Taken 39. Chores
Marcus
When I come with a fizzy vitamin C dissolved in a big glass in the morning I still seem in sound mood.
"Good morning, pet. Can you talk? Try and say something," I say and pass you the glass to drink and then demand that you try again. Breakfast is decent: Muesli, cereal, yogurt, fruit, all in abundance. Over night, I solved the problem I previously had when I took you up; I had to clean the house obsessively afterwards to make sure that if something leads the cops my way, they don't find a hair of yours somewhere. DNA evidence is a bitch. And so shortly after breakfast, you are presented with a full–body latex suit that will cover you head to toes. It comes complete with goggles; you won't even lose an eyelash. It also has a mouthpiece that is kind of like gas mask — all it really does is stop you from dripping drool or spit. I help you into it, let you wait kneeling in the dungeon while I check to make sure that no one is anywhere near the house, and then we head for the door and up into the house. It's kind of a mess. I had to do some work, as well as shopping and cooking, not to mention that I have been training two slaves in parallel and so the last time I cleaned up was after you were last out.
"Here's your chores for the day. Don't leave or try to leave the house, don't touch any phones or computers (I don't mention they are all password–locked anyway). Come see me if you are unsure about something, need the toilet, or when you are done." I give you a long list of things to do with boxes to tick off and show you the utility room — if you were super–keen on killing yourself, you could probably rip the mask, take off the air filter, and drink bleach or something. But there's no suffering today, no horror. Just three hours of work — for a skilled adult. Four, five — god knows how many hours for a kid in a restraining latex outfit. Toilets, sinks, floors, dusting, just about everything in the kitchen (which is a terrible mess, not like when you passed through it for the first time. Now there are dishes piled up) sheets in my bed, watering plants, the list goes on and on. I even have you wash my muddy boots and do a round of my laundry. It's a long list — but none of it requires you to leave the house — and all the doors are locked. But you have freedom of the whole house apart from the security room that I keep locked. And I do some rather long–overdue work in my study when you are at it all. I'm even on the phone some of the time. I have you on CCTV the whole time, but I barely watch at all. Unless you do something very odd or suspicious, or slack off for a long time, I won't even notice.
Laura
I feel sheepish and strange and shy as I stand in the doorway, covering my hairless preteen cunny with my hands while trying to look like I'm not doing it deliberately. I'm not sure why I came. I didn't expect to feel so strange when I got here. ("You came even though you didn't have to, Laur'. That's why you feel this way. You're a slut!") When you pull back the covers and invite me in, it at least gives me a way to cover up my nudity, which suddenly is intensely important to me. It doesn't feel quite as slutty to be in bed with you, even naked, as it does to stand in the doorway, naked and collared and nipple–ringed, as you stare at me like I am a priceless work of art in some old museum. And boy do you stare.
I snuggle next to you, against your warmth. You said that there would be no sex stuff and I believe you. One thing is for sure down here is that I can count on your word. When you say I will be punished, punishment comes unfailingly. When you say I must do something, I either do it to your satisfaction or there is pain. When you say I can't do something, there are consequences if I do it anyway. But when you say that you won't do something to me, or that I can speak freely, or that it is my choice whether to do something or not, you always keep your word. So while I know you will cuddle and snuggle with me, I have no worry that there will be any more sex tonight. ("What if his penis gets hard again, Laur'? Hmmm? What if he changes his mind and wants to put it inside you? Did you think about that, you little slut?")
I have just snuggled in against you, the warm bare skin of our upper bodies touching, when you surprise me with a bowl of pasta salad. I prop myself up, stunned. It is the best–looking, most gorgeous pasta salad I have ever seen. It has a fork in it, and you tell me it's for me. I sit up, almost not believing my good fortune. ("You almost didn't come, girlfriend. That would have been a bad move — even if you are a slut.") I look at you, my face so sweet and innocent and young, like a little girl who's just been told that her years–long dream for a puppy has been realized. I am quite literally on the verge of tears. I already had resigned myself to the fate of going to bed hungry yet again. Aside from you, of course, and pain, hunger is my regular common companion down here. In fact, my mind had already turned over to tomorrow, hoping and praying for a good breakfast.
It is with profound gratitude that I realize that you didn't have to do this. You didn't have to notice that the bowl of pasta hoops from earlier wasn't enough. You didn't have to take your time to make me up a gorgeous, delicious–looking bowl of pasta salad from scratch. You did it while I was cleaning up and brushing my teeth. You did it not even knowing if I was going to come for a cuddle. All of these thoughts race through my mind in a jumble. I feel like crying. ("Don't cry, you baby. Just eat it. If you cry he'll think you're a total infant baby.") I manage to suppress the urge to cry, but I have the presence of mind to gasp "Thank You, Sir," In a raspy, hoarse, whispered little voice that is so weak and awful that it surprises even me.
I sit up further and dig into the pasta salad as your arm drapes across my slender shoulders. At dinner I tried to be ladylike, to eat slowly. But somehow, here, in bed with you, I seem to be starving even more and I give up any pretense of decorum. The pasta salad looks delicious. If I could lean down and inhale it into my mouth, I would do so. As it is, I lean down and take forkful after forkful, barely stopping for air. My tummy is aching with hunger — the banana smoothie and pasta hoops nothing but teasing appetizers. I am halfway through the bowl before I even slow down, and three quarters of the way through before I take a pause to drink. I have mayonnaise on my lips and another white dollop on my chin, and I look for a moment like a much–younger girl, a little girl, who's just learning how to eat in her high chair.
Very suddenly, I feel full, and tired, and I don't even want to finish the salad. In fact, I feel super sleepy. As you take the bowl away I snuggle down again, under the covers, pressing against you. ("Slut!" my mind calls out.) But I am too tired to care. For the moment, in the moment, you are warm and reassuring. As your fingers start to trace and touch and dance across my body, I feel content. Full. Sated. Sleepy. Warm. And content. Yes, my underneath parts still throb and hurt from the horse and the flogging. Yes, my throat hurts and my jaw is sore. And yes, my knees hurt and my lower back and neck are aching. But the softness and warmth of the bed, of our snuggle, feels nice, and I just relax, my eyelids getting heavier and heavier as you gently caress and fondle my soft, preteen flanks and skin.
I have just nodded off when you nudge me awake, and send me on my way. For a brief, fleeting moment, until I catch myself, I don't want to go. I don't even want to brush again, but I just ate and drank and I am persnickety about my teeth and my hygiene, so I do. Half asleep, I trudge nakedly from the sink to the cot, fall into it, wrap myself in the blanket, and am out cold in less than a minute. I sleep the dreamless, restful sleep of an exhausted little girl.
I awaken refreshed, a few minutes before you enter my cell. The tingling, full–body effects of the flogging are gone, and my sore parts feel better. I touch my underneath parts — perineum, cunny, even my hole, and although they still are sore, they are improving. I swing my legs out and stand, stretching with a huge yawn, my lithe, collared, 6th–grader body sleek, naked, and beautiful as I get ready for the day. I don't realize it, of course, but this day happens to be the very first day since my arrival that my first thought upon waking is not that I am a captive, that I'm still here, that I wish I were home, that I want to go home. On this day, my first thought upon waking is simply that I'm awake. That you will come soon. That I will have breakfast. As I wake up this day my thoughts are in the present, not longing for the past. I am starting to adapt to my new life, even if it is so gradual I don't realize it.
I am hungry again, and I eat breakfast with enthusiasm. You were true to your word, and it is a good breakfast. ("Because you were a good girl yesterday, Laur'," I remind myself.) But as soon as breakfast is finished and I have used the toilet, there is a new trauma. A suit of some kind. It looks like a wetsuit, like the kind SCUBA divers wear. And I find it utterly terrifying. My claustrophobia kicks in full–throttle. The last time I wore a suit I was a singing urinal. And as much as I hated drinking your pee, staying in position, singing, and the semi–drowning sensation of your pee dribbling down my throat, by far the worst part of that ordeal, the most unsavory memory from that ordeal, was the suit itself, which was cloying and hot and constricting and horrible. And immobilizing, as I was affixed to the urinal itself. This suit looks evil and awful with goggles and a face mask. Worse, I have no idea what it is for.
It is a shaking, terrified, unhappy little girl you help into the suit and leave kneeling on the floor. My mind races. ("It's gonna be like the water thing before, Laur'. When he dunked you. He can dunk you in the suit.") I am very scared. I associate the suit with SCUBA gear and I therefore am sure that this torture will involve water somehow. I already feel very hot and uncomfortable in the suit. But I kneel. I make no effort to remove it. What will happen will happen. All I can do is worry and obsess about it.
When you return and give me the list, I can hardly believe it. It is a cleaning list. Unless the entries are code for something else, I have a list of chores to do today, in the main house! My relief is palpable. I can do chores. I can even do them in this suit. I don't understand why you want me to do chores in the suit, but there is a lot I don't understand down here. The suit is not that bad if it's not being coupled with something else, like a urinal, or a face–sitting chair. I don't even mind doing chores. At home I was fastidious and clean, almost to a fault. I kept my room clean without even being asked, and did chores around the house, for the most part semi–willingly.
So while you may think I have a boring, dull day of work ahead of me, I am beyond happy to perform every single item on that list. I know how to do all of it. And I take more than a little bit of pride at my ability to do it well. ("You are such a loser, Laur'. Like he cares how well you do chores. Like any of this even matters. Duh. You're 'sposed to be in school right now. Instead you're cleaning your sex master's house. Get a grip.") My inner thoughts may chastise me, but I don't care. Despite the cloying, constricting nuisance of the suit, I work and clean, clean and work, independently, happy as a lark, for several hours, until the list is complete. I almost wish there was more on it. I like to clean. I liked doing the chores on this list. And the last several hours were, bar none, the most enjoyable time I have spent in captivity to date, at least in terms of my waking hours. I spent several hours without pain or torment, doing something I enjoy.
Now my thoughts turn to lunch. It is mid–afternoon, and I am starving. I know that I have done a good job. I know that you will be pleased. At least, I think you will be.
Marcus
When I lift my eyes up from my rather absorbing on–line work. Several hours have passed as if by miracle. Many hours. It's definitely lunchtime, slightly past now. I walk with you around the house, and damn, I'm impressed. Okay, that's one less thing to worry about; I can't hire a cleaner because that would be a security risk, and with two slaves on my butt even my reduced working hours keep me busy. By the looks of it I won't ever have to clean up again. It seems almost too easy, too smooth, too effortless, too good a job for a first time. I briefly think about ways of making it more fun, of making you more aware that you're doing it for me. But plugs, bullet vibrators, that kind of thing. Simply because there's no reason why this should not be spiced up a little if it is to become a routine.
I lead you back down, bringing a bag full of fresh ingredients with me into the kitchen. I give you a walkie–talkie. Well not exactly – it's not radio but digital, the signal doesn't go through the walls but into the router in the security room and the transmission is encoded – but it's kind of a walkie talkie. I take off your mask and your goggles, but leave the rest of the outfit on. It must be slick on the inside by now and not very nice, but I want you in it so you will wear it, end of story. As with everything down here.
"Good job on the cleaning. Now make a three–course meal: Soup, mains, and a salad on the side or a bit of a dessert, three portions," I demand. I bet the three portions will gnaw at your mind, but I doubt you are expecting an explanation, and you sure as hell aren't getting one. "Good, biggish portions, all of them. And a drink for yourself, and a coffee for me. You have . . . (I pause and eye my watch) . . . three quarters of an hour. Give or take a few minutes. I suggest you bring the alarm clock from your cell to avoid getting into trouble. Push this button and call me when the meal is ready. You're allowed to taste if you need to as you cook, but don't snack. Wear an apron and use hot mats; you don't want anything hot dripping onto you when you have latex on. Is that clear?" I unlock the knife drawer. There are moments when you want to die, but this is not one of them. I briefly consider the idea of you trying to slit your wrists with the ceramic vegetable knife with a rounded tip and it actually makes me smile. You would have trouble doing it even at a pinnacle of abuse, let alone at a bright–moment, good day like this. I leave you to it.
I lock you in the kitchen — unusually, as you would normally have freedom of the dungeon for such a chore, but that's because I need to multi–task and check on my other slave girl. I go around the dungeon. It could do with a bit more attention. It's spit–clean, and not really sticky, but it could really do with a better clean up than being polished by preteen tongues. A thorough mopping, wiping with some antiseptic cleaning liquid, polishing, that sort of stuff. I make a note of it. Maybe today will be a day of chores. But I'm needy and horny, and I'll need my release at some point. You would get a bit too much of a hint if I got off with Robbie so much as not to demand your body's service and attention. The three–way meal could be a trick for all you know. A way to mess with your head. The third portion could be for me, only for later. It could also be for someone upstairs. You can't know the answer to that right now, but my dick not needing its regular service would be too much of a hint. It also would ruin your birthday surprise and I can't allow that.
I wait for the walkie–talkie to come alive and announce lunch time (by that time I'm in the surveillance room doing a bit more of work) and realize that I've actually shown trust and given you responsibility of sorts today in ways that I have not done so far. It seems natural though. You are making progress and changing.
Although… you are still a fifth grader. When the call comes, you sound upset and panicky, and I hurry in when I notice the room all smoky on the camera. It's a shame I didn't notice quite how chaotic you were until some 40 minutes passed. Your frantic, desperate struggle is hilarious. I walk in, into the smoke, smell, mess. I put things of off the stove turn the ventilation on full blast, and look at you. A long, quiet, steady look. I try to look very serious, even pissed off. But I can't, I just can't. I burst out laughing. I can hide and fake a lot of emotions, but when I'm in stitches, it's really hard to hold back. This is simply too funny for me to use it as an excuse for another punishment. I ruffle your hair.
"Oh boy," I snort. "You sure are better at making my balls empty than making my tummy full," I grin. "Don't be so upset, you're eleven; I underestimated what that meant; I thought you could manage something simple, but I guess if you don't know how to cook from the scratch, you just don't." I look at the mess. The salad looks passable. The soup is beyond rescue. The chicken salvageable; I cut off the burnt layer at the bottom, chop the rest up with whatever veg is left into a quick asian style stir–fry. I cook some rice. It takes twenty more minutes, but we end up with a passable lunch, served from plates and eaten by the table, with cutlery, both of us. You still seem upset and on edge, as far as I can tell.
I finally decide to clarify the situation. "In case you are wondering.... you're not getting punished for this, okay, unless you call cleaning this terrible mess a punishment," I say with a smile. "I will take no excuses for not trying hard enough, and we both know I give you close to no slack in the bed, and in the dungeon. But if you simply don't know how to do something, it's kind of my job to teach you before I tell you to try — and punish you for not getting it right, okay? I'm sure there's videos on cooking that you can watch and simple recipes that you can start with. You did okay job with a breakfast the other day, I just assumed too much.”
In the end, the food's okay. It takes more cleaning up than I thought it would, but you don't seem to mind that; in fact, you look... not even surprised; you look suspicious about having been given a pass for your failed cooking attempt.
Robbie will have to have his later. It's just a handful of days till the charade is over. I only hide him from you to entertain myself, to fully enjoy the first ever interaction of the two of you. We eat.
After the meal, I look around the kitchen.
"You have two hours to wash up, clean up the kitchen, mop the dungeon, wipe and polish all the equipment. And also to digest and have a bath; I want you kneeling in the middle of the dungeon, naked, clean, and ready for me when you are done, no later than two hours from now. But first, read this. You can keep it. If you need a while to digest it, or want to have a cry or something, you can. Your cell is unlocked," I say neutrally and pass you a photocopied article from the Green Springs Herald. Page two — a preview and a headline was on the front page, even. You made the news.
Dear Laura.
Thank you very much for your letter. We think of you a lot. We are all missing you tons and tons, but other than that everything is fine. Jeremy's teeth are growing back, he's now got the cutest smile ever! Calvin is learning how to ride a bike.
Me and daddy will do all we can to get you back. We will pay any amount of money it takes, do absolutely everything there is to do to get you back. Right now we are just so happy to hear that you are alive! Please be good, don't get yourself into a dangerous situation. We're keeping your room exactly as it was, ready for your safe return!
Everyone sends their hugs and kisses, me, dad, Glenn, Jack, Jeremy, Calvin, Marissa, Caroline, all of your classmates and friends.
We hope to see you again soon and we mean to keep trying to make it happen. We are ready to do all that it takes.
With lots and lots and lots of love,
Mum & Dad
Simple, a bit clumsy perhaps. Brief enough for the local paper to print it in full. Unless there was more at first and it got shortened after a discussion with the paper or the police. Even I can't be sure about that. Be a good girl. Right. But it's well–meant. It almost sounds like the divorce never happened. And it doesn't mention Robbie so I can pass it on without censorship. I also give you a copy of the front page and the second page of the newspaper, with "Letter to The Kidnapped Girl; Terrified but Hopeful Parents of Laura Bandahl (11) respond to a note forwarded by the girl's kidnapper." There's other shit on the page, too, but nothing of significance. Just a weather forecast, something about the local town council, and a mention that police are still looking for you. Robbie's article only comes up on page three, and the only reference was at the very bottom of page two with advertisements on the other page, so I could cut it out easily. You just get what you need to see, not a line more. That's it for your old life; there will be no more communication either way. I might, might send your daddy a real nice video, a sort of best–of–your–training–days video, but you don't likely need to know about it, and I sure as hell won't be sending you back his regards after that, even if he managed to push them onto the front page of New York Times.
I leave you to it. I expect you to cry and to perhaps show some more of resistance after such a reminder of your old life, but you've learned enough by now to not put up too much struggle even when your mood is super–foul. You're too afraid to put up a serious fight, now, and rightfully so.
...
I collect you, two hours plus some quiet kneeling time later, in the dungeon and lead you into the surveillance room where I'm just finishing up lighter, personal communications and similar bits and pieces I've also fallen behind on. I guide you under the desk. Mouth on my cock. "Suck me. Tip to root, the whole of my cock. A swallow half way, a swallow all the way down. A small gentle gag as the head enters your throat. Keep it up until told otherwise," I demand. This time you don't have gestures to guide you, just your initial instructions. "When you make me cum once like that, you can do it as you like the second time round, free–style," I add, "but don't slack off. Perform." And then I leave you to it and get busy with my stuff while you get busy with my cock down under. I haven't washed for a good while now, so the musk is stronger and sharper than yesterday.
Two cumshots follow. Your preteen lips and tongue take me through about twenty emails and then the news — things that distract me and make your job harder and slower. But not too long, too slow. You're too good for that. By the end of it, I have finally caught up with everything and I wonder what to do with the rest of the day, of which there's only the evening left. You've given me my two orgasms and I close my eyes and contemplate what I feel like. Perhaps it's time to check if you have done as good a job on the dungeon kitchen and the dungeon itself and if you left any mess at all in the bathroom with my keen eye looking for an excuse to punish. What you did with the latex suit, for example. You had to take it off all by yourself, and as a beginner, you easily could have torn it. If not, I'll just have to come up with a game that will be as good fun to play as it would be to punish you.
Laura
I'm pretty proud of my cleaning effort. I'm good at cleaning. Even at home, I didn't fight Mom much on chores. My room was clean, my bed made almost every morning. I helped with the dishes and helped to keep the house clean. I have this thing about cleanliness. I like my body and my surroundings to be clean. I used to brush my teeth twice a day without fail. I bathed once a day, and sometimes more if I got dirty or sweaty. I don't like dirt or sweat or yuck. Which is why using my tongue on your sweaty body or in your . . . well, let's just say that those are not my favorite things to do. As a stickler for cleanliness, I also don't like foods that are gross or slimy or covered in things like gravy. Which is one of the reasons I'm not very keen on eating dog food, which I guess kind of goes without saying.
Anyway, I knew you would be pleased with my cleaning. It was easy to give good effort because I enjoyed doing it, despite that hot, sweaty suit you made me wear. Anything that needs cleaning, I'm probably the right person for the job. Unless I have to do it with my mouth and tongue. I don't like doing that.
But now I have a problem. You want me to cook, and I'm really bad at cooking. I mean, not bad at it — I just don't know how to do it. Oh, I can make a sandwich, all right, or maybe heat up a can of soup or noodles and sauce, but beyond that, I'm really not very good in a kitchen. And the problem is, when you told me to make a meal, I didn't know what was in the bag. After you left, when I opened the bag, all I saw were fresh ingredients. Honestly, I barely know how to cut things the right way, much less turn them into soup and other foods. Worse still, you gave me 45 minutes and basically warned me not to be late.
I'm in a little bit of a panic here. ("Think Laur', just think. Don't get upset," I encourage myself — for once my inner mind trying to help the situation.). A salad. I can make a salad. There are greens, and I can cut up vegetables. And so I do. I make a nice salad, but it takes me about one third of my allotted time, slicing and chopping and putting it in a big bowl. The refrigerator does have dressings, thank God.
You mentioned soup. I have no idea how to make soup. None. I know it has a lot of vegetables in it. I know it boils on a stove. I get a pot out. I'm starting to feel a bit panicky, both because I don't know what I am doing and the clock is ticking. It doesn't help that I am getting very hot in this awful suit. I cut the rest of the onion. I cut a potato, but I'm not really sure how to do it and the potato chunks are different sizes. I put that in the pot. There is bacon but I'm not sure if that goes in soup. Tomatoes, too. I'm thinking maybe they were for the salad. I put some water in. I'm not sure how much to use.
Now I'm confused and flustered. Over 25 minutes are gone. I'm getting upset and I'm near tears. It isn't fair — I don't know how to cook and You want a three–course meal. I realize I haven't started the pot on the stove. I turn it to Medium. I'm not sure what heat you need for soup. I'm not sure what else to put in. There are some pasta wheels. I put the whole bag in the pot. ("Oh God, please boil. Please please please!")
I haven't even thought about a main course. There are raw chicken breasts. I don't even want to open the package because they look so gross and slimy. I use a fork to pull back the wrap. I have no idea what to do with them. I don't know how to cook chicken. I pick up one of the breasts with a fork, and put it, whole, into the pot with the onion, potato parts, pasta, and water. I peer into the pot anxiously, where the water is starting to warm. It does not look like soup. Not at all.
I decide to cut up the tomato and put that in. But it mushes all over the cutting board. No matter. I put that in the pot. It will be an "everything" soup. At least the salad looks OK.
For the main course, I decide I can make chicken strips. Cutting the remaining chicken breasts, however, proves impossible with the small knife. Plus I don't want to touch it with my hands so I try to use a fork to hold it. Eventually I put the remaining three breasts in a pan and turn the heat up on another burner. I turn that to high, since I know you have to cook chicken a lot or you can get sick and die.
The soup isn't getting hot. I stir it a little bit and turn up the heat. The pasta is still hard and uncooked. The soup looks watery, not like soup. I smell something burning and turn to see smoke pouring out of the side of the chicken pan. It takes me a few seconds to find the hot mat and take the pan off the burner. The stove gloves orange hot. Smoke is everywhere. I feel flustered. I'm afraid a smoke–detector will go off and you'll be furious with me. You’ll beat me for this, I’m quite sure.
I turn the heat down and return the chicken to the stove. I am getting more and more flustered by the moment. I have five minutes left. ("He said 'give or take,' Laur'," I remind myself.) The soup refuses to cook so I turn that heat up to high. Not knowing what heat to use is the worst part about not knowing how to cook. I also don't know when the chicken is done. It never occurs to me to turn it over, or that I am using a burner instead of the oven. I haven't even thought about making dessert.
At the 48–minute mark, it is a very sad little girl voice that comes through the walkie–talkie. I am in tears, frustrated and flustered as I hold the radio awkwardly and press the button you showed me. "Um (sniff) Master . . . I . . . I'm having trouble . . . I can't . . . I can't . . .um . . . can you come back?" I ask, unhappily, flustered, and scared. "Nothing (sniff) is cooking the right way. Please can you come, Master?"
As you unlock and enter the kitchen, I am very flustered, very upset, and on the verge of tears. Nothing has gone right. Nothing is cooking, and what is cooking is burning. I have completely failed at this. I am sure to be punished, but I am less upset about that than I am mad that absolutely nothing went right and I don't know how to cook. And now it's time to face the music. I watch trepidatiously as you quickly triage the kitchen and then look at me sternly . . . and then start laughing.
I'm not sure how to react. You've never acted this way before. At first I'm not sure what to make of your reaction — I'm still flustered and worried and upset. Then, all of a sudden, I do see the humor in it. I smile, suppress it, then smile again. My eyes glisten with tears of relief and frustration and humor all wrapped into one.
I watch, standing to the side, staring, still on edge, as you fix the mess and salvage what is edible. Like everything else, You are a whiz in the kitchen. You masterfully turn my disaster into a meal — everything is saved but the soup, which is beyond salvage. I'm impressed. You seem to know how to do everything and do it well.
I listen, with relief, as you tell me that I'm not going to be punished. I kind of thought that maybe I wouldn't have a bad punishment when you started laughing, but now it's confirmed. Of course, I'm not entirely sure there will be no punishment. But you are true to your word.
After "lunch" I take the photocopies of the newspaper article, looking stunned. I had almost forgotten about that. I never thought you would actually do it. I retreat to my cell. I read the note carefully several times. The words seem so faraway, and distant. They don't have a major emotional effect on me. I tear up briefly thinking about my brothers. I miss them a lot. But the rest of the note says very little. It is written in the cold, distant style of my mother. It is loving, but distantly, almost artificially. Anyway, there's no way I'm going back. I know that now. You've told me. I've seen what you can do. I’ve seen your house from the outside. Experienced your security. I’ve seen how careful you are. I almost laugh at the notion that my parents think they can defeat you. They can't. You are superior to them in every respect. Smarter, stronger, richer, taller, more focused. Compared to my father . . . well, let's just say that I don't put a lot of faith in my parents' ability to come and rescue me.
Plus, they probably wouldn't even want me back if they knew what I did. The gross stuff. The sex stuff. And my piercings. I'm not a little girl anymore. I can't undo the things that I've already done. They'd ask me all sorts of questions. Embarrassing questions. Like what you did to me. And I couldn't tell them, not everything, not even most things. Like where you make me lick. What you make me do. That I ate dog food. That you went poop in my mouth and I ate it. Or I ate a banana smoothie from your butt. Or that I learned to deep–throat your cock ("Slut! You're a complete slut, Laura Bandahl!") Or that you put your penis in my pussy and my bottom. The piercings alone would be evidence that I was a slut — everyone would see the holes. Caroline would know. She and Marissa especially would turn on me. They’d make fun of me. Tease me in the worst way. They would totally do that in a second. That's the way fifth graders are. I know that. My teachers would look at me funny, too. No, I can't ever go back now. I know that. For all of those reasons, the letter has very little poignancy for me.
After the lunch debacle, I start another round of cleaning. I clean up the kitchen first, then the dungeon, mopping from stem to stern, still thinking about the note. I do a good job, but not great. I wipe and polish some of the equipment but the stuff we didn't use looks good so I don't touch it. I don't do the bathroom at all because I'll do that after I clean myself up. I remove the horrible suit — which takes effort, peeling it from my sticky, clammy body. I bathe. It feels nice to be clean. I towel dry and prepare myself for your arrival. In the process I forget about the bathroom and cleaning it. The suit remains crumpled and lying on the floor. But I am kneeling in the dungeon, naked and collared, with 10 minutes to spare. I await your arrival.
My throat is sore, but I use my new training and my innate skills to suck you to two very pleasant orgasms. My young, supple mouth, swirling tongue, and gagging, swallowing, gripping throat feel exquisite on your phallus. I swallow your cum, of course, and do a nice job varying techniques for my freestyle blowjob. I continue sucking even after your second load has been swallowed. I know better than to stop on my own. You will push me away when you have tired of my mouth, which might not be for a while. My stamina is improving. I am ready to deep–throat you to another ejaculation if you wish it as I kneel there, naked and 11, between your legs.
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