Taken 40. Fire in the Hole (bonus)

Robbie

It's totally embarrassing to have you talk like that, like when I have the Bad Thoughts, only in person like you knew about the Bad Thoughts, and can read my mind. I blush. I'm still not sure if I said anything aloud while my head was spinning from the drugs and alcohol. Either that or you have some form of extra–special ESP or something. I mean, I have banished nothing deeper in my psyche than the Bad Thoughts. I wouldn't tell a priest giving me last rites. I wouldn't tell my Mom, my Dad, my sister — nobody. Not my friends. Nobody.

Not Jasmine. Robin. Or Kaitlyn. I like the name Kaitlyn. I've seen it spelled different ways — Caitlin. Kaitlin. Whatever. The one I like is Kaitlyn, with the Y. When the Bad Thoughts come, late at night, when I'm tired and my guard is down, and nobody is around, I become Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn with a Y. And I lie there, under the sheets, with my underwear pulled down around my knees, my right hand working on my cock, wanking it, touching it, pleasuring it. My left hand plays with my hairless balls and scrotum, while occasionally my index finger plays down, into my crack, across my hole, tickling myself there, heightening my pleasure.

While my hands work my body, my mind is fast at work. Thinking the Bad Thoughts. In the dark, with nobody around, I let the Bad Thoughts stay. I don't banish them. I let them stay and even though part of me feels terribly guilty, and terribly wrong, the Bad Thoughts wrap around me like a blanket, taking me away, lifting me, eyes closed, to another place. And in that place I am Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn with a Y, with developing boobs, and a pussy, and I'm touching them, touching it, my left hand drifting up now, pinching and kneading and squeezing my nipples, Kaitlyn's nipples, getting them hard, hard and sensitive, heightening my pleasure.

And it is Kaitlyn who thinks about firm, hard bodies. Muscled bodies. Male bodies. The kind of body that I want to have someday. Firm muscles. Fit, tight abs. Firm pecs. Rippled muscles, everywhere, with smooth, soft skin over top. I want to have that body for myself. Kaitlyn wants to touch that body for herself. I am both Robbie and Kaitlyn, lying there, in the dark, naked, stroking, touching, feeling, thinking, fantasizing.

And when my release arrives, and my cum splashes on my chest and stomach, I feel immediate remorse. I mean, it's instant — every single night after the Bad Thoughts come, after I cum, I feel revulsion that I allowed them to stay, remorse that I allowed myself to indulge them. I vow never, never, never again to let the Bad Thoughts stay. I fall asleep troubled. I am a failure. I am a weirdo. Nobody is as weird as me. Nobody has thoughts like these. But by the next night, when the Bad Thoughts return, it's easy to postpone my promises just one more night. Just one more night with Kaitlyn, as Kaitlyn, with the Bad Thoughts, with my hands roaming and stroking, until the warm wetness spews from my organ once again. I hate myself. I loathe what I am. My life is a lie, and I am a fake. And nobody, nobody knows.

I suck your penis, taking only 4", but guided by your hands in my hair, letting you control the motion, the bobbing. I supply the tongue work, swirling and slithering my soft, warm, wet tongue over your cockhead as I withdraw, applying pressure to your shaft as I go down on you. At your question I lift my head up, still wondering how you know, how you could possibly know, about the Bad Thoughts, about me. There is no way to deny it. No way to avoid telling you. But my deepest secret, my Kaitlyn secret, Kaitlyn with a Y, that I can't divulge. My response is soft, and I make eye–contact even as I lie. "Robin," I say in a whispered voice. "Like Rob — only it can be . . . both," I explain, before descending on your erected phallus once again, blushing in shame, guided by your powerful hands tugging gently in my ginger hair.

I promised that I would touch you, suck you, and kiss you — I begged for it, in fact. And even if I had regrets, that is water over the dam at this point, and I'm not in any position to fight you. It's not gay if someone makes you do it. It’s not gay if someone makes you do it. I repeat this line over and over in my mind as my right hand explores your muscled chest and glides across your pectoral muscles, touching your nipples, feeling the warm, smooth, taut skin there. Your body is amazing. So fit, and chiseled. I want muscles like this some day. I want muscles to touch and feel and admire. To be admired. Like I'm admiring yours.

I listen to your instructions — "Cocksucking Techniques for Middle–School Boys" — and I follow them. And you're right, of course. It's easier to allow my spit to drool down your shaft as I suck it instead of swallowing it down. Looking down my nose at the base of your penis I can see my drool dribbling and pooling in your pubes. Glistening there wetly, boy saliva mixed with precum. As you guide my head lower I hold my breath. I practice breathing in on the up strokes, holding my breath on the down strokes. Your penis is thick and fleshy and large in my mouth, and your pre adds a tangy flavor as I suck and bob it into my mouth. My lips are wrapped tight around your shaft.

I know I should hate this, hate you, but I don't. It's not gay if someone makes you, and you are making me suck and pleasure your cock, touch your muscles, kiss you. It's not gay if nobody knows what you've done, nobody to see, nobody to tell. Maybe if you were some fat, ugly, caricature of a pervert I would be revolted. But you're anything but that. You're fit and strong and ripped and manly. The type of man any girl would want. The type of man I want to become, the type that Kaitlyn wants to touch. Kaitlyn with a Y. Lying awake, in bed, blissfully pleasuring herself at the thought of all those muscles, those awesome, powerful muscles.

Marcus

I stare into your eyes as you look up at me and answer. Robin. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't seem right. Your eyes are looking at me trying to persuade me, but there's not the sort of . . . shameful brokenness in them I'd expect if you'd actually just given up your deepest and darkest secret. I wish I could read minds. I wish I knew if my instinct is right, and this is only the half–truth, or near–truth, but not quite the truth. But while I am a lot of things, I'm not a mind–reader. I try very hard to make that impression, but at the end of the day, I'm just a smart, quick–thinking guy who's good at non–verbal communication and does his homework thoroughly. No magic involved, sadly.

"Okay. Robin, then," I allow, for the moment anyway. "Did I mention already that if you ever lie to me, I'll make very, very sure that you bitterly regret it?" I add matter of factly, but let it slip for now. I can't be sure you're not telling the truth, and I'm not gonna go into a full–on torture session, needles under fingernails, needles through cock and nipples, and Tabasco sauce in the eyes just because I have a faint sense that you may not be telling me the whole of the truth. There are other ways . . .

You suck. I guide you into a pace that will get me over the edge soon enough, and then . . . it does. I cum in your mouth, watching intently how you deal with my thick cream flooding it. You pretty little ginger boy. My cock–sucking sissy toy. Mhmhmmaaamh. I stay in your mouth for a while after. Not guiding your head into motion, but making you stay in position, just to show you that gagging and nearly drowning doesn't mean the job's done. The job is done when I say it's done; you get your mouth emptied when I pull out, when I've had enough, not when you have.

I'm curious about your expression and state just then. It's all very well to be a little "faggy" when it's fun and games and shit, but to be faced with a BIG mouthful of cum to deal with is a whole another level of "gay." It's not a flavor and consistency that you could pass off as something else than it is; a guy's thick, musky, salty, sticky cum, a full blow, shot very carefully not too deep into your mouth so that it can coat your tongue and fill your mouth and get into every nook and cranny of your mouth, gaps between your teeth and stuff. I want the flavor to linger and so I make sure that it does.

"Now you can be neat and clean and worry about the mess," I say, smiling. "I want you to lick all the mess you've made of off me," I specify. And there's a lot to lick off: drool, sweat, bits of lube, whatever amount of cum you failed to swallow, all over my cock, balls, pubes, even around those areas on my thighs. A good clean–up job that needs doing and that you'll be stuck with until you've done it perfectly, like it or not.

"If you'd like a shower, you gotta jerk off first. And if you would like a glass of water, you gotta jerk off, too," I introduce you to something that will become a routine: making yourself cum as a means of "payment" for all the routine things, and even as a "deposit" or insurance of sorts to prevent pain from coming your way. In the days to come, you will be cumming a lot. An awful lot. That's two goes right now, one to clean your skin and one to quench thirst and help at least partially flush the flavour of my cum from your mouth. You get what you "earn." Each cumshot like a token that you can trade in for something.

Before I leave, I ask you one last time in a serious, firm, but calm way: "If there's anything that you worry about, that could get you into trouble, now is a good time. A chance to come clean and it will go unpunished." I word it like I feel it; there might be something like that, but I'm not sure that there is. I imply that I think there's something you didn't quite tell me, but since I'm not certain, I don't go Gestapo on your ass, I just offer you a painless way out before you curl up on the blanket on the floor where your bed used to be and fall asleep, exhausted after a night of drugs, sex, booze, and being stripped bare in so many different ways.

I make sure you are deep asleep, and wait another 40 minutes after that until you're in the NREM phase of sleep, and rummage through stuff in the medical ward. Notwithstanding how organised I am, it still takes me a while to find what I am looking for; it was a thing I got my hands on before I even bought this place, let alone had this dungeon built. It's not used any more, not since the end of the cold war, and it’s highly illegal now. Old fed stuff. And the batch that I have is several years past its use–by date. But it's just chemicals. Quite stable ones as far as my medical knowledge is accurate, so they should still work.

You are woken up by a prick in your left butt cheek as I inject you with the truth serum. I straddle you and pin you face up onto the floor. "Names. I want names. Every one of your classmates. Now. Now, or there will be PAIN," I warn. I shake you out of the deep sleepiness even as the drug quickly takes over, making you limp and dizzy and funny in the head. I question you, like it matters, on the names of your classmates. It just happens to be a list of names that I know, and can therefore tell if you're giving it to me right, or not, but it's of no importance. Just names. Meaningless names as I wait for the drug to kick in. I don't hurt you. I'm being scary, but not physically violent, not too much anyway. And then I ask the million–dollar question.

"And now your name. Your name, girl. Your dream name. Your jacking–off–secretly–in–your–bed name. Your real girl name. The one you haven't told me. Your name. Her name. Your name. Tell me. Speak!" I demand and hurt you for the first time, pinching your earlobe hard enough to leave a fingernail mark behind. "Your name. What is it? How do you spell it. Your name, girl. Your name."

The best thing is you will not remember a thing either way. If my hunch was wrong, you'll be confused as fuck now, give me some nonsensical answer or just keep blurbing about being called Robin. If my hunch was right, well . . . we'll just have to see. These serums aren't reliable. Unless that information is important to you, unless it occupies a significant part of your brain, it might not even come up in this messy, foggy, weird drugged state that you are in. This might not work. But it might. Either way, I will have given it my best shot, and you'll be none the wiser in the morning. You'll fall asleep and the needle prick will barely seem like a dream; everything after it will be a fog, as this drug really fucks up short term memory while it is in the system. I can't read minds. This is as close as I can get to it, and for all practical means and purposes, it ought to be close enough.

I leave behind a pile of plastic cups with lids and a CD pen, and a cheap digital watch and a bottle of water. Then I write you out a note:

The bottle is worth a cumshot. Jack off into one of the pots before you open it. Put a lid on. Mark the time. Then keep going. One cumshot per cup, no cheating. Lid on, time written on. Keep going for as long as you can get it up, and try really hard. That's your homework for the day. I'll bring lunch at some point and check on your progress.

Robbie

Your cock is huge in my mouth, huge and erect and insistent. Firm. Like the rest of you. I can't get over your muscles. You must work out like all the time or something. You're super tall, and really cut. The way your hands hold my head as you feed me your cock –– it's like I know you probably could crush my skull between them if you wanted to. I can see it, too; your brow furled in concentration, your biceps and triceps and pectorals bulging as you squeezed my skull until my brains popped out. I'm not messing with someone who's cut like that. But man, I wish could have muscles like yours someday.

It feels weird to have a cock in my mouth. I feel kind of powerless. I know I'm not doing this of my own volition. None of it. From the moment you grabbed me in the woods — boy did that scare the shit out of me — nothing I've done down here was by choice. That's bad. Really bad, obviously. I mean, people shouldn't just grab other people and take them away and threaten to beat the shit out of them and stuff. But, because I don't have any say in the matter it's a lot easier for me to suck your cock. Boy is it huge. It makes mine look like that of a three–year–old, and I'm 12. But you're making me suck it. That's the important thing. It's not gay if somebody makes you do it.

I'm pretty sure you're gonna cum straight in my mouth. That much is fairly obvious. I'll have to swallow it. I don't want to, of course, but I'll have to. I look up, trying to get a feel for when you may be about to cum, but it's hard to read your face. As you pump my mouth you just look determined. Man, you don't even groan when the first thick jet spurts into my mouth. I get no warning at all! I blink in surprise, as my mouth goes from slippery saliva–wet to cum–filled in the span of about a second. I swallow. And while I'm swallowing the second stringy spurt is already filling my mouth. Holy shit do you make a lot of cum. Each one of your spurts is more than my entire load. I swallow fast, gulping, drinking, taking your load. It is warm and bitter and thick and musty–tasting. Kind of like that time at my grandpa's when I forgot my toothpaste and brushed my teeth with baking soda. And, if I'm honest, it tastes a lot like my cum, which I've licked from my own fingertips plenty of times.

I think I got most of it. I didn't pull off, anyway. Man you make a lot of cum. You pull out, and instruct me to clean you. I stare at you, dumbfounded. Part of me knows that you're not suggesting I should jump up and run for a towel or a piece of toilet paper. When you instruct me to lick it up, it's kind of gross but I have to. You're making me. So I lick and clean, my ginger–topped head bobbing in your crotch area as I do. I press my face to your pubes and slurp up the combined wetness of spittle and precum and semen that has amassed there. It doesn't taste any worse than the cum I just swallowed. I lick and clean your thighs, and like the rest of you, they are strong and fit and firm and corded with muscle just under the skin. Wow! You are built.

Eventually your cock and balls and thighs are spit–clean, and I'm done. You tell me about the shower and the drink, and how I have to cum to earn those privileges. I'm not quite sure why. Obviously you want me to practice stroking and cmming. And man, I'm pretty good at that. I've been doing it non–stop for the last six months. I like to cum. So if you want me to practice, that's no big deal. And if I had any inhibitions about it, you're making me, so that pretty much takes care of that. It's kinda cool on one level that you want me to practice cumming. I mean, we're both guys, and even though you're older, we both know how to cum. It's kind of like being in a club. The cum club.

You've been pretty cool to me. You didn't cram your cock down my throat or try to choke me. You didn't hurt me. When you ask me if I have anything I want to tell you or like apologize for, I would if I could think of anything. But I don't have anything to come clean about. I've done what you asked, done what I said I would. I even told you about one of my deepest secrets, kind of. I can't tell you about Kaitlyn with a Y, because that's super private to me, but I admitted the part about Robin, and that's true as far as it goes. I wouldn't tell anybody I know what I've already told you, but it's OK to tell you because I don't really know you, you're obviously, you know, gay and stuff and probably not judgmental, and anyways you brought me here and I pretty much have to do what you say until I find a way to escape. But I'm not gonna tell you about my Bad Thoughts, my time as Kaitlyn. There's no way you could know, anyway.

When you leave, exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks. I was gonna jerk off and get a head start on earning my privileges, not to mention showing you what I'm capable of — part of me is almost eager to show you how skilled I am in that department. But boy am I tired. I fall asleep fast, and I sleep hard.

I dream about you. You were on top of me, pinning me, asking me questions, weird questions, questions with no purpose. I didn't understand the dream but it makes sense that I would dream about you because, like, this whole thing has been kinda traumatic, right?

When I wake up my arm is a bit sore, but I shake it out and pretty much forget about it, you, and the dream I had. I find your note, and the cups and lids, and the water bottle, clock, and pen. You must have come back after I was asleep and I didn't hear you. I read the note, and remember your words from yesterday.

I want to get a shower and a drink, so I lie back, using my blanket as a pillow now, and start to jerk my slender boycock. I get hard fast, and I'm rock–hard now, stroking, pumping, not the slow, I–want–it–to–last kind of motion, but the in–the–boys'–restroom–on–a hall–pass kind of stroking, fast and furious, designed to make me cum as soon as possible. I think about muscles. Chiseled, manly, firm muscles. Like I want to have. Like you already do have. Cut and ripped muscles. When I feel myself getting close, I grab one of the little cups, and stroke fast, holding the cup ready. When I feel my boy balls start to contract, I hold it, hold it, hold it, then turn to the side and spurt my boy seed into the cup, grunting, spurting, then finally milking the remnants out of my shaft. I sit up, naked, and peer eagerly at the contents, a little bit disappointed to see not that much of the pearlescent boy liquid. I put the cap on the cup, grasp the Sharpie pen, and write the time. 7:34 a.m.

That was pretty easy. I can do another one in a few minutes. Hell, I probably could do another one now. But I stand up, take a sip from the bottle, and head to the toilet and pee. I take another sip. I go back to the cup with my cum in it, and hold it up to the light, eyeing it, trying to see the level of cum inside of it. It's not a lot. Not anywhere near what you make. I write "water bottle" on it so you know I wasn't cheating. I lie back, and I begin to stroke again. Slower this time. My mind wanders. My cock takes a bit longer to get hard this time. I just pass the time, stroking, thinking. Thinking about this place, you, how I got here, what you want. How big you are. Big, and chiseled. Maybe you'll let me work out with you — until I escape, anyways. My cock firms. I start to stroke more earnestly. I grab a cup. And a minute or so later, I turn and squeeze a half load of semen from my boy prick. I mark the time: 8:02 a.m. Two cums in a less than 30 minutes. At this rate, I'm gonna run out of cups! But I decide to take a break. My cock feels a little sore. I write "shower" on this cup. I don't want you to think I'm cheating. I can cum a lot. You'll see.

Marcus

I walk into the cell, check the cum–jars, read the labels and look at the half–drunk bottle. The second jar says "shower." I frown, deeply, nastily, heavily, and tap the lid, pouting, sort of. More like . . . pursing my lips in a really pissed off way. I've got a bundle in my hands. I toss it at your feet. Pink skirt. Pink top. Joined by a black rubber belt. Your size. Tiny pink cotton panties that would be your size, just about, if you were a girl. With cock and balls in, they are gonna be a damn tight fit. Pink socks. Colorful sneakers, pink with a daisy blossom on them. When I finally speak it is like I am carving each letter of each word into the air with a blade of razor–sharp stainless steel.

"Listen very carefully, Kaitlyn. You will now go and shower. Brush your teeth. There are fitting girlie products ready in the bathroom next door. You will then dress up in these. And then you will learn what happens to bad, bad girls down here. What happens to cheeky little liars. Robin?" I almost hiss. "Your name is Kaitlyn. With a 'y'. And every little bit of pain that you have coming has been earned and deserved by not being perfectly honest with me. By being a filthy little foul–mouthed rotten bitch and a liar. If you attempt to protest or deny this, I swear I will knock your teeth out, and whatever else falls off when your face meets my fist at full speed," I warn you as your mouth drops, perhaps to speak, but perhaps just in sheer shock. "This will hurt," I repeat. "This will hurt a lot and it will keep hurting for a while. And if I ever catch you lying to me again, even the slightest bit, I will cut your little clit off, bitch. I swear I will," I growl darkly. "African style. No more fun for you. Ever." I pause. "Oh and . . . looking anything less than your girlie best counts as lying today," I finish.

I grab your hair and drag you into the med ward and shove you into the shower there, with a pile of pink and white and glossy packed, girlie products. More girlie than Laura wears. Including makeup (lips gloss, mascara, eye–lash stick, face powder with a bit of glitter, nail polish, perfume), enough wax sheets (with the manual included) to de–hair should you find any hair on your body neck down, and a hairbrush. There is a mirror; the whole back wall is a mirror, in fact. With that I leave you, and go prepare the dungeon.

I don't think I've ever seen anyone looking more dumbstruck, shocked, or freaked out as you did just now. Yeah, Laura makes sweet expressions when I pull out new shit on her — needles butt–plugs and whatnot — but this right now is an expression of almost religious awe. There's no way you could figure this out. There's no rational way you could explain this. No way you could cut through the fog of being so heavily drugged and recall what you muttered when I pressed you for information in the middle of the night.

I prepare an inflatable butt plug, one that inflates really, seriously, freakishly big. A gag that likewise inflates, cock–shaped, into mouth and then throat as it gets bigger and bigger with each squeeze of the balloon pump. There won't be any "there's no pain" today. Today will hurt. I prepare needles. A tattoo gun. A metallic collar, almost the same as Laura's, just no ring in the front. Only as you watch, I use wax and acid to etch "K A I T L Y N" into the front of it. Soldering gun. A blowtorch. A big, scary looking blowtorch, compressed gas–fueled. Scalpels. Lots of those. Bottles with different creams and chemicals. A bucket. And more shit. I lay it out on a table to present it all, ready to be used on you, in the most intimidating, creepiest possible fashion. Together with the dungeon itself, this looks very much like a stage ready for shooting a scene out of Hostel or a similarly fucked–up horror movie.

I give you a very decent amount of time to ready yourself and then go get you, and I lead you to the table in the dungeon, laid out for a feast of pain, and I make you look at it in silence for a long, long time. I grab your crotch. Sliding under the skirt and painfully, mercilessly crushing your dick and balls in my hand. "You have something a girl should not have. Something I'm not madly keen on. Something you will NOT have come the end of the day if you make even one tiny step out of line. You drop out of role, girl — you refuse me something, ANYTHING — or try to hurt me, try to run. Anything along those lines of idiocy and you will pee sitting down for the rest of your life and it will not be by choice," I state firmly, in the deepest, most reverberating, powerful, rumbling sort of voices. And after a pause, I add. "Oh and I'm out of anaesthetics, so I would cut live. No painkillers."

I stuff the blow up–gag into your mouth, I bend you over, lift the skirt, stuff the blow–up plug into your butt and then pull the panties over it. It dangles just below the hem of your skirt, cutely. The mouth–gag's balloon dangles along your shoulder. I inflate the mouth insert enough to make you gag a bit and to silence you beyond a point where you could make any comprehensible sounds. I take the power of language away from you. I blow the ass plug up until you wince in pain, and then four more squeezes — another inch and a half or even two, which makes you gasp in pain and your eyes tear up.

After showing it to you, I clamp the collar around your neck and solder it closed. Forever. Well maybe not forever — it's tight as it is, and in about a year's time it will need changing or at least loosening else it will cut into your flesh. It's a tighter fit than Laura's, and it doesn't rest low on your neck, but further up around your throat. It will likely hurt your throat when I fuck it and make it bulge. And I plan to do that a lot.

I pierce your ears and give you ear rings. Green heart–shaped ones in white gold. I don't think the yellow–gold color suits gingers. I do it over a towel to prevent making a mess, and then spray clotting congealing stuff on them to stop them from bleeding and ruining your dress. I do all of this matter–of–factly, coldly, with a steady hand. As you pant around the gag, post–orgasmic, I blow it up enough to cut off your air and I watch your eyes bulge. I continue until you turn dark red and reach a state of full on "I'm gonna die" kind of panic. Then I release it and pull it out and take it of off you.

I pull out a largish stainless–steel stud, push you into a chair, and cover your front and lap with a towel. I light the blowtorch. I grab your hand, hold it tightly, and bring the flame close enough to turn your skin pink. Just as the pain rushes in – just before your skin would blister and break – I move the flame away quickly and turn the blowtorch down. But I keep it running, there on the table.

"Open your mouth and stick your tongue out. I'll give it a piercing, girl. A piercing to feel good on my cock and balls and asshole when you lick and suck and worship them. And if I need to make you scream to open your mouth . . . well, you can see my method of choice right here," I say as I smack the pink and still–sensitive spot on the top of your right hand with my palm, making you wince. "And I will still punish you for not cooperating, just as promised," I add, reminding you of your being only a step away from castration.

Your tongue seems to dart out of your mouth regardless of your volition. And then I take a big piercing needle, force it through your tongue, slide the stud in, and screw it into place; a small bell on the underside, a larger half bell, flat but quite large, on the upper side. You will speak funny for a couple days now, especially while your tongue is swollen. I make you gargle the antiseptic and spit it, along with all the blood into the bucket. You seem to tremble. Your pupils dilate. I slap you.

"If you slide into shock, I'll just drug you up to keep you conscious and I'll go even harder on you," I announce dryly. "Deep, steady breaths. Blow out long, strong out–breaths," I demand and show you what I mean. "Calm down a bit. Show's not over, yet." As soon as you are a bit steady, I blow the dildo in your ass another few squeezes, basically up to my cock size now.

"Now rub your clitty to an orgasm, little bitch. Show me what a whore you are, cumming on command, making your panties wet. Yes. Do it through your panties; keep those on. Stroking, like a good girl. That's right." I lift the blowtorch up, but only to turn it off, finally. And then I watch you, perma–collared, ass stuffed painfully, ears pierced, tongue pierced, seated in my usual chair with a view of a table of a shitload of things that could cause you even more agony. Almost pissing yourself with fear and pain as it is. Now show me what a piece of cake it is to make yourself cum, kiddo. I watch you grimly, with a bit of a vicious spark in my eye. To make you even less at ease, I slide surgical gloves on and toy with one of the scalpels. For extra motivation.

Nice to properly fucking meet you, Kaitlyn. At last. My name is Marcus Saevus, and you lied to me. Silly girl.

I force you to make yourself cum like that. I don't much care how long it takes, I'm willing to wait, for humiliation's sake. And then when you do, I press the Hitachi Magic Wand over your cock and balls, turned on full blast, and force another orgasm out of you physically that way.

"Never, ever, ever lie to me again. Don't ever withhold information; that counts as lying. Ever. Not even a white lie. Not even an altered, better–sounding truth. Naked truth, nothing but it."

And then the questions rain, some of them I already know an answer to, some I don't.

Your email password.

Your Facebook and Twitter passwords.

Your mother's PIN on her credit card. (I know you used it, but I don't tell you that.)

What is your name? (Don't fuck up on this one, Kaitlyn with a Y!)

Name your three best friends.

When did you last have a wet dream, without finishing yourself off consciously?

What thoughts were in your head then, what sort of fantasies?

I think you are now finally ready for your punishment. Don't you agree?

I grin.

Robbie

I'm actually feeling pretty good about my situation, all things considered. I mean, I've been kidnapped. Taken away from my friends and family and stuff. And forced to do things: Gay sex things, things I don't want to do. All that is bad. I'd rather be home, of course. In a lot of respects, you're scary. And big — I mean huge — with enormous muscles and a huge cock. A cock that cums a large amount of hot, sticky jizz, right into my mouth, where I have to swallow it, because you make me. And it tastes musky and manly and bitter. That's so wrong. And scary. But at the same time, you can be very gentle. You could have beat the shit out of me for breaking the bed, but you didn't. You told me you were going to fuck me and that it would hurt, and it did, but at least you went slow. When you face–fucked me last night and fed me your sperm, your didn't ram your cock down my throat, you just fucked my mouth with no more than half of your cock until you came. That was nice of you. Kind of, anyway.

And now you want me to earn privileges by cumming. Over and over. I can’t cum like you can, obviously, but I’m pretty proud of the fact that I can cum. A lot of kids in the 7th grade can’t cum, yet; or at least, I’m pretty sure they can’t. They’re still little kids. Although, truth be told, there are some other boys in the 7th grade who have hairs on their cocks and under their armpits. I don’t have any hairs under my armpits, yet, and I have only the tiniest, thinnest, barely–visible grouping of pubes right atop my shaft. Honestly you have to stare right at it to see them because my hairs are ginger–colored, like my head, and they don’t stand out as well. So it probably looks to most of the kids in the showers that I don’t have any hairs, either, even though I do. I have hairs, and I can cum. Repeatedly, if I want to. As much as my cock can take, actually. I like doing it. It’s fun. It feels good.

I’ve just finished cumming for the second time when you enter my cell. You look different today. Angrier. But still, I’m kind of psyched for you to see that I’ve already got cum in two of the cups and I’ve already earned the bottle of water and a shower. I watch, silently, as you pick up the cups and inspect them, and read what I wrote there. There may not be a huge quantity of cum in either one of them, but I’m still pretty sure you’ll be impressed. But the kind of guttural noise that you make doesn’t make it sound like you’re impressed. In fact, you sound pissed. And I don’t know why, ‘cause I didn’t do anything. My hopeful expression fades. I look worried. Worried and nervous.

When you toss the bundle of clothes at my feet I can tell in an instant that they are girl clothes. The panties are right on top. Pink, girly panties. And the sneakers are girly, too. When you start to speak, I know in about five words that I am in trouble, because that’s when you call me Kaitlyn. And I know I never told you about that. Ever. I distinctly remember thinking about that, and not telling you. You not only call me Kaitlyn, you say “with a Y.” Which is my own expression for it, and I know I never said it to you — except, how else could you possibly know that? My head is spinning. Anyway, if I couldn’t tell you were pissed from the fact that you called me Kaitlyn, it would be from the fact that you sound really pissed — your voice is all gravelly and low and mean. Like a growl. A scary, mean, I’m–going–to–eat–you growl. My face falls again. I look a little pale. My eyes are a little wide. This is not good. Not good at all.

But if I wasn’t sure how mad you were when you called me Kaitlyn, or from the sound of your voice, the words themselves remove all doubt. You’re pissed, alright. You’re pissed because I told you about Robin but not about Kaitlyn. And there’s no doubt about the fact that I didn’t tell you the whole truth. Plus you warned me. I distinctly remember you warning me not to lie to you, and I also remember your offer to come clean. I wish I had. Especially when you start talking about how much you’re going to hurt me because of it. I turn pale — paler than my usual — and swallow nervously. I start to shake. I really, really messed up. Like the time I tried to change a grade on my report card by erasing the ink and it went through the paper and I had to tell my Mom. I feel like that. Dreading the future. Only worse. Mom didn’t say she was going to hurt me. You just did. So I feel a lot worse. Now I’m both dreading the future and scared shitless. How could you possibly know about the Kaitlyn thing? Kaitlyn with a Y? I must have said something. Nobody else on the planet knows but me. Right? I mean me, and now . . . you. Somehow. I don’t get it, but it’s scary. Chilling, in fact.

Your words go from bad to worse. You seem to get angrier. The part about hurting me a lot is bad enough, but when you threaten to cut off my “clit” “African–style” I’ve never even heard that word before but somehow I just know you mean my dick. And whatever African–style means, I don’t want to experience it. I swallow again. I’m about to say something — I’m not even sure myself, just anything — when you warn me to keep my mouth shut, and not protest what you’re saying or deny what I did. Boy do I clamp my mouth shut quick, because that’s exactly what I was going to do. Either that or apologize. Probably both. But you make it clear that I better not talk. So I don’t. I’m still scared shitless. Beyond shitless, actually, if I’m being honest. I feel like I might lose control of my bladder. I’m that scared.

I am shaking as I shower, and clean myself. I know I fucked up. I should have told you about Kaitlyn and now you know. I don’t even care that you know my deepest, darkest, most–embarrassing secret because I am quite frankly scared shitless about what you’re going to do to me.

I manage to get through my shower. I look at all the girly stuff, and I know you want me to get dressed up like a girl, and part of me on any given day wouldn’t even mind doing it, especially if someone made me, but today I’m too scared to be at all into it. I’m too worried about the threats of pain and hurt that I heard, only I know they’re not threats. They’re real. And they’re going to happen. The anticipation is the worst.

I apply a wax sheet to my pubes, one painful yank and they’re gone. Now I really am as hairless as a baby boy. With shaking hands, I apply lip gloss — badly, way too much — and nail polish. I apply too much perfume. I’ve never done this before. Things smear and I make a mess. I put on some face powder, but not just in my cheeks. My chin is glittering. I’m not sure where it goes. This is not fun. I am petrified. It doesn't look right, but I'm not sure how to fix it.

I dress in the outfit you gave me, starting with the frilly panties. They are tight. My boycock gives a little twinge as I pull them on. Despite my fear, the panties are . . . perfect. The skirt fits. And the top. The belt cinches around me. The socks and sneakers are next — the platforms make them feel weird on my foot. I look in the mirror, smelling the overly–applied perfume. I look . . . good. I suck at makeup but in that outfit, with lip gloss, I definitely look . . . cute. My cock gives another twinge in my panties despite my fear. I can’t help it. Dressing up has always been a fantasy of mine, at least when the Bad Thoughts come. I’ve just never actually been able to do it before. Not like this, anyway. Plus, I like this outfit.

When you come and get me, I look petrified. I am petrified. I stare up at you in mortal fear. I feel like peeing again. I swear I’m going to wet myself. You don’t say a thing about my appearance and I can’t tell if I did myself up well, or not. You take me through the dungeon to another room, to a table. I nearly faint when I see what is on it. I feel weak in the knees. My head spins. The things on the table are there to cause pain. To cut. And pierce. And burn. And hurt. You make me study them, making sure I see them. I am very, very afraid of what I see on that table.

I start to shake. Really hard. Full–body shakes. I’ve never been this scared. Then you grab my crotch, and your words are even more chilling. As much as I’ve thought the Bad Thoughts, I don’t want to lose my dick. And I certainly don’t want it hacked off. Oh God, please let me survive whatever it is he’s going to do to me!

My punishment starts with the two plugs. They both hurt — the one in my butt f–ing kills — but I’m actually grateful for the one in my mouth. With my mouth spread this wide, I can’t speak, can’t talk back or argue or anything that would cause you to cut my dick off. Thank God. Thank God. Because otherwise, I don’t think I could have survived this without losing my penis. And I’m pretty sure you would have done.

At least the collar doesn’t hurt. I know what it is. It says Kaitlyn to humiliate me. You fix it in place permanently. It’s pretty obvious that it means you own me. All of a sudden my fantasies about escaping seem childish and ignorant. I'm not going to be able to get away from you. I’m so scared about the pain, about my punishment, that I’m not even all that worried about that right now. I just think it. It registers.

Getting my ears pierced hurts. Not like horrible, more like getting a shot. I’m more worried that it that will leave permanent holes. I’m not sure how I will explain it to my parents or my friends. I know if you do one of your ears it’s not gay, but the other one is. I’m not sure about both. Thank God it doesn’t hurt that much. It stings a bit. It does make me wonder what I look like.

And then I think you’re going to kill me. The gag in my mouth expands so much it feels like my jaw is being split apart at the hinge. And I can’t breathe. And I want to fight, and run, and pull it free, but I remember your warning about losing my dick, having it cut off. And just when I think I’m going to pass out from pain and lack of air, you pull it out and I gasp for air. Panting. Moaning with fear more than anything else. And I have reason to be afraid.

When you take out the blowtorch, I am frantic with worry. My body is limp. I tug feebly at my hand knowing that you can burn it if you want, and when you do, the pain is unbearable, and then . . . oh thank God. You pull it away. You want to pierce my tongue. I am so scared. I’ve seen studs in tongues before. They look like they hurt. But there is no way I can fight you. No way I can say no. If I do, you’ll hack my dick off. And I know you’re not kidding about that. I open my tongue and present it to you for piercing. I don’t even think much about it. I just do it.

When you pierce my tongue, the pain is beyond description. Tears fill my eyes. I can’t believe the initial pain and it gets worse as you press the needle through. I moan in agony. A thick needle pressed straight through muscle tissue without anesthetic causes an agony that I didn’t know existed. My eyes roll back but you slap me. I can’t bear the pain. It just hurts and hurts and throbs. I don’t want my tongue to touch anything inside my mouth. My mouth is agape. I stare at you, mortified, petrified, and disfigured now. I try to breathe. It helps. I just concentrate on breathing. I still don’t know what the scalpels are for and that terrifies me. Simply terrifies me.

You want me to wank myself. I start, feverishly, trying. But I am too scared to get hard. My expression reveals my desperation. I can’t make it hard. I’m trying. Oh, God! Please get hard! I close my eyes. It helps and finally I can feel it coming to life in my panties. The pretty pink panties. I open my eyes to glance at you, but I start to soften again. So I look away. And wank myself. Through the panties. The pretty pink panties, reaching under my pink skirt. I stiffen. Thank God. I keep wanking. It’s hard because every time I think of you, the table, the torch, the scalpels, I start to lose it.

Finally I just leave my eyes unfocused and think about wanking, the pleasure, the panties, the feel of them on my cock, tight and silky, girl panties. It works, and thank God I feel that familiar tingle. I wank harder. And harder. Feverishly now. And it comes. Or rather, I cum. Into the panties. Panting. I look at you. My face terrified. You press in the toy and force another few spasms out of my drained balls, and then begin to speak, warning me, then asking questions.

My answers come, thick–tongued, but true. Complete. All of them. I tell you everything. Absolutely everything. I hold back nothing. I’m afraid of the scalpels. I’m afraid of you. I am way too scared to lie.

I thought my punishment was over. I came clean. I told you everything. But then you made it clear — we haven't even started, yet. I feel faint again. I think I'm going to wet my panties.

Marcus

Oh you thought that being prettied up a little, ear rings, tongue stud was all I was gonna do to you for being a filthy little liar? I can see the expression of surprise and fear on your face and I lick my lips. I'm in my element now.

"You are so lucky you're such a pretty girl. Such a cute, sweet, gorgeous looking pretty little girl," I tell you. "Seriously, if you were any less cute, I'd just bash your face in. Beat you bloody. Cracked ribs, broken fingers, knocked–out teeth kind of bloody," I tell you slowly, darkly, sadistically. "You're also lucky you are such a little slut, cumming on command without even pulling your panties down, soaking them for me," I wink. "So instead of fucking you up, I will just fuck you," I smile.

I put a condom on. If you were Laura, you would immediately know something is very amiss. I just don't bother with those, ever. I think for a while and then tie you up to a low punishment stool, on all fours. Your panties have to go off and I pull the inflatable plug out – but I can leave the rest on. I'll just lift the skirt up, roll it up. Yes. To keep you looking as girlie as possible. I tie you up tight. I tie you up good. I tie you with legs and hands immobile, butt upraised and exposed. And then I reach to the table and coat my cock with the lube I intend to use. I start with good old Tabasco. I also use ginger extract — very strong concentrate. Black Pepper extract. This way, the pain will have all the basic chemical elements it can have; Capsaicin, Gingerol, Shogaol and Piperine. Hot stuff. It doesn't do damage to human tissues, but it sure as hell feels like it does. It's not exactly like a lube, these things put together and smeared on my cock, but they will do. They burn on my fingers. They make my eyes water. I'm glad I have a condom on. I can only imagine how they will feel inside your ass, what with whatever fissures I previously gave you and those I will inevitably add to now.

You are gonna get fucked bound and helpless, doggy–style this time. And it will hurt, oh it will hurt so fucking bad you can't even imagine how bad it's gonna hurt, you won't even believe something like it can be happening to you and not killing you.

I press the tip of my cock against your pucker.

"This is your punishment for not telling me the whole truth and only truth. Say it. Acknowledge it," I demand. I lower my voice to a guiding whisper, and make you repeat after me, word for word: "I am Kailtyn, with a y. I am twelve years old. And I'm gonna get my ass fucked in the most painful of ways because I didn't tell the whole truth and only truth. I swear on my life I will never lie to my master ever again. I will not deceive him. I will not hide anything from him. Ever." I feed to to you sentence by sentence, in small bits, so you can repeat it perfect;y. And as soon as you say ever, I force my cock into your pucker and show you how it feels when anal is done without love and care and overt gentleness, and also how it feels to have the inside of your ass set on fire. That's how bad the "lube" is. It feels like I've shoved the blowtorch, still on and searing, right up your butthole.

And then I fuck you. And this time I'm not telling you it's not gonna hurt and I'm not telling you it's gonna be okay and I'm not slow and gentle and careful. I fuck you, totally ignoring your limits, your near–virginal status, your inexperience, your size. All of it. I fuck you; it takes me only four thrusts to hilt myself in your ass, and I fuck it like it was made to take it and had no other purpose in the world. The stretching, the straining, the force — all prying and tearing your ring apart and filling your anus – is sharp and agonising in itself. That alone would have been bad. Very bad. But there's also the fiery, blazing, lava–hot lubricant that multiplies, or rather exponentiates, your pain, giving it inhuman intensity and dimension. Every tiniest fissure, old and new alike, becomes a source of unprecedented agony. And with each thrust, each new abrasion, each new smearing of those devilish chemicals, it only gets worse and worse. And the problem with a pain like this — burning and rousing and fiery — is that is is extremely unlikely to make you pass out. It's the kind of agony that sets your nerve endings on alert, and forces you awake, forces your awareness to stay with it, triggers a useless and futile flee reaction. But you cannot flee. You can scream your voice raw, that's for sure, but you can't move an inch. And all the while I just fuck you, nine inches of my cock straining and stretching your puckered hole.

I go on until I cum. I walk to the front of you — god your face is a mess now — and pull the condom off and yank your face up by your hair and make you drink the contents of the condom, ready to stuff the whole thing in and make you chew it clean should you put any resistance to drinking my jizz.

I sit in front of you. Cross–legged. Pensive. Relieved. If I felt any anger — maybe in acting, pretending to be pissed off I did actually kind of work myself up — it's all gone now. To cum into a kid's ass as he writhes and screams in agony, wishing, likely, to die, to just fucking die, for his heart to give in or something, is profoundly satisfying. And of course . . . all of those chemicals are still in your ass, as are the bleeding fissures. The peak of the pain is past, but it will take a while for your ass to stop burning terribly. An hour. Several hours. Who knows? Who cares?

I grab your chin.

"Never, ever, ever, ever lie to me again, Robbie. I can do worse than this. It might be hard to believe right now, but I can do worse. And I can make it last longer. And I can make it have lifelong consequences."

I unstrap you and lead you into your cell, limping, wincing, gasping. I shove you in and dump a pile of stuff in there with you. Water. Food. Lots of food. Lots of jars for cum. I fridge those you filled in the morning. They'll come in handy at some point, I'm sure.

"Take your girl clothes off, Robbie. And fill as many of these jars as you can. I'll come late at night, with my cock hard, and if I'm not impressed, you might not get away with just sucking me off, if you see what I mean. So you’d better impress me, given the state of your certain parts," I smirk. There's a notepad and pen, a smooth–writing, gel–based blue pen, in the pile somewhere.

"Oh and Robbie, in between wanking and eating, I want you to pick up that notepad there, and the pen, and I want you to write I swear I will never lie to my master, ever again. Once sentence per line. All legible. Not sloppy. And I want it full. Front to back. Two–sided. Every line of it filled, when I come back."

With that, I leave you. With a pen and a thick, two–hundred page A5 notebook, bound by a spring–spine, the kind of you can tear sheets off easily. If I'm counting right, with it's 23 lines per page, 200 two–sided pages, you will have written your oath nine thousand two hundred times come nightfall. By then, between that and the wanking, your wrist might hurt just as bad as your ass hurts now, or almost.

If you are smart enough to go through the pile thoroughly though, there's useful stuff, too. Small mercies. Antiseptic, anti–swelling gargle for your tongue. Nail–polish remover and creams and such that will help remove the make–up, cotton swabs, all that you need to clean up your very, very messy young face. Toothbrush, toothpaste. Tissues, toilet paper, all the essentials.

On top of that, you have a whole day on your ass that I will spend with Laura, until perhaps 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. – hours and hours and hours to recover from the worst, make use of your Red Cross package, and get on with your “chores.”

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