Taken 42. Boarding School
Marcus
I wake up early into a bright morning and, somewhat startled, remember that it's been almost twenty four hours since I tended to Robbie -- otherwise known as Caitlyn, with a Y. Poor kid. Even if I come just to bugger him half the time, and even though he's had his cock and balls chained up for over a week now and gets punished even for dripping pre through the harness, I spend so little time with him compared to you that after hours and hours of silence and solitude, despite everything, he seems grateful for my attention and company. It's funny how different things affect different people. He's so social and talky that simply neglecting him is the best punishment. But I don't want him to go nuts; even if he's always got a day's worth of food, it's not good for him or his spirits to be living on protein and muesli bars and junk like that.
I cuff one of your hands to the bedpost. You can't slide it upwards because the top of the post is thicker than the bottom and I clamp the cuff real tight near the bottom. I do it gently though, so you don't even wake up. I scribble a note in quick, messy, first-thing-in-the-morning handwriting and put it on the pillow.
Whatever you do, don't wet the bed – nor the carpet.
Meaning, basically, don't piss. If you haven't taken a leak during the night while the liberty was granted, tough luck. Because all you can reach cuffed like this is the bed and the carpet. There's an empty glass – a fairly small, almost-empty glass of water on the bedside table, leaving you at least the theoretical option of pissing into it, forcing yourself to stop, drinking it up, and repeating that a few times. I don't know if that will even occur to you, and I rather suspect that it won’t. I don't really care that much what happens. You sleeping in is convenient, but you roaming around the house while I'm down below is certainly not, so there. Most likely, you'll understand the command as having to hold it in and you will. And should you fail, I'll stretch my muscles and my sadistic side coming up with a good punishment.
I come up some two hours and a bit later, 9:00 a.m. or so. By then I’ve had a light breakfast and have taken care of my my morning erection, so you and I can still share a brunch and don't have to fuck right away -- even though you don't know, don’t need to know, and for now, won’t know, exactly why that is. I walk into the bedroom to see how you handled your predicament. I’m a bit curious, because I had heard somewhere that female orgasms and arousal in general get intensified by a full bladder. I come in, shake my head at you, and shush you with a finger over my lips. No talking. No begging. I know you need a piss. And I know you are not gonna be allowed one just yet. I reach under the bed. I find a dirty sock, one that got discarded there earlier yesterday after a jog, fairly pungent. Good.
"Open up," I say, but I can't resist gagging you slowly, so you have no chance but to take a good whiff and become fully aware that you are being gagged with a used, sweated-through sock. Then I find the other one and stretch it out before tying it around your head to hold the first one in place -- with a knot over your mouth just to add to the firmness and fullness of your gag. I grab another pair of cuffs and use it on your free hand, cuffing it to the post on the opposite side of the bed. It’s a pretty hard stretch, and it makes you sit up. In fact, it makes you look pretty much crucified, and the moment you attempt to move your arms from a nearly perfect, horizontal position, the cuffs cut against your wrists.
"You have one simple task this morning," I tell you, making it sound like I'm still being nice and friendly even though all that's left from yesterday is a satisfied cheerfulness that – partially because I'm not spent – doesn't take the edge of off my sadism even one bit. "Don't wet yourself. I'll have my mouth on your pussy a lot of the time, and girl, if you wet yourself right into my mouth, do I even need to tell you you will be in a whole WORLD of trouble?" I say. I make it sound like a challenge. Like a given. Like I expect you to hold it back, to succeed. I make it sound possible, I make it sound almost kind, but this is one of those times that I'm bullshitting you big time.
I part your legs and clamp my mouth over your delicious preteen clam and lick and tease and slurp you to within a heartbeat away from an orgasm. And then I stop. I leave my mouth clamped around your pussy firmly, just to make sure that any piss that leaks out does indeed end in my mouth. Long story short, the game is rigged. It's a con. I make you lose. I edge you as many times as I confidently can without bringing you over the edge, and by then you seem to actually be in pain from holding your piss back. Then, with my mouth still firmly latched on to your pussy, I reach up to your exposed, stretched, and totally impossible-to-defend armpits, and start tickling you.
If you were any less desperate, if you had not been edged, it would be obvious; my intention to make this happen would simply be undeniable because I'd have to tickle you a lot, for a long time, to make the inevitable happen. But your body has had it by then; it just doesn't have the capacity to strain any further, and your urethra squirts piss into my mouth the very moment you first jerk in your cuffs from the very first tickle. Even though I stop tickling after that, the power of the stream is too much, a natural power over which you don't have control any more. I stay clamped on your mouth – I actually don't want piss all over the bed; I was honest and serious about that part – and drink up most of the contents of your bladder.
No amount of struggle and effort can cut the flow till most of your bladder is empty, and no power in the world can return the piss that sprayed into my mouth and that I had to drink. It’s not a bad taste, actually, or maybe I'm really in love, because I really didn't mind the taste. I even was tempted to lick you through it and get you off, but I resisted because what you are in for now is ever so much more fun and will be infinitely better if you believe that I am furious at you. So I drink up, then rise to my feet with a dark, red face that I have clenched on purpose to imitate serious fury.
"So you dare TAKE A PISS in my mouth, and can't even stop it, so I must drink up not to ruin the bed?" I ask coldly. "Have you forgotten who the slave here is?" I narrow my eyes. I uncuff you and remove the gag, grab you by your hair and drag your quivering form to the toilet. "Empty yourself. No more accidents today," I command, standing there, watching – a statue of a god of fury. Yesterday was a nice mild summer day, by our standards; today you are in for a heat wave.
Laura
I sleep soundly. Very soundly. I worked hard yesterday, and it was a long day. A good day. I ended it with a delicious bath, and even bathed and cleaned you without being bidden. After that I slept upstairs in your huge bed, snuggled close to you, like a little preteen lover. And when the voices came to chastise me for being a slut, I banished them and wouldn't listen. I fell asleep snuggled close to you, skin to skin, your warmth radiating against me as I dozed off. It was nice.
I awoke this morning with my right hand cuffed to the bed. I have no memory of you doing that, nor of you leaving. My first thought, even before I find and read the note, is that I need to pee. The last time I emptied my bladder was before the bath last night, so I need to go. I don't think I woke up even once during the night, much less did I get up and go to the bathroom. I spy the note, and read it. Of course it tells me that I can't do the one thing that I so very much want to do . . . no, NEED to do. Not that I would have peed in your bed or on the carpet even in the absence of the note; I've been here for long enough to know that such an act would not go unpunished. But the note suggests something else. It suggests that you might not be back for a while, and that holding in my pee is one of those challenges that you like to give me. ("He's probably gone shopping, Laur'. He won't be back for hours and hours," I tell myself.). My bladder gives a little twinge of despair at the thought...
Of course, if you've ever been in a situation where you need to pee, but can't, peeing is all you can think about. And when you concentrate on peeing but can't actually pee, it just makes the urge to pee all the more urgent. This is all especially true when you're 11 years old. When you're 11, not only is your bladder a lot smaller, but the muscles that control it aren't quite as strong as they are in an adult. I try to take my mind off the need to pee, but it is impossible. The note, the possibility that you have gone shopping –– the possibility that you may be gone for hours –– are all that I think about. And by about 10 minutes after I wake up, I need to pee really, really bad. Painfully, urgently bad.
But, of course, I can't pee. In fact, I can hardly move. The cuff, while not tight around my wrist, restricts my movements. Inevitably, my legs start to jiggle. I need to move to relieve the pressure on and in my bladder. Naked, but with an urgent need, I jiggle and reposition on the bed, biting my lip, making little gasps and moans. I try to take my mind off my need, but I simply can't. Once I started thinking about the pressure in my bladder and the fact that I can't go, my mind can concentrate on nothing else.
I barely notice the glass, and when I do see it, the last thing on earth I want is a swallow of water. Of course, once I see the glass with the little swallow inside, I can't get that out of my mind and it adds to the psychological torment of being unable to pee. Finally, my urge is so great that I stand up beside the bed, still cuffed, and do a version of the pee–pee dance, standing in place next to the bed. My slender, coltish young legs march in place. I squat, my arm outstretched. I jump. My naked little 11–year–old body gives an energetic, dance–recital quality version of the pee–pee dance, right there, in your bedroom, audience–free.
It works, at least for a while. There is a reason why children throughout the world, across cultures, do the pee–pee dance. The physical activity not only helps my bladder muscles to hold, but it takes my concentration off my urgent need. Squat, stand, squat, stand, march in place, turn left, turn right, twist my hips. It works. The incredibly urgent, I'm–going–to–have–an–accident pressure of my need abates somewhat. I stand there for a moment, still now, bladder muscles clenched, and find that somehow I have regained control. For now. I tug idly at the handcuff. I'm not going anywhere. I climb, naked, back into your huge bed, lie back, and study the ceiling, bored, concentrating on not thinking about my bladder.
It's another hour before you return, and in that time, I have scooted off the bed twice more for more Naked Pee-Pee Dance Recitals, Pretee Divsion. As you enter the bedroom I open my mouth to speak –– after all, this is an emergency –– but you shush me and warn me off with your finger over your lips. Even worse, you gag me, so I can't speak. Even worse than that, my gag is a disgusting, awful, smelly, sweaty, dirty ol' sock. But I open my little pink mouth on command as you tuck the slightly stiff fabric in my mouth, filling it with a nasty taste and texture. Another sock holds it tightly and firmly in place, the knot right over my mouth, right under my nose, where I can smell your nasty dried foot sweat. I know the taste well, having licked your sweaty clammy feet clean with my mouth, toe by toe, top and bottom.
The urge to pee returns as you finish cuffing my other hand to the far post. I am seated on my bottom, arms outstretched, and I have to use my hips and legs to jiggle my body up and down. This is my seated version of the pee–pee dance. I can't help but writhe and wriggle, as I make little gasping moans though my nose. I am very worried about having an accident. I know full well that you know that I need to go; what I don't think you know is just how close I really am to having an accident right here, right now, in the middle of your bed. I'm really close. And I don't need a note to tell me that you'll be angry if I do that right in front of you.
Just as predicted you speak to me, warning me about my only task of the morning. You make it sound so easy; yet, I already have to go so bad. Last night you licked my body head to toe and then tongued me to two organisms. The process took over an hour. I won't last five minutes this morning without peeing, yet you make it sound like you think I can hold it for a long time. There is no way I can do that! I moan in discomfort from the pressure in my bladder and my eyes look pained. I clench my bladder muscles as hard as I can to fight off a wave of pressure while my legs flop and shake on the bed in yet another rendition of the pee–pee dance.
You spread my young legs wide, exposing my hairless, 11–year–old quim. My labia is like calf skin, my inner folds a soft pink color. As you position yourself at my preteen cunny it occurs to you how many millions and millions of men around the world would amputate a finger to suckle a girl cunny as beautifully perfect and delicious as the one before you right now. Your mouth engulfs my entire little–girl sex and I moan. I know how good this can feel, but I also know how much I won't enjoy it for as long as I have this terrible urge to pee.
Peeing while your mouth is suckling my hairless cunny would be unthinkable. Despite the fact that over the last two weeks I repeatedly have served as your urinal, drinking your pee right from your cock, experiencing different flavors and pungencies, there is not the slightest thought that YOU would want MY my pee in your mouth. That this realization, to the extent that it even is a thought, comes to me so naturally, so immediately, so willingly, is nothing more than a product of my training. I am the slave, and it is my role drink the pee of my Master, as well as anything else he may wish to put in my mouth, no matter how gross or disgusting. Master's mouth, on the other hand, should never touch such vileness. It would be . . . unthinkable. Simply unthinkable. It would violate the natural laws of the universe. I don’t think these exact thoughts, but something close to them, as you latch onto my soft, preteen quim.
*******
And yet, it is taking all of my willpower not to pee directly into Master's mouth. I clench my bladder muscles again, but I am tiring, and the pressure is getting worse. I squirm, but I can barely move, and the cuffs are biting into my wrists. They're not padded, and the sharp metal edges hurt. I curl my toes and move my legs together, hoping that you will feel the urgency of my movements as I squeeze my legs against your body. But you continue to lick and suckle at my cunny and clit, and I feel the tingle, the deep–seated tingle of pleasure that I knew even before I arrived in this place but now comes stronger, and more frequently, when we are together. This leads to another problem, however, as there is no way that I can give into the tingle and let an organism happens without totally losing control of my bladder at the same time.
The next 10 minutes are torture, as the pressure in my bladder increases, and so does the intensity of the tingle inside me, under my cunny. I have to fight both sensations, because if I give in to the tingle, I surely will pee –– right in Master's mouth. I am within a minute or so of losing the battle when you reach up, suddenly and unexpectedly, and begin to tickle the exquisite, milky–white softness of my defenseless underarms. No 11–year–old child could withstand such an assault, and I am no exception. The very first touch of your firm, manly fingers against the silky softness of my underarms causes my bladder to release and a firm squirt of little–girl pee jets into your mouth. Like a bursting dam, my bladder gives way and I gasp, giggling, squirming, while also moaning with worry, as your fingers tickle and tease my defenseless young body and I pee directly into Master's mouth.
I can't hold it back, and I don't even try. I can feel your mouth working against my sex, capturing, swallowing my pee. I am horrified: Master is drinking my pee. And suddenly it occurs to me: you wouldn't be drinking it if you didn't want to. And you swallow whatever comes out of my pussy when I have an organism. So maybe you like this, ad maybe you won't be mad. Maybe you'll come up from between my legs smiling, laughing at what you made me do.
But one look at your red and very, very angry face dispels the notion that you are not mad at me. You look like you are going to pop the veins in your neck. Your face says "punishment" with a capital P, and I know that I am in for it. I feel sheepish and defeated, as well as scared, as you uncuff me in a rage. My mind wanders. Yesterday was so nice, and now, like so many other times, I have managed to piss you off ("Not funny, Laur'. Not funny at all.") as soon as the next day starts. I thought you would like the bath I gave you, and the way we snuggled together in bed. I thought that yesterday was the start of something new, but it wasn't. I've gone and blown it first thing this morning.
I squeal in pain as you grab my hair and drag me to the toilet. You're very mad. Mad means pain for me, and that knowledge makes me sad, and forlorn for the lost opportunity to continue yesterday's progress. I sit on the toilet, legs curling behind me and to the side, and look up at you as you loom over me. You are so tall. Your face looks so angry. The disparity between us is so vast. I am 11, naked, collared, and tiny. My nipple rings dangle and jitter as I lean forward on the toilet, cowering. You are tall; so tall, broad, and strong. You are Master, and I am slave. Whatever you wish to happen next, will. It is as simple as that. I know that I will be punished. I await your sentence.
Marcus
I watch you struggling to empty your already empty bladder; nothing happens. I decide to acknowledge yesterday so you know it's not entirely forgotten.
"We had such a nice day yesterday. I liked when you gave me a scrub down all by yourself. I liked when you snuggled up against me in the bed. I could have fucked you, or at least your face, once again at least before falling asleep, but I was being nice and went to sleep with an erection; we both know didn't have to, I never have to. You were trying hard and were nice, and I was being nice back. I really enjoyed that. And you seemed to have enjoyed it too. And now you mess up like this, first thing in the morning? I am unhappy and disappointed," I say clearly. Almost spelling it out. I gargle some water from the tap and use mouthwash, just for the show. I really didn't mind your piss, I don't seem to really mind anything of your sweet preteen perfection. Even things I never expected to be very keen on, like going down on you, giving pleasure, have a whole new, delicious exciting dimension with you because of how sweet, amazing, lovely, yummy, PERFECT you are.
"Dungeon. Now!" I demand and we make a brisk way in there. I make you sit on the big flat table to which you could be tied spread eagled or in several other positions, but I don't tie you. I want you – deliberately and intentionally – completely unrestrained. I fish in the shelves and open the needle torture kit. I take out a magic marker. Make you lie down. I make a dot just off your belly button, and write "in" next to it. And then another one, an inch towards the side, and write "out" next to it. Wipe the area with antiseptic. Then I make a dot on your right thigh, again labelled "in". And one quite far from it, almost two inches, labelled out. Another sweep. And one more, in and out, quite near each other this time, not even an inch apart, but on the inside of your left wrist, that very soft, sensitive skin just a little bit of the bottom of your palm.
And then I give you three needles. Three scary ass, pointy, four inch long needles. One could almost knit with needles this fucking long. They are as long as Robbie's lil' cock when fully erect.
"You need to angle the needle to keep the penetration shallow," I say. "Run it just under the skin and then push down where you are holding it, the tip will slide out through the skin and you are done. I face your expression of utter shock and disbelief even faced, unconcerned. "What?" I say, sounding slightly irritated. "I had good time with you. I like you. I prefer having nice times with you. I don't feel like hurting you, especially not just now after all the cuddles and slow, sweet sex last night. You messed up, you do it," I say bluntly to make it clear what it is that is going to happen.
"Only three needles. Not too deep. And they will only go in for the duration of the punishment; the moment the last one's in and through, you can remove the first one, we'll tend to the pricks, and hopefully, we'll have a breakfast and forget that this morning started to grimly. I'd much rather be cheerful and happy again," I say, lying through my teeth without faltering even the least bit. "I was gonna give you a morning o – r – g –a – s – m," I spell out, I think I heard you mispronounce it at some point and it's time that you learn, "and you pissed into my mouth like you were the queen of the house and I was the pet here. It's almost like you learned nothing since the day you arrive," I say and try to sound deeply sad and disappointed, to emotionally push at you through different means than just fear of my anger.
"Even if your hands shake, you can just rest them against your body and do it. This is your punishment, don't argue, don't try to beg, don't mess with me, Laura. Fair is fair. You have a unique chance to both get the punishment out of the way fast so we can get on with our day – I'd much rather be drinking coffee and enjoying a blowjob right now – and to prove that you are serious about obeying me, devoted, and not just appeasing me with the least you can get away with. Take those needles, and run then under your skin. Now!" I demand.
It's kind of like yelling at an arachnophobic person to fucking pick the tarantula up already, and it's only because it appeals to the purely dark, psychologically sadistic side of me that I can hide, just about perfectly well, my deep enjoyment of this. The vision must be so tempting, to just obey, to get on with the day, for things to be nice again. I even used the most manipulative reason for this that I could have come up with – I don't wanna hurt you, that's why you have to you it. How easy, right? Just three jabs, pushes...
Only of course it's everything but trivial and I know it. I know about your hysterical fits, even about that time when two male nurses had to hold you down for your doctor to be able to give you a jab. A while ago, but... and since you came here, your experiences with needles have only been more traumatic, such as when your nipples were decorated with those sweet nipple wings weighed down by a stud each, 0.8" in diameter, just enough for me to slide a finger through and tug at them; and just large enough to sway and jig around when you move fast enough. Nipple rings that seem, almost miraculously, pretty much totally healed over by now. You have been made to be hurt girl. If there is God, he somehow knew you are gonna end up here, I bet, and equipped you for it. Apart of course from your deep fear of what became the synonym of a very serious punishment down here, a threat I didn't make good on since marking your flat preteen "tits", and now you gotta do it. You gotta do it yourself. Despite your blood curdling phobia.
I am a messed up bastard, there never was a doubt about it, but this is an especially shining clear example. A double bind, a no–win situation, being all sweet and "well meaning" while committing a sadistic atrocity. Hurt, disappointed looks. I'm fucking with your head as much as I am when I hilt myself right down to your sweet lips, by cock filling half your oesophagus, only right now you don't even know that this is happening. I feel smug and pleased with myself.
Now the thing is; there's two levels of this, of course. You have the positive motivation and psychological pressure to do the impossible for me; but you also have your experience, the knowledge that there is no saying "no" to me, ever, on any occasion, to any command. I asked you to put needles through your own body and it will happen; if you fight me on it, you'll infuriate me and brutal punishment will ensue, possibly a whole long multi–torture punishment session, but you have been given the command and therefore, sooner or later, one way or another, I will make it happen. I will make you obey. It's almost like laws of physics, impossible to avoid. A fact of nature. The impossible will happen.
I cross my legs and manage to hide my erection in my loose clothes; anyway, I told you I went to sleep horny yesterday and you have no idea I got off with Robbie, so you might easily mistake it for late morning wood. You are not in a position to really begrudge me a hard on. I sit onto a stool next to the table; not touching you, slightly further than at arm's length, leaving you, essentially, alone with the three long needles that stand between you and a "normal day", or you and an onslaught of psychophysical brutality that will, as we both know, eventually break you into submission.
I look at you; which of the paths will we take? It's up to you. Either you will do the impossible, or I will make it happen. God. I'm strung up like a guitar string; I really, really, hungrily desperately want you to obey. I want to see that you've really been pushed that far. A tiny part of me wishes you to fail, to not be able to do it. Brutality will ensue, and you will only have yourself to blame. You will be ashamed and perhaps even sorry for your master that he's having a nice day spoiled by having to torture you. I have to hold back a chortle. It's really lucky that you are eleven and despite your intelligence still quite gullible. If you could read me as well as I can read you, some things, such as this particular situation, would not be even half the fun. I love the way I see through you like through a glass pane while I manage to mess with you with a decent poker face in four cases out of five. And so I sit and watch. For me, this is a typical win–win scenario and with a bonus even; I'll get off either way and either I will fuck you brutally during a punishment session, or I will get a grateful, eager to please fuck if you get out of this relatively lightly, I bet. I love living like this, every moment of it.
Laura
You're right, of course. Despite my obvious intelligence, my ability to process information and think on my feet –– even my ability to put together an impressive, three–dance dance recital in just a couple of hours of preparation –– at the end of the day I am an 11–year–old child. And, being 11, I am naïve and gullible, easily manipulated, especially by an man who is versed in the arts of misdirection, deception, and theater. And when that man almost never breaks character, and never lets me know when he is kidding me or pulling my leg, I have no way of knowing when he are manipulating me. None. Just about any adult can fool a child, perhaps even repeatedly, but virtually no adult is as persistently "in character" as you. With the lone exception of when you actually smile or burst out laughing, when you put on your "mad" face, I believe that you are angry with me.
And right now, you sound both angry and disappointed with me. I could see your anger in your face –– all red, with the veins popping out of your neck. I watched as you drank a glass of water and gargled mouthwash –– I know how pee tastes, and I know you didn't like it. I personally hate it, despise it, even as I have gotten used to it, like the taste of your cum. I stare up at you from the toilet as you speak to me. The disappointment if your voice is obvious, as is the truth of what you are saying. We did have a nice day yesterday. Parts of it were even fun, and fun is a rarity for me these days. I can see from your expressions, and hear in your voice, that you wanted to have another fun day today. But I blew it. As so often happens after a good day, I managed to goof it all up the very next morning. ("Nice, Laur'. Way to go. Super.")
I feel angry with myself, and disappointed. Why couldn't I just hold it in? Why didn't I go to the bathroom before bed last night? You said I could, but I couldn't be bothered. I just fell asleep in your bed, like I owned it. I forgot my place. It was my fault. These thoughts race through my head.
It is a sheepish, unhappy little girl who watches you and listens, perched on the toilet, heels and ankles back against the porcelain, trying to squeeze out some drops of pee, just to show that I have something left, that I didn't pee every last drop into your mouth. But I have nothing. I don't need to go, now. I am empty. And we both know where my urine went.
When you command me to the dungeon it hardly is a surprise. I could tell from your voice that I would be punished. I knew instinctively that I would be punished as soon as I squirted the first spurt of pee into your mouth. As I scramble to the dungeon the air suddenly feels cold on my naked skin, and I shiver. But I climb obediently up on the table, and watch as you head to the nearby shelves, and extract a box. I've seen that box before, I think, and my stomach starts to clench and clutch even before you turn around and I see it. My heart skips a beat, and I swallow in misery. It's the box with the needles in it.
I feel faint. I know I goofed up, and I know you are mad and disappointed in me, but I didn't think my infraction was that bad. I didn't think it would warrant needles. My head spins even as I lie down on the table. The last time you brought out the needles –– I shudder visibly –– you made me swear on my brothers' lives that I would not lie to you. I start to tremble, lying there, naked on the table, like a sculpture of preteen beauty. My breathing deepens in fear as you draw the dots and circles on my soft skin.
I sit up on your command and take the needles from you, my mouth agape, looking pale. I don't even want to touch the needles. They look horrible, scary, wretched. I am afraid they will jab and prick me just holding them. My tummy is so clenched in fear that I feel ill.
I listen as you explain that I have to stick the needles in myself. I look for a moment like I might pass out. I buy your explanation –– that you don't want to have to hurt me, after the good day we had yesterday –– hook, line, and sinker. Of course, all my brain can focus on is where that leaves me: holding three, evil–looking piercing needles in my trembling hand.
I look pale, and my fingers are shaking violently even as you advise me to hold them against my body if I need to. I listen to your words, staring at you wide–eyed, but almost blankly. My mind spins, trying to grasp the horror of what you have commanded me to do. I flinch as you command "now!" but make no immediate move to obey. I am frozen, conscious but semi–comatose with fear.
I simply can't obey. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my brain, I know that disobeying will bring even worse punishment down upon me. And I know that you can, and likely will, stick the needles in me yourself. After all, you've done so before. But there is simply no way, no way on earth, that I can push a needle into, much less under, my skin. You are asking the impossible. I couldn't do it if my little brothers were here with knives held to their throats.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold the needles. I manage to transfer two of them to my left hand, keeping one in my right. Shakily, I put the other two down on the table, then look up and manage to say "I'm j–j–just p–p–putting th–them th–there" in an apologetic voice of explanation. I try to hold the remaining needle still as I look down at my tummy, at the circled dots marked "in" and "out" on my white skin. I feel sick. I stare at the marks, my tummy skin wrinkled as I sit up, leaned forward, and look down. The marks are right there, right by my belly button, riding a little wrinkle in my tummy skin. The needle is shaking like a leaf in my hand.
I use my shaking left hand to try to guide the needle tip to the dot marked "in." I am shaking so violently that I simply can't keep it steady. Suddenly, without warning, I throw up. My stomach clenches tight and I spray a stream of vomit all over my tummy, cunny, and legs, as well as the table underneath. My face is contorted and red, my eyes glimmering and bulging, as the contents of my stomach empty all over my body, my shaking hands, and the table. The odor hits immediately –– pungent and nasty. A second, heaving, body–wracking contortion sends another spray of vomitus and bile up from my tummy as I vomit in fear.
When I am finished, my hands, and the needle, and my tummy and legs are covered with slime, and I look up at you, with perhaps the saddest little face you have seen since I arrived in my new home. My face is pale, my expression one of horrified misery. The hand holding the needle continues to shake violently. I am a mess. I look and feel faint. My mouth is open and a long streamer of thick tummy bile hangs from my chin as I stare at you and await your reaction to my latest transgression.
Marcus
This is how fear looks. This is how fear smells. How it feels. This is it. I'm instantly drunk. I'm high as a kite. It's like... I can't even find a comparison, even a long line of pure, snow–white cocaine doesn't hit so fast, so clear, with such profound, booming satisfaction. It's an orgasm. It's not one physical enough, or not in the same way anyway, to be genital, to make jizz squirt out of my cock, but hell, without a smidgeon of doubt, it IS an orgasm. My body tingles all over, I feel a wave of... electricity, for lack of a better word, wash over me. I shudder visibly, exactly the kind of things that can easily fool you; I make it look like a shudder of disgust while it's pure bliss, keeping my face hard as stone, flat, as expressionless as I can manage and damn, do I have a good poker face! I take the needles from you, put them on a small metallic tray. I act slowly, dazed. I heard that some people vomit before major tests and interviews and such, but to see it first hand, in front of my eyes, and being the cause of it. I shudder again. This time it actually sends a twitch into my cock. This is good. This is too good.
"Don't worry. There are more clean needles. Lots. Let's wash you up. I'm not happy about this but you can clearly see that, so I'll spare my breath – no point in yelling I guess," I say as if that really was good news. I take you into the med ward, just because it's creepier and you have worse memories of it than the bathroom, an hose you off in there. I make sure no phlegm and muck are left on your skin. I wipe you off with sterile wiped neck down, right down to your feet, you can now be pierced anywhere, all over your body, safely, cleanly. And we both know it. I mostly was so thorough with the wipes to play on your nerves, basically. I make it seem like you will be turned into a pin–cushion now. I prepare the whole of you for being invaded with hundreds, thousands of needles.
You do the clean up though, I give you rubber gloves, bucket, general washing liquid and tell you to clean up the table and the floor. I turn up the air conditioning to freshen up the air. For someone who love's fucking little girl's throats I'm shockingly well–repulsed by vomit; on a purely sexual level it's a serious buzz killer, especially when it spills all over like it did just now and starts to stink. If I wasn't experiencing a mind–blowing fear–gasm just then I would probably have reacted a lot less calmly.
When I come back I take three new needles out of the box and place them on a clean stainless steel plate (the dirty ones I carry away into the med ward for sterilisation), they go on the table but you don't. You go to the see–saw–like contraption, already familiar to you, and I bring in a big bucket of water next. I make you lie on it, grip the grips, hook your feet in place. No cuffs. No ropes today.
"Well you obedience definitely isn't perfect, is it? You've got to admit – to mess up twice in one morning, you can't expect me to be happy with that?" I say, sighing. "You have a chance now to prove to me that you really, honestly and seriously want to please me and you are sorry to have disappointed me. You know what's about to happen, you still remember it freshly. Well this time it's different. No ropes. No cuffs. I will duck you in and you will stay put. You will take it. You will trust me not to drown you," I say slowly, gravely. "That is your one way out today. One and only possible way out. If your hands leave the handles, if you try to lift yourself of off the board, I will tie you to it, and I will water–board you until you are ready to put those needles through your skin for me, as previously commanded. So that's that. Show trust, show real obedience... or..." I let the "or" fade out darkly.
I can't believe I'm going in this direction and still – though I'm not sure to what extent exactly you are buying this, probably not entirely, I suspect – mostly getting away with my good–guy appearance.
I affirm your position in the contraption with strokes and touches and gentle, reassuring squeezes. I caress you; against all the fear, all the horror, all the helplessness there is a lingering, gentle, soft, patient touch. That goes on until you relax somewhat. When I tilt you back, I do it slowly, carefully, so you can catch a breath even though your mouth will stay above water and you will be able to breathe; the drowning sensation makes it feel like you can't, so I'm a little bit merciful and allow you a last breath before the water floods into your nose from above. I try and make you succeed and only let you "drown" for about twenty seconds.
"Good girl. Very good girl. Now we are talking. Now you are trying," I praise you and kiss your lips and stroke your wet hair. "This cannot drown you, cannot kill you and even if it could, I would NEVER allow that," I emphasise and dunk you in again, a little more suddenly this time, and for three full minutes. Enough to break an average soldier, apparently, to make him talk. Will it be enough to make you lose control and your one last little chance to go on with the day non–agonisingly?
Half a minute, not a second less (though you have the power and capacity to let go and move to the side, or even, to strain your arms and abs and lift yourself up from the water with some effort. Of course if you do that, you have just failed.
I watch in fascination as your belly tightens – holy crap you have such a hot, perfect, delicious, firm and flat tummy it gives me an erection though you cannot see that just now, luckily – your chest heaves with fits of cough and blank retching, your body fighting the drowning sensation intensively. Will you be successful fighting back? If not, you're in for enough water–boarding to "cure" your needle phobia. Which means – an awful lot.
Laura
I look absolutely miserable. I still am shaking, and I look pale. From the waist down, I feel like I have been dipped in a toxic waste dump, the feel and smell of my own vomit as offensive to my own nostrils and my cleanliness fetish as it is to yours. With your hand guiding me by the elbow I climb down from the now–defiled table and hobble walk, dripping, into the medical ward.
Your words are hardly reassuring. I feel so miserable right now that I almost don't care if you beat me for throwing up. I'd much, much rather be beaten or yelled at than hear you tell me that there are more clean needles. Lots more, you said, in a reassuring tone of voice. As if you are actually going to comfort me by telling me this. It doesn't comfort me at all. In fact, despite your soothing, reassuring voice, and your promise not to yell at me, your words make me even more fearful. ("He thinks he's being nice, Laur'. He's trying to be nice," I remind myself).
I stand there in the medical wards shower, arms raised, as you hose the filth off my naked, slender body. I continue to tremble. The trauma of the needles caused a deep–seated, visceral fear reaction in me, and the passage of a mere couple of minutes has done little to restore me. I am shaking and pale as you dry me off like a father with a young daughter after a bath. Only there is something that does not quite compute with the wholesome father–daughter scene, beyond the mere presence of my collar and nipple rings: Your touch is gentle and non–sexual, but I simply am too old a girl to be dried off and touched by my father in this way. 11 is too old for a girl to be naked with a man, even her own father.
When you turn to the sterile wipes, and begin applying them to my entire body, I swallow in fear and my legs feel weak. I instantly know what this means. ("He's gonna put needles in you everywhere, girlfriend," my mind tells me.). The fact that you are being so kind about it adds to my misery. Sometimes when you're not angry and have to punish me its worse than when you are angry and want to punish me. My trembling increases, both from the thought of the needles and from the cool of the alcohol drying on my soft skin. ("He's prolly gonna give you more rings somewhere. Prolly on your pussy, and its gonna hurt when he does it."). I swallow again. I just want to sit down. I just want this nightmare to end. The day has started off just terribly once again. ("Yeah, because you keep messing up first thing in the morning, Laur'. Every other morning you get him all mad before you even get out of bed!" I chastise myself.)
Despite the stench, I'm actually happy to clean up the mess I made in the dungeon. I gladly would spend the entire day cleaning if I could avoid the needles. I would clean day and night to avoid them. I could clean forever. I take my time and do an extra–thorough job ("Maybe if you do a really good job cleaning he'll see how upset you were and not make you do the needles," I tell myself). But all my hopes are dashed when you take three identical needles from the kit and place them on the tray. I stare at them, my face immediately turning pale. I'm right back where I was 30 minutes ago. No change. Three needles, the table, and me. And of course you: my master, my god.
But you don't make me climb onto the table. I'm not even sure I could, with my legs feeling as weak as they do. Instead it's back to the leaning board thingy, the one with the water –– and as if on cue, you bring the bucket. I remember this contraption. The sensation of drowning. You telling me to trust you. I couldn't. I was terrified. This was one of the first horrors you subjected me to in the dungeon. But not the worst. Nothing could be worse than the triangle thing. (My mind argues with itself: "Needles are worse, Laur'. . . . No, needles are scarier but the triangle thing was way worse, 'member?")
I listen nervously as you tell me how I can demonstrate my obedience to you. After two weeks with you, it no longer even occurs to me that there is anything out of the ordinary, much less wrong, with you insisting on my complete obedience to your instructions. When I first arrived here, my first thought upon any instruction you gave me was "Why should I have to?" or "That's not fair," or "No I don't have to," or "That's mean.". But the last two weeks have eradicated my oppositional instincts and the teachings of my former life. Now I obey instantly any command that can be obeyed. And for the ones that are more difficult, my thoughts are "You can do it, Laur'," or "You have to do it," or "You better do it the right way."
I have to do this. I know that with every fiber of my being. While your words before didn't reassure me at all, now it actually helps that you are being so kind, and gentle, and supportive. Your gentle touches do make a difference as you help to position me just right on the board. I can tell, instinctively, that you want me to succeed. ("Of course he does –– he wants you to do everything he tells you to, that's why," I tell myself, cynically.) It helps to have you in my corner. And, obviously, you don't have to give me a second chance, but you are. I can tell this is one of the times when you don't really want to punish me, if I can just be a good girl. You've given me a second chance. A test. I mustn't fail. We both want things to be like yesterday. I can tell.
I grip the side grips tightly, and make sure my feet are tightly in place. My anxiety builds quickly as you begin to tilt the board. My expression is one of pure child misery, as I clamp my eyelids shut and cringe. My knuckles are rigid and white on the grips. I can't let go! I flinch as the top of my head comes into first contact with the cold water. I take a last breath. And then . . . horror ensues.
Water courses into my upside down nostrils, into my sinuses. My body goes taut on the board, and quivers as I struggle to stay in place, every cell in my body fighting with me, urging me to pull myself up and out, to roll off the board, to stop the pain and the terror. But I hold myself in place, somehow, trying to force myself to breathe in through my mouth. I manage a couple of half–breaths –– gagging, raspy draws, even though my mouth is entirely out of the water. I don't get much oxygen from them.
When you tilt me back out of the water my eyes open –– glassy and bulged –– and I blink, then breathe, as water pours from my nose. I moan in abject misery, and my entire body is shaking like a leaf. My face is as white as a sheet. My entire body has gone pale. My hands continue to grip the grips with an almost rigor mortis–like intensity. I am impassive, totally nonreactive as you kiss me. ("I can't do it . . . I can't do it again . . . you have to," I think to myself.)
And then it is back under. Quicker this time. Longer. My hips come entirely off the board, arcing my front side upward, my tummy taut and slender and so beautiful, my abdominal muscles visible under the skin, my mound prominent, hairless, perfect. I manage one raspy, strangled mouth–breath, and then suffer silently, my mouth open, my little tongue visible and moving futilely inside the pink interior. Another ragged semi–breath. And another. Every muscle in my body is taut. Every cell in my body under stress. My head flails a little to the left, then the right ("Needles! Needles! Needles!" I repeat to myself, through the haze, through the pain), but not out. I manage to hold on. Somehow, some way, I manage to hold on.
Marcus
I'm painfully erect now. You are stunning, gorgeous, magnificent. You are IT. Here and now, submerged under water head down almost right down to your upper lip, naked, collared, with rings in your nipples, looking stunningly girl–like, child like still at a glance, even though you have been fucked thoroughly, roughly, brutally even in every possible way. You are a heart–stopping wondrous miracle, a wonder of the world as you struggle. I'm almost struggling with you; I'm so focused on your every move, twitch, every little bit of motion and strain as I watch you with my utmost focus.
It's so fascinating to see you to take abuse which is full on torture, stuff that breaks strong adult men in seconds, that in it's harsher versions when the water is poured from up high undoes even soldiers, secret agents, toughest of guys. It is fascinating to see you take ever so much more, to last so much longer. It is amazing. I lift you up at the end of the minute, you have slightly jerked your head, but stayed under. I lift you and help you up. I let the water flow out of your nose, throat, I let you spit it and sneeze it and catch your breath well. I get you a towel. I make sure you have calmed down some. Then... I push you back to lie in that defenceless position on the board. For one horrible a moment, I make it seem like there's gonna be another round. I put my hand on your chest. Pinning you firmly down. There is gonna be another round. Is there gonna be another round?
I look into your eyes. I know you have just done the impossible, I know you just handled more than federal agents have handled, you have just did something that no girl your age should ever have been able to do. Your fear of needles, and your fear of me was so strong that it somehow gave you the power of will to fight against your raw, bare survival instinct for a FULL minute. To take a full minute of utter panic and fear and one of the most horrible sensations known to humankind. I gaze into your eyes, yours dark, big, doe like, mine pale, unusually, extraordinarily pale, the same cold shade of iceberg blue that you were faced with upon your arrival here, the only pair of eyes you've seen since. So blue. I hold you pinned down and we both know the minute's fight, even after I gave you a time to rest, has taken its toil. It has weakened you. It has drained you reserves of resilience and courage. It really meant going beyond extreme, beyond possible. If I dunk you down now, especially if it, once more, is for an even longer time, you will fail. I look into your eyes and I try and exude the knowledge, the certainty that you cannot win, cannot take another go at this, as best as I can.
I leave that option, the fact that I can just tilt the board once more and turn your unlikely victory into a miserable loss just like that, casually, like flipping a coin, hanging in the air for many long seconds. I want you to know that I know that we both know. I want you to fully realise it, fully appreciate the situation. You don't need to know that I'm tempted, in the darkest corner of my soul I'm tempted to dunk you again, to make you fail, to bind you and to waterboard you until you've pissed and shat yourself and until you gratefully accept a needle from my hands and push it through your skin without another moment's hesitation. I sense that turn of events enfolding, somewhere in the future, actually. I will make you fear me more than you fear needles to such a point you will be able to self harm with them, but...
Beyond my sadism alone, that part of me that's tempted to go on, to crush your hope, to make that heroic, almost mythologically powerful effort futile just because I can, is my lust. My hunger for true mastery, true ownership. And you have just fed that hunger in a way in which it never, ever, ever had been fed before. On some level, I'm barely standing here, my belly full and round with the hugest meal of my life. I have made you obey to an inhuman level. I have turned impossibility into possibility, in a mere fortnight. Second time today I feel like I came, non–physically. And this is even better than witnessing your utter fear. Somehow fear is crude, animalistic, unsophisticated. Utter and complete submission feels a lot more human, a lot more about you and me and less about some force that is almost beyond us both, it makes me feel truly godly, truly divine. If even your survival instinct can bow and step aside for me, everything can, and will, eventually. There's no point in breaking your needle phobia here and now, with brutality, immediacy. It's a useful thing, after all. I need something that freaks the fuck out of you, that stirs fear in you totally out of your control. In situations like your oath, earlier, or whatever else may emerge, having you throw up at the sight of three long, big needles is a blessing, not a curse. I would be stupid to "brainwash" (a bit more literally than the word is usually used) that fear out of you.
I lift my hand of off your chest, grab your wrist and let you out of the device, and I hug you. This particular torment is over.
Laura
I very nearly am at the end of my stamina -- the end of my ability to withstand the horrifying, horrible, cloying sense of drowning, of dying -- when you pull me up and back into the world of the living, of air. It takes me a few minutes of open-mouthed gaping, like a fish, as water drains from my nostrils and sinuses in a cascade. Despite the fact that I need oxygen desperately, it is several seconds before I manage to draw a tortured, raspy, gasping breath into my lungs. I grasp your arm and pull myself upright even more -- too desperate to realize what I have done, I have touched you without permission -- and hold on as I work my jaw and free yet more water from my nasal cavity.
You make no move to detach me, and are supportive and reassuring as I regain myself, working the water from my system and regaining my breath. You dry me with the towel -- softly, gently, paternally. Neither of us speak as I recover, gradually, my skin regaining some color, my heartbeat normalizing, my breathing regulating. I feel so tired. So, so tired.
When you push me back down on the board, I make no move to stop you, even though I know I cannot withstand another session. Not another minute, not another 30 seconds. Not any. I am spent. The last session utterly defeated me, completely exhausting my last reserves of energy and resolve. And somehow, I know that you know that, too. I know that you are fully aware that I simply cannot do it again. I look up at you, too tired to speak or beg. I look into your eyes. There is no fear in my eyes. You can dunk me again. You can dunk me as many times as you want, hurt me for as long as you want, in as many ways as you want. I know you can. I know that you might. I know I can't stop you. But I am simply, utterly, too tired to care.
I continue to stare into your eyes. You my think that you see fear, but I simply do not feel scared. In fact, I am at a moment of impeccable clarity, borne of my exhaustion perhaps, but clarity nonetheless. You have a decision to make. If you dunk me now, it won't even be a contest. There is no chance of me succeeding. We both know it. And I know that you know it. Dunking me now would simply mean that this was all a game. It's not some grand demonstration of my obedience. Not some achievable task that will redeem the morning from my bad behavior. Dunking me now will demonstrate, once and for all, that this is all a big game to you. A game with a preordained outcome. Dunking me now would reveal you; it would expose you as a fraud, a charlatan, a faker, an irredeemable sadist.
And then, suddenly, you pull me up and off the board, righting me, holding me, hugging me. I am taken aback. My expression is blank, but my mind is spinning. ("So it wasn't all a game, Laur'. He looked right into your eyes, and he could have made you fail, but he didn't. He wanted you to do it. He wanted you to make up for the bad morning. And when he realized that one more dunk would do you in, he stopped. And now he's hugging you.").
Dear Readers.
Thank you so very, very much for your punishment suggestions!!!
You know what? In the end there was about a dozen of them, and they were simply TOO GOOD to pick a single one. I don't even want to put them to vote, because the surprise would be ruined, and only one would come out victorious... Instead, in the chapters well ahead in the Taken storyline from this current point, a punishment jar will be introduced. A bowl with slips of paper with various punishments. And it will have practically all of your precious, fun, amazing, original suggestions in it. And when Laura messes up, one of them will be picked at random, both in the story, but also in reality as the story is written! So we don't have to give spoilers, and also... most if not all suggestions will eventually appear in some way or form in the story; how soon wil be decided by fate!
Thank you!