently. You note with satisfaction that my thank-yous have returned.

It is obvious with the “cocksucker” comment what you want me to do, so I kneel down on the dungeon floor, my bottom on my heels. I bring the dildo’s cockhead to my mouth, wet it with a swirling pink tongue, and press it inside. I pause, growing accustomed to the size and mouth–feel of the artificial phallus, and then slowly try to gulp and swallow it down as I will my throat and my gag reflex to relax . . .

Marcus

Sleep. Breakfast. Strength. All I do is I boost you up, strengthen you, to make you able to endure more suffering. It's a bit absurd that you are so moved and thankful. My moments of mercy make your suffering worse, not better. They make you stay conscious and awake and alert, and agonized for longer. It is exactly as you realized last night; I can make this cycle endless. I can force–feed you if it comes to it, though I doubt you would really find the willpower to starve yourself next to delicious, good-smelling food. I can always leave you just enough rest time not to collapse, and I can vary the pain so your nerve endings don't wear off too much and the agony doesn't dull down over time. I can make this place the real sort of Hell for you – the suffering can be eternal and still seem as bad and extreme years into it as it seemed a week into it.

You freaked out, early on, fearing for your life. The prospect of death was motivating and at the same time demotivating, the realness of a possible end make your effort seemingly pointless. Oh how quickly I turned your vision of death upside down. It crosses my mind as you penguin–plod lamely into the bathroom that I could drive you to a point where you will beg for death. I could make you not just accept, but crave death, I could make you humiliate yourself and betray your old self into a whole new extreme, putting you in a situation where death will seem like a sweet, desirable relief and release.

I watch you with real satisfaction, and I notice that you've grown a lot more respectful, a lot more careful. Good. Torturing the hell out of you is a reward in itself, but when it actually has positive impact, that's even better. My cock grows hard as you lick the dried, stinky piss and whatever other bodily fluids and mess of off the floor, the horse, and the toys without even batting an eye. I feel a warm, smug satisfaction from having pushed you into a whole new level of obedience. It seems that with each occasion where I demonstrate my brutality and violence and prove the boundlessness of your helplessness, you are turned by another degree to my image. You become less the girl you used to be and more the slave, the doll, the pet, the whore, the mostly unthinking, pretty, obedient meat around your fuckable holes that I want you to be.

You struggle with the dildo. No wonder – it is fucking huge. An aging porn star would struggle with something like this. You are eleven, and tiny; tinier, even, than you were a few weeks ago, what with your collar bones and other outlines showing a bit more sharply. I never mean not to feed you, at least not since the early days when it was a breaking strategy. It's just that there are times your body and especially your mouth are too busy with other things to accept nutrients. Talking of sheer volumes, you've probably swallowed as much cum and piss in the last week as you did of real food. Fifty-fifty. Not that that's an accident or something that would make me feel sorry or apologetic. That's simply your lot down here. Sucks for you, literally and figuratively.

"You are never allowed to give up," I repeat back to you, liking your re–phrased version of the new bit of the mantra as you start to slobber on the absurdly large dildo and work it down your throat. You are an exceptional cocksucker, an improbable anomaly with how awesome you are with your mouth and throat at your age, but here you're faced with not just unlikely, but a nearly impossible task. And just to make it clear that to try your best will not be enough, I repeat it once more.

"You are never allowed to give up. You will keep trying until you get this toy balls-deep into your mouth, only the bulky nuts showing, the rest of it right down your throat. You will practice until you are able to slide it all the way in and all the way out and straight back in smoothly multiple times in a row without hesitation. There is no other way out of this situation then to keep at it until you succeed," I emphasize. "If you pass out trying, I'll slosh some water over you to wake you up and you'll keep going. If I have to drug you up to keep you going, like yesterday, I will," I say, perhaps only just now revealing to you that I used hardcore, "bad" drugs on you yesterday.

In a brief moment of gasping and breathing, barely a pause between two of very many tries to obey, I grab your hair and yank it. "Piss yourself," I command. "And the whole of the rest of the day, you will be doing exactly that, wetting yourself on command, knowing you will have to clean in up later. Toilet is off limits, pissing yourself without a command or even asking for a permission will be punished. You piss as I wish today. Your needs are unimportant," I spell out. I know you will no longer protest or even question such humiliation. I intend to push you, though. I make a mental note of the time.. The next piss command isn't coming for a good while. I slowly release your hair and take the camera again to document your effort just as the camcorder does automatically the whole time.

I watch you struggle. I watch you try and fail and fail again. I watch your body protest and retch. I watch the pain in your face as your throat and esophagus get used in ways for which they were not made. I watch you learn. When I'm done with you, you will have as much control over your throat and gag reflex as you now have over your fingers. You will retch on command without having to ram a finger down your throat, and you will stuff just about anything down that way without as much as wincing. I watch and watch. You have plenty of time to exhaust yourself, but also to improve. I notice your lips are a little cracked, and I see other signs of mild dehydration. Good that I drank plenty and my piss isn't too salty. I snap, suddenly, with no warning, "Hands behind your back!" at a point when the dildo is half way down. I mean to slide it out immediately, but the way your hands disappear behind your back like smoke, clearly without the command entering your conscious mind, is too mesmerizing. I let you kneel like that for a while; hands behind your back, mouth and throat full of dildo, air cut off. Then I reach for the thing, but instead of pulling it out, I stuff it in. Right down to the balls, the way I want it to end up. I stroke your neck and chest and belly as this thing, as long as half your torso, keeps you filled, unable to move much and totally unable to breathe.

"Hands off," I repeat even as I let go off the dildo and watch your face go a rather intensely dark shade of red, taking a few quick photos though I bet they don't seem anywhere as quick to you. I pull the dildo out before you turn blue and pass out, all the way out and toss the slimy thing onto the floor. I point at your piss on the floor. "Have a drink; clean up. And if that's not enough liquid, beg for my piss." Once again the camera clicks away. If you ask for what I think you should, you get your master's entire bladder straight in the face. Then I kick the dildo towards you. I'm also ready to chastise you should you not thank for the drink. After all, if you begged for it, you should thank for the mercy of my generosity.

"We've both seen that it's possible. Thank me for that lesson . . . and now – you show me. And try hard, you've been at it for almost an hour now, and while you can never give up, I can run out of patience and plop you back on the horse if you don't impress me soon." Today, I don't want effort. I want results.

...

And when I'm finally satisfied, I give you a coin; a strange reward down here. Not like you could buy anything with an old dollar anyway. "Toss. Heads, you get to practice your newly acquired skill on your master, tails, I fuck your ass. If it lands on it's side, you can chose," I laugh.

Laura

My body hurts as I kneel on the floor, butt-cheeks to heels, knees beneath me, and try to work the huge rubber phallus into my mouth. I prop it on the ground, balls down, and hold it there, as I take a deep breath and lower my mouth on the enormous thing. I have to stretch my mouth and jaws wide just to accommodate it's girth, and when the tip of the artificial cockhead reaches the back of my mouth, I think to myself that there is absolutely, positively no way that the thing will ever get into my throat. It is just that big. ("You can't give up, Laur'. You can't stop trying – he's testing to see if you'll keep trying, even if it never fits," I warn myself).

So I work it. Trying hard. Trembling with effort as my eyes bulge and I try to force the thing into my throat. I gag, withdrawing, barely able to prevent myself from vomiting breakfast all over the floor. ("Noooooooo!" I say to myself in a panic. "He'll make you lick it up! Don't throw up, pleeeeaase!" I think to myself, desperately.) Somehow, my face red, I manage to control my gag, and recover. My eyes are glimmering with gaggy tears, and I allow myself just the briefest of moments to regroup, still holding the phallus to the floor by the base of its shaft, as I reposition myself on my knees to try again. ("You have to try, Laur'. You have to try or he'll hurt you.")

And so I try again. I take the rubber cock head in my mouth, swirling it wet, and begin cramming my 11–year–old face down on it. I get it to the back of my throat – barely suppressing the urge to gag again– and begin pushing, cramming, forcing it into my throat. But it is to no avail. It is simply too big to fit. It won't go. But then – suddenly – the moldable, malleable dildo gives way, partially, and I manage to get the tip into my throat. I look surprised, and once again I nearly gag, but I fight off the sensation. ("OMG – you got it in your throat, Laur'. Just push . . . push your head down on it. Maybe it will go down!")

But it's so hard. The phallus is just enormous. I close my eyes and push my face down over it, onto it, trying to force it down my throat. But I can't, and I have to breathe, so I withdraw – stealing a furtive, scared, about–to–be–punished–for–failure look at you. Gasping for air, red–faced, panting, I regroup, reposition and try yet again.

This time it goes to the back of my mouth, and with a swallowing, wincing, cramming effort, I get it seated into my throat once again. I suppress the urge to gag ("Don't throw up, girlfriend!") and hold it there, building up my courage, before leaning up and cramming my little face down, forcing the huge cock replica deeper into my throat. I get a an inch or two of the enormous rubber dildo forced down my throat before I retract, pulling my mouth free with a wet smacking sound, and panting for air.

This goes on an on, for almost an hour. But I do try. And I do get better. With each effort, the initial entry of the phallus into my throat gets easier, even if my throat begins to protest from the abrading sensation. I am learning to suppress the gag reflex. With each effort I get it a little deeper down my throat. ("OMG, Laur'. You might actually be able to get it all the way down, into your tummy – yeah right, like in 100 years.")

As I work, my mind wanders, back to yesterday, and the wooden horse. The memory of my torment keeps me going, allows me to maintain my effort. For as awful as it is to cram a cartoon–sized artificial cock down my throat, it is nowhere near as awful, nowhere near as painful, as the time I spent riding the horse. And I don't want to ride it again. Not ever. The memory makes me shudder, and I cram the phallus deeper into my mouth. I don't want to fail. Failure leads to punishment. Worse than failure is giving up. Not trying. That lead to . . . my body trembles as I remember. My back and neck remember, too. I am afraid of the wooden horse. Deathly afraid. I don't want to ride it again. I know that much.

Just as I am reminding myself what happens when I give up, You remind me, too. It is as if you can read my mind. I am convinced of it. You seem to know everything. In fact, You seem all–powerful to me. You know what I am thinking before I even have the thoughts. You read my reactions and my body English like a book. You always have a plan. You always know what to do. When you speak, your voice has no compromise in it. My nervous little eyes flit up at you even as I strangle myself on the wretched phallus. I am not allowed to give up, period. I will keep at this until I have the cockhead of the dildo in my tummy, or I pass out. The threat in your voice is crystal clear. I now am fully aware of the consequences of giving up. I thought that death would be bad, even sad. But the consequences of giving up, of not giving good effort, are worse than that. Way worse than that.

My mind searches for a way out. Yesterday, on the horse, in pain, I would have accepted death. And I realized, as I struggled back against the rubber band and the shocks tormented my body, that I could not cause death. I could not make you kill me. And the feeling of helplessness at that point was horrifying. If I can't die, if you won't let me die, what is there to prevent you from hurting me over and over and over again? But I was in pain then, and over–stimulated yet tired, and maybe not thinking clearly. So now, even as I work my mouth and throat down on the phallus, I revisit the issue. I can't keep doing this, I just can't. But . . . what alternative is there?

As I cram the dildo into my throat yet again, my mind works overtime. I am well–rested now, and well–fed, even if my body remains sore and hurting. My mind is clear. And yet . . . I reach the same conclusion. If you won't kill me, if you refuse to kill me, you can keep hurting me in unimaginably painful ways. And I can't do anything about it. For the first days and weeks I was here, I tried to figure a way out, a way to survive, a way to win you over – yet nothing worked. I tried so hard on Test Day, yet failed miserably. But through it all, I always thought that the worst thing that could happen to me was death, and I came to embrace the thought, and on the horse, even to welcome it. But death is not the worst. Unless I can cause my own death, I have no out. I have no respite. You can do absolutely anything you want to hurt me. The thought makes my blood run cold.

When you mention using drugs, I realize why I felt so crazy yesterday, so alert and over–stimulated. And I realize, horrified, that you drugged me not to sedate me or knock me out like when you abducted me, but to prevent me from passing out, to prolong my agony on the horse. The thought that you can keep me awake simply to enhance my suffering is terrifying. As that realization dawns my blood runs ice cold once again.

My heart leaps with fear as you grab my hair and yank it. When you tell me to piss myself, I am petrified. Kneeling there, I will my bladder to relax, praying silently that I'll be able to, here, on the floor, with you watching. Despite my nudity, my piercings, the horrible things you have made me do, peeing in front of you is humiliating and degrading, and for a brief, terrifying moment it doesn't come . . . but then, it dribbles and bubbles out, down my little quim, onto the floor. Puddling there. Quite a bit of it, actually. ("Oh thank God," I think to myself. "He'll probably make you lick it up, Laur'.")

You give no further instructions, so I resume the tedious chore of forcing the rubber phallus down my throat. It is a struggle. Eventually I have about half of it wedged in my throat, which is starting to get abraded and sore, aching from the repeated intrusion of the dildo. I am about to withdraw it for yet another try when you order my hands behind my back. They go there, instantly, leaving me hunched over, facially impaled on the rubber cock, halfway down my throat.

I can't breathe, and am terrified as you grasp my head in one hand, and begin forcing the phallus into my throat with the other. ("Noooo! Nooooooo! It won't go!") But it does go. It hurts terribly, and my eyes water and bulge, but you manage to twist and stuff it deeper and deeper into my throat, lower than I ever got it, and lower still, deeper. My eyes blink back choking, gagging tears as you cram and force the enormous cock inside me, until it is almost in my tummy, the artificial, enormous balls of the thing against my dainty, preteen chin. I can't breathe. I feel stuffed, like a turkey. It hurts.

I think you're going to pull it out, but of course you don't. I continue to kneel there, hands behind my back, reminded by your instruction not to move. I can't breathe. I squirm for lack of oxygen. My face turns red. My eyes are glassy and bloodshot as you caress my chest and throat and tummy. My throat is bulged. I can't move much.

I hold my hands behind my back as I feel consciousness starting to slip. ("Maybe this is death," I think to myself. "If it is it isn't so bad. Maybe he's going to let you die right here, right now, because you failed . . .") My body starts to sway and I see spots before my eyes.

But you pull it free, and it hurts as you extract it from my clutching throat. And then I can breathe, and I'm not dead, not dying. Part of me is disappointed. But the rest of me welcomes the air into my tortured throat. I breathe, deeply, panting, trembling, exhausted once again. And almost immediately, the command comes to clean up my own piss, and just as immediately, I bend to the task, shakily holding my flowing hair out of the mess. I make a "shllluissshhh" sound, over and over, as I suck the stone–cold, acrid piss into my mouth. My piss. I lick the floor, getting all of it. I am too far beyond humiliation to feel humiliated, as I bend before you, naked, collared, and pierced, and shakily slurp my cold urine from the floor.

When I am finished, I sit up, resuming my kneeling position, my face wet, strands of my hair also stringy where I failed to keep them from dangling in the puddle. I am thirsty, and if anything, the urine has made me more thirsty. I know what you want. I know what you want me to do. Hope springs eternal that maybe I can win you over by just giving you what you want. "Please, Sir," I begin. "I'm still thirsty, um, and I would like to beg for your piss. Please may I have your piss, Sir?" I ask, using my very best, most–polite, St. Andrew's School voice and diction. And when you offer your penis to me, I take it in my soft, 11–year–old mouth, and brace myself, waiting for your pee. It comes, and I begin swallowing the warm, tangy offering just as fast as I can, knowing that to spill is to invite punishment. I take it all. Every bit of it. Down into my tummy, joining my own. "Thank you, Sir," I say, as I gasp for breath, my lips wet and shiny with your effluent.

I kneel again. I hear your words, and heed them. "Thank you for . . . for showing me, Sir. For the lesson," I repeat, looking at you with sheepish, defeated eyes. I take the dildo – still shiny and wet – and prop it up again, lowering my face, licking the head, wetting it, and begin to cram it into my mouth. It enters my throat easily – I have learned to cram it in, misshaping it briefly. I have to withdraw again when it gets to halfway. I withdraw again the second time. ("He's gonna run out of patience, Laur'," I remind myself.) The third time, I go all out, and when it gets to my throat, I use your cramming, twisting, driving, grinding technique to force it down, deep, deeper, into my throat, to the hilt. I work hard at it. I hold it for a moment, looking up at you with furtive, submissive child eyes, and withdraw. I breathe deeply and heavily for a moment, and then do it again, repeating the process, cramming, twisting, working it, down to my tummy once again.

I withdraw, and you hand me the coin. This is new. Different. Anything new and different down here is scary and bad. I'm not sure if you want me to flip it now, right away . . . but yes, you do. Awkwardly, I flip it in the air, and it bounces on the ground, rolls a short distance, and stops. I peer at it. It is heads. You see it, too.

Marcus

I nod. It's not a game you could win, a choice between bad and worse with nothing stopping me from having one and then the other, too, should I decide I still want more, but for now, I let chance decide, randomly. Heads.

I walk across the room and rummage through shelves and drawers for a short while. I come back in perhaps a minute, reach into your hair and smile. "Hands up, palms towards me," I demand and smear red finger–paint on them, wrists to finger tips, all over your palms and that side of your fingers, too. I smile again; I'm possessed by one of those moments of perverted clarity; I know exactly what I want to happen, and there is nothing stopping me from getting precisely it.

"Listen carefully," I demand and pause for rather a long while to give you a chance to truly, honestly focus. "First, I want you to kiss and lick and stroke the ridge of the horse," I point to the metallic edge on which you suffered through the better part of last night. "Get a very good feel for it. That's your punishment, right there, should you fail. We won't go for any less than that today. You either obey and please me and thus succeed, or you will fail, and end up here," I tap the metallic edge the marks of which are still visible over your butt and perineum and even pussy, despite your effort to keep it of off it.

"You're gonna kneel and smack your palms over your butt cheeks. And they will stay there, so solid and immobile until we're done, that there will be recognizable palm and finger prints on them when all is said and done. If you as much as slide and smear the marks, you have failed and will be punished," I glance at the horse. I put my hand in front of my chest, close to it, in your clear plain sight. "Now that I've seen what I have seen I have no doubt you can do this perfectly," I state bluntly, "and I will settle for no less than perfection."

"This," I put my thumb up in an "okay" gesture, is lips on my cock tip and tip of your tongue against my piss–slit," I explain and nod at you to get in position. "This," I flip my hand sideways so my thumb is horizontal, "is about this deep," I say and guide your head onto my cock about half way; deep enough to be choking and making you gag, perhaps more so than once it's past that point. "And guess what," I smirk and push you all the way down, lips against my balls and my lower belly, pressed snugly into the hair, my cock as far as it is humanly possible to cram it down your mouth and throat, as I show a downward pointing gesture with my other hand. "I hope the directions are clear; from now on, I don't want to have to guide your head, you will follow the thumb like nothing else matters more in your life," I announce, releasing your head from being impaled on my huge, hard cock.

And then I give you an oral schooling no eleven year old has ever gotten anywhere in the entire history of mankind, I'm pretty sure. I start with my thumb up, and I go all the way down, turning it gradually, watching my cock disappear into your mouth, and back up. And down, and up. At varying paces, five, ten, fifty, nearly a hundred times over. Towards the end, I'm making them uneven; I make you slide right down fast, filling your throat with my cock all the way, and then wait briefly, and then make you emerge at a tortuously slowly pace. Slooooowly. Then with my cock about one quarter in, my thumb 45 degrees upwards, I demand. "Swallow. Relax your throat. Gag. Swallow. Relax. Gag. Relax. Swallow. Gag. Swallow. Relax." I can feel the difference between those states of your throat and I let you keep trying until you get the knack of it, until you are passably good.

A brief pause for breath here and there, an all the way down motion once or twice just so you don't go out of practice, but you spend many minutes with a quarter of my cock in your mouth, on the edge of your throat, learning to gag and swallow and relax around in on command.

Then I lower my thumb so it's horizontal, and we repeat the process, almost precisely the same but with my cock deeper in your throat, just before that point where it chokes of all of your air even if you try and sneak some air in through your nose. We practice for a long time. "Swallow. Keep swallowing for a while. Relax. Gag. Relax. Gag. Swallow. Gag. Swallow. Relax. Swallow." I experiment. I keep demanding more. I make you go on for ages. I find out, mostly by coincidence, that swallow–swallow–gag as a repeated sequence feels nicer than the rest, so I make you repeat that alone for about five minutes. A last series of long waves of the same so you have them firmly "in your system"; swallow–swallow–swallow–swallow–swallow–swallow–swallow–swallow–swallow–swallow... gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag–gag. And long, long periods of relaxed breaths between, but not as you need them but on my whim; after all, even as you practice, you can still breathe a little bit.

Then I lower my thumb, only ever so slightly, but it's precisely the difference between being and not being able to suck in at least some breath. You are now gagging and swallowing on command without being able to breathe. I occasionally let you slide a bit further up; not all the way, not even satisfyingly far out, but a bit out, for a choked breath. Gags are easier, more natural at this position it seems, but relaxing and swallowing are harder. It makes no difference to me. Again, I spit commands until you get a fairly good knack for it. Gag–gag–swallow seems to work best at this depth. I cum, but barely acknowledge it, just groaning as I feed you a load. We’re not done, not by a long shot. We go on like nothing happened. I make you go on until you nearly pass out, then allow you a proper breath.

And then we go on, still, on and on, with cock all the way down your throat, but the commands are the same. Swallow, gag, relax. In all varieties and combination. Whether it's practice or exhaustion, it seems shockingly possible for your throat to relax around the whole of my shaft. I like that. I make you spend long periods of time impaled on my cock and relaxed, only occasionally squeezing my cock with a gag or a swallow to show that you're still with it, still doing it, still conscious and present. Somewhere between gagging and swallowing in turn while staying impaled on my cock for a ludicrously long amount of time, I cum again. But still, you have to go on. Every now and then, I snap a few pictures, but while different instructions at different depths feel differently, they look mostly the same on the camera so I get bored of picture-taking and eventually put the camera aside.

My cock is smaller now than at it beginning, an inch short of fully erect, but still we go on and on. I take a piss right down your throat, but make you go on. Slower pace now, training you to emerge so slowly you must think you will pass out, but I make sure that you don't. Fast pace, from just lips to deep in your throat, up and down at a pace most girls would struggle to keep up with even if they only sucked on the cock–tip. And on we go. And on. I make you go tip to root, up and down, swallowing around the shaft until you make me cum for the third time. Only then do I push you away, after something like three solid hours of intense oral abuse, not counting the hour you spent trying with the dildo.

I notice by then you seem to be struggling, with many things of course, but there is an unmistakable need to take a piss among them. I make you stand on your tiptoes, make squats, push ups, and the finally demand that you piss while walking, while on the move, and then I make you lick up the trickle you leave all over the floor. It's only than that your oral abuse is done for the day. The only things that go in your mouth until bed are two banana milkshakes, some toothpaste, and your toothbrush.

There is not even a chance you could speak, I don't bother to try and make you. I tell you not to try when I give you sore-throat medicine and some lozenges for later, and yawn while looking at your abused form pensively. I could go on. My cock could not, you could not, but I probably could come up with a way of having more fun, while causing you more discomfort and suffering. I look at you for long enough to make you aware of the option; that we might not be done, we're not done until I call it a day. The camera has run out of battery and died on its tripod. Hours have passed, and your throat has been abused in unprecedented ways, but none of that means we are done; you cannot give up. I wait for the recognition of that to show in your eyes from behind the veil of exhaustion.

Laura

It's crazy to have my fate decided by a coin flip, and on some level, deep in the vestiges of my brain, the part of me that was once a normal 11–year–old girl knows that. But the new me, the taken, child-slave me, is relieved, almost ecstatic, that the flip came up heads. Because tails would mean that my bottom would once again be skewered by your penis, and I have very vivid memories of how much that hurt, how I cried and writhed and screamed and struggled, despite knowing that I would be punished for it. But it hurt soooo much, I couldn't help it. And I don't want to feel that again. ("But you will, Laur'. He's gonna stick it in your butt whenever he wants.") For right now though, I feel like I won the lottery. Heads. Heads means I suck you. But that's OK. Or so I think.

Despite my tender age, and my lack of experience in the art, I am aware that I am a good cocksucker. I can tell from the groans and moans that you emit while I am working your erected penis with my lips, tongue, and throat. I can tell from the expressions you make, sometimes with eyes closed, as you cum in my mouth and down my throat. I've seen the videos you've shown me. Other little girls take only the head in their mouths, or only a bit of the shaft. But I can get it all down. I can make you feel good, and cum. On some level, a nearly-forgotten level, I feel a small twinge of pride at my skill. ("You're a slut, girlfriend. Congrats to you – you suck really good," I chastise myself.) It's not much, but down here, where everything is different, I can't take pride in being a relatively successful model or a good student or anything else that is important "up there." But I am good at sucking. Nobody can take that away from me. That's something.

And, thankfully, sucking doesn't hurt as much as just about anything else we do down here. Yes, it hurts when you hold my face and mouthfuck me, like at the pond, but when I do the sucking, the most I feel is some discomfort and achiness in my throat and jaw ("Yeah, and you can't breathe half the time, remember?"). So, when the coin comes up heads, I am relieved. Almost eager. I know from experience that when I suck you, and you cum, usually life gets easier for me after that. Plenty of times after you cum, you leave me alone. So the idea of sucking you, swallowing your cum, and being allowed to return to my cell sounds pretty good to me right about now.

But – and there's always a "but" – instead of commanding me to suck you take my hands and paint them with a red paint of some kind. This is new, and different. New and different is bad. New and different usually leads to pain. I'm worried and nervous and my heart starts to beat faster in my bare, nipple–ringed young chest. ("What happened to sucking you? I want to suck You!" I say to myself, starting to panic). I am desperate for the opportunity to suck your penis. I don't like the red paint. And then . . . you refer me to the horse. The horse of pain. The horse of agony. Just looking at it, just standing near it, makes me feel faint. I don't want to ride the horse again. Ever.

I am near tears as you instruct me to love the horse with my mouth, to kiss and lick the edge, the edge that causes so much pain. I am shaking in fear now – I can't help it. All I wanted to do was suck tour cock. You promised! But now with this red paint, and the horse . . . Terrified, I gently kiss the horse of agony, the horse of pain, and run my tongue down the ridge. I feel almost faint. When you explain that the horse is a punishment if I fail at sucking a wave of relief washes over me. I have hope. A glimmer of hope. I kiss the horse again, still near tears. I daintily lick the sharp metal edge. I make love to the horse with my mouth, my heart racing in my chest, my tummy in knots as I remember my riding time.

My memory of the horse is so vivid, so real, that it is with genuine relief, relief bordering on gratitude, that I kneel on your command, and clasp my little hands to my bottom, feeling the squishy wetness of the paint as I do. I am extraordinarily attentive to your demonstration of the thumb commands, my eyes focused and intense. ("Please do it right, girl. Please do everything he asks, the way he wants it, so you don't have to do the horse.") I am truly desperate to perform for you. The horse has me terrified. The metallic taste lingers in my mouth even as I take your cockhead inside and nestle my tongue in your piss slit in the "thumbs up" position. I look like such a good girl, an obedient girl, kneeling there, naked, hands clasped on my bottom, with your cock tip nestled snugly between my 5th-grader lips. ("He's gonna let you do it, and he'll cum soon, and this will be over," I think to myself.)

But you're not done with instructions quite yet. I learn thumb commands. What they mean. How they work. The halfway position, thumb horizontal, is actually worse than taking you fully down my throat. That's because the halfway position leaves your cockhead just deep enough to make me want to breathe and choke, but not deep enough for me to suppress the gagging sensation entirely. But that's OK. I can do it. And when you bring my head deep, pushing my little nose to your pubes, forehead to your belly, I can't breathe, or see, but I stay in position passively as you finish telling me about the thumb commands. Even though I can't see, I know how the thumb commands work. I get it. And I already have learned to allow you to control my breathing when I suck. It's all about trust. It no longer makes me panic, even if my heart beats faster whenever my oxygen is cut off.

I'm actually eager to suck your penis and drink your cum. I know I can do it. I can do it, and do it well, and then you'll grow soft and things will get better. I'll get a rest. My plan is to suck you, deep and well, to the best of my ability. Maybe it will take 10 minutes for you to cum, at the most 20. And then I get a rest. I keep my hands seated on my bottom, ready to begin.

And then, finally, I do begin. Or, I should say, we begin. You move your thumb as I stare at it, and I emulate the depth indicated, starting at your cock tip, then slowly easing your entire erection into my preteen throat to the hilt once again. ("He'll like that, Laur'. Just keep doing it like that, and use your tongue and he'll cum and you'll be done.") But something is wrong. Although I'm doing all the work, you're entirely controlling the blowjob with your thumb motions. Suddenly it dawns on me: You might be able to make this last for a long time, maybe even a full hour! I clasp my bottom once again, staring at your thumb, sliding my mouth and throat up and down on your shaft, as I try to steel myself for an unexpectedly extended session.

Then the specific commands come, supplementing the thumb gestures. I find that swallowing, or attempting to swallow, with an erect cock in your mouth is not easy. But I learn. And I do it. I swallow, wincing, my throat constricting tighter around your shaft as I do. Then the order comes to gag, and I try to. My body tenses as I do. My gags are silent, but you can feel my throat spasming around your shaft and see my eyes water with silent, choking intensity.

Your oral commands come in patterns. I have to take them in, process them, all the while staring at your thumb and emulating its movements. This is tiring. And hard. Harder than the times I have sucked you before. Much harder, in fact. And I realize to my dismay that the pace of my sucking, swallowing, gagging, and relaxing is not likely to make you cum anytime soon.

Since my arrival in this place, I have been amazed – often very unhappily – at how long you can draw things out, how long you can torment me, without seeming to lose interest or tire. You seem to have inexhaustible stamina, and also patience, for things that I find tedious and repetitive, and often exhausting. I first learned this when you had me learn the footprint of the dungeon by making me fetch the ball for hours and hours on end, until my knees positively ached, and my jaw was sore, and my entire body was shaking with fatigue. In contrast to me, you never seem to tire. You never give up. You never end anything prematurely. Your incredible stamina and patience and perseverance contributes to my emerging view of you as some kind of mind-reading, omniscient, all-powerful God

.

You demonstrate your amazing stamina yet again with this thumb-controlled sucking practice. I listen for your commands and watch your thumb intently, never allowing my eyes to leave it. The commands are constant. Withdraw. Go halfway. Gag. Swallow. Relax. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Gag. Relax. Go deeper. Hold. Relax. Swallow. Gag. Gag. Gag. Withdraw slowly. Hold halfway. Swallow. Gag. Swallow. Swallow. Gag. Relax. Go deeper. Go all the way. Swallow. Relax. Withdraw halfway. Hold there. Withdraw to the tip ("Put your tongue against his hole, Laur'. Remember?") Go deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper, all the way. Hold there. Gag. Gag. Gag. Gag. Gag. Swallow. Withdraw slowly . . . halfway . . . to the tip. ("Put your tongue in his hole!") Go deeper. Gag. Gag. Relax. Withdraw. ("Tongue, Laur'.") Go deeper. Slowly go deeper. Stop there. Gag. Swallow. Gag. Gag. Gag.Swallow. Relax. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Gag. Relax. Go deeper. Hold. Relax. Swallow. Gag. Gag. Gag. Withdraw slowly. Hold halfway. Swallow. Gag. Swallow. Swallow. Gag. Relax. Go deeper. Go all the way. Swallow. Relax. Withdraw halfway. Hold there.

The commands are endless. After a while, they are dizzying. Once or twice I just freeze, my brain fried, unable to process the command for a split second. Perhaps I was anticipating the next command and guessed wrong, expecting the thumb to take me deeper when in fact it has me withdraw. I can't anticipate the commands well. Sometimes they seem random. But I know you have a purpose. You always do. Eventually, I taste the unmistakable musky flavor of your cum on my taste buds. Your cock slides easier between my supple child lips. ("Did he cum? Yes he did. That's definitely his cum. Are we stopping now? Oh please, please stop. Oh God. Please stop.")

But it doesn't stop. It goes on. Interminably. My jaw hurts. And my throat. My back aches. My hands are numb on my bottom, and tacky with drying paint. Still, I suck. My eyes remain fixated on your thumb, only very infrequently daring to flit away, to steal a glimpse at you, of your expression. ("Does he look like he's almost done?" I ask myself). You are not done. We keep at it. Endlessly.

The breathing part adds to my discomfort and to the dizzying aspects of trying to keep everything straight. Planning my breaths is important. If I miss an opportunity, I might not get another one for an uncomfortably long period. Even when I do, sometimes I have to hold you in the "deep" position until the lack of oxygen makes my toes curl and my little body shift on my knees. A couple of times I feel woozy and once I even saw stars before you allowed me to pull back and breathe. Planning breaths, following your thumb, listening to commands, all while kneeling before you, and keeping my hands fixed firmly on my bottom is difficult, especially so because I'm only 11. Multitasking is not a particularly strong trait among the preteen set. Difficult would describe the first 10 minutes. As the minutes turn into hours, however, I start to feel the tremendous mental strain. My reactions and responses slow. But my eyes never leave your thumb for more than a fraction of a second. After a while, as I tire, they never leave it at all.

I think I taste your cum again. In fact, I'm sure of it. My mouth is wetter when I retract, and the familiar, musky taste is there. I can tell cum from precum. ("Maybe he didn' tcum before. Maybe He's finished now . . .") But you're not finished. We continue. You command, and I suck. Your cock has not exited my mouth for over two hours. And yet, there is no end in sight. The fact that you continue even after cumming turns my understanding of your cock on its head. It had been my experience that after you cum, you lose interest in me and tormenting me. But not today. So much for that theory.

After what I think is your second cum, we pause, as you piss down my throat. I can feel the hot liquid as it fills my tummy. But it's obvious that I'm not done, and as soon as you finish peeing, we resume. I can taste your urine in my mouth, and smell it in my nose and sinuses. It is a familiar taste to me now. It reminds me of my own need to pee, which suddenly becomes very, very acute. Still we go on.

In fact, now I need to go really bad. But this time my body has probably processed the liquid from your first load of cum, plus whatever was in my own system before. I need to pee bad. My toes curl. I wriggle. But still I suck, my eyes fixed on your thumb. I'm tired and aching now. A familiar feeling down here, in this place, where there is nothing but pain and torment.

By the time I taste your cum for the third time, my eyes are dull and bloodshot, my aching body is hunched, and I look pale and exhausted. My toes are curling and uncurling as I try to fight off the need to pee. ("Oh please, please, please don't have an accident, Laur'. He'd punish you for that on a normal day, and today especially because he's telling you when you can go.") I manage, with effort, to hold my bladder, but I wouldn't have lasted five more minutes if you didn't finally push me away.

I stand on your command, awkwardly, my hands still on my bottom – glued to my bottom now, with dried finger paint. I obey your commands, going to tip toes, squatting painfully, finally removing my hands for the push ups. In between exercises I do a version of the pee–pee dance, shifting in place with a pained look on my face. My young cheeks are smeared with paint – not only is there no clean handprint to observe, but it is hard to discern where my hands even were, or that it even was hands that made the red mess on my skin. Somehow, someway, my hands did not stay in position, did not leave a clean little handprint on my soft bottom. You observe this as I finish my push ups. I don’t do them well, because I'm an 11-year-old girl. I can't do many of them and my form is terrible. All the while, I need to pee. Bad.

Finally, you allow me to pee while walking. I hate this. It is degrading and humiliating. But I need to pee so bad. So I do. Copiously. Intensely. And afterwards, I kneel down, and obediently clean it all up with my mouth, slurping, making a "Sluuiiissh" sound over and over, as I retrace my steps, my bottom up, the red smears visible. I knew I would have clean it up this way. I didn't even need your instruction. When I am done, I remain there, on the floor, looking exhausted. I sense you studying me, looking down at me, and I look up. I can't read your expression. With a shudder I realize that you may have more planned for me. Or maybe I didn't please you. Or maybe my effort wasn't good enough. ("Oh please. Please. No. Not the horse. I tried as hard as I could. Please not the horse," I beg silently to myself, the panic showing in my eyes.)

My eyes meet yours. I look exhausted and scared. Please let it be over. Please let me be. Please let me sleep . . .

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