Taken 41. Burlesque

Marcus

Only after I empty my balls into your mouth two times, the uncertainty vanishes from your face. You suck on. Girl, you really do learn well. Good for you. Good for me. Good for us both. But I demand that you pause, just so my cock can get limp enough. You wait with the half hard shaft in your mouth; it doesn't even seem to surprise you when I release myself and let you drink it all and suck the rest off.

"Enough," I say afterwards. I let you crawl from under the desk. "Here, take this," I pass you an iPad with a massive selection of music. As in . . . massive massive. "Whatever clothes you have in the cell, and whatever else you find in the bedroom in the wardrobe . . . pick some music. Come up with a dancing gig. Kind of like burlesque, but it doesn't have to be classic burlesque. Your task is to dress up prettily, and to dance for me for a song or two, undress during another song, slowly, strip-tease style, and then flirt and seduce, and rub yourself to a nice, sweet orgasm in front of me. You have three hours to prepare, to create a routine, then we'll have supper, some digesting time, and then you’ll perform for me. If you have any more questions, ask them now."

Unlike with lunch, this should not be a task beyond you; you are a dancer, and you are sexy wearing just about anything including nothing for me, so coming up with a sexy routine should really be a piece of cake. OK, maybe asking you to make yourself cum while your pussy is still red and a bit sore is less than nice, but I don't exactly intend to win Mr. NiceGuy of the year this year. And I have, this way, three hours to spend with Kaitlyn. By now, she's been here several days, reached an inhuman amount of orgasms per day; and she's in for an unpleasant surprise today. But never mind that now.

I let you practice as I cook. Maybe, if I didn't punish you, I at least want to rub your noontime humiliation in a bit, and I go all out. It's tender, juicy lamb shank with sweet red cabbage, creamy potato mash with caramelised shallots on the side, all out, decorated with basil leaves with thickened balsamic vinegar drizzled over them, a glass of grape juice for you, a glass of wine for me. Just before it's finished I go yell into the dungeon so you can hear me in the bedroom; I expect you to eat fully dressed, decent, and NOT in the same clothes in which you will perform later.

For once, we eat like a civilized couple; good food, seriously good food, good drinks, no rush, clothes on. This is the first such occasion since your loss of virginity. I don't bother with pretentious small talk this time. I talk about real things, things relevant to us here. How you really improved on your cock-sucking technique and that I am glad and impressed. How I managed to find a first video with a real simple twenty-minute meal that you can make for lunch tomorrow. How glad I am that the house isn't a mess any more; good job on that, too. Occasionally I sneak in a question; how was this, how did that feel? Can you also so very clearly feel the difference between serving me well, trying hard without fussing, and making a mess of things? Do you also prefer it, like me, when you're a good girl?

Dishes are up to you and then I send you to prepare the room for the performance, set up the playlist, all that. I have a small snooze and come some 40 minutes later, with my wine bottle and an empty glass that I fill, take a sip from, and nod; I'm ready for your show. Ready to sit back and relax and watch what you managed to create for me in three -- well in the end almost four hours’ -- time. Not a huge amount of time to set up a three-song routine, but you've done worse, harder, more-intense things with less learning and preparation time than that down here.

Laura

My next task is to come up with a dance routine. I get that, but I don't know what "burlesk" means. I'm glad that you give me an opportunity to ask questions -- dance I can do, but I want to make sure I do it right. "What does burlesk mean? . . . sir," I ask, adding the Sir on quickly at the end. When you explain, I nod, my head already starting to think of dance routines. Like the cleaning I did earlier, writing a dance routine might actually be -- dare I say it? -- fun, or at least as close to fun as anything ever gets down here.

I rush off with the iPad — a real iPad — and start working on my dance routine. It takes me a while to find the right music. I start with Justin, but it just doesn't seem right. I search around on the iPad, starting a little of this, listening to a little of that. Thinking about dance moves I can make to go with the music I am hearing.

I check out the wardrobe, and for the first piece I select a nice Desigual outfit with a black-and-white ruffled skirt, and a tank top with a heart design. I practice some dance moves, and select a song. I pick a second and a third song. Now I have a plan.

When you call me to dinner, for once, I am not even really that hungry. I want to keep working on my dance routines. But I come to dinner. Clothed. Bathed. The food is excellent, but the conversation is strained — after all, I am an abducted 11–year–old sex slave, and you are my captor, my master, my tormentor, and my rapist. The power differential, vocabulary gap, and age discrepancies between us are vast. But I answer your questions truthfully (of course) and respectfully, and under the circumstances do a fair job of holding up my end of the conversation. All the while, however, I am eager to get back to my dance routines.

I do the dishes very, very quickly, lip–synching my selections to myself, practicing some of my dance moves. I don't know why, but I am really into designing the dance routine. ("You're pathetic, Laur'. This isn't a dance recital — it's for him. And you have to take off all your clothes and do 'it' right in front of him," I chastise myself.)

I finish the dishes and run off, preparing my outfits. I have three outfits selected; I'll need to change in between songs. I get into the first one, come back, rejoin you, and set up the iPad. The Bluetooth speaker picks it up. I start the music. "Ooops!" I say, with a girlish grin, and stop it. "One sec!" I call out, resetting it, getting ready, every bit an 11–year–old girl.

I start the music and jump into position. I smile. I'm ready. Eager. 11. I’m just being a little girl. Performing again. Whether for you, or anyone else, I like to perform. And I do. I jump and twirl, smiling, looking at you flirtatiously. My dance moves are choppy, but the effort is there. I twirl and leap and march and twist. My moves are only slightly risqué. If this were a child's dance recital, a few Moms might tut–tut at the bottom wiggling and hip–thrusting, but it would acceptable.

I am out of breath for song two. I stop the music with another "One sec" and run out of the room to change. I come back in with a new outfit on: a black tank top, turquoise shirt, white socks, and a pair of sneakers. I begin to dance to Beyoncé's "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)," and as I dance, I begin to discard items of clothing — kicking off my sneakers, sliding the skirt down and off, leaving me in the black tank top and a pair of matching, hip–hugging shorts. My stripping moves are hardly sexy — they are unintentionally a Burlesque of a real stripper, as interpreted by an 11–year–old child, which — together with my lithe, preteen body — somehow makes the removal of my clothing even sexier than if I were an accomplished professional stripper. My undulations and "sexy" looks are so childish as to be positively alluring, especially to the discriminating pedophile.

I continue to dance, partially clad, and as the song nears its end, I slide the tank top off my sexy chest, my nipple rings bobbing as I dance for you. Next go the shorts, sliding slowly off my preteen hips, down my shapely thighs, as I undulate to the music. I am not wearing panties. I step out of the tight–fitting shorts to the beat of the music, undulating to Beyoncé, naked, collared, and beautiful.

When that song ends, I immediately start the last song. This time it is Justin. "All That Matters." I dance, and slither, naked and sexy. My movements are more fluid now, more sensual. I am smiling. I appear to be enjoying myself as I dance erotically for you. I dance close to you. I drag my fingers first across your arm, then your leg. I twirl and dance nakedly. I wriggle my nude preteen bottom at you, and you notice that my perineum still is red from the torment of the horse. When the song reaches the chorus, I face you, and mouth the lyrics to you as I dance:

You're all that matters to me, yeah yeah,
Ain't worried about nobody else
If I ain't with you, I ain't myself
You make me complete
You're all that matters to me, yeah, yeah,
What's a king bed without a queen
There ain't no "I" in team
You make me complete
You're all that matters to me

Halfway through the song, I start to touch my slit, rubbing myself, still undulating and dancing for you. As I dance, I masturbate, rubbing harder, smiling, moaning, getting into it. It feels good. I feel free. I dance and twirl and rub my pussy and touch your left knee, then dance away. As the song nears its conclusion, I concentrate on pleasuring myself, working on the tingle. The tingle begins. I rub feverishly. Legs apart, face determined. As the song's final chorus kicks in I slide down to my knees, mouthing the words once again as I rub my tingling pussy to a sweet, body-shuddering orgasm right in front of you with an eyes–half–closed look of pleasure on my young face.

Marcus

I do explain what burlesque is and show you a few Moulin Rouge videos to give you an idea, and a good one of a strip tease. For inspiration, I say, but not to copy or emulate. Do it your way. And you do.

I remember how annoyed I used to be, when I first realised I was attracted to kids -- girls around your age especially -- and discovered pedophile forums. I found that I didn't at all match the profile of how pedos tend to self–define. On those forums, people claimed to be good with kids, to love being around kids, to have a strong childish side themselves. Playful. Light-hearted. Often liking things that kids do or enjoying things intended for kids. I never felt that way. Already in my late teens, when I started to turn from a boy into a man, I noticed my tastes didn't evolve along with that. My eyes still tended to linger on the girls who were no longer my age, or even near. Ten years old, or maybe 11, on the verge of puberty, but not quite there, or only just. But I didn't like any of the sort of shit that girlie girls do; I detested most of it, in fact. I wanted their bodies. Firm. Tight. Weak and helpless. I wanted them on their knees, or pinned face down on the floor. I wanted to rape them. Hurt them. In crude unsophisticated ways at first; my palate developed over years.

I only became a complex, demanding sadist with a refined, smooth streak of cruelty later, in my twenties and thirties. I never even thought about myself as a pedophile -- having encountered the online community of them, I really didn't want to have anything to do with that. That was a world of good-meaning, desperate, conflicted guys who swore they would never hurt, or even touch, a girl. Girls to them were all cute and sweet and they probably spent their time wanking over Youtube videos from dancing competitions and children's pageants and fashion shows. And then there were the sleazy guys from kiddie porn -- mostly fat, ugly elderly man semi–forcing themselves on their daughters. I'm not that. I'm a pervert, a sadist, a thoroughly, deeply fucked up guy and it just so happens that my ideal victim is a girl of 10, 11, 12, give or take a few years either direction depending on her constitution and her build.

But you are kind of changing that, in small but addictive doses. Sure, I want you sexually; there's not an ounce of doubt there. I want you because you're the right size and shape; you’re also incredibly pretty, unbelievably tight, exactly what I want in a girl. And I want to bury my cock balls deep in all your holes, repeatedly, over and over again. But as you start to dance it's one of those moments when there is more to it than that. I realize that in a very twisted sort of way I love you. And I love the fact that you're 11 years old. It shows today, it really shows. The way you move. The way you chose the music and the routine. The erratic way in which you handle the iPad, run in and out of the room to change -- just to preserve the effect. It's not like you have any modesty to protect anymore, and you're ending up naked anyway, but still, you only dash in fully dressed. It's cute. It's sweet. And it's pleasing, it's actually not making me want to “puke rainbows.” It’s really sweet. Arousingly sweet. Not sickly sweet, which is how my repressed feelings about girls resulted in me labeling most things that are normal, everyday life “girly.” For the first time in a long time, my dark side gets shushed and I enjoy you and your performance with a pure, unadulterated pedophlic joy, sitting back, sipping on my wine while drinking you in, and loving every minute of your show.

I love the way you move. Youthful and playful. Yeah. You're a kid. Sometimes I forget. But it's right there in front of my eyes now, 11-year-old enthusiasm. Tons of life, fun, and vitality. You are a bundle of hopping, bursting, living energy. Perhaps less fluid and graceful than burlesque, but adorable and sexy all the same.

I clap my hands at the end of each song, and I cheer and clap loudly after you cum. But I am who I am. Looking is never enough. Shortly after you cum, I unzip my pants, and like that, fully dressed, just with my cock pulled out, I topple you over, tackling you onto your back, naked and small underneath me. I enter you, and I fuck you. There's no hair-pulling, butt–smacking, scratching, or harsh grabbing this time, and while I do poke around your cervix a bit, I refrain from pounding at it this time. I like to think of a sex that can be, ought to be, mutually pleasurable. Certainly after you've had your taste of butt sex, an ordinary "lay" shouldn't be half bad. And you've just had an orgasm, too, wet enough for things to be relatively painless; as painless as they get with our mismatched sizes. I want you to moan, and gasp, and maybe say something nice, but I don't command you to; I don't want to be lied to, I don't want to be played games with just now. I fuck you, leaning into it so that my shaft slides over your folds and your clit gets some action, trying to make this pleasurable, but I don't demand that you fake it being better than it is. I take forever to cum; well not forever, but when I finally fill you with a cumshot, it's been forty minutes straight and I'm covered in sweat. I roll over and pant, on my back, hot and breathless, spent.

"Next time you're on top," I say amusedly, like we're lovers, and like it's a light joke and not a threat or command or whatever it really is in our context. I then turn on my side and look at you. "You're so incredibly pretty," I shake my head as if right at this moment, I can't believe just how very pretty you really are. "You're gorgeous. You’re also the best thing that’s happened to me in my entire life," I say, smile and then my face briefly goes sad, an older, less-sadistic, less-guarded and bounded me momentarily flicking through to the surface as I realize that I'm undoubtedly the worst thing that’s ever happened to you in your entire life. An odd match, that.

"Cum for me one more time," I ask of you, and watch you as we lie, both on our sides, facing each other. "And keep your eyes open," I specify. I consider passing you a vibrating toy that could make a quick, easy job of it, but then realize that I want to watch your fingers do the job, I want you to take your time, I want to see your small fingers on your cute, bald pussy, rubbing, using my cum as it trickles from your hole as lube, perhaps, I want you close. Somehow making you do it with your fingers makes it more real, more . . . serious. As you start, I reach back, and ask you to open your mouth for a moment, then feed you a little triangle of Toblerone broken off the bar, hiding it with my hand so you have no idea what you're being fed until you taste it in your mouth.

When you're done, your skin has a dew of perspiration all over. I suddenly feel possessed by an urge to taste you. To taste and feel and smell your perfect skin, your amazing body. Every inch of it. I make you roll over onto your belly, and give you a tongue bath. I lick you everywhere, starting with your feet, doing them very thoroughly, your legs, your sweet, cute, sexy legs, your butt. Even your butt hole. I rim you for a while, softly, gently. Then your back. Arms. Then I turn you. I shush any attempt to talk.

I re–wet my tongue in my mouth (that's your trick, I realize, something I actually learned from you!) and start with your toes, and shins, and knees and then thighs. And I lick your belly and chest and toy with your rings, and tongue your nipples for a good long while. I nibble on them ever so gently. More just grating my teeth over them than biting down. I stop at your collar bones; only kissing your neck, while skipping your face and hair. And then I return to a spot I previously skipped, your pussy, and bury my face in there, licking and lapping, twirling and twisting, doing my level best and utmost to give you a good, mind-blowing, intense blowjob. And I keep at it, too. I wanna see if I can make you cum repeatedly, and how many times; but only for as long as you seem to at least half enjoy it, ready to stop if you tense or squirm or make an unhappy sound.

I love your taste. And I love the idea that I have the ability and skills to get you off like this. And so I do. I don't even care that your pussy tastes of my cum some, too, and that you're not totally clean just now. You're the sexiest creature there is on this planet, in this universe, and I want you, and can't have enough of you, and all of that suddenly comes out in a raw, simple, uncomplicated way, almost like it came before my desire got mingled with cruelty and violence during my teens. I just want you very, very badly, and I take you, invading your slit with my tongue like nothing ever tasted better. And nothing ever did.

Later I will have a craving of a darker sort. I can already feel it rising in me, in fact; but for the moment, I go down on you, and enjoy myself, and kind of, for the sake of the act itself, really, hope that you enjoy yourself, too.

Laura

I am pretty spent after all of the preparation, the running, the dancing, and when I finish stroking myself to a cum, I am breathing hard, my lithe, slender young body glistening with pearls of little–girl perspiration — odorless, sensuous, and intoxicating. I look up as you finish unzipping and move toward me, your phallus hard and jutting, and for a brief moment I panic, eyes bulging, a lump rising in my throat as you move forward and engulf me, pressing me down, looming over me, simply enormous.

It is with actual relief that I realize, within seconds, that you intend to fuck me. The "normal" way, as I have come to regard it. Your cock in my pussy. A "normal" fucking is way, way better than in my butt, and way, way better than down my throat when you are punishing me or in one of your angry moods. Still, the suddenness of your reaction surprises me, and I gasp and pant in a frantic, startled way as you position me quickly on my back, spread my legs, and mount me. I know that there will be pain — the too–big, force–its–way–in kind of pain that always occurs when we fuck due to the size differential between your erect penis and my slender, preteen pussy. It always is worse without lube of some kind, and I brace for the burning, friction–type pain that I have come to know and fear. But my pussy is wet and semi–lubricated, and to my relief your manhood presses inside my warm, 11–year–old snatch with relative ease.

I am hot from my dancing and masturbation even as you begin to fuck me, and your large, fully–clothed body practically engulfs me as you settle in for what I am sure will be a "long time" fuck, as I have come to describe them. From all appearances, this looks like it will be a "normal" "no–lube" "long–time" fuck, using the developing classification system of an 11–year–old 5th–grader sex slave. I can tell from the way you lean into your thrusts, your shaft rubbing over my hairless cunny. I also can tell from the way that you penetrate only part way, not slamming against my deep-inside place. I can tell from the slightly slower, meant–to–last pace of your undulations. I know exactly what type of fuck this will be, or at least I think I do, and I am proven right.

As fucks go, this isn't a bad one. The no–lube part is mitigated by my own juices. And the long–time part is offset by the nice sensations that I feel in my clitty as your shaft occasionally rubs past in just the right way. As the sensations and your cock angle strike me just right, I emit an occasional moan and gasp — not precisely what you had hoped for, but authentic nonetheless. The only bad things about this fuck are that I am really hot underneath you, and my pussy starts to burn a little from the long–time part and the inadequacy of the lube. But my pussy and your precum makes the sensation tolerable, and it’s not like I have any choice in the matter. So we fuck. 40 minutes of sheer, animal, man–girl fucking. You thrust your organ into my prone, girlish body hundreds of times, enjoying my young–girl tightness and the warmth of my juvenile vagina.

And when it is over, and you have deposited your copious cumload deep in my slender pussy and rolled over to your side, I lie there, hot, sweaty, naked, and spent. Your weight is off me. Your heat is off me. I am a tired, well–fucked little 5th–grader. I lie there, legs splayed and open as your pearlescent jism leaks from my glistening, prepubescent snatch. I am tired. I can still feel the motion of your penetrations inside me, and I am content to lie there in a post–coital, sleepy, utterly relaxed way. I feel like I can fall asleep right there, right now, naked, freshly fucked and on my back — but it is not to be.

You tell me to cum once more, and my right hand goes to my pussy automatically, my delicate fingers instantly wet with slippery, still-warm jism, as I begin to stroke my preteen folds and sensitive clit. I am reluctant at first — I want to lie here, on the floor, on my back, and sleep forever — but my pussy reacts to my touch, still aroused from our fuck. I rub my special spot and it feels especially good. An especially special special spot. It does feel really good.

I keep my eyes open as I stroke, the way you want me to, but my pussy feels so good it is hard to see anything, including you. I am not trying to block you out like I used to. But I am concentrated on my fingering and the pleasure it yields. The chocolate adds a sublime, other–worldly, out–of–context strangeness to my efforts.

After only a couple of minutes of intense fingering, my lithe, damp, flexible little body arches in the way that only the young can achieve, and I experience a body–shaking preteen organism that curls my toes and blinks my eyes with its intensity. I lie back, gasping, my exhaustion complete now. But rest is not to be, and I roll over as you command, my face panicked, as I realize that you are not done and intend to fuck me in my butt. It is with a feeling of helplessness and dread that I wait for you to climb between my legs and position your surely erect cockhead at my sensitive anus. But this does not happen. You move behind me and lift my foot — and begin to lick and clean it. This is new. And as it continues, and as I realize that your intentions are not on a painful butt fucking — at least not right now — I start to relax. Your licking goes on, and I lie there as you lick me everywhere, tasting my little body, licking my perspiration.

I give in to the sensations, the pleasure, just a tired little girl. Our roles are reversed as master licks and tastes and even rims my butt hole, but I don't think about the reasons or even the strangeness of it. Like everything down here, it simply is. What happens, happens. You decide. You always decide for both of us. In this case, you have decided to lick every inch of my back and bottom. So you do. It happens. I live in the moment, and right now, the moment is tolerable, even pleasurable. Your tongue is rough and wet, but also soft and gentle. Tickly. It feels weird, and good, and . . . it just feels like it feels.

I still am not sure whether you will fuck my bottom, especially after you have lubricated my butt hole, but I don't worry about it. If it happens, it happens. When you roll me over and continue on my front, I lie there, immobile, watching and experiencing. It feels good. I watch your face and expressions as you work. My front is more ticklish than my back, more alive. I start to squirm a little as you lick my taut little tummy and toy with my nipples. A smile crosses my face. This is tolerable, pleasurable, even fun.

And by the time you return to my pussy — and I knew you would — I am ready, full of anticipation. I know it will feel good, and I will feel the tingle, and I am looking forward to it. I know that your rough man tongue can make my special spot feel good and make me have an organism. Within seconds of your tongue lapping at my pussy I am squirming, gasping, and my head is rolling to the left and right. I know I should fight the pleasure ("He's not your boyfriend, he's a kidnapper who hurts you and is mean to you!" I chastise myself), but there is no way that I am going to pass this up. Your roaming, licking tongue has taken the fight right out of me, and I want it on my pussy. I want to feel the tingle. I want to lie there and squirm to an organism that doesn't come from my own fingers, because those feel even better.

And when my organism hits, it is right up there with the best of the best of them all. I squirm and bite my lip and hold my breath and arch my back and curl my toes as the pleasure washes over me and it feels really, really good. Intense and good. I slump back, completely spent. And yet — you continue. ("Oh noooooo," I think to myself. "Again?") And there is an again, because five minutes later, another toe–curling, ultra–pleasurable organism washes over me. And as Marissa and Caroline lie in their respective beds in their pajamas texting 5th–grade gossip to each other, I lie naked underneath my master, my coltish legs spread in a wide triangle, wet with perspiration, undulating and writhing as his strong tongue brings my nubile, beautiful, 11–year–old body to its fourth toe–curling climax of the night.

Marcus

As you cum under my mouth again, it suddenly feels enough. Stop while at the best, says ancient wisdom, and so I do. I lick your juices from my lips and chin as best as I can and then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, twice. I don't like residual dampness anywhere on me, but especially not on my face. I look up at you, tempted to just pick you up, but I can't resist messing with you a little. I try and sound serious, not sure at this point exactly how successfully, but I try.

"There is one thing you still must do today," I demand, helping you sit up. You can see that my cock is erect again; not steely, I'm–gonna–shove–it–in erect, but hard nonetheless. Damn it's hard to keep my face straight. You've put me in an almost uncharacteristically good mood. Not just good; I can feel good in a sadistically pleased, smug sort of way. I feel boyish, cheery, easy, and very happy. Almost an entirely new state of being for me, really. I tie a blindfold around your eyes — in the bedroom, I'm rarely farther than an arm's reach from one — and whisper into your ear. "Into the bathroom. At your own pace, don't bump into anything!" and stride ahead.

You know the dungeon too well to take much longer than I at this point, but I hope it's still at least a little bit of a surprise as I undo the blindfold and present you with the big bath half full and filling up with hot water, lots of bubbles on top, and incense lit and even some candles. "You must have a bath," I say, dispelling any doubts you might still have, quite aware of just how "terrible" an obligation this is for you. I wink. It's lucky that the bath is huge, 'cause girl, you gotta share. I sure as hell need a soaking myself. I plop in, lean back, relax and doze. I leave it up to you if you nuzzle up closely or use the size of the tub to keep your distance. Frankly, I'm really dozing off, so not caring all that much at this point.

You seemed to have liked me going down on you. Your body definitely liked it, and you didn't protest. It seemed like you wouldn't have opted out, wouldn't have stopped me even if I gave you the choice. It's funny; I worked so hard on making it crystal clear that things happen regardless of your liking and choosing and now it seems like what feeds my ego the most are the moments when you actually do, or would choose to be, game. Men's minds and egos. I studied psychology and behavioral psychology extensively, and still, I'm clueless as to why it is this way, apart from the generic human truth of always craving what we don't have. I now have a shit–eating, limitless level of obedience in you, so it's the mysterious "what if?" that is creeping into my mind more and more. What if you weren't at risk of being punished? What if you were given a genuine choice? Which of the acts we partake in almost daily would you still go with, just to please me? Just to sate yourself? Were I to offer you cunnilingus as a favor, would you accept?

Damn my mind! I can't suddenly be the good guy that I never could be; too much inconsistency would just make a mess of your head. I'll have to explore answers to these questions indirectly, through game, challenges, teasing . . . and the occasional sweet moment that reminds you that your resolute, not–to–be–bargained–with kidnapper is still a human being.

I soak. I let the warmth and the sweet aromas permeate me. The sweet scent of the bath bubble reminds of the enema session and of the strawberry–vanilla scent that you emanated for a good time after that; breath, sweat, bodily fluids, all sweet. But then, I just licked your sweat off you head to toes — including your toes, actually, and I loved it. I don't need to perfume you up. Your subtle, sweet little girlie taste and scent are perfect to me. So perfect that I was walking out of the bedroom with my cock hard, even after all of the cumming I could have done for an entire day, even after working hard to pleasure you -- doing something I don’t do very often with any of my partners. But your cute little body is so fucking intoxicating and mesmerizing to me that, even as I doze, my cock is still mostly erect under the warm water. It's the kind of erection I could still use in one of your little holes if I chose to, but that will also just go back down,without any attention paid to it, without leaving me with blue balls and an ache.

I drift in and out of sleep. As the cheeriness and joyousness fades away I'm left feeling oddly melancholy. Do you hate me? Would you kill me if that was an obvious way to freedom? What would you do if we were outside right now and you had a gun in your hands? How far does your obedience go, exactly? Would you actually put the gun down if I simply commanded you to? Would you -- I don't know -- shoot your own foot if I commanded it? Ha! That's more like my good old self, right there.

For a moment my mind wanders around the issues of absolute obedience and forced self harm, and I can feel my edges, my ego, more clearly defined again after it's gone fuzzy watching your little dance recital. I think I will actually try that; not with a gun, obviously. But I know you fear needles, badly. Will you put a needle through your flesh yourself, for me? Or rather, what would I have to do and how do I have to work on you to make you do it for me? That really is more "me"; thoughts like that are true to my being, and I take a certain comfort, a familiarity, in them. It's a mindset that feels like "home" to me, kind of like a default state in my mind, It's funny, the kind of shit that one can find comforting. But it makes sense; A sadist to the core naturally will return to his comfort zone. In that zone there will be thoughts of pain and hurt caused; it's odd, but far from surprising.

The only downside of it is that it gives me a full on, rock–hard boner, the kind that will actually leave an unpleasant, lingering tension if I just let it shrink over time without getting off. Bummer. I'm too tired now to be bothered to fuck you again, and a lingering sense of niceness just doesn't let me command you to blow me yet again, partially because I know that you're exhausted, too, and it would take forever and spoil the evening for the both of us. I pull the plug, take the showerhead and rinse us both, and yawn. It's routine maintenance after that; something that I don't think I normally let you witness me doing, as I brush my teeth, cotton–bud clean my ears, use some skin tonic on my face, that sort of stuff. Half way through taking a piss (normally, as in into the toilet) I realize just how much I have lost my inhibitions around you, but I guess that pissing repeatedly on someone, into their face, in their mouth, making them drink it, and so on, is just bound to fuzzy up the usual boundaries. I certainly don't feel ashamed or even tense as I relieve myself in our presence.

I wash my hands and look at you. If I take you up now there will be DNA evidence of your presence in the house again; something I had planned to avoid, but right now . . . fuck it. The police are not even loosely headed in this direction, let alone prone to investigating me, so it's an acceptable risk in my book. As we pass your cell's door, you seem to almost instinctively head that way, but I take your hand and lead you out of the dungeon, and up into the house, into my normal bedroom.

"No funny business, and you are allowed to use the toilet and drink water without asking. Nightie night, sweetie," I say as I kiss you goodnight, curl up, and fall asleep. Even with my size, the bed is so huge that even though we're sharing a blanket, you can choose to tuck in closer -- or move farther away from me. I assume that I don't have to state that the house is locked and all that; mind you, if you were up to serious mischief, most of the indoor doors are open and you might even figure out how to unlock the sliding door into the garden if you find the key on a hook in the hall and fiddle with the code–lock, which is only four digits and not impossible to roll into the right position by listening to its clicking. Even with the chances of your escape non–zero, I fall asleep soundly and heavily, not sure if it's trust, confidence or just exhaustion, but somehow I simply expect you to wake up next to me. Maybe it's the kind of sloppiness that eventually allows some victims of abuse to flee, but it somehow just doesn't feel that way just now.

Laura

As I lie beneath you, naked, toes curled, legs spread in a wide V shape, experiencing my fourth, pleasurable preteen orgasm of the day, I am a very tired, spent little girl. My bangs are stuck to my forehead with perspiration and my chest rises and falls as I pant for air. It's getting late, and it's been a long, long day. My dance preparation and recital seem so long ago. But I worked hard at it — both mentally and physically — and my efforts had me pretty spent at the end. And then we fucked for what seemed like forever, and although you did most of the work, I was working, too, as your thick man cock thrust into me over, and over, and over, and over again. And then you tongued me to a knife's edge of soothing pleasure, before licking me to two powerful climaxes in a row. So yes. I'm tired, and when you finish, and I spasm with pleasure for the fourth time, I lie there, naked, panting, my nipple rings rising and falling on my slender, undeveloped chest as I bask in the afterglow of my orgasm.

But it is not to last. As tired as I am, I have another task to perform. Dutifully, but tired, I rise to my feet. It doesn't occur to me to object, much less to fight; if I have another duty to perform, I will perform it. It is as simple as that. There are no negotiations, there will be no bargaining. I have come to learn that my feelings, my fatigue, my state of mind have absolutely no bearing on what I am obligated to perform.

The blindfold scares me, and my heart leaps in my chest. I can't help it. I am at least mildly claustrophobic, and being deprived of vision often is the first step to a range of constricting, cloying horrors that cause me to shudder with dreadful anticipation. So often down here the blindfold leads to misery. There was the constricting, sight–depriving, singing–urinal costume; the restrictive, 20–point human toilet tie–up. The trip to the pond that preceded a brutal mouthfucking, and then the crawl on stones back to the mansion for further punishment. Awkward positions, constricting, hot, heavy attire. Bound, attached, and bent over. Things that make my blood run cold and my skin break out in goose pimples and cold sweat. Often stemming from the simple act of being blindfolded or otherwise deprived of sight.

I know where we are as we walk. I know the dungeon well now. I know where the bathroom is — the bathroom with the human toilet chair. My apprehension grows, but . . . I can smell it before we arrive. A humid, fragrant warmth. And something else in the air. Scented candles. Berries, and flowers. With my eyes covered my nostrils are on high alert, and I can smell the scent of perfumed soap and incense in the air. Perfumed bubble bath, lit candles. And when the door opens and I am greeted with the humid warmth the smell is breathtaking, beautiful, and wonderful. As the blindfold comes off no bath ever looked more inviting, or smelled better, or seemed more welcoming.

And as I climb into the bath to join you — it is the perfect temperature, as I knew it would be — I feel so incredibly happy, so incredibly alive, that I almost feel like crying. The bathroom is spacious and beautiful. The lights are dim, and the candles flicker on the walls. The scents are so sweet I can almost taste them. You didn't have to do any of this. You didn't have to lick me all over, even my butt hole. You didn't have to lick my cunny until I had multiple organisms. You didn't have to let me do my dance routines my way, or clap with appreciation and seeming joy when I did them, or overlook my mistakes when I made them -- which I did a lot.. You've shown me a completely different side to you today, at least since this afternoon. Even our long–time fuck was gentle and it didn't really hurt, 'cause you were being careful not to go too deep or jam it in or pound me so hard on the floor that my hips and back and bottom would bruise.

No, you did none of those mean things. When we danced, you clapped furiously and hooted and hollered so much you looked like a little kid — and that made me laugh and try even harder. Afterwards you fucked me for a long while, being gentle the whole time, and then when you were done you smiled and said that I should be on top next time, like we were boyfriend and girlfriend at university or something. I know you made a ton of cum because when I fingered my special spot I used it to make my fingers slippery and nice and it felt really, really good.

I'm grateful for the bath and I use one of the mesh body balls to clean myself gently, toes to neck, rubbing all over, cleaning myself, as you lie there, spent yourself. I sit up and dip my hair, shampooing it, bent over, face down, my locks hanging down, enveloping my head in a canopy of hair. When I am done I dip my head and rinse, several times, working the shampoo out. I use the mesh ball to clean my face, scrubbing with my eyes tightly screwed shut like a younger girl, looking pure and soft in the low light, my skin glistening.

I feel so clean and happy and tired when I am done. And grateful. Grateful that this afternoon and evening was not just bearable, not just tolerable, but actually and absolutely nice. And fun. And pleasurable. I want to thank you, somehow, but I'm not supposed to talk, and I'm not sure what I could say, anyway. Your eyes are closed now, as you lie back. It just seems like it would be nice to thank you somehow, not with sex ("If you do that, if you give him sex yourself, without him making you, you'll totally be a slut and I'll never talk to you again!", I warn myself). But there has to be something. Something that will show that I appreciate that you've been nice to me today when you like totally didn't have to be.

So I knee–walk around in the big tub, and position myself by your legs, and I grab the mesh ball, and I very gently begin to clean you, starting with your enormous feet, and working up the tops of your ankles and shins, your knees, your thighs. Lifting your legs, one at a time, entirely unbidden, cleaning underneath, the soles of your feet, washing you with warm, soapy, bubbly water. I prop your heels up one at a time in the gap between my thighs, a few inches from my bald little slit, and scrub underneath your legs, one at a time. I work up your body, cleaning your thighs, tops and underneath, under your knees. Your cock is nearly fully erect as I grasp it, gently clean it with the mesh ball, stroking its wet thickness with my soft, water–wrinkled little hands, flirting with extra touches, lingering on it, just a little. I lift and clean your balls, and as you slide down a bit I clean your bottom, lightly parting your crack to clean in between.

I clean your entire body, from feet to neck, as you lie there, eyes closed, erect, mostly still, moving only when it will aid my ministrations. The only part of you that I cannot get is your back, and when I have finished with your stomach, chest, and arms, I tug on your right arm and with your assistance pull you upright, and kneel behind you to clean you there. My hands rub the mesh ball around your neck, lingering on your broad back, massaging with little fingers, kneading your skin and muscles. Working my way lower, I clean the top of your buttocks that I could not get to before.

I do your hair, wetting it with my hands as you sit upright, then gently massaging your head with the shampoo. Little fingers dance across your scalp as I rub the shampoo in, working it to a rich lather, before scooping rinse water again and again until your hair runs clean. I sneak out from behind you as you lie back down, and then I gently clean your face with the little ball, rinsing from time to time as I do your chin, cheeks, forehead, and neck as you lie there passively with your eyes closed. My little hands feel soft and gentle as I work.

And when I am done, I put the mesh ball back on the edge, and look at you, lying there, eyes closed, almost seeming asleep, your phallus still semi–erect, plump, dark, and masculine in the dim light. I lie down next to you, not touching, but close. Close enough that we touch when I move. Two bodies, one large and chiseled and masculine and dark, the other small and soft and feminine and light. Two heads, leaning back, reclining, eyes closed. ("He's a kidnapper, girl. Not your boyfriend. Not your any–friend. And you're not his wife, either," I remind myself.). I drift off to sleep, my body semi–floating as we lie together, our bodies occasionally touching as the water eddies and flows around us.

We both seem to awaken at once, as the water temperature goes from warm and nice and soothing to cool and approaching cold. Neither of us speaks as you rinse us off. I towel off as you perform your ablutions in front of me, casually, uninhibited. I work my hair dry with the towel as I watch, realizing how meticulous and clean you are — something, I note, that we absolutely have in common. The towel is warm and fluffy and it dries me completely, leaving my soft, 5th–grader skin moist, fresh, and slightly pink. When I am done drying I fold the fluffy towel in half lengthwise, and hang it up again, leaving myself utterly naked in your presence. Naked, uninhibited, collared, and adorned with nipple rings. Eleven years old, clean, and beautiful as I wait for you to finish.

As we finish preparing for bed, and walk from the bathroom, I instinctively head for my cell — only to learn that you want me upstairs, in the mansion, neither suited up nor blindfolded. Free. Trusted. My heart swells with gratitude and pride. I did well today. I danced well, performed well, sucked well, fucked well. I was a good girl. And now I'm tired, so very tired. And your bed is huge and inviting. And as I climb in, and under, there is only the briefest of hesitations before I snuggle close to you, next to you, soft clean skin against skin. And when the little voice inside my head starts to say something I brush it aside with an angry head shake — you feel it against you, my hair rustling on the pillow as my head twitches in what you assume is a muscle spasm of some sort. I shut that annoying voice right up, nipping it in the bud, as I snuggle against your warm, manly body. And as I fall off to sleep, snuggled against your warmth, I don't care what anybody else thinks. I just don't.







A Challenge For Taken Readers

Dear Readers:

Thank you for your kind and constructive feedback! While I would always like to hear from more readers (the readership numbers suggest that not more than 1/10 of 1% of Taken readers ever leave feedback), I've received enough encouragement to keep going with the story.

One of the difficult things about writing a story like this is that while I think we can all agree that Laura needs constant discipline, reinforcement, and behavior modification from Marcus, sometimes her punishments seem a bit repetitive or lacking in creativity. Or at least I'm worried that they may appear or become that way.

To keep things fresh and vibrant, I would like to challenge Taken readers to provide me with a short description of a proposed punishment for Marcus to use with or on Laura. The proposed punishment can be simple or elaborate, mild or severe, quick or prolonged, psychological or physical, with or without assistive devices or implements -- and in keeping with Laura's predicament, all without any limits whatsoever.

Once I have received the entries, I will take the top ones and put them in another post for Taken readers to vote on. Marcus will use the top vote-getter on Laura in the story, at a place and a time of his choosing. Other proposed punishments may be incorporated into future chapters, as well.

Enter your suggestion as normal feedback though the form or e-mail me if you prefer; ideally with a sentence or two and a numerical score as a feedback on the latest chapters of the Taken series. That's it!

I hope to hear from all of you soon!

Pleasant Dreams!

The Author

P.S.: Chapter 40 has been renamed upon considering a faithful reader's feedback -- thank you for the suggestion! Much better than the original name!



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