Taken 38. Bananass Smoothie

Marcus

And so it's done. For four hours, your throat and mouth have been used and abused; almost any other girl, even you, a week ago, would be in hysterics now, crying and wailing and kicking and screaming from the pain and strain, but you know what good that would do: none. It would only make things worse. I see you kneeling and pleading silently with your eyes, speechless, with a sore, swollen throat; naked, collared, skinny, with rings dangling from your nipples. You are a completely different, changed girl from who you were in your old life. I recall your initial, stubborn resistance about something as banal as losing your clothes and I have to smile; that was before you knew what I could do to you, the extent of it. Nudity does not even register any more.

I grab you by your arm and walk you across the dungeon to the med–ward where there is a large floor-to-ceiling mirror, and spin you so you can easily see your butt in it. To see how badly the paint is smeared – how you can barely make out the outlines. I stand in silence for a while, just to let the fact that you're in trouble sink in. I work very consciously and powerfully with silence; your head already races in the right direction before I even say the first word. This time, I attack your nerves even further. I open my mouth as if to speak, and then pretend to hesitate and stay silent for a few more seconds.

"Go now," I finally say, calmly, almost . . . kindly. "Have a shower, clean up. Drink some water, as much as you need. Make me a coffee, bring me a cookie from the jar in the kitchenette. Get a syringe in the bathroom, one of the extra large ones under the sink; no needle. Make a banana milkshake and put it into the syringe." I pause again but hold your gaze to make sure you know I'm not done talking and don't dash out on me. "Of course . . . you have failed to keep your hands steady; we've both seen what your butt looks like," I say almost as if feeling sorry for you, not at all cross, more like . . . stating the facts and about to do the inevitable, as if it was not me but some higher power causing what I'm about to drop next.

"So you will have to be punished. However," I pause ever so briefly again, "over all, you've done an impressive job sucking. The control you have over your swallowing, gagging, relaxing, taking me at any depth is something of note, and you haven't failed today. You certainly get points for effort," I state, delaying, very intentionally, the final verdict. "If you eat your supper without even a hint of a protest once it's served, you'll get flogged, pussy, ass, back, tits, just nice and pink with perhaps a few red marks, nothing drastic as long as you stay put and let me do my job without having to tie you up. That's how easy I'm willing to let you get out of it; fifteen minutes or so of flogging mostly with a soft-stranded flogger. And then rest and sleep and tomorrow . . . tomorrow is another day. Another chance.”

“You are improving," I encourage you. "I can see you trying to obey and I appreciate it – don't think that I don't. You're trying hard. Almost hard enough," I praise you, hinting at something akin to a reprieve; a victory, or a milestone, like you're really improving towards something. Like all this has a point. Like staying motivated and keeping the effort up makes sense. I'm very aware that after two, by now almost three rather Hellish days, this is one of the first hints of softness, kindness, and hope and I know how super–sensitive towards those you have grown. It's not spontaneous but calculated, meant to trigger hope and relief and gratitude. I stroke your hair. "Go now. I hope I don't have to repeat any of it, but just because you look tired: shower, coffee, cookie, smoothie in a syringe," I count on my fingers and finally usher you off. “I'll be here," I say and point to one of the leather chairs in the dungeon as I plop down and relax.

I doubt very little that you will do anything but follow the commands to the dot; the difference between a relatively light flogging and another session on the hated and feared horse is huge and clear to the both of us.

When you return, I let you kneel in front of me as I drink my coffee and eat my cookie. The sight of me eating – even just that one small cookie – makes your stomach grumble. You've had nothing but piss and cum and some water since breakfast, hours and hours ago now.

I drink my coffee and eat my cookie in silence, eyes occasionally flicking to the horse and the soft, suede flogger, two punishments worlds apart in their seriousness, making sure you notice my glances. Then I put the cup aside, dig my heels into the edge of the chair, and pop the tip of the syringe into my butt. It’s cold, and not the most pleasant of sensations, but not something that particularly bothers me, either. I push down and empty the syringe therein and see the realization dawn on your face.

"Onto the floor, face up. Hands out of the way," I command, and as you scurry to comply, I squat over your face. I didn't acutely need to go, so there should be no or very little mess in my rectum, but I didn't have an enema or anything like that either, so your ass–served milkshake will definitely have the aroma and possibly some flavor of where it came from.

"Lick," I demand, and let you rim my pucker before relaxing my sphincter and letting your supper trickle down – warm, sweet, banana-flavored milkshake being discharged into your mouth. Towards the end something more solid slides through that by my best guess did not come in through the syringe, but at this point, what is a little shit to you? I push until I have emptied myself comfortably, I'm not stopping any short of that for your sake. But it's still mostly the milkshake. Mostly.

"Lick. Thoroughly. The inside, too. Show me how far you can reach," I demand and let you polish my hole clean of both the sweetness and whatever underlying shitty bitterness there is. It's entirely up to you now; you eat it all, swallow it all, keep it down, and still manage to lick me and rim me afterwards, obediently. You've spared your bottom parts another "ride" for the day. Having been a good girl. now you’re "only" in for a flogging. Funny that: The sight of a flogger used to make you wince and cry. Now, it seems a mercy next to the horse, amusing and absurd as that is.

Laura

I can't read you. Usually I can, but right now I'm having trouble. I'm tired. Aching. Not just my jaws and throat — they hurt, all right — but my back. My neck. From kneeling before you, sucking your penis. And before that, the dildo. My body was already sore and aching from the horse; kneeling for several agonizing hours makes me feel like an old woman, a geriatric. My lower back is killing me. My neck and shoulders, too. I just want to lie down. I just want to rest. I'm tired, and starving. Everything hurts.

But I'm still kneeling — petite, almost skinny now, just 11 years old — afraid to rise, afraid to move, just looking up at you, silently praying. Whether I consciously have admitted it, or not, you are like a God to me now. Your whims and desires control my fate. If I have displeased you, if you want me to ride the horse now, it will happen. Pleading won't help. In fact, it might make things worse. Cowering won't help. Running and fighting won't help — as if I could run, feeling like I'm 70 years old. Nothing will help. All I can do is look up at you, and hope that my performance was to your liking. I know you came. At least twice. I tasted your cum. I know I tried to suck you well. I really did. I gave effort. Serious effort. If I had known when we started that it would last so long, I'm not sure that I would have had the energy to suck you so long for so well. But once I started — once we started — and I started following your thumb with my eyes, I just kept going. And doing. And sucking. Minute after minute, hour after hour.

Was it good enough? I got confused a couple of times and withdrew when I should have gone deeper, or gagged when I should have swallowed. You didn't say anything. You didn't punish me — at least not then. I corrected myself immediately. I guess I got caught trying to anticipate your next command, and guessed wrong. It wasn't disobedience, it was just . . . it just happened. Are you mad at me? My tired–looking eyes search yours for the answer. I can't tell. I can't read you.

You pull me up by my arm and start to walk me through the dungeon. You don't let go. I am being led like a child who is about to be chastised. It is an age–old grip that you use on my arm — the grip of a grim–faced adult who is about to punish a child. I am that child – naked, slender, 11 years old. The threat associated with your grip is unmistakable. I swallow nervously. My heart rate immediate increases with panic. I feel light–headed, wondering what is going to happen next. I am too tired for more, too tired for punishment, too tired for the horse especially, and yet . . . none of that matters. It doesn't matter how tired or sore I am. Not down here, where you make all of the rules..

We walk to the medical ward, the site of my piercings. The medical ward — complete with the surgical table — is a place of special horror. At least the dungeon doesn't change me. Not physically anyway, aside from ubiquitous welts and rope marks. But the surgical wing is different ("Needles, Laur' — you messed up and now you're going to get needles," I think, suddenly, my stomach clenching in horror). It is threatening in a different way, on an altogether different plane of terror. You could amputate my limbs. Put out my eyes. Remove my fingers. Sew up my ears. Oh, I'm well aware of what could happen in this room.

When you turn me in front of the mirror, I can see my backside, and for a moment I am surprised to see the smeared red marks there. It takes me a few milliseconds to remember the paint (I glance down at my hands) and your instruction. ("He said not to smear it, Laur'," I remind myself unhelpfully.) As I look at my image in the mirror I can feel the skin on my body contract and tighten in fear. I had forgotten all about that. Now I know why you aren't happy. Now I know why your expression was grim when we made eye contact as I knelt on the floor. I messed up, big time. I don't even know how it happened. But the evidence is smeared all over my preteen bottom, red and accusing.

I don't know what to do or say. To say I have been caught red–handed — and red–bottomed — would be an understatement. The smear marks on my little cheeks cry out "Guilty! Guilty!" louder and longer than any words could emulate. ("It's either needles, or the horse, Laur'. He wants to punish you. Maybe even the water thing. You can't get out of it," I counsel myself.) You don't speak, as we both contemplate the red smears on my bottom. The silence lasts a long time. ("He's thinking, Laur'. He's figuring out your punishment right now. That's why he's being quiet.") There is nothing I can do, or say. So I stand there, looking guilt–ridden, the evidence literally painted on my bottom.

You start to speak, filling me with dread, then catch yourself and pause. When you start over, your voice is surprisingly kind. ("A shower? Really? Is there a catch?") Your voice does not sound angry. More . . . apologetic. I listen to the series of commands, committing them to memory. This is the first time in a long while — too long to remember — that your voice has been at all kindly. A wave of relief and gratitude washes over me. For a moment, I feel almost giddy. Shower, water, coffee, cookie, banana shake, syringe. I can do all of those things. I don't even mind doing them. I'll do them so super well, so amazingly good, that you won't regret not punishing me for the smear marks, not even for a second.

But then you remind me about the smears. You sound almost sad. I feel sad, too. I am sad. I wish my cheeks weren't smeared. I wish I hadn't moved my hands ("You're stupid, girlfriend. You just forgot, didn't you? You forgot to keep them in one place. Duh," I chastise myself.) And now it's time for my sentence ("He just said 'supper,' not dog food," my mind analyzes idly): Flogging. I'm getting a flogging. OK. OK. At least it's not the horse. Flogging I can do. It's OK. And he said he'll use the soft flogger.

I scurry off as fast as I can, which is neither fast nor particularly graceful considering that I am sore everywhere, especially still in my underneath parts. My gait is penguin–like as I try to keep things from rubbing together. But I move quickly, and I feel better than I look. In fact, I feel a tiny sense of optimism. You seem to be in a good mood. You praised me, and my performance. My effort. You look like you don't even want to punish me ("He has to, Laur'. You totally disobeyed him with the hands thing — like, duh, you totally forgot. Idiot!")

The shower is wonderful, and I want to stay in it forever. I let the warm water pour down on my aching neck, and take my time cleansing my entire lithe, hairless, preteen body from neck to toes. I am dainty with my underneath parts, but I soap them too, grimacing as it stings. I dry off, clean and naked, the thought of dressing not even entering my mind — dressing doesn't happen down here, and it would be silly to waste the time to think about it. I start the coffee, and pull down a mug. I take a glass of water. I want to brush my teeth, cleanse them of the taste of your penis and sperm in my mouth, but you didn't say I could, and it wasn't part of your instructions, do I don't dare.

I take a cookie and place it on a napkin, then in a burst of impetuousness, add a second. You may want two. Cookies make me happy and everyone likes them and maybe you will, too. I want to keep you in a good mood. I get a tray down. I set about making a smoothie — I made these for myself at home, so I know how. This one, I make for you. I get the syringe out. I have no idea why you want it, but I don't question it or think much about it. I'm too busy going over the memorized list of instructions to make sure I haven't forgotten anything. ("Shower, drink water, coffee, cookie, banana smoothie, syringe. Shower, drink water, coffee, cookie, banana smoothie, syringe. Shower, drink water, coffee, cookie, banana smoothie, syringe. Shower, drink water, coffee, cookie, banana smoothie, syringe," I repeat to myself, over and over again.)

When everything is ready, I carry the tray back to the dungeon where you are seated. At your gesture I kneel, and present the tray to you, then watch, as you take one of the cookies and sip the coffee. I'm hungry — starving, in fact. "(He said 'dinner,' Laur'. After the flogging. He didn't say dog food," I reassure myself.) ("Yeah, but remember? You didn't eat the dog food last night. And unless he cleaned it up, it's still there," I remind myself with a shudder.) ("Maybe he's gonna let you have the banana smoothie," I suddenly think, with wild optimism.")

But my hopes are dashed when you hunch your hips forward and stick the syringe in your butt. I can't help it. I make a face. ("Ohhh, gross!" I think with a shudder. "Why is he doing that?" I ask myself. "Does he even taste it if he 'eats' it like that? Ewwwww!") I've never seen anything like that before. I never knew anybody even did that. I look at you with a bewildered, surprised, grossed–out look on my face. I just can't help it.

And then, in an instant, my feeling of being grossed–out changes to horror. As soon as you tell me to lie down, it doesn't take me a split second to know, to KNOW, with crystal clarity, that the banana smoothie in your butt isn't for you – it's for me! I hitch a breath in, trying to suppress a horrified, hyperventilating wail of despair, even as my naked little body moves to comply with your command. It’s as if I’m on autopilot. All of the practice time we spent in the dungeon, you commanding, me obeying, no matter how crazy the instruction, has ingrained an automated response in me so deeply that my body begins to obey sometimes before I think my brain has even given it the command to do so. This is one of those times. As I am contemplating the sheer horror of what is about to happen, my body is already lying prone on the floor. My face looks pale, and maybe even a bit green–tinged, as you come to me, squatting, your ass and crack and balls and hole hovering directly over me, suddenly inches away from my 5th–grader face.

It is with a horrible, defeated, deflating and bone–deep sadness that my little girl face rises to your ass, and my child tongue pokes forth and begins to lick at your hairy hole. I know the drill. I've done this before. But somehow, knowing that an otherwise perfectly good and yummy–looking banana smoothie is inside you, and that you're going to feed me from your ass just because you can makes me feel an inch tall. There is nothing you won't do to make me feel worse and worse every darn day down here. No indignity is too much, nothing is off–limits.

My eyes glisten with tears as my tongue bathes your anus, still sweaty and musky from your earlier workout. You didn't bathe down there. I can tell. It is hot and humid with my face buried in your ass crack. I lick, and as I do, the first bit of the banana smoothie trickles into my mouth, and I swallow. I'm no longer hungry. But at least the taste isn't as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, if I close my eyes, and force myself to forget what I am doing with my tongue for a moment as the still–cool smoothie eases into my mouth, I can almost, almost convince myself that it tastes OK, maybe even good.

I try to put the awfulness of what I am doing out of my mind Instead, I simply lick and swallow Towards the end, something lumpy oozes into my mouth, something lumpy and warm and horrible, and I KNOW what it is. I don't so much taste it as I simply know. I swallow it quickly, with a choking, gagging "Aggggcckkk," sound — not because I actually choked or I actually had it in my mouth long enough to taste its foulness, but because I KNOW what it is, what it had to be. There are a couple of other awful, lumpy–textured things, too, and I swallow them quickly, feeling like I want to cry and cry and cry, even as I begin the process of cleaning your anus and rectum with my dainty, petite, middle–schooler mouth and tongue.

Marcus

I love being rimmed. I can't get enough of it, ever. I stay squatted over your mouth longer than just for a smoothie–lick up. Because why not? I've broken you well and far enough for this act to be almost routine. If my butt were clean you would by now rim and tongue–fuck it without even a hint of a hesitation; as it is, you seem and sound less than pleased, but after the last forty eight hours, you comply. You've been shown such boundless agony that disobedience seems to have disappeared off of your list of options for now. Or maybe for good. Who knows? You are a clever girl and you learn well. Maybe at some point I should ask something totally insane and impossible just to see if you still have some wits about you, or if you'll move to do something suicidal or likewise extreme. I already have a test in mind.

I lift myself up when I'm sure my asshole is completely clean, perfectly polished by your cute little preteen mouth, and when I have enough of the related sensation. I put my pants on. I sit on the chair again and pull you up to kneel in front of me, cupping your face for a while, gazing into your eyes. I can do this any time. And I can do worse. I don't even have to syringe myself with banana smoothie, I could just squat over your face and make you lick and eat and lick clean anyway. Plain shit. I don't say any of this; it's present enough in the silence between us. I only say one thing.

"Next time I serve you dog food, I want to see an empty, tongue–polished bowl minutes later and you kneeling with a messy face by it, smiling thankfully. Now . . . for the flogging," I say, a I pick out a soft flogger. it’s the kind of that lands with a heavy satisfying thud, with many stands but none of them too thick; soft thin stripes of suede that don't break skin and are very unlikely to bruise. Which doesn't mean they don't hurt, in their own fashion.

“On your palms and feet, belly up, butt and back up in the air," I command. "Knees wide apart, much wider than that," I specify the precise position I want you in. "I will always say 'up' before I swing. You will lift your pelvis as far as you can, tilting it up and also lifting your heels, rising to meet me. Each and every blow." I stroke the soft flogger and then take a cat–o–nine tails off a hook, an incomparably more brutal tool, one that marks and bruises and hurts cripplingly bad. "You make even one mistake and I swap the tools," I announce. "I hope that's VERY clear," I add.

I don't give you much of a chance to answer. I grab the soft flogger and grab the strands with my left hand, handle with my right hand, take aim and demand. "Up!" And as your spread, open, and still-sore pussy rises, I smack down powerfully enough for the impact to force your heels back onto the floor and for the pain to make you wince and retreat, folding your pelvis downwards. The impact leaves the entire area slightly pink, including your slit, a bit of your inner thigh, your mound, and your lower belly. It's a soft tool, but big, and the impact area is significant.

"Up," I demand again and meet your upwards motion with a precisely aimed blow. And again, and again. I force you into a sort of dance, where you undulate in a motion not unlike fucking, pelvis pumping to and fro, rising and falling, each time forced out of position by another heavy, downward, precise-to-the-millisecond strike. I beat until your whole nether area is a satisfying shade of rich pink, almost towards red. The cat–o–nine–tails is there the whole time, within reach. If you mess up only once – just one time when you don't manage to meet and greet me and help make the pain worse – the toys will be swapped. And then the hell would begin. You seem very, very motivated to avoid that, though.

Next up is your chest. This is a soft-enough flogger not to cause internal injuries so I just tell you to stop pumping and flog you as you are, straining and gasping with your with your belly and chest exposed. Methodically I paint the whole of your front pink with many impacts of the flogger – none of them individually hard enough to be agonizing, but collectively quite an ordeal. Then I make you stand up on your tiptoes, and have you lift your arms as far up as you can. In that position, a peculiar dance begins. I mostly hit your back and butt, but also your sides, armpits, front, and legs. I go quite fast and eventually you lose your balance under a blow. I look at the cat-o-nine tails and smile, but this is not the pumping phase, and you're not under that threat just now.

As punishment within punishment I make you bend over with your legs spread wide, and have you pull your butt cheeks apart. I hit you from behind like that. The flogger impassively impacts your sore rear, perineum, and even your fingers. I'm sure that with this flogger I won't break your fingers. With most others I would not be, but with this one, I am. And onwards we go, a tip-toe dance with blows raining from all angles and directions and whenever you stumble, you bend over, spread your sore bits, and get a good, hard, well aimed smack at those.

Your pucker and perineum soon are an angry shade of red. I eye the clock. It's almost seven. I've been beating you for longer than I had anticipated. You will soon not be able to get onto your tiptoes. You tremble, pink neck to ankles, beaten literally everywhere but your neck, head, and feet. Your calves are cramping up. For once, I take mercy.

"Enough for today," I finally allow. I lead you to the kitchen, open the larder and eye the dog–food. But I really want you to keep your last meal of the day down, and the smoothie was a pathetic excuse for a snack. I heat up pasta hoops in tomato sauce, a whole tin, and serve it on the table, with a bowl and a spoon, human-style. "Eat. Once in your cell, brush your teeth. Have some water. Clean up everything that needs cleaning – sheets and such. Wash up. Then you can go to sleep, I tell you. “And Laura? You really tried today. That counts. No horse. No tooth–pain, no needles. It pays off when you REALLY try," I say.

Perhaps it's not necessary, you likely fear me so much that positive reinforcement is redundant, wasted effort on you. Then a curious thought crosses my mind and I decide for an experiment. "If you want to come for a cuddle before sleep, I'll be in the bedroom reading. Just a cuddle, no more duties today. And you don't have to. You just can." I leave you with that and go lie in the bedroom bed and read. I don't expect you to come, but then, you are eleven years old and I'm the only human you know these days, and I've just shown a random stroke of kindness. No one else will hug you. No one else will stroke your hair. No one else will do anything nice to you but the very same person that fucks and torments and punishes you and feeds you banana smoothies right from his asshole, just because he can.

Never in my "old days" have I been so obsessed nor so attuned to my victim. I don't read minds – I can't – but I read your body, eyes, and face so exceptionally well. Almost like we're lovers in a long-term relationship, with years and years of joint experience, almost telepathic in certain ways. I sense your exhaustion, and I am not sure – and if I guess wrong you'll never know how I guessed so it doesn't matter this time – but something in my gut tells me that despite everything, like a moth drawn to light even though it burns, after all that hardcore stuff, you will need and want a little tenderness so badly that you will come.

I gave you barely half an hour's worth of tasks and I'm happy to read and wait for over an hour, which gives you a general amount of time to make up your mind before I lock your cell and move on. After all, there's another cell, another kid in need of training, and he must be ready, well enough broken in come your birthday, so I must not neglect him.

Laura

I keep my arms at my sides next to my slender body, as you squat directly over my face and I clean your ass and crack with my little tongue. My tongue is wet and small, but thorough, as I lick around your anus, up into your crack, down your seam, to the base of your hairy balls. From underneath you can hear gentle, wet smacking sounds as I softly clean your nether region. I use my neck and face to give me the right angle, as you gently shift positions, giving me access to all of your underneath parts. I breathe as I work — you instructed me on this the last time I rimmed you, as opposed to holding my breath, and it actually makes the job easier. My eyes are closed. With my face buried between your muscular butt cheeks, the air I breathe is hot and moist, and my face starts to turn pink and perspire. All the while I lie still from the neck down; only my fingers and toes move, curling with body English to the angle of my tongue as I lick and clean around your hole.

When I am finished cleaning the area around your anus, I begin to concentrate my efforts there, as you reposition ever so slightly to ensure that your hole is directly over my mouth. You can feel my little tongue as I lick in little circles around your anus, cleaning it, wetting it. After a time I form my tongue into a little point and press firmly to your hole ("He said clean it inside and out, Laur'," I remind myself). My preteen tongue enters your rectum, pressing, probing, licking the inner lip of your anus. Withdrawing, I again lick around your anus before poking my tongue back inside. I can feel your weight increase as you settle down on my face, almost sitting on it, giving me deeper access to your hole. My tongue pushes in again, wet and tiny. And again. And again after that. My slender, child body lies prone as I work, using only my tongue now, licking and cleaning inside your hole.

I lick and tongue and probe and clean for what seems like a long time, my face wet and hot between your ass cheeks. Finally, we are done, and you lift off, pulling me to a kneeling position and cupping my damp, red face. I have had my face buried in your ass for almost 30 minutes as I cleaned and polished your hairy crack and hole. I make full eye contact, hoping beyond hope that I have done well. I am starving, and although I know the flogging is coming, I want to get it out of the way so that I can eat. I just want to eat.

For the flogging, I assume the awkward position you instructed me to take, palms and feet down, my tummy and pelvis and little hairless mound thrust into the air. It's hard to hold the position and I gasp with effort. My heart starts to beat faster as I see you unfurling the flogger. It seems so thick, with so many straps. Yet instinctively I can see that it is not as thin, not as singular as the cane. And the flogger looks much more forgiving than the cat–o–nine tails, which remains within close reach.

On the first "up" command I undulate my pelvis toward you, thrusting my hairless, preteen pubic mound up to meet the downward stroke of the flogger. The impact of the blow surprises me with its intensity. I collapse my hips downward with an open–mouthed gasp and a wince, and settle back down on my heels. Instantly, however, I bring my pelvis back up to level. Both of us can see the pinkish area left by the flogger strands. On the next "Up" command I thrust upward once again, meeting the well–timed blow. I gasp in pain. Again and again and again I thrust upward, straining to hold myself up on my palms and the balls of my feet. My neck burns as I hold my head up, not wanting to but needing to see every impact of the flogger on my lithe, 5th–grader body.

When you move onto my chest, I am straining to hold position, and I flinch as the flogger comes down so close to my face. Soon my chest is pink all over, save for the spots protected by my nipple rings. But you flip those up the other way to ensure that my entire chest gets the same treatment.

Finally, as my arms are about to give out, I am made to stand, to reach up, on tip toes, as you prepare to flog the rest of me. Standing there, panting, reaching, my slender, nude little body stretched, straining on my tip toes, I look gorgeous. Beautiful. Fresh and clean from my shower, my supple young body and soft, childish curves look like a pedophile's delight. The first blow of the flogger to my side and upper rib cage causes a soft, pained, yipping squeal, which is immediately followed by panting silence as I await the next blow.

I try to stay upright, on my tip toes, but it's impossible. My balance is good, but not perfect, and each time I fail I am made to bend over, and spread my butt cheeks, for a painful blow administered straight to my underneath parts that are still sore and abraded and aching from the horse. I try so hard to stay on my tip toes, but I still end up with six or eight of these "special" blows, which cause my inner thighs, my cunny, and my inner butt cheeks to glow a shiny red. It hurts down there, and I struggle with extra effort to stay on tip toes, trying to anticipate the blow, and lean against it, so I don't fall.

I thought the flogging would be easy, but some 30 minutes into it, I am sore and hurting. The pain builds, especially in my underneath parts. My entire body feels tingly and hot, like I’ve spent too much time in the sun and have an all-over burn. ("It's still way better than the horse, Laur'. Don't mess it up. He has to be almost done," I tell myself.) But it's getting harder to rise on my tip toes. My calves are killing me. ("Oh please, please, please let it end before I disobey him," I beg silently.) I manage to find the energy to rise on my tip toes one more time, for what ends up being the last blow. Finally, the three best words in the English language — "Enough for today" — emerge from your lips. And as relieved as I am to be done with the flogging, the very first word that enters my mind is "dinner."

As we head to the kitchen I feel almost faint with hunger. ("If it's the dog food just eat it, every bit of it — don't make him mad and maybe he'll give you something else.") The bowl of dog food still is there. You eye it. I look at it guiltily, uncertainly. But you walk past it. To the larder. I am acutely hungry and I follow your every movement with my eyes. I stare. When you open the larder, you look right at the dog–food shelf for several interminable seconds and my tummy clenches. ("Please no no no no no no no no no no," I say to myself, trying to send a telepathic message to you.)

You grab a different can, however, and I can't tell what it is. But when it starts to heat up, I can smell it, and it smells soooo good. ("Careful, Laur'. Don't get your hopes up. It may be for him.") I can't help but get my hopes up. I am famished. The smell of the red sauce wafting through the kitchen makes me feel almost weak–kneed. I have never wanted to eat anything as much or as badly as I want to eat whatever is you are cooking right now. ("That's pasta hoops with sauce, Laur'. You know that smell, remember, at Gramma's?")

When you give me the command to eat, at the table, with proper bowls and cutlery, I feel like the luckiest little girl alive. I positively force myself not to shovel it into my mouth, but rather to eat it somewhat lady–like. Nevertheless, I eat quickly, with the bowl pulled close to me, protectively. If you tried to take it from me there is a good chance that I would not give it to you willingly. I am that hungry. I chew quickly, looking so tiny and young, seated, naked, at the table.

I keep eye contact with you, listening to your words, but my concentration is on the food. The delicious food. The glorious food. ("Brush your teeth. Clean. Drink," I try to remember.) Somehow it is harder to remember these few commands than the instructions you gave me earlier today. When you praise me, I do listen. You seem pleased with my effort today. Today was hard, but not so hard. At least I didn't have to ride the horse. I did try today, really hard. And it seemed to pay off. I'm tired, and I wish I had another bowl of pasta. I'm still really hungry.

But at least you're not mad at me. You actually seem quite pleased with my effort, and I feel a tiny pang of pride at a job well done. A few weeks ago I would have chastised myself for feeling any sense of accomplishment about anything I do down here, but that was a few weeks ago. This is now. This is after three pretty hard days. And on day three, I managed to get it, to do something right, and you're pleased, and as a consequence I'm eating real food at the table like a real little girl ("You're naked, and you're still in his dungeon, girlfriend," I remind myself. "You're still his slave.") But even my inner thoughts don't prevent me from cleaning every last bit of pasta and sauce from the bowl. I want to lick it clean. But it's not my dog bowl, and that would be un–ladylike, so I refrain, instead looking longingly and hungrily at the smears of red sauce still visible in the dish.

And it's just when I'm feeling that little pang of pride, just when I'm feeling good about dinner and rest and sleep, and the end of my ordeal for today, that you mention coming for a cuddle, like we’re . . . friends, or something. Leaving it up to me. My choice. There's no doubt at all that you're leaving it up to me. ("He's testing you, Laur'," I warn myself. “It’s a test and you have to figure out what he really wants you to do.”) I'm not sure what to do. But I don't have to decide right away. ("He said your duties were done for the day," I remind myself, your words echoing strangely in my head.)

I go about my final duties for the day, carrying out your instructions. I brush my teeth really, really well, realizing that I haven't brushed yet today, and not remembering when I brushed yesterday. ("Gross, Laur'. You prolly have hairs and poo and pee and cum and stuff between your teeth.") I brush for over four minutes, and then repeat the process, brushing fully twice. When I am done, I drink a glass of water, then another. I clean up my cell, straightening, tidying, looking like a naked, prepubescent French maid. ("Do you want to do the cuddle? He said you didn't have to," I keep asking, and telling myself, as I work.)

You did seem to be in a good mood this afternoon. I mean, even the flogging you didn't want to have to give me ("You did that to yourself, kiddo, when you forgot to keep your hands in once place on your butt.") Your voice has been different. The good voice. The kind voice. ("Remember when you used to snuggle and watch a movie? That was nice," I remind myself.) ("What if it's a test? What if you're 'sposed to go and you don't?") ("He said you don't have to.") Idle thoughts pass through my mind in a jumble.

Before I have made the conscious decision to do so, I find myself padding on bare feet out of my cell, through the dungeon, and I'm over hallway to the bedroom before I have another thought. ("You're going to cuddle with him? After everything?") I appear in the door, naked, 11, and ravishing. Our eyes meet. I look a bit sheepish, a bit uncertain. But I'm there. Collared, and suddenly feeling very exposed. My hands drift to cover my cunny — something I haven't done in a long time, probably weeks or more. I don't know why I do it. It just seems weird to come, voluntarily, here, to the bedroom, naked, like I'm coming over for a play date. I don't have to be here. But I'm here. We make eye contact again. I'm not sure what to do next.

Marcus

You are so fucking gorgeous I can't even believe it. Eleven years old, and the level of your submission is such that most doms who frequent BDSM dungeons would be green with envy if they saw you pump against each stroke, to dance on your tiptoes, to bend over unhesitatingly to expose your raw and red nether areas for another harsh smack each time you lose balance. You're perfect. You're really getting the knack of all this. I feel a warmth fill my chest, an exceptionally pleasant sensation. It takes me a while to realize, why, as I beat you, I am so happy. Sure, part of it is just the sheer sadistic satisfaction of a well-delivered and equally well-received corporal punishment. Part of it is how incredibly beautiful you are; heart-stopping, gut–tingling sort of beauty. I beat you for longer than I intended to simply because I'm fascinated and get sort of carried away. This is awesome. You're awesome. It's almost trance like. I become one with the process. I don't think I ever used a flogger with this much satisfaction.

But there's more to this joy than just the act itself and the fact that I'm delivering it on my wet–dream–made–flesh, my ideal girl, the one kid, one person I crave the most of all people on the planet. No. It's pride. I'm incredibly proud of you. Proud of myself, too, in a way, but mostly proud of you, of your progress from an ignorant, untrained virgin schoolgirl to this. You force yourself on your tiptoes even with your calves on fire with pain. You lift your arms up over and over again, making yourself vulnerable for one blow after another. You don't fight the pain, you don't shield yourself from it, you don't cower, you don't flinch. You are receiving like a heavy masochist who had years and years of practice in consensual BDSM and who loves this. I know full well that you don't, not one bit, so I'm all the more impressed at the amazing grace and elegance with which you take the punishment.

The punishment puts me in a good mood, and not just in the kind of good mood of having had my way effortlessly, of tending to the darkest corner of my soul – like strapping you up on the horse last night did. No. Flogging you and having you cooperate like this all the way through makes my body tingle with joy that's very much a physical sensation, not entirely unlike a whole-body orgasm. In fact for all I know about those, this may be it. It sure feels like an extended pinnacle of sheer bliss on my part, which sounds like a good-enough definition of an orgasm in my book.

And when I call it a day, you look at me, directly at me, and there's no raging burning anger or sizzling hatred in your eyes but gratitude. My heart melts. It's because of that that I notice how quickly you ate the food and that it wasn't enough. I have over half an hour, more, likely, so I go up and make you another portion, not of tinned pasta hoops but a soft pasta salad with fresh yummy ingredients, another whole portion. I want you to go to sleep satisfied, with your belly full. I want you to fully appreciate the difference between pleasing and displeasing me. The only slight catch is, if you don't turn up, I'll have to chuck it. I'm not coming to you. I take it down and into the bedroom and read, and at one point it almost seems like you took your chance to opt out and are not coming. I feel slightly dismayed – not that I need you to come. If I need anything from you, I'd go and take it. But I am a bit annoyed that I guessed wrong.

And then you appear at the door and look at me shyly and do the best ever expression of an innocent girl. You stun me, it takes me a few heartbeats to get over the fact that you – having had cock all the way down your throat, up your pussy, up your ass, drinking piss and tasting my ass, and a hundred other depravities, can still pull off a shy–child sort of look. Then I gesture for you to come, lift the blanket and let you slide under it next to me.

"I love when you're a bit shy," I admit openly. "You have nothing to be shy about, a gorgeous stunner of a girl like you, but still," I wink. I lift the lid of off the bowl of pasta. It has a fork in it. "You looked hungry earlier. Like very hungry, so I made you a bit more food. As long as you're happy to brush your teeth again before bedtime, eat your fill," I offer. I can starve you when it has a purpose, but I don't want you continually malnourished. There's a glass of pear juice, too. And a small surprise from one of the locked kitchen cupboards, tucked away under a pillow.

I let you eat with just an arm over your shoulder, I don't think you'd appreciate cuddles while still eating and so I let you eat in peace. Towards the end, you finally slow down, like you only now believe that you can eat as much as you can fit into your belly tonight. "You don't have to stuff yourself sick," I smile as I watch your bulging cheeks. "As much as you like but don't force it. There will be breakfast tomorrow. You’ve earned it. Even a master who owns you and can ask anything can't complain about the sort of effort you made today. Shame about the smeared paint, but other than that, I've never seen anyone this good and determined with their mouth around a cock, not even in a porn clip," I admit. "Only problem is, I'll never settle for less now that I know you can do it," I share my afterthought. The days of you only performing with your mouth on my cockhead and the upper third of my shaft are forever over.

When you've eaten your fill, I draw you into a hug and I very, very softly and gently stroke your body all over. Well, almost. I avoid your nipples and rings and your whole sore nether area, keep it sex-less as promised. You look great, smell great, and feel great under my fingertips. I'm in a state of bliss and it's not even cock–focused, I'm barely erect throughout the whole process. I don't cuddle you for too long – maybe twenty minutes, half an hour perhaps – but when your eyes start to close and I notice your breath evening as you slip towards sleeping, I kiss you and gently nudge you awake.

"Okay, bedtime. You've done a good job today, Laura. I want you to brush your teeth and go sleep in your cell, now," I say, lifting the blanket of off you, stirring you up from near–sleep. I could just let you fall asleep and carry you off to bed, but I want you to have your teeth brushed and I want the nice, sweet, soft moment that passed between us to have boundaries on both ends. It started when you willingly came here, invited but not commanded to, and ends now as you are sent off. I close and lock the cell behind you when you get in, and then go through the med ward to check on Robbie. For now, the adventures and depravities that have happened there are totally independent of yours, but that will not be the case for long.

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

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

Thank you!