Taken 43. Riding Hard

Marcus

I allow you a warm shower, careful not to spray on your face, giving you the hose so that getting water to your mouth and nose is in your control and doesn't re–trigger your panic. And I treat you to a good, sweet, BIG breakfast. We sit in the kitchen. I eat, you eat, and I keep you at my arm's length at all times and give you a lot of soft, affectionate touching. Hair. Ears. Shoulders, neck, and back. I let you further calm yourself down by letting you tidy up after breakfast, and when we head onwards after, we walk through the dungeon but don't linger there; it is to the bedroom that we are headed. I bring a big glass of water and put it on the bedside table.

I strip naked, revealing the whole of my strong, muscular body, and lie down to relax.

"This day didn't start very well," I acknowledge, "but that's behind us now. We have a chance to make it a very nice day, and continue it as a very nice day. I want pleasure from you, and maybe even some for you, too -- and I don't want to have to punish you again, OK?" I check, knowing full well you are thoroughly eager to achieve exactly that – not getting any more punishments.

"I want to see and feel that making my body feel good is a real honor and privilege to you. I want you to show your devotion and love through it. With your mouth, mainly. I'm not saying your hands aren't allowed to touch me, but the sensation should mainly come from your mouth, tongue, and lips. Start with my feet. End up with my butt–hole. Be very thorough on my armpits this time. When I can't hold back anymore, we'll have sex; we'll see about that but I suspect it will be your mouth that I use for that, too. Now do it. Show me your best. Please me. Make this a nice day."

It's a command, not a request; we both know that. I'm not exactly freshly showered, quite sweaty still from the night and from pushing you through the ordeal just mentioned, but I doubt that will be even the smallest of issues for you now. I relax myself into your worship, secure in the knowledge that something that would have been horrid and unthinkable for you just a few weeks ago -- a limit, and beyond -- is now a relief, a manageable routine, a known element. Or so you likely think. It's just serving; no needles, nothing heavily fucked up that would involve you bleeding or drowning. The fact that I smell some must seem like nothing. That only adds to my enjoyment of using you like this. This is another example of the incredible progress that we've made since day one; not quite as warming and exciting to me as as having you do something that to your body feels every last bit as bad as suicide, but damn good nonetheless.

I look forward to every touch of your tongue and lips. I'm ready to be worshipped, fully and thoroughly. I’m ready to bask in your efforts and attention and make the most of them.

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 catching my breath. You dry me with the towel -- softly, gently, even 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 very, very 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. Oddly, there is no fear in my expression. 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 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 might 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 test 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.").

I am quiet, subdued, and contemplative as we shower, and then dine. I am tired, yes, but my brain continues to wrestle with the new insights that I have just learned about you. Your gentle touches and caresses throughout the meal reinforce the unarticulated thoughts that are roiling about in my brain. ("He doesn't want to be mean, Laur'. He just doesn't know any better. He likes you. He's just messed up in the head, about women, about girls. He's a crazy sex pervert. He might actually even love you, as sick as that is. After all, if he hated you he would've just dunked you one more time.")

Internally, I argue with myself. ("If he's so nice, and he loves you so much, why does he hurt you? Why does he make you do sick things? Why does he treat you so bad?"). The silent argument rages within me. ("Because he's messed up in the head. He thinks that he needs to do this to make you love him back. He doesn't even know when he's being mean. He can't control his sex perverted-ness.")

The shower and the meal aid my recovery, and I am feeling nearly back to normal as we transit through the dungeon and to the bedroom. I am not surprised and show no reaction as you strip naked; after all, nakedness and sexual acts are commonplace for me now. It has been a while, and you have needs. You tell me what you want me to do, and I listen, taking it all in. I climb dutifully onto the bed, naked, and clean as a whistle. There is no hesitation as I knee-walk to your feet, kneel back with heels to bottom, and lift your left foot.

I begin by suckling your big toe, washing and bathing it with my tongue, then cleaning in between that toe and the next. I fellate each toe, washing in between, then lick the sole of your foot, then the top. My work is slow, careful, and methodical. I bathe your foot in its entirety, wetting every spot of skin, tasting your sweat and musk, licking at the sporadic hairs, wetting everything. I switch feet, and do the same with your right foot, sucking and licking, wetting, cleaning, and bathing.

When I am finished with your feet I draw my tongue in long strokes up the front of your shin then the sides, then your knees. Back and forth my head and shoulders move my face, using my tongue like a mop, re-wetting, licking, bathing. At your knees I swirl my tongue around, emulating the roundness of your kneecap. I drag my lips across your shins, wetting, licking, bathing.

I work my way up your thighs, licking and working, sucking and caressing, using my lips more now, suckling and lightly kissing. My hair flows down from my neck and gently drags against your skin. I suckle your balls, wetting them thoroughly, mouthing, licking, tasting your musk, your ball sweat. I lick your penis, fellating you briefly, almost teasingly, deep throating, sucking, pleasing you -- but not enough to get you off.

I work the rest of the way up your body, your chest, navel, and abdomen, licking at your pubes, taking them in my mouth. I work your pectorals -- stopping for a sip of water from the glass -- and lick your stomach, caressing and suckling your nipples, tonging them. I do your neck, your shoulders, and when you raise your arms, I lick your armpits, without hesitation, licking at your sweat, cleaning, tasting your smell, wetting your underarm hairs and suckling them clean, drying them with my lips.

When you roll over, I lick all over the backs of your legs, your buttocks, the small of your back. I stop for water twice more, as my mouth is dry. I lick your shoulders, your neck. Everywhere I kiss and caress. And when I am done, and when every inch of your body from the neck down has been suckled, licked, and caressed, I move back towards your lower body, repositioning. As you spread your legs, I climb between them, knee-walking into position. My hands spread your cheeks. I settle down now, lying between your legs, positioning my head at your cleft, preparing to stay for a while. I lean in, and begin licking and tonguing at your anus.

I lick your ring, your perineum, the underside of your balls. I lick and tongue your hairy cleft, and then latch onto your hole, and begin to prod and poke at your barrier, increasing the pressure, pointing my tongue, before pushing it inside you, entering you, licking and probing, tasting you.

For a long while, as long as you desire, I remain in position, my face pressed between your cheeks, licking and reaming your hole, as you have trained me, and as I have done before. Minutes go by. Minutes of near-silence, the only noise in the room the gentle smacking sounds of my mouth and tongue pleasing your anus. I lick and work and kiss and prod at your hole, and when my tongue tires, I press my face between your cheeks and move it up and down in your cleft, until I have recovered enough to resume with my tongue, licking and probing, penetrating, pleasing.

Marcus

I lie back and I relax. It occurs to me that even though I'm the rough, tough, brutal, commanding one here, I also submit to you, in a manner of my own. Right now, I lie back relaxed, open, exposed, watching you to begin with -- mainly because the sight alone of your perfect lips wrapped around a toe of mine sends a wave of acute, sexual arousal from the root of my quivering cock upwards, into the pit of my belly and up my spine, like a double helix of warm and cold, right to that little bump where my skull meets my neck, and it makes me moan a little. But then I close my eyes trusting you to continue your work. You couldn't kill me -- certainly not with anything within your reach -- but you probably could hurt me, perhaps even badly. You could try and scramble my eggs with your best, hardest punch and then run and arm yourself with something in the dungeon. There are plenty of dangerous objects in there, and by now you're familiar with their position, as you know the layout well. With how much I use the blindfold on you, you probably could switch off the lights and have a further advantage over me before I stumbled to one of the dimmer switches.

Somehow, I'm confident you would not, will not, could not bring yourself to hurt me. It's the fear and the futility of it, but I'm feeling it goes beyond that; you don't really have it in you to harm someone as long as it can be avoided, and your touches feel too caring, too loving, too tender to be just pure obligation. In punishing you for anything less than perfection, I've blurred the line between sexual service and love-making. It really feels like your tongue and mouth and lips are believing in my divine status; they love me, they want to worship me and serve me to prove your love -- to prove your determination to make this good, to make us good, to walk the path of pleasure, because the only other path that can be walked down here is the path of agony and suffering.

I'm relaxed; and I'm enjoying every little kiss, every little tongue stroke. I notice the extra effort that you put into the process. The delicate, geometric precision with which you tend to the slightly coarse skin of my knees. The way you wet, clean, and then even dry my armpits, meaning you've gone over then no less than three times, obeying me perfectly. The way you don't shy away from my sweaty, smelly balls and the nooks and crannies down there. The way you swallow my cock whole and I actually have to go "nah-hah," semi-verbally denying myself the temptation. I want you to finish the entire job before I get off. I want a whole-body pampering. You leave my cock stone-hard and quivering with intense arousal once more. I'm in heaven, and we're just halfway through. When you’re finished with my front I flip over. The thought occurs to me that if you were to bash my head in somehow, it actually would be the perfect way to go. If I died right now I would die happy. But your mouth makes me want to live. It makes me want this to last forever, or for an extremely long time anyway, and then still have more of it to look forward to when I decide I feel like it again.

Once you descend on my asshole, I consciously note that you have learned how to conserve your energy and your tongue. You have learned tricks that allow you to please and pleasure long after your tongue starts feeling achy and wooden, long after your jaw starts burning with acute pain from being open for so long. You keep going, and keep going, and keep going. I let it happen. I'm not testing you, I'm not really doing this out of malice. The sensation is just too good for me not have as much of as I can. I let you go on for as long as it feels good, and it feels good for a very, very long time. It's the purest of pleasures. The fact that this is dirty and humiliating for you barely registers just now; it's really the pure bliss of the sensation that makes me float in a near-orgasmic state for minutes, tens of minutes. I'm vaguely reminded of the added sexiness of the situation, of the fact that this is still a degrading servitude that you have no say over. The realization, the reminder, of how perfectly and utterly I am in control of this situation even though I haven't done anything for, by now, a full hour since you first lifted my foot to pop my big toe into your mouth, makes me almost cum into the sheets. I relax for a bit more and breathe, and then it's just too much. Your effort starts feeling more like tickling, more like teasing, more like torture than pleasurable servitude. I have really taken as much rimming as I am capable of receiving, I realize, so I squirm, and reach back, push you aside, and turn.

I'm leaking pre. That didn't used to happen. I'm circumcised, and my cock always used to be dry and clean; it shot cum only when I actually was cumming. You have changed that. You have shown me degrees and depths of pleasure that can be stretched and prolonged so that I can, and do, quite generously in fact, leak pre when the situation is right. There's a whole patch of it on the sheets now; the situation was more than right.

I reach for some lube. Your mouth would be useless in getting me off by now and I don't want to throat-fuck you, I'm feeling receptive and lazy. I lie face up, and position you so you are straddling me.

"I told you that you would be on top next time, riding," I say with a smile. A nice, sweet, cowgirl fuck could follow, with you giving the lion’s share of the effort but everything happening more or less smoothly, even painlessly. The cotton-woolly, fuzzy-warm, lazy bit of me actually kind of wants that, but my beast roars; I'm not one for too much nicety and even you should not expect things to be REALLY smooth and painless and easy, even when the day is good.

"Your butt," I say and my hand on your buttocks slides down and prods at your pucker. I've made my choice. We're doing cowgirl sex, yes, but it will be your tight rear hole that has to accept my cock and you'll have to lower yourself on it actively, and move, despite and through the pain, until you get me off. We're past drowning and needles; the only task at hand is to get me to cum. But getting me off hurts, more often than not, and it will hurt today.

"I want my cock in your butthole, and I want you to ride me until I cum," I say explicitly, just to give you precisely zero wiggle space when it comes to interpreting my choice of what will happen next. "Use as much lube as you like. Start slowly. I know it's not easy for you; I don't want it to hurt more than it has to. You're doing this to pleasure and please me; to make me happy. No other reason; just because it is what I feel like now, because it will feel better than your pussy. And I will appreciate and accept the pain that it takes you to do it as your gift to me. I will know about it, and it will mean a lot to me," I say. I want you to know that picking the significantly more painful manner of penetration isn't totally random and taking that extra pain and discomfort isn't in vain. It will make a difference to me.

Briefly my hands slide over you and stroke you and caress you. I don't even mean to make you feel anything, to comfort you, to provide a sensation; they are just gentle, soft, finger-tip butterfly caresses purely in appreciation of your beauty, both your obvious, at-a-glance beauty and the beauty of your submission, the perfection of what you have just done for me and of what you are about to do for me. I start it idly, mindlessly, just touching because my fingers want to touch you, and then the purpose shifts. I keep touching because I want you to have a break. I want you to catch your breath, stretch your jaw, and recuperate at least a little bit before the next ordeal. I want you to think about what I just said. I want you to take the time to process and digest those words. I don't want things to happen too quickly now. And from that stems a whimsical desire to give you pleasure. No -- that's too nice, nicer than the thought that really drives it. I don't want you pleased and pleasured. I want you aroused and horny. I want to edge you. And so, I do.

My fingers slide through your nipple rings and pull, until you follow forward and squat over my face rather than my thighs, and then I rub your nipples with the pads of my thumbs, using my hands to hold your chest, and I attack your pussy with my tongue. I enter you deeply and tongue-fuck your hairless little slit much like you tongue-fucked my ass. I pierce. I screw, twist, turn, prod, and poke. I tilt my head slightly and improve the angle and press as far as my long, strong tongue can reach inside you. I wiggle it sideways. I tense it and relax it. I give you a quick succession of unexpected sensations, including some completely new ones as I fool about and experiment and toy with you. I slide out to lap at your sweet, hairless folds and eventually settle on your clit, stimulating it. I keep rubbing your nipples, relatively gently but insistently through all this, giving your rings an occasional light tug. Unlike my fingers, my thumbs barely fit through them It's a tight fit when I toy with them like this, pulling and rubbing at the same time. My tongue swirls and whirls and circles around your clit masterfully, teasing the tiny hood and eventually flicking over the little pearl hidden inside, until I feel you tense under my hands and above my mouth; until I know you are a flick or two from a good, strong orgasm.

That's where I stop. Suddenly, totally, and with not even a smidgen of a chance of you actually getting off. No more teasing or delay. This is not just a pause before I resume and bring you over the edge. Nope. I'm done. I have you right where I want to have you. My hands guide you back towards my crotch. Not onto my thighs where you were before, but to my lower belly, so everything is in position. My upward-jutting erect cock is hot and smooth against your lower back. You'll have to lift yourself up a good bit to get the tip to actually be pressing against your pucker and to take it in. But that's up to you. I lie back and relax. Even this, even the part where this will hurt badly, is entirely up to you today. All I did was stir you up a little bit. The pain that is bound to come will be mixed with undeniable arousal, the sort of itch that really will need scratching, but you know better than to reach down and finish yourself off. Way better. If I want to give you an orgasm at some point, I might, unless you cum from the anal penetration.

Laura

Splayed behind you, my face pressed between your buttocks, my mouth and tongue work to pleasure your anus. I am well aware that of everything we do, this is one of your favorites. You typically go quiet when I start. Sometimes, before I begin, it almost seems that you are quivering with anticipation, tense and expectant. Shortly after I begin, however, you seem to relax. Your breathing changes. You barely move, unless it is to spread your legs apart more. You often make little sounds -- not words, but sounds -- that reveal your pleasure. And you often have me work for a long, long time. Well past the point when my tongue is sore, almost to the point when it is unresponsive to my commands. I have developed strategies to cope with this, to give me time for my tongue to rest, always fearful that you will punish me for doing so. Fortunately, you give me a little leeway, and when my tongue has rested, I resume again, licking, tonguing, probing, and penetrating your orifice.

I know you like it when I rim you. I am becoming quite expert in reading your body -- not just your cock, but all of you. I know your body well, as I have licked and sucked and cleaned every inch of it several times over. I know how it reacts and responds to my touch, especially my mouth and tongue. In a very small way, much like when I am fellating you, this gives me a sense of power -- of worth. I don't even have to like what I am doing, but there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that I am doing it well. I already know that I am a good cocksucker. Your moans and groans, your facial expressions, and your powerful, voluminous orgasms reveal you on that score. But if I had to guess, if I had to wager, I would bet that doing what I do with my mouth and tongue against your ass brings you even more pleasure than a blowjob. There's a small sense of satisfaction in that for me.

Of course, I don't like to lick and tongue your asshole. I don't like most of the things you make me do down here, and tonguing your hairy orifice is pretty much at the bottom of the list. Yet the visceral, horrified, and disgusted reaction that I had the very first time has given way to a sort of fatalistic resignation that there is no way of avoiding the task. You have instructed me to tongue and lick your asshole, and I will do so. I will perform. I have done it before and survived, and I will do it now. It is as simple as that. It is not within my power to refuse your orders. I will do it well, with effort, or you will know that I have not performed to the best of my ability. I have learned from painful experience the consequences of not performing to the best of my ability. I don't want to have to learn those lessons again.

It helps me to concentrate on doing the job well. I flick my tongue and draw circles, and push my mouth hard against your anus. I know that if I do that you will think that I am giving my best effort. I point and jab my tongue at the very center of your puckered opening. I know exactly how much pressure to apply to worm my tongue inside your body. This isn't as bad as it sounds. ("It's disgusting, Laur'. It's horrible. Don't make it seem better than it is," I chide myself.). But it's not that bad today. You are un-showered -- I could tell that even before I licked and cleaned your entire body -- and your crack is dank and musky, but your hole doesn't taste like earthy poop today. Not much anyway. And there isn't any actual poop on it. ("You licked his poop before, Laur'. You ate his poop.") I shudder at the memory. So it could be worse. It has been worse. Right now, it just is. So I lick, and tongue, and perform, pleasuring your dark, hairy hole with my mouth and tongue. You'll let me know when you're done. ("And then he's going to fuck you, Laur’.. Remember how you left his cock - hard, throbbing, quivering? Ohhh yes. He's going to give you a Long-Time fuck, deep and hard.")

Finally, all of a sudden, we're done. You pull me away and sit up. My face is red and flushed from having spent the majority of the last hour between your butt cheeks. My jaw is sore and my tongue is tired. My mouth and cheeks are glistening with sweat and saliva. As you turn, I can see your penis. Hard, veiny, throbbing, leaking. One look at it and I can tell that you are completely aroused and ready to fuck. There is a driblet of that super slippery stuff bubbling out of the little hole in the center of your squishy, purplish top, flowing in a rivulet down your shaft. I know you are aroused when I see that stuff, especially when it runs down your cock like that.

I stare at you as you tell me that I will be on top this time. I well remember you saying that after the last Long-Time fuck. I'm OK with being on top, actually. I know what to do. I've seen the videos. Being on top will prevent you from fucking me super hard and might stop you from going too deep inside me, where it hurts. But then, suddenly, everything changes. Two words: "Your butt.". ("Yeah, he wants you on top all right, but his thing is going in your butt. In your butt, Laur'. All of it."). My head spins a little. I listen as you tell me that it's going to hurt ("Duh, yeah, I know,") but how it will be extra special for you. It won't be extra special for me. I look at you unhappily, listening to your instructions as well as your explanation. ("This is great, Laur'. Doing it in your butt feels better to him than in your pussy. That's just great, since it's like 10 times worse for you. Fabulous," I say to myself, forlornly).

I'm not going to like this. I know it, and my face reveals it. Your fingers dance over my sensitive, puckered opening and that brings it home to me -- physically and in a very tactile way -- exactly where your penis is going to be going in just a few minutes. All of it. Every inch of it. The thought conjures up memories of the dildos, increasing in size. My inability to get the last one inside me. Our first anal sex. All of those memories are painful memories. I remember the sharp, burning pain, not to mention the feeling that I was being split in half from inside my body.

I apply some lube to your cock, my hands sliding the gooey gel the length of your shaft and over your cockhead. As I work, your fingers continue to dance and play over my body, bringing out goose pimples and erecting my nipples. Your touches start off slow and harmless -- just the gentle caressing and touching that I have come to expect from you. But then you draw me toward you by my nipple rings, and I give a little gasp as the rings tug painfully at the freshly-healed incisions. I am drawn forward, down, to you, against you, as your digits caress my nubs over and over, right on the erected tips, sending unexpected shivers of electricity through my body. My snatch is drawn to your mouth and you begin to lick me, tongue me, your thick tongue suddenly everywhere, licking, flicking, plunging, penetrating. I can't help but shiver. That feels good. The feeling between my legs is heightened by the touch of your thumbs on my nipples, the gentle pull of the rings. ("Oh my god does that feel good," I admit to myself, as I straddle your face.)

It does feel good. Really good. I squirm against your mouth, guiding you . . . and then . . . yes! Yes! Right there. On that spot! My Special Spot, home of The Tingle. With your hands on my nipples it feels amazing, electric, awesome. ("Slut!" I chastise myself.). I don't care about anything else. My cunny feels better than it ever has felt before. Somehow, your thumb tips caressing my nipples, coupled with the slightly painful but exhilarating pull of the nipple rings on the undersides of my nipples, is creating a sensation vortex that is beyond good, beyond spectacular, beyond anything I ever have felt before. I hump at your mouth and squirm, almost forgetting my place, hoping you won't mind, because I am about a second away from exploding in the best O-R-G-A-S-M I've ever had. Ever.

And then, suddenly, it stops. Or rather, you stop. You stop and push me away, and for a moment I quite literally am bewildered. The last time you did this to me I had multiple tingles, multiple orgasms, even after I wanted it to stop. Now, I totally don't want it to stop, and you're done. Simple as that. ("He just needs to fuck you, Laur'. He couldn't wait any longer," I tell myself). But it's not true. You stopped on purpose.. I have absolute clarity on this issue. You stopped right before I was going to have an organism -- orgasm, whatever! -- on purpose.. Leaving me flushed, aroused, and unsatisfied. For a brief moment, I consider finishing the job myself, with my fingers, right there, right in front of you, before you fuck me. It would take me about three seconds, that's all. My right hand moves toward my bald, glistening pussy. But I stop. Instinctively, I know that I can't. You won't permit it. I'll be punished. My hand moves away.

I am flushed and exasperated as you put me in position to fuck. My disappointment, even anger, shows on my face, tinged with unfairness. You did this on purpose. Just to be mean. I can't do anything about it. I can't do anything except prepare to cram your lubed cock in my bottom. ("It's not fair! Nothing down here is fair!" I smolder.)

But I have a task to perform, and not performing it simply is unthinkable. I reach behind me, grasping for your cock. It is slippery and my hand is too small to grip it the whole shaft. So I lift it from below, angling it, as I kneel up. I knee walk forward, over your sternum, and then lower my bottom and slide backwards. Your lubed cockhead nestles between my cheeks. I slide back some more, holding your phallus at the right angle, positioning it against my puckered opening. It feels wet with lube, wet with pre. I let go with my right hand, your cock seated in the hollow of my bottom. I lower my upper body onto your chest. My hands go to your shoulders, gripping there, readying myself.

Gently, slowly, with a little gasp, I increase the pressure against your cockhead. It feels soooo huge today against my smallest orifice. I know it fits -- all of it -- as it's been inside me before. But it just seems particularly large today, particularly erect and enormous. I grimace, and wince, but it won't go in. In fact, it barely budges. I start to panic a little. This reminds me of dildo number 5, which I simply could not get inside me.

My hands clutch at your shoulders as I bear down. My face is red with effort as I apply more and more pressure, squatting back against your penis, pushing. I grunt. Your cock seats a little more solidly in the hollow between my cheeks, but it's not entering, not penetrating. I’m getting desperate, because your patience with me will last only so long. I bite my lip, and p-u-s-h. And push again. My anus starts to give way. To open. I can feel it. And it starts to hurt. My eyes water and I push again. I can feel my hole spreading, opening, burning. I pause, and grunt. This is really hard. I know that I have to do it, but it is hard. So very hard.

I push again, straining, and still can't seem to cram your bulbous cockhead inside my rectum. ("You didn't use enough slippery stuff, Laur'!" I chide myself. I push again. And again. Holding my breath. Working it. ("He's gonna get mad, Laur'. You gotta put it in your butt! Now!)

With a fierce, determined push I shove back and my anal resistance folds. Your cockhead worms inside my bottom and I gasp in pain. I lift my head, my face contorted, my expression a rictus of effort and pain. I pant. It hurts like hell. Worse than hell. ("And only the tip is in, girl. You haven't even started to do this."). I pause. For as long as I dare. ("He's gonna get ma-ad," I say to myself in a sing-songy, teasing inner voice.). I push some more, and grunt as it hurts. I don't even know how much is in my bottom, much less how much more I have to go or how on earth I am going to be able to fuck myself with your enormous tool today. I really have no idea.

I pull back a little, and begin to rock on your erection, back and forth, sliding, easing, stretching myself open. I begin to develop a rhythm. In, out, in, out, a half inch, then an inch at a time. My anus starts to spread, to accommodate. I undulate myself up to two inches. It hurts. It hurts a lot. But the lube helps. I grunt and gasp as I rock back and return, back and forth, impaling my bottom with your adult cock.

It takes a long time, but I begin to relax a bit more, and begin to ride a bit deeper, pressing, pushing, rocking, gasping, grunting. My brow beads with sweat. This is effort. This is work. This is pain. And if I could look behind me, I would see that I have only half of your cock inside me. There is more to go. And it will take a while. But you can be, at times, a very patient man.

Marcus

You taste so damn sweet. I rarely went down on women in the past. I was squeamish about the taste, the smell, even the texture. All the folds and flaps and what felt almost like wrinkles under my lips. I did it anyway, to learn, to master the technique. But I did it mostly as a favor. I only managed to fake being into it a little bit, and in reality, I never was into it much at all. It was a chore, one of the things you do when you’re trying to be in a normal relationship. But what is normal? I have never been in a normal relationship. I have been in relationships with consenting adults, which on the scale from "OMG WTFH" to perfectly ordinary are far more towards the latter than the sort of relationship that you and I have. I am a 34-year-old hulk of a man, and you are an 11-year-old wisp of a girl. I’m a kidnapper, master, and owner -- a god, for all practical purposes, and you are nothing but my slave. You’re an object, a living piece of property. Our relationship is heavily kinky and sexual, dark, violent, and fear-driven. Any disobedience, and even transgressions far smaller than outright disobedience, are just brutally tortured out of you. Our relationship is about as far from normal as it could get. Even an adult woman who was into BDSM and D/s play wouldn’t voluntarily put up with half of what I put you through.

“Special” is a nice, all-purpose word. It’s a word that you can use to describe retarded kids if you don't want to offend their parents. It’s also a word that could easily be used to describe our relationship if someone was (for some really odd, improbable reason), trying to describe it in politically-correct terms. Special. You really are special to me, though. You’re not just one in a million; to me you are the only one in the roughly seven billion or however many people there happen to be on the planet at this point. As you ride my mouth, the thought almost scares me. You have power over me. You have lots of power over me, or you could have, if you fully and properly realized how badly I crave you, how strong my feelings for you are, how unique and special I consider you. Damn. I enjoy eating you out. I really do. I like the feel, the shape, everything about your little pussy. I like the taste, the very subtle scent. It's hard not to completely lose myself in the act. Very hard actually, especially as you stop holding back, and start to ride my face, and grind, and arch your back. It's so precious. So special. So awesome. I'm fascinated by the way your little body responds to the pleasure I'm giving you, your facial expressions, sounds, all of it. The plan is to edge you, though, and you must learn that I can give you just the right amount of pleasure, or too much, or, on a whim, equally easily, too little. I can give and deny you a release and you have absolutely no control over it.

I see your expression afterwards. You’re bewildered. It really throws you to be left cold turkey just a breath away from an orgasm. I even see your hand move towards your crotch. Yes, it would be easy and fast to finish yourself off, and I'm about to snatch your hand back to stop you just as you stop yourself and avoid, by the skin of your teeth, another severe punishment. When I move you away, you realize, fully, that this really is IT for now, and then, to my utter surprise -- almost shock -- your eyebrows knit and your eyes flash and briefly narrow and even the corners of your mouth dip ever so briefly. Now I am bewildered. My eyes flash open with fascination, but I compose myself and lick my lips.

"Are you angry that I stopped just before you had an orgasm?" I ask in an even, dangerously-flat voice, which in itself is a hint that right now -- now that I've noticed your reaction -- there's likely no correct answer to give. Under normal circumstances you might be inclined to try to deny what the expression on your little face just revealed to me. But I made sure to train you especially well very early on about the consequences of lying or withholding information from me. I really hope that's still with you, because lying and denying the obvious right now would be a very dumb move.

"Do you have any doubt that I decide how much pleasure I give you and when to stop? Did you think it was by clumsy accident that I stopped when I did? And if not, do you think I don’t have a right to do precisely that?" I demand darkly, dangerously. I want to see your face pale in fear. Busted. I let the silence linger after whatever you bleet in response (I'd bet a bottle of single-malt that it will be a "no"), just enjoying the tension as you await my judgment.

"Don't look so freaked out," I grin, after perhaps ten seconds. "It's just an emotion, nothing you did was wrong," I allow. "And it's actually nice to know that you are into this. That you wanted it to happen. You wanted an orgasm from me. Slut," I say lightly, jokingly. It's not like it really makes you a slut (what would I be, then?) but I suspect it will prick at your pride a bit. "It’s good that you stopped yourself from being a very bad girl, interfering with my control over your pleasure, all by yourself, just in time. Now go on, you have a cock to ride," I remind you as the dangerous stirrings of a major storm clear quickly into blue sky; you've been lucky, for once. I could have punished you if I really wanted to, if not for that then for your very pro-active face-riding, but I'm set on giving you a chance of succeeding in turning today around. If things go sour, you might still feel like you have been cheated with the option of making the day good not manifesting. You have, after all, spent very nearly an hour eating out and tonguing my unwashed smelly ass, managing to come up with ways of making it feel good even when your tongue felt like it was dying. I ought to show some appreciation, just 'cause. I like the intensity of your suffering when I torture you, but ongoing lingering glumness is just a bore It’s dull and more than a bit annoying. Of course, I could turn lingering glumness into agony to make it fun, but it's good to have the whole dynamic and have you happy every now and then. Not that you are likely to be happy in the coming minutes, as I know I have given you a harsh, hard, agonizing task to perform.

You struggle to take me all in. It takes a lot of effort to force your pucker to give way to my thick, rock-hard cock tip and when it does, it's slightly too sudden, I can see you wince. It's worse, and harder than with me on top and in control just pushing into you when you lie limply and stay as relaxed as you can. I'm not sure if you realize that that's why this is harder and more painful; in your position you cannot relax your legs, and that keeps your ass tighter around my shaft. I groan loudly. This feels absofuckinglutely amazing. I watch you struggle, and for once, my eyes are like saucers, boyishly fascinated, absorbed, fully present. I feel and appreciate every twitch and flutter of your body. Every quarter inch of my cock entering your chute. You are halfway there. Straining. Struggling. Sweaty. Flushed. It clearly is a lot of effort and pain. You pause. I reach to your face.

"Look me in the eyes, directly into my eyes, Laura," I command and gaze into yours. Icy, steely blue-grey meeting rich, warm doe-brown.

"I love you," I say, after a breath and with a breath after, so it is really said and stated clearly, with no "but" added to it.

"I didn't even hope for you to be this amazing when I took you," I breathe, with another pause.

"This is hard, I know, but it’s amazing. You're doing well, girl. Take your time. I don't want you hurt, bleeding or anything," I state, quite truthfully. "I will not get angry if it takes you a while to take me in all the way and get into a pace, as long as you eventually manage. I'm close to cumming anyway, so taking things easy suits me just fine, otherwise I'll just cum, pronto, and where's the fun in that?" I smile. I'm sure you'd prefer if I blew my load here and now, and put an end to this, but we both know that is not going to happen. If it does, I'm so aroused right now I'll stay erect anyway, and you'll have to ride another one out of me.

"You are breathtakingly beautiful," I say. I'm making you do something horrible and painful, but my words are sweet, my gentle fingertip touches are soft. I'm not even meaning for this to be a confusing mind-fuck but it likely comes across like it, even though it's really just an appreciation and recognition of the awesomeness of what is happening. I moan again -- you didn't even move, just tightened your ass muscles around me in preparation of a move, but it felt great.

"I tell you what," I say, a bit breathless now, as I gasp and squirm in exquisite pleasure. "Make me cum, clean me off, and if you still feel like it, ask me for an orgasm, nicely, afterwards. I will likely be feeling generous," I offer, cocking an eyebrow suggestively, as if this is a great opportunity for you. Of course, I'm once again acting with an agenda of my own. Will you stay aroused through the ordeal? Will you be at all inclined to play on once the game is over on my part, or will you just turn reclusive and solitary, hoping to be left alone to lick your wounds? I'm curious. Plus, I eagerly noticed your earlier, more-than-slightly-masochistic response to having your little nipples firmly rubbed, your rings tugged at -- a sensation right along the thin and often blurry line between pleasure and pain. Based on your breathless reaction that line is clearly working wonderfully for you. I want and mean to make use of that discovery. In fact, even as I nod and you resume the Herculean task of filling your colon with more cock than should ever get anywhere near such a tiny hole, I slide my hands up your belly and trace over your ribs (fuck I really should focus on feeding you more regularly, to help put at least some flesh on those bones) I slip my index finger tips one into each of the rings and start rubbing -- without hooking or pulling at the rings so you don't see it as an incentive to go down faster despite my assurance that time is not an issue. Can I mix pleasure even into a situation like this? Can I make the bitterness bittersweet? To be honest, despite having teased and touched your body almost as thoroughly as you did mine on a couple occasions, I don't know. But I decide to try.

If nothing else, it's quite likely to keep up, or recreate a feeling of arousal and make you more likely to be up for more when you've finished the task at hand. And who knows. It might even take an edge off your pain, ever so slightly, not that making you suffer less is a priority for me. I believe in intensity; you can suffer a lot, and still feel more on top of that, in my hands.

Laura

Just as I recognize, belatedly, that finishing myself off with a finger-driven orgasm would be an act of disobedience, I also realize that I have made another mistake. I have allowed my anger to show, if only briefly, in my expression. Even worse, you saw it, and you recognized it for what it was. Anger. Pure and simple. I know that you stopped on purpose, and it angered me, and now you know that it did. I haven't made this many mistakes with you in a while. I forgot my place and ground my cunny against your mouth. I flashed anger at being deprived of an orgasm. And I very briefly considered finishing myself off after it was clear that you had decided it was time to stop. Frankly, I'd punish myself if I were you. And as you look at me with an expression that combines anger with disbelief, it looks like that's exactly what you're gonna do. I'm busted, and there isn't a combination of words yet uttered in human history that is going to get me out of my trifecta of transgressions.

Oh, do you look mad. I've seen that expression before, and when it comes over you suddenly like it just did, punishment inevitably follows. I know that you saw my angry, put-upon expression. I know that you felt me grinding my pussy to your mouth, even if I'm still not sure how mad you were about that. And you might even have seen my hand move defiantly toward my pussy -- yes, you probably did see that, because I did it at the same time as I glowered at you angrily.

As you begin to speak, in measured, even tones of pissed-off-ness, I know I am in for it. My expression looks nervous and sheepish. I have just been caught red-handed. I messed up. I usually don't mess up down here, but I did this time. ("Nice going, Laur'. great. You wanted an orgasm sooo bad. Now you're gonna pay for it. Nice. Great job. Super.") I await your punishment.

Was I angry? That's the actual question you posed. It's a complicated question, because I wasn't, like, angry at you, I was angry that I didn't get to finish my orgasm because I was really, really close right when you stopped. And the way you were doing it, the way you were touching me, on my nipples and stuff . . . it felt really good this time. I mean, super good. Super tingly. So like normally I wouldn't have minded? But this one was going to be the best one ever -- I was pretty sure of that. So if I did show that I was angry, just for a second - and I'm sorry about that, and I shouldn't have -- it was because of that. Not because you. Not exactly, anyway, if that makes sense.

But how to communicate all of that to you, without making you even more mad at me? My dilemma is made even more difficult by the fact that it’s sometimes -- no, often -- hard for me to translate my thoughts into words. Lots of times my brain thinks better than my mouth talks. It doesn’t help that you you obviously are mad at me, I'm obviously about to be punished, and I'm flustered and nervous. ("Just don't make it worse, Laur'," I caution myself. "For God's sake, don't make it worse.")

All of those complicated thoughts come out as follows: "I was a little angry 'cause . . . 'cause it felt good. And then you stopped." I look at you, worried, even more worried than before. That didn't come out the way I wanted it to. ("Nice, Laur'. Good explanation. That's gonna win him over for sure, 'cause of course it was just an accident that he stopped right when he did, right?") I realize that my explanation accomplished absolutely nothing more than confirm that I got angry because of something that you did and had the right to do. ("Now you're in for it, girlfriend. Nice. Perfect.")

When you speak again I look sheepish and very nervous. Your words -- well, not your words, but your sentence structure -- confuses me. Did I have any doubt that you could decide precisely what? I wonder. I'm not sure whether I should say yes or no. Was the question asked in the affirmative or the negative? I'm not sure. ("Please don't get madder -- I don't understand what you mean!") But I have to say something. I try to look very, very apologetic and contrite. "You g-get to decide," say, and then with a flourish of obsequiousness, add the word "Master" at the end to show you that I know who is in charge. There was only the briefest of pauses between the words "decide" and "Master." I hope that you won't notice it, because I think I looked properly apologetic and my words confirmed what I think you want to hear.

I look at you, holding your gaze nervously, for several seconds as you decide my fate. And then, suddenly and to my surprise, your expression changes, your face softens, and you tell me not to be so freaked out. ("Well duh, you freaked me out 'cause you looked super mad," I say to myself.) A wave of relief washes over me. ("Oh thank God, he's not really mad.") Your next words are soothing, understanding, indulgent, even nice -- until you say the word "slut." Until that word. That one, lone, ugly word.

You don't know it, but you just really wounded me. Hurt me. In some ways, destroyed me. With one word. Uttered causally -- the wound even deeper because it was so casual. The word "slut." The worst of all words. Worse than bitch. Worse than cunt. Slut. In middle school, a girl who is a slut has worse than no value; she’s at the lowest rung. Trash. A girl with no standards. No floor. Worse than your use of the word is my knowledge that, to my horror, it is true. I wanted that orgasm. I ground my pussy into your mouth. Your fingers and tongue on my body had me aroused. Very aroused. I wanted it. I wanted you to give it to me. You. A grown-up man. Not a boy my own age, not even my boyfriend, but my kidnapper. And I wanted you to keep doing it. I wanted to orgasm. I really am a slut. A slave is one thing. It's totally involuntary. But a slut is dimensions worse. No longer involuntary, a slut seeks pleasure from the lowest of places. She ruts with a man, thrusting her pussy at him, throwing away her last vestiges of self respect for a momentary flash of pleasure. That's what I did. That's what I am. A slut.

It's almost a good thing to have your cock to cram painfully in my butt. It helps to take my mind off that word. Nevertheless, it reverberates in my mind, even as I push back against your cockhead. It bounces around inside my brain as I start to feed your cock into my tight chute, hurting myself. It hurts, but I deserve the pain. Pain is punishment. If I take the pain, even make it worse, I can't be a slut, right? I push myself further down on your cock. I gasp, and moan. It hurts. It hurts a lot. I'm not a slut. A slut wants pleasure. This is pain.

I continue to work myself further down your shaft. I know where I have to be, which is seated on your groin with your cock rammed completely up my bottom. But that's not going to be easy. Already my brow is furrowed and beaded with perspiration. My face is blank as I concentrate on the pain. On the motion. Rocking. Gently. Going deeper. This is effort. This is pain. "Unh . . . unh . . . unh," I gasp. Like a tennis star, grunting with every serve, I grunt as I rock. It helps the pain.

I stop and look up as you command, surprised, and listen to your words. You love me? Hardly. I don't believe you. You love doing sex to me. You love messing with my mind and hurting me. You love me being your slave ("Slut! You're his slut!" I taunt myself.) But you don't love me and I certainly don't love you. And you told me never to tell a lie, to be honest all the time. So even if I'm expected to say I love you back, to tell a white lie, like to an ancient great aunt or something -- "sure, I love you Aunt Grace," whatever, even if I don't -- I'm not gonna say it. I look back down. Concentrating. I have a job to do. You see, I have to ram our enormous hard penis in my butt, all the way up inside, and it hurts, so if you don't mind, can we just dispense with all this "I love you" stuff, so I can do it? Huh? I feel a little feisty, and push a little deeper --oww! OK, maybe that hurt. A lot.

I try to not listen to our next words, following up what I am sure is a false expression of love from you, but I do. I listen. I hear. Your words are reassuring in the sense that I know you like what I am doing. You love what I am doing. It feels good to you. I don't doubt that for a minute. And deeper feels better. I get that, too. And I have to do it, anyway, so I try. Rocking, I push deeper and deeper, working your phallus in. Your thick, lubed shaft progresses deeper and deeper into my bottom.

When you offer me an orgasm, as I'm doing this, I almost have to laugh. The need for an orgasm is gone. Plus, that one was gonna be the best ever. And now that feeling is gone. I neither need nor want an orgasm now. Only a true slut would want an orgasm after doing this. I'm a slave, not a slut. There's a difference, you know.

But then you reach up to my nipple rings. And start tugging gently, and touching my nipples with your fingers. Fuck! ("Did you just swear to yourself, girlfriend?") That makes me tingle with electricity. The nipple rings. When you pull them. Wow. Your actions do take my mind off of my pain. They also take my mind off of the need to go deeper, and actually stop my undulations -- for a brief second, your cock is rammed in my bottom motionless, before I regain myself and start anew. But the feeling in my little nipples is electric. Tingly. It feels good. Really good. Maybe I'll want that organism -- O-R-G-A-S-M -- after all.

Marcus

You are so very easy to read that I really could get away with claiming to be telepathic. It's a little word, and it's meant to sting, but when I casually, with a teasing half smile on my lips, call you a slut, you flinch like you were slapped and then your expression droops towards misery in a rather poor attempt to keep your face straight and focus on the effort and not betray any more of your emotions. I can guess this hit harder than it was meant to, though I don't know how or why.

"You will be anything that I want you to be," I inform you calmly as you continue with your effort. "Pet, slave, toy. If I want a dog you'll play the part, and if I want a slut, you'll be it. "Get over it. Sex is arousing, it feels good, it stirs a need in every one of us, most people are just more or less in denial. "This," I tug harder at your nipples and start rubbing them intensively, "feels good." I let go of one of them and reach to your pussy, still wet both by its own moisture and my drool, and skilfully run a teasing finger first up your opening, then up your folds and over your clit. "This also feels good. I know it, you don't have to confirm or deny it, and you are silly if you feel guilty about it. To know what your body wants and to listen to it isn't a bad thing. Especially for a girl in your position. There's gonna be no amusement parks and nice restaurants and soccer and game arcades, but you can still have fun," I say, one finger sliding inside your pussy and doubling over to press against the mossy round point of your G-spot, while another toys with your folds just short of stimulating your clitoris. I do it with my palm upturned to I can continue, to a degree, even once you've hilted yourself onto my cock, exceptionally hard and massive today. And my left hand never ceases to toy with your nipples and nipple rings, I'm careful and not too pushy, but I work on finding the barrier where it already hurts, where you already kind of wince or lean in to reduce the stimulation, but where I know the pain still mixes with pleasure. I pull, I rub the ache in, stroke and tease, then twist a ring, grab a nipple between a thumb-pad and a fingertip and roll it, on an on, in that time old "adding salt to a pot" sort of motion.

You may hate the word slut, you may ignore the compliments -- though there will be a punishment for not saying “Thank you, master” at some point. I wasn't even for a fraction of a second expecting an "I love you, too" out of you. In fact, you probably would end up with your head thrust repeatedly under water for lying if you had blurted that one out. I want honesty and the fact is that I love and adore you, especially your hot, preteen body and the immense, intense, unending pleasure it gives me. But somewhat to my surprise, I find that I also love your spirit, and your 11-year-old mind and ways. You are intriguing and abnormally smart and complex for a child your age; no such fascinated admiration is wasted on Robbie, whose surrender comes on such straightforward terms that I could have written most of our interactions in advance as a play while getting only a few of the lines wrong. He's still a hot piece of ass with a cute face, a fun kid to mess with, which I suspect is how you think I see you, but there really, really is more to our relationship than that. But this is not the time and place to verbalize these thoughts, if ever there will be. It's not like I care much that you take my declaration with an indifferent, uncaring face. Your reaction has nothing to do with your training and obedience.

I keep teasing your nipples and pussy and when it’s wet and hot under my hands again, and the nipples hard, I start teasing your clit, too. I could ignore your pacing, but it occurs to me as a fun thing to do to give your clit a flick each time you bear down in the more painful direction, in perfect sync, rewarding every bit of pain with a jolt of pleasure.

If you bite your lips or grit your teeth you get told off. I want you open-mouthed and as loud as I can get you, and I don't care if that includes cries of pain and unhappy grunts as you fill your disproportionately small hole with my overlarge cock. I want this to be sweaty and loud and dirty. I want this to be a good, hard fuck.

If you are not crying at this point, I suspect this will make you cry, I think, cynically, as I feel your pussy twitch around my finger. I managed to bring you near, despite the acute pain you are suffering. Now this is fun. In a sudden rush of pure sadism, I speed up the stimulation to get you right to the edge once more, and there and then I make my demand: "Tell me that you want it, and tell me what that makes you. And I'll tell you it's okay and will give it to you," I say in a calm, serene voice. Soft enough not to sound like a command, though I don't specifically mention that you have another option, which technically makes it one. I realize that I'm close, too, even though you could still improve the angle and go a tiny little bit deeper at this point. The option of us both cumming at once, like lovers, flashes through my mind, wishfully, but I wait for you to say those nasty, nasty words; without them, tempted as I am, I'm not gonna make it happen.

Laura

If there's one thing I have come to expect in this place, it is the virtual certainty that you will figure out what I am thinking; that you always seem to know what my thoughts are at any give time. To be sure, I don't think that you actually are a mind-reader -- not really, anyway. If you were, the skin would have been flayed off my bottom by now given some of the thoughts I have, deep in my mind, about you, this place, and what you do to me down here. Those are my Deep Thoughts, my private ruminations, and you can't read those. They happen at night, or when I am alone. Out of your presence. But whenever I have an uncontrolled moment, when I am with you, where an emotion or a feeling flashes over me, suddenly, without the ability for me to control it -- those thoughts you know. You read. You see. Instantly. You figure them out just as instantly as I try to hide and shield them. I always am too late. This is one of those times.

The word "slut" wounds me in a deep and private way. I don't think that you could understand why, not fully. You see, down here you can make me do anything you command. We both know that. I have learned through pain the consequences of disobedience, of half-hearted effort. So I do what you command. Always. No matter what. I lick and clean your sweaty body with my tongue. I pleasure and tongue your asshole. I drink your piss and cum. I even eat your ("Don't even say it, Laur'. Just finish what you were thinking."). In obeying you, I try not to hesitate. I try to give good effort, because the lack of effort leads to pain. But I don't have to like what you do to me. Indeed, I refuse to like anything we do. I do everything you tell me to do because you can make me do it even if I refuse. But I don't like what we do, and I most certainly don't like you. Not liking anything about you or this place is my refuge. It is my defense. That and trying every single day not to forget my old life and the people in it. Those two things mean that I still am Laura Vandahl. Not some toy. Not some slave. Not some slut.

Except, I have a problem, a growing problem. It's becoming harder and harder to remember my old life. Not, like, I've forgotten about my house, my family, my school, and the things I used to do. What I mean is, it's getting harder to remember certain things. A couple days ago I tried but couldn't remember what my Daddy's voice sounded like. I just couldn't bring it to mind. And even worse, I was thinking about my brothers, and I couldn't remember what Jeremy looked like. I mean, I can picture him, the way he was, and what he looks like -- kind of. His size. His shape. Like, from afar or something. But I couldn't conjure up a photographic image of his face in my head. I just couldn't form the thought. It was like I had -- forgotten. Forgotten one of the two people I love the most in the entire world. This brought tears to my eyes the other night as I lied in bed, awake, trying to remember. Trying sooooo hard to remember.

And then with you. I hate you. Really, truly, positively hate you. Of that I'm sure. And I never will love you, or like you, or not hate you. Even when you're being nice, I remind myself how much I hate you. On the one hand, I want you to be nice, because that simply means you're not being mean. But I don't like you any more when you're nice. I never like you. I still hate you. But it's a problem, and sometimes confusing to me to keep it all straight, because I want you to be nice, and then when you are nice I still want to hate you, and I still do hate you, but I don't want you to stop being nice. And sometimes I think that if I please you, I can make you be nice. Or, rather, I can prevent you from being mean. It's complicated. But the one thing I know is, even when you're being nice, I still hate you. And I hate what you do to me. All of it. I don't like any of it. Not ever.

Except -- sometimes I do. And this really, really bothers me. Sometimes you make me feel really good. I mean, not me, like my mind and stuff, but my body. You're really good at sex stuff. not just making yourself feel good, but also making my body feel good. In my mind I don't like what you do, but my body does like it, at least sometimes. Orgasms feel nice. Sometimes when you touch me it feels nice. And that feels like a betrayal to me. Like I'm the one liking it, not just my body -- the way you touch me and make my pussy tingle. If I start to like it, if I give into those feelings, I'm no better than a common whore. A tramp. A slut. A girl who will root with anyone: A nerdy boy with disgusting pimples. A drug dealer so she can get high. A dirty ol' man neighbor. Or -- worst of all -- a sex pervert kidnapper who hurts little kids. A girl who will do that is the worst kind of slut there is. And my greatest fear is becoming one, down here, over time, as day after day passes by.

If I'm being honest, there's something even worse than liking it when you make my body feel good. Last night, you told me I could come to you, come to your bed, sleep with you, if I wanted to. I didn't have to. I knew you wouldn't punish me if I didn't. You left the decision completely up to me. And as you said those words I swore I wouldn't come. Never. No way. In fact, it didn't even occur to me that I would. I hate you. I certainly don't like you. So why would I come? But . . . in the end, I came. I climbed into bed, under the covers, and snuggled up to you. Voluntarily. Like a common . . . you know what. I don't even know why I did it. I have this little voice in my mind -- my mind voice, like a different "me" -- that tells me things: what I should or shouldn't do, whether I've screwed up and how bad. Those kinds of things. And the voice wanted to tell me not to go to you, not to be a . . . But I shut the voice out. I didn't listen. I just finished what I was doing and concentrated on nothing on purpose, leaving my mind blank, and then walked straight to your bedroom. When I arrived I wasn't even sure how I got there or why I came. But I did. And I stayed. And I snuggled close to you. And I slept.

So when you used that word with me, if you're wondering why I reacted the way I did, you'd have to know all about how I thought about going to see you last night. You not only used that word, you used it right, perfectly, exactly when I was feeling the worst about sleeping with you last night. But you're not ever going to know about that, 'cause I'm not ever going to tell you and from now on I'm not ever going to do anything you don't make me do. Because I'm not a slut. And even if you say I have to be a slut for you like you just did a second ago, it will be like any other kind of acting I do down here. It's all acting! I still hate you, and I won't ever like you. Ever. So nice try getting me to say "I love you" back to you when you said you loved me. I'm never going to love you and nobody else is, either, because of the way you treat other people!

Just as I finish my thoughts on the subject, your hand ventures to my cunny and a tingle of electricity jolts through the pain of your turgid member in my rectum. And that little jolt felt good. As I grunt against your phallus I have to admit, it felt good. But this is not an example of me being a slut, because all you're doing is making my body feel good, not my mind. I've figured out that you can make my body feel good just like you can hurt me with pain, but that doesn't mean I want you to do it. I'm not a slut if my body reacts to your touches, not really anyway. Not in a bad-slut kind of way, not like a real slut.

My breathing -- no, my panting -- increases as you touch me, rubbing my cunny, my clitty, and -- damn! -- pulling on my nipple rings just like that. Ooooo! ("Why does it feel so good when he does that?" I wonder.) I groan as I ride your cock deeper into my bowels, hoping to combat and overcome the pleasurable, tingling feelings in my pussy with pain. As you touch me I grunt, my face turns red, and I P-U-S-H my bottom all the way down on your cock, driving it D-E-E-P into my bottom, forcing it, cramming it, despite the pain. I exhale my held breath in a humid, painful gasp, because that did hurt. A lot, in fact. But it also sufficed to take my mind off my cunny. For the moment, anyway.

I commence riding your cock, hard, sluicing it in and out of my tight little bottom, grunting, groaning, working, trying to get you off. "Unnnh! Unnnnh! Unnhhh! Unhhhh! I gasp aloud as I impale myself on your adult cock, cleaving my buns apart as your lubed shaft undulates up and into my bowels. And yet, despite my effort to increase the pain, my cunny is tingling and my nipples are sending little jolts of I-don't-know-what coursing through my body.

It is so intense. Everything. There are so many things going on. Your cock is hurting my bottom, hurting it with every backward, downward thrust of my hips. I'm taking six or seven inches of shaft inside me with very undulation, the slickery, fleshy, smacking sound of your glistening member entering me and sliding inside me can be heard with each thrust. I start to squeal instead of grunt. My face is red, my eyes are open but staring off into space, as I concentrate. "Aiee! Aieee! Aieee! Aieee! Aieee!" I chirp, squealing like a baby pig being gutted alive. It hurts, and everything is so intense and confusing, my thoughts roiling in my brain. I start to cry. Thick, silent tears erupt from my doe-like eyes and flow down my cheeks. But I don't stop. I continue to thrust. I continue to hurt myself on your achingly erect penis.

As if you can read my mind, you tell me to ask for it. And I emit a little sob as I know what "it" is and that you and I both know what "it" is, and what wanting "it" makes me. My lower lip trembles with emotion as I ride you, tears flowing down my face. I have never felt anything like this -- the pain, the effort, the fullness of your cock in my bottom. The tingling, the jolts, the pain, the pulling sensation on my nipples, the tickling massage of my sensitive nipples. The mind games, the trauma, the drama. All of it. I'm so torn. I hate you! I hate myself!

In the end, I drown out my inner voice once again. "I- want- it-," I gasp, my brow wet with sweat, my face almost beat red. I ride you, deep and hard, flinging my bottom down heavily on your pole. It's not enough. Stopping for just a second I reseat my knees on either side of your, hips improving my angle. And then I resume, squealing with pain as I hilt my buttocks on your groin, taking all nine inches of your cock from the base of our shaft, ramming the tip of your sensitive cockhead deep into my bowels. "I'm a sluttttttt!" I scream, as the emotions and the sensations wash over me in an intense, almost out-of-body manner. I squeal as my bottom milks your erection, my buns slapping at your groin with every downward thrust.

Marcus

You are fucking insane girl. I'm gonna punish you for this. Even though I'm extremely aroused and really on the edge and it almost pains me to do it, I demand that you slow down. Twice. And once I say "easy girl," just so you know you're riding too hard. You don't seem to notice, or worry about it, causing yourself immense pain perhaps on purpose, for some weird psychologically masochistic, potentially slut-issue related reasons, but you've gone too deep too fast for your tiny body to take this, and you are riding too long a span of the shaft with too sharp thrusts. Your asshole bleeds, and I'm not talking a cute little pinkness smeared around my cock, or a sexy, single hair-thin rivulet of blood gravitating down my cock. It bleeds like you're a piglet being slaughtered, which, funnily enough, is also how you sound. But I'm not amused. It's one thing to not perform to my satisfaction and hold back when I've made a demand; it's a whole another one to go absurdly brutal with clearly an agenda of your own.

I only don't put a stop to it because we are both effectively cumming when I notice just how bad the bleeding is -- my cock is bright red, like it's painted, tip to root in that color, the lube not doing anything to reduce the vivid acute hue that screams danger from miles away. I'm not the one who is gonna be sore and sorry afterwards, so I just shrug my worries off and as you scream those sweet, sweet words of your undoing and my victory, I make a few last swift strokes over your clit and bring you over. I was gonna cum prematurely, waaay before you due to the intensity of the stimulation, but the sight of just what the hell you are doing to your bottom distracts me, even though I'm far from soft or squeamish about blood. And so it happens that I cum with you, shooting my load up your ass just as my fingers manage to give you a good, strong orgasm. I achieve it by rubbing your clit less than gently and pulling at your nipple ring as hard as I dare, which is pretty hard, given it's only a recently closed-up wound. I stretch the skin of your chest and pull it out by almost twice the distance that's the diameter of the ring. It looks gorgeous, like you have tiny, skinny, pyramidal kiddie tits for a moment there. And you cum. And I cum. And then, as soon as I'm done cumming, I grab you, firmly, by your shoulders. I will my cock to soften as fast as it can, lift you up, growling "you stay limp, kiddo. Limp like a drowned kitten," and you can see how I look like when I'm really pissed. Tense-jawed, red-faced, my eyebrows deeply furrowed. I lift you very, very slowly of off my cock, and blood is trickling out of your ass, not dripping, but trickling. This is not good. How the fuck did you even manage to push yourself that hard?

The moment you are of off my cock, I slap you, angrily. Nothing calculated or planned or with any other meaning than right here and now, I'm furious.

"What the fuck happened to take it slowly, don't hurt yourself more than necessary, take your time, slow down, easy girl and all that shit? What the fuck did you think you were doing?" I yell, though it doesn't seem like I have to that much, because now you can see the blood all over my cock, balls, belly, thighs, your eyes shoot down and you realize how much more blood there is on the floor, on your legs, everywhere. Robbie's multiple-day cutting effort is put to shame by this one stunt, only several minutes long. But in my yelling, perhaps for the first time since you arrived here, you can hear more than just anger. There's worry there. There's a loss of certainty. I grab you, toss you over my shoulder and march straight into the med-room, plopping you down on the cold, hard medical table quickly, face down. I grab a blow-up cushion, inflate it, and put it under your belly. I stretch your hole -- amazingly enough already kind of closing up, despite what it's just been through -- with a speculum, throw in a suction tube and turn the suction on, put on a head-torch, and look in there. It takes me a very stressful minute to come to a conclusion that your colon stayed whole; if it had ruptured it would have been way beyond my medical abilities to save your life. Thank God! Wait, did I, the ever-skeptical cynic, really just think that? I'm sweating and struggling to keep my hands steady. I spray your anus and as far as I can reach in your colon with a combination antiseptic and clotting agent, and then look further with a small camera. But the bleeding is from your anus, mostly. I mean there are fissures and abrasions everywhere, but the kind that a bad constipation could have given you, nothing life-threatening. I decide that the clotting antiseptic alone is my safest bet; I could staple shut the artery that's bleeding so much, but what would be the long-term effect of that? And what if piercing the skin makes the whole thing go septic? I'm a lot of things, but I’m not a surgeon. I close the speculum and slide it out. Your butt still gapes a little bit but doesn't bleed any more, though that's also because it's raised now. But I can't see it flooding with blood like it did before.

I have to take several deep, deep breaths and breathe out very forcefully and slowly to stop my hands from shaking. I need them steady enough to clean you up with swabs and antiseptic wipes. I take your blood pressure and temperature, and listen to your lungs and heart. It occurs to me, and angers me, that your ass will have to be off-limits for some time. If nothing else, anything passing through that destroyed strained pucker and through those fissured, irritated swollen areas of your lower colon will hurt like a motherfucker. You will have blood in your shit the next couple times you go, I suspect. Done playing the doctor in the least possible sexy way, I don't even bother to conceal the sigh of relief when I've allowed you of off the surgical table and wiped it clean and closed the bin. There. Done. You have to eat. If it makes you suffer again, let that be a part of your punishment. Now that I stopped freaking out -- my hands are still a bit shaky, though -- my anger returns with searing clarity.

I pull a dog bed out of one of the cages that seem slightly too small for a human, toss it on the floor, and point at it. "Lie down. Rest."

I shower. I make it a long, hot shower with the water massaging me with jets from all angles, hoping for it to relax me. It doesn't help one bit. I came out, bubbling with fury. The sort of fury that could drive me to kick you and beat you not until you beg and scream for me to stop, but until you are not screaming and begging anymore, lying there broken and motionless by my feet. I swallow. My jaw actually skips and makes a sort of a crunching sound. Anyone other than you alone with me would be dead right now, with me in this kind of state.

I find some pyjamas. Nothing sexy. Plain, white hospital-style boy pyjamas. Socks. Slippers. Toss then next to the dog bed. "Get dressed slowly. No sudden motions. If you start blacking out or feeling very dizzy, tell me. You haven't lost a medically-dangerous amount of blood, but you're still bleeding, and you are tiny." And malnourished, I don't bother to add.

"And stop fucking cowering. If you think you are getting out of this with just a beating, you've never been more wrong in your life, young lady. Come."

I go to the kitchen, reheat some soup, and give it to you. A bowl of soup and a spoon. I put it down hard, with a thump, and some of it splashes out onto the table.

"Eat. Slowly," I growl. I make no food for myself. I turn straight back to cooking more. I make a simple veggie stew and chop the veg extra small and spice it extra mild, proper kid-friendly stuff, almost bland. It's quite a large portion and it's ready only a short while after you are done with the soup. The tension in the room is palpable. You seem almost too tense to eat.

"If you throw up because of how nervous me being angry makes you, I'm gonna go buy some pet bunnies and guinea pigs and kittens and I swear I'm gonna make you kill them and eat those," I fume. "You are not getting punished for this today. There will be no more beatings or sex until I'm sure you aren't bleeding anymore and that it's not infected. Now eat your stew."

I pour you a blueberry, blackberry, and acai berry juice, a large glass. When I put it down on the table, my anger is finally absorbed enough for it not to thud against it, like the previous courses.

"Don't leave the table. Eat slowly."

I go upstairs to get fresh fruit and cream. And finely ground nuts -- anything with iron content in it -- and bring you a big bowl of dessert.

"Eat up," I demand, commanding my way through this odd, unexpected feast. I put suppositories down on the table. "Three a day, morning, noon, and evening, plus one each time you poop and there's blood in it, until you've used up the box. Use this cream," I pass you a cream with the same name as the suppositories, "to make them go in smoothly."

"Now," I pour you another glass of juice and myself a much-needed glass of strong red wine. "Speak. Talk. Move your lips and let everything come out. Spill the beans. Explain why you just hurt yourself on purpose. We both know I have plenty of ways to get you to talk, but this time, I don't want to be asking questions. Speak. Tell me what happened today. Speak for as long as you will -- take hours if that's what it takes -- but Laura? If you stop speaking before I have a good understanding of what just happened, I will leave here and go hurt someone you love. Is that clear?" I ask, my voice a manifestation of pure darkness. I mean what I just said. I’m pissed, and I know where your brothers live.

Feedback form Email

Thank you!