Taken 44. Truth and Consequences

Laura

I don't know what got into me. Really. I heard you telling me to slow down, but I couldn't. My mind was racing as I slammed my bottom down on your erected shaft, and my body was alive with sensations as you tickled and pulled and fondled and teased me, seemingly everywhere at once, bringing me to an earth-shattering, quivering orgasm just as I felt my bowels plump with your copious, warm ejaculate. When I came I panted and gasped and shrieked with pleasure, emotion, and pain, lost in myself. My anus and rectum hurt as I continued to fuck myself with your cock, but I needed the pain and used it for my own purposes, even as you pulled my nipple rings sharply, adding to the sensation. Right then, in that moment, I wanted the pain. I wanted all of it. It was like the pain justified everything, counterbalancing the pleasure, excusing the fact that I just begged for you to bring me off, like some trailer-trash slut tripped out on drugs.

Those feelings ended quickly after I came. When I looked down at you again you looked pissed -- well past mad, way beyond angry, and pretty far down the road to a level of epic pissed-off ness that I haven't seen before. Ever. My heart skipped a beat when I saw your expression. And that's when I noticed the blood, and my skin broke out all over in goose pimples because, for a few seconds that seemed to last for an eternity I thought it was your blood; that I had injured your penis with my violent, slamming motions. ("Remember what he said about hurting him, Laur'? Remember? You get the death penalty for that, girlfriend.") In those first few seconds, the amount of blood -- your blood, I thought -- seemed to correlate with the degree of anger reflected in your expression. ("You are well and truly in for it now. He is going to kill you.") My eyes went wide and my blood ran cold.

But hidden beneath your anger, camouflaged in your expression, is something else: worry. And as soon as you gently lift me off your shaft, I know two things with crystal clarity. One, I know that the blood staining your shaft -- damn, staining everything -- is from me, not you. It’s inside-my-body blood, from an unknown source, running down my leg. The other thing I know is that the worry I see in your eyes scares the crap out of me. You are worried about me. About the blood. ("It's bad, Laur'. He's like a doctor or something and he knows it's real bad. You're probably gonna die from that now.")

My fears are reinforced as you toss me over your shoulder and walk rapidly to the medical ward. This is serious. You are seriously worried. I can feel more blood dribbling down my thigh. How much blood is in a person's body? How much blood can a kid lose before she dies? These thoughts race through my brain. And although I've thought about dying down here before -- I gladly would have accepted death as I rode the wooden horse that horrible night -- I don't want to die right now. And certainly not like this, unexpectedly, covered in blood and all gross and disgusting.

As you examine and treat me on the table I am worried, and I gasp as you poke and prod and spray medicine stuff inside my butt hole. Truthfully, though, while my bottom and inside parts hurt, they don't feel a lot worse than the other times I've had stuff rammed up inside there. And although I'm worried, I don't feel like I'm slipping away, or drifting off, or fading to black. In fact, I feel kind of . . . normal, albeit with a sore bottom and butt hole. If you weren't pissed off beyond belief and acting all worried and stuff -- Mom would say you're being a Nervous Nellie -- I probably wouldn't be all that worried myself. But my worry feeds from yours, and I'm pale and shaking from your unsettling behavior.

Truth be told, since I feel basically fine, I'm more worried about that look of anger I saw on your face. That, coupled with your obsessive examination of my butt hole, has me pretty much convinced that you're going start wailing away on me any second. ("He's gonna make sure you're OK and not bleeding to death, and then he's gonna punish you bad for disobeying, Laur'. He looks super pissed. Super, immensely, mega-pissed, girlfriend. Better get ready for it," I warn myself, closer to the truth this time than I even know.)

But you don't hit me. You don't even chastise me. You're acting all weird. Shaking, breathing funny, even sweating. I've never seen you like this. Ever. It's unsettling. Part of me wishes that you would just go ahead and punish me -- seeing you like this is weirding me out, big time. ("He doesn't want to start in on you right away because he's so pissed he's afraid he'd kill you," I surmise, with unwitting accuracy.)

It gets weirder. You don't punish me when you're done examining me. You shower. For a long time. ("He's trying to get calm before he decides what to do with you, Laur'.") I lie on the dog bed, worried. I'm not at all sure what is going on. Are you contemplating what to do with me? Did I just screw up in some epic, point-of-no-return way? Why do you look so pissed? I'm confused. Confused and worried. What did I do? Why are you so mad at me? What are you thinking? What are you going to do?

I guess my mind gets a little ahead of me, because when you bring the hospital suit and toss it to me, telling me to get dressed, for some reason I can't get it out of my head that whatever I did, it's a capital offense. The thought first germinated when I thought the blood was yours -- that was when I remembered immediately the penalty for hurting you. Even after I realized it was my own blood, I couldn't get the thought that you were mad enough to kill me out of my head because you look more angry than I've ever seen you, and you keep acting all weird and stuff. I've truly never seen you like this. The hospital outfit seals the deal for me. You've never had me wear something like that before. This is the end. But I don't want to die! By now I have worked myself into a tizzy, and I cower in fear.

And then, in an instant, you dispel my fears with a reference to a future punishment. My brain quickly processes that if I'm going to be punished in the future, there has to be a future to be punished in. Despite the promise of punishment, I actually feel relieved. You're worried about my blood loss, too, and that also suggests that I have a future. I feel a bit silly for worrying ("Yeah, now you just have to worry about what he's going to do to you."), but I'm still shaking from the thoughts that were recently rattling around in my brain.

I follow you to the kitchen. ("Dog food, Laur'. Hope you're hungry," I taunt myself.) But it's not dog food. It's real food. People food. Rather bland, and a bit veg-heavy, but real food. Eaten normally. And it keeps coming. Course after course after course. Then medicine. And cream. You're really worried about my butt hole. You're worried about me. ("But you're still getting punished, Laur'. He's just not going to do it right now.") I'm still worried, unsettled, and on edge. I wish you'd go back to being normal.

Now you want me to explain myself. I hang my head. I don't want to. I don't want to tell you what happened. These are private thoughts. ("Yeah, you have tons of privacy down here, Laur.' Tons.") But then, you threaten to hurt someone I love. Instantly, a white-hot, irrational, seething anger boils in me. I look up at you. You know what? Now I do want to tell you. I want to tell you everything. You want the truth? I'll tell you the truth. How I feel about you. How I feel about what you do to me. You're already gonna punish me for disobeying, or whatever I did, so what's the diff? I'm not supposed to lie to you, ever. Remember? So get ready for the truth.

As I start to speak, my eyes are defiant. Determined. "I don't care if you love me 'cause I hate you," I begin, my eyes glistening with emotion. "I hate everything about this place . . ." I proceed to tell you everything. All of it. My emotions building as I speak. About forgetting my Daddy's voice. About forgetting Jeremy's face. About forgetting my real life. About what just happened. About the pain I felt and my concern about being a slut. I tell you what I think about at night. How I long to be free. How I hate what you do to me and how you make me feel. How I hate you and this place. How I hope you get caught, and go to jail forever.

"And I hope nobody ever visits you, EVER, and you have to stay in the smallest room at the jail and eat dog food forever!" I say, my cheeks running with tears as I conclude my remarks. I'm going to be punished now for what I just said and for what happened earlier, and I don't care.

Marcus

I'm listening, intently. Just about to the moment when you describe your vision of me in prison, there, I can't help but chuckle.

"Laura, I'm a rich man. I'm not gonna end up in the smallest room of anywhere, even if they catch me -- not that they ever will. And they don't feed prisoners dog food. Again, especially not those with very expensive lawyers." Just a quick reality check, it must be quite a blow to your vengeful fantasies. It's interesting to see the things you picked as a symbol of a person's hell, anyway. No visits. Constrained space. Dog food. There's a brief moment of silence as I mull over what you said. But none of it surprises me, none of it is unexpected. Almost none of it is new. I take your hand, and hesitate where to go. The bed in the bedroom will still look like a murder had been committed in there, and I don't wanna sit on the sofa in the dungeon, in plain view of all the things that have hurt you in the past. I end up leading you into your cell, sitting in your bed and gently lowering you onto my lap.

"Love and hate are actually closer to one another than you might think. Both are among the strongest emotions humans can have. But I don't expect you to love me, silly. I might be kind of mad, but I'm not that kind of mad, you know, like . . . barking-mad crazy." I smile. "I know what I'm doing to you, I remember what I have done to you, and it doesn't surprise me one bit that you would rather be some other place, doing different things. The fact that you hate me, and hate it here, is not a problem. I can live with that. If I couldn’t, I wouldn't have taken you in the first place. You kind of have to have thick skin to kidnap and hurt people, I guess even you can understand that." I stroke your hair. "You're definitely not getting punished for saying any of that. I taught you to tell the truth, and it sounds like you told the truth," I shrug. "I don't have much to say to that. I get it. It's normal to not want to have to do sex stuff for a big, grown-up man; it's normal not to be happy about being locked up, hurt, and scared. Thank you for being honest.”

“But it doesn't change anything. I knew all that. Or did you think that I'm delusional, thinking that you are having a blast and thinking of this as some kind of holiday? Give me some credit, girl. I'm sorry you're forgetting things from before, but that happens when lots of new stuff is happening, especially when you have left suddenly, and you know you're not coming back any time soon, and it's all very scary. The only thing I can say to that is don't blame yourself. It's not your fault, and it's mostly because you think about it a lot and the beat yourself up about it.”

I pause for a moment before continuing. “There's another thing I want to talk to you about. It's fine that you hate me," I say, like those words are meaningless to me, which they kind of are given the context, "but I'm still the only person around. If you don't talk to me, if you feel horrible about coming for a hug when you need one, if this slut thing is really gonna gnaw on you each time you enjoy something, anything, you're just gonna go crazy. It's normal to want some contact, and it's normal to want orgasms, and it's especially normal to want one when you've been touched and teased. Even if it's with a person you hate. It's not a bad thing, it's a natural thing. It's the same as needing to eat, pee, poop, sleep. You’ll need it, and when the feeling is urgent, you’ll want it even though you are down here. And I will give it to you, when I feel like it, whether you are happy about it or not, so you might as well enjoy it. You're in enough shit down here, as you said before, to still feel guilty about still being a human being, a girl with needs.”

I’ve been talking for a long time, and you’re 11 years old, so I decide to wrap it up, but not before reminding you about your situation here. “Now, like it or not, I am who I am, and you are what you are down here. You’re my slave. End of story. I can do whatever I want to you, whenever I want, for as long as I want, and then I can start all over and do it again, or do something else. You belong to me. I am your master. I don't expect you to be thrilled about it, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? You're stuck with me, and with this, for a long, indefinite time so you better make the best out of it. If you sulk, there will only be more loneliness, and more misery, and more pain. I can give you as much of those things as you think you can handle, and so much more beyond that. There, end of lecture. Do with that as you please, that was just advice, no commands," I sigh. "Since we are talking honest," I add, a bit ominously.

I took a deep breath and stretch my back. A few joints and vertebrae crack with hollow, dull, crunchy cracks. I've gone all stiff in just the few minutes of fearing for your life. I observe you carefully. I like this honesty game; it's a good game, like all the other games we play down here, I have nothing to lose, and it's fun. And you look cute in that clean, white, soft outfit.

"And one more thing: I was really mad, but I wasn't gonna kill you. I’m not about to kill you every time you mess up. Slaves mess up all the time, and they get punished for it. But unless you intentionally and substantially hurt me, or unless you make a serious attempt at running away, your life is safe. I promised you that before and I would like to remind you of it again. Stop reacting to new things like it’s the last thing you’re ever going to do. If it ever comes to that, I will look into your eyes, and I will tell you, straight to your face, out loud, that you are going to die. And I will give you a quick moment just to yourself. To pray. To think of your family. And then I will do it. It will not happen sneakily, from behind, unexpectedly, out of blue, just like that, on a whim, or in anger, not ever. We both know I can do things to make you obey me and that I’m more than capable of punishing you when you disobey. I don't need to kill you. I'm not planning to. I don't want to. Is that clear between us now?"

Once that all is done I finally properly relax. Turn around. "There's some knots in my back, and you've had a lot to do with it. Fix it," I demand, announcing the return of the usual dynamic where I command, you obey, and not much is said besides that, or if there is, you better ask for permission first and weigh every word you say.

Laura

I got pretty emotional as I was telling you the things you said you wanted to hear. About my deepest thoughts. About my family. About forgetting things and how I feel about this place, and my worries about being a slut. Most importantly, after you threatened to hurt somebody I love, I wanted to tell you what I thought about you. I wanted to wound you. To tell you how much I hate you, and that I'll never even like you, much less love you. Surely it would wound you to hear that -- you, of your recent, unsolicited "I love you" comment. It would wound you to hear that I don't love you back. And I want to wound you. I want to hurt you. I can't hurt you physically, but I surely can do so emotionally. You'll see.

I'm crying by the end of my diatribe, letting it all come out, using your very instructions against you. You wanted to hear everything? You wanted the truth? There. You just got what you asked for. And I bet that's not what you wanted to hear, is it? Huh? Serves you right. Maybe you better not ask for the truth the next time. And at the end there, telling you that I hoped you get caught, and go to jail forever -- that was all true, too. And I enjoyed saying it, even if I'm pretty sure you're going to punish me for my insolence. I'd punish me, if I were you. And I already have a punishment coming from earlier. But I'm still glad I said it. I'd say it all again. And it's all true. Every word of it. Sorry to burst your bubble.

Except, when I'm finished, instead of glowering and getting your all-pissed-off look, you laugh. You're laughing at me. And at that moment, that precise, specific, moment, I want to kill you. I want to beat you to death with my fists. If I had a knife, I would stab you. I just poured my heart and soul out, told you what I thought of you, and willingly and knowingly offered myself up for punishment with my choice of words just to be sure I got the point across to you, and you're laughing at me. It makes me so mad to hear your chuckle, and I swear I came within a half second of actually, literally, hitting you, when my inner voice chimed in. ("Wait! He's laughing because of what you said about him going to jail, not the other stuff. He's not making fun of you.") It's a good thing that my inner voice picked up on the reason behind your laugh, because I was mad enough to come flying at you with closed fists. At least I think I was. I’ve never actually hit someone before.

You stand up, and take my hand, and I guess that it's time for my punishment. I don't care about the punishment and I wouldn't take back a single word of what I said. But then we walk straight through the dungeon and back to my cell. The next thing I know, I am in your lap. I'm still angry and upset, but there's not much more I can do on your lap than listen. So I do. Frankly, I don't really care if love and hate are close to each other, whatever that even means. All I want to know is what you think about what I said. I listen eagerly. I want you to tell me that it hurts you that I can't find a way to love you. That you wish I'd change my mind. Try telling me that eventually I will see the light. Go ahead!

Except, you don't say any of those things. What you say, instead, is that you basically couldn't care less whether I love you, or not. It simply doesn't matter. Not to you. Not to my presence here. It doesn't change anything. Me hating you "is not a problem" as you put it. Nor do you care if I am unhappy. It doesn't matter to you at all. In fact, you expect me to be unhappy. ("Forever, Laur'. You'll be unhappy forever, and it makes no difference to anyone.") Oh, but according you you I should just put all of that out of my mind and try to have fun doing the sex stuff. Wouldn't you like that, huh? Oh, and Mr. Smarty-Pants-Know-it-All -- you know all about what feels good in a person's body, even if you're not a girl. And you think I need to do it, and I should just do sex with you and let you hug me because I might as well, because I can't go to an amusement park or a fancy restaurant.

I am stunned by your words. I know that I have no rights down here and you can do anything you want to me. I can't stop you. Nobody is going to help me. But I have just poured my heart out to you, told you how I feel about you, this place, everything and . . . you couldn't care less. It doesn't matter at all to you. I don't matter at all to you. You're going to take what you want from me, do what you want to me, and I'm just supposed to lighten up and enjoy it because I might as well. And even though I just told you about all of my inner thoughts and concerns you couldn't care less what I think about any of this. I should just do the stuff you want me to do so I don't go crazy on you.

I've never felt so helpless and valueless at the same time. ("Silly Laura V. You thought if you told him how you really, really felt, things would be different. Silly girl!") My own inner voice chastises and taunts me for thinking that anything I think, say, or do down here has any value or meaning. I've just learned that it doesn't. Not even a little bit. As long as you can hurt me and do sex stuff with me, you're content with the way things are no matter how I feel about any of it. There doesn't need to be more to my existence and there won't be any more to my existence. Oh, and according to you I should just accept that and be a slut for you since I can't go ride a roller coaster, instead.

I'm still angry when you change the subject to killing me. Yeah, whatever. You already told me that before. And just for the record, Mr. Know-it-All, I'm not worried that you're suddenly going to decide to kill me. I used to worry that you would get so mad that you would forget your promise and kill me accidentally. I thought that earlier today when you had smoke coming out of your ears. But guess what? I don't really care anymore. You don't care about me and my feelings, and I don't really care whether you plan to kill me, or not. If you think any of your little speeches made me feel better, or made things better, you're wrong. All you did was make me mad and resentful and feeling more than a little sorry for myself. I hate you with every bone in my body.

When you order me to fix your back, my first reaction, honestly, is to yell "No!" at the top of my lungs. And I nearly do. I really, honestly, nearly do. Right now I want to kill you, not work the knots out of your back. I'm that mad, that resentful, and that much feeling sorry for myself. But I know that if I do that you will do something awful and painful to me. So with that thought in mind I rise to my knees and very reluctantly reposition myself on you with my legs straddling your lower buttocks and upper thighs. I place my hands on your lower back, in the small of your back, and begin to rub and knead you there. I'm angry, unhappy, and feeling very sorry for myself as I proceed with the task. My hands are listless and lifeless as I work. ("You better do it good, girlfriend," I warn myself.) But honestly, I don't have the energy or desire to do a very good job at anything right now. You and your words have put me in a mood.

Marcus

I can see how upset you are at my response, how angry you get as I speak. There's the briefest of pangs of guilt, I should at least have acknowledged what you said some and made you feel listened to I guess, but then again . . . you're my toy, I'm your kidnapper and owner. It really is as simple as that. There's nothing I can't do. All this talking, trying to understand you . . . I already did know and could imagine most of what you said. Waste of breath, really, wasn't it? But it was good to get you to crack open and spill. In a way, it was still a valuable lesson, showing you just how toothless your anger is, how useless.

You really suck at massaging right now, I soon realise that at this pace, we'll both end up furious and you might yet get a thrashing, which I'm not keen on delivering even now that I know that your butt will certainly not endanger you. I shake you off, turn, slide my finger through the ring of the collar and pin you down. I straddle you. I'm suddenly feeling vicious, maybe belatedly hit by something in your words after all, or maybe it's just an irritation with the anger that visibly rose in you during my little lecture. I was being blunt. All that I said was the truth. Upset as you are, in essence, everything is as it should be. You got some time for anger, some for tears, but your emotions are still bubbling, and starting to feel uncontained, out of my control; maybe that's where the unpleasant pit-deep feeling in me rises from. You are a slave, a pet, you are as contained as they are gonna get. I control you. I own you. You spilling my interrogation out of bounds emotionally pisses me off. But unlike yours, my anger isn't toothless.

"Enough. You're forgetting your position. You were commanded to speak; that moment is over, and your sulkiness and anger are starting to feel rather like insolence, something I will not stand," I warn you. "You're a slave. Upset or not, you are here to take it all. Open your mouth now, wide," I demand. It's really a poisonous, bully-kind of satisfaction to be enforcing your obedience when I know you'd rather be screaming and kicking and clawing at my eyes. It gives it an edge, a thrill. I collect a good bit of spit, a big, nasty, frothy little mouthful of spit and spit into your mouth.

"Swallow. And open up," I demand. You think you are angry? We'll see how angry we can get you. We'll see what happens if we push you, and push you, and push you. I pull some phlegm actually from my throat, nastier than the first time when it was just drool, and spit into your mouth again. This is a pointless, cruel game that feels good nonetheless, for purely sadistic reasons, and it will go on until . . . who knows? I see some steam coming of of your ears?

"Swallow. Open up," same words. Another round of the same futile game. Suddenly I'm determined to piss you off. To make you lash out and to punish you so we can play this game again at some point, with you meek as a lamb, another layer of resistance crushed into dust and blown away. I pick my ear, looking for ear wax, digging, and it's around here that I expect you to shut your mouth, or to scream or something. I am at this point intentionally just pinning down your legs, and not your arms. I touched them before and placed them on the bed, but have not bound them, have not sat up high enough on you to include them in the pin-down. With my eyes, with a cold, hard, mocking look of my snowy-icy, blue-grey glowing eyes I dare you, I challenge you to move and try and do something. I have a half smile on my face, not the usual, light, boyish one, but a purely sadistic, nasty, awful one, that makes my lips look like a sort of wave, not a corner of the mouth go up but the part just before it with the corner itself actually sagging. It's a malicious grin.

Your ass is bleeding and I don't feel like beating you, but I realize, with stunning clarity, that lack of violence does not, in any way, stop me from causing you pain, a very satisfying, wholesome, serious psychological pain. Fucking hell, I even feel my cock stir. I smirk again.

"You ARE forgetting your position, you little piece of shit," I hiss nastily. "You are a cock-sucker, an ass-licker, a foot-cleaner, you drink and clean sweat, piss, cum and even shit. You are what I say you are, you do what I say you do," I say in an extra, extra deep, creepy voice. "Don't you forget that, little girl. And right now, you are a little trash receptacle, kid. Swallowing spit. And snot. And boogers. And whatever else I stuff into your mouth. No exceptions. That mouth will close and swallow toenail trimmings, putrid pus, or that white goo that comes out of pimples when you squeeze them. That's what you are, that's how low you are. Enjoy hating it. That’s about all you can do about it," I breathe, almost like some baddie in a movie, really absorbed in the evilness of the act now, totally into it, totally overjoyed with this. This is it. You can snarl or snap or fight . . . and lose and be disciplined, and then this game will go on. And on. And on.

And at the end of it you will be grateful if I demand just another blowjob, and send you to your cell. But I'm starting to think like you've got -- by the sound of your confession -- way too much free time. Too much thinking time. We'll keep you busier from now on. Training will go on when I'm not down here. You will work out and exercise and train and prepare for me. Thoughts of your family and past only upset you. I think I'll make sure your thoughts are more focused on the here and now; it might take some more horse riding or similar lessons. The clarity of this new direction in training you floods me like a fuzzy tingly warmth, a sense of rightness, of satisfaction washes over me.

But first we have the game to play. And all the time in the world to play it.

Laura

I'm massaging you, but not very well, and we both know it. I know that you know it. I know that I'm going to be punished for it. But I'm feeling angry, upset, and despite the warnings from my inner voice, I don't do a proper job. Plus I have so many punishments and lessons stacked up that I almost don't even care anymore. And by the way I'm glad that your back hurts, and glad that I played a role in it. I hope it keeps hurting for a long time. Maybe then you'll experience just a tiny little taste of your own medicine.

When you turn, and grab me, and pin me to the bed by my collar, I'm not surprised. I'm scared, but I've been expecting punishment for a long time now -- most of the day, in fact -- so I'm not terrified. I'm simply . . . resigned. And I'm glad that I finally got through your defenses, your nonchalant demeanor. When you start lecturing me, I can't really deny what you say. I haven't forgotten my place, but I have deliberately not acted in conformance with my role. Angry? Check. Sulky? Check. I hold your gaze -- is there defiance in my eyes? There may be, but when you order me to open my mouth, I obediently comply, a wave of dread and revulsion flowing over me as I know I'm not going to like what happens next.

You spit in my mouth. Warm, frothy man spit. Metallic. Disgusting. As I swallow I try not to react. I try not to let you know what I think. I'm largely successful in masking my feelings, but on the inside, I want to cry. I want to bawl. I want to make this all go away and end this nightmare like it never, ever happened. I want to stop being in a place where a man can spit his saliva straight into a girl's mouth like you just did.

But I can't end it. It's the waking nightmare that never ends. I just lie there, feeling miserable and sorry for myself, as you deposit another round of nastiness into my mouth. As I swallow, even as I try so hard to appear uncaring, my eyes glimmer with tears. I was ready for punishment, but this is worse than punishment. This is just a straightforward reminder that you can do anything you want to me down here. There is no justice. I have no recourse. Nobody will help me. There won't be a rescue. I was ready to be punished. At least if you beat me, I'd know that my words wounded you, that you got mad, that you didn't keep your word about what would happen if I told the truth. But you don't punish me. You degrade me. You diminish me. Everything that was bothering me about being a slut, about descending into a kind of subhuman status -- you reinforce those thoughts as you feed me your spit.

I try to tune you out. I swallow your booger, and then your ear wax. None of it tastes like much of anything. But it doesn't have to. I know what it is. I know where it came from. I know why you're making me eat it. I forgot my place. I was feeling sorry for myself. ("Always gets you in trouble, doesn't it Laur'? Huh?") My eyes look wetter now. I am looking away from you, into space. I wish I could leave my body, hover above it somehow. But there is no way out.

Suddenly it all seems to futile, so silly. I shouldn't have taken the bait and told you I hate you, or tried to make you feel bad. ("Yeah, exactly what were you thinking, girl?") I look back at you, my vision blurry. You look sinister, scary, almost psychotic. Now I think maybe my words and attitude did get to you, and what I see in your expression, in that grimacing smile, scares me. I don't want you mad at me. ("When he gets mad, you get hurt," I remind myself.) I shouldn't have said what I said. It wasn't who I am. I'm not that way. That's not how I handle things.

Then you tell me that I AM forgetting my place, and call me a piece of shit. You've never called me anything like that before. You look almost deranged as you proceed to remind me of my place, and I swallow nervously. I have accomplished my goal of seriously pissing you off, and now I don't like what I see. Like Dr. Frankenstein, I don't like what I have created. I liked the older version of you waaaaay better. ("Now you've gone and done it, Laur'. Nice job.") This is not what I thought success would look like. I set out to get under your skin and now I've succeeded. But it isn't like I expected. It isn't at all good. Instinctively I know that things can get worse for me down here. A lot worse.

The words leave my mouth before I fully form them in my brain, and I'm well aware that I haven't asked for permission to speak. "I'm s-sorry f-for what I said," I say, in a whispered, contrite voice, my eyes glimmering and wide, my expression apprehensive and edgy. I am sorry. I actually mean it. This has not turned out well at all. "I know w-what my p-position is," I add, nervously. "I w-won't forget."

My words are sincere. I miscalculated. I know that now. Will my contrition work? Will my most recent words have any effect after my earlier words got me to this point? I look up into your smiling, grimacing face, awaiting your answer. Awaiting your sentence.

Marcus

"Good, well in that case, open up," I demand, and spit into your mouth again, a big, frothy glob of spittle. "Stay put. Enjoy the taste this time, no quick swallowing," I specify. "Don't ever go out of control like again. Especially hurting yourself with an agenda of your own. Absolutely unacceptable. Think of yourself as my Ferrari; if I decide to thrash you, crash you, piss and shit inside, I can because it's my Ferrari, but if a brat comes and tries to run a coin or a key along the paint, that brat will be in a whole world of trouble. So don't be that brat." I pause for a moment. Your apology is a nice touch, but the damage has been done; you pissed me off. You made me want to show you just how much of your life here was a privilege, my kindness and effort, stuff that I totally don't have to do for you. I walk out of the cell and come back with puppy snack packs, kibble, and cans of dog food. "Breakfast, lunch, supper," I point. "Until further notice. You are not allowed to skip meals or leave leftovers. Starting with supper today," I point at a dog can. They are all easy-peel lids so you don't need a can opener. There's enough for two weeks of fine dining. I can let you stew for as long as I want.

"No straining or exercise today, just to help your ass heal. It's an ass that must be ready to take my cock whenever I want it to, so use the suppositories and the cream and drink a lot and don't strain when shitting to make it that way again for me as soon as possible. Tomorrow, we are starting an exercise routine that will keep you both fit and occupied when I'm not here so your mind doesn't linger on all those idle thoughts you’re apparently having," I say resolutely. "Seeing that there is absolutely no love or gratitude about your stay here on your part, I'm gonna make my life easier now, until further notice. There aren't likely to be any more prompts to talk. I know enough now, so if you need to talk, ask for a permission, and maybe handle your honestly a little more carefully next time round," I suggest dryly. There is a difference between truth-telling and lashing out at someone like a snarling little beast trying to hurt with your words. I don't have to tell you that; your social and emotional intelligence are more than sufficient for you to have that kind of understanding. I gave you a chance to explain your unacceptable behavior, and you gave me shit. Only you forgot that I don't have to put up with your shit. Any of your shit.

You think you are sorry for behaving like (a perfectly normal girl actually) a brat, but you aren't really. You soon will be. I have a lingering odd feeling about this most recent interaction; a confusion, at first, as it turned out nothing like I imagined it. There was the satisfaction of showing you your place, but I still have a lingering, icky feeling of sorts. I never should have attempted to make myself likeable; the situation makes it absurd and futile and the attempts just frustrate me. I walk out once again and come back with stuff you haven't seen in a long time. Normal, ordinary home clothes. Sweatpants, t-shirts, pullovers, socks, under-shirts, the only thing generally missing are panties. I drag in an empty chest (like a pirate chest, opening up on the top, heavy, low) and leave it in a corner of your cell. It's actually getting a bit crowded in here, now.

"Wear clothes from now on. Keep yourself clean. Keep yourself neat. You will be punished for smelling bad, having bad breath, or bad hair," I inform flatly, my voice like a dead man's, and I leave you.

The rest of the afternoon, nothing. Evening, nothing. At 10:00 p.m. the lights go out, dim down to near complete darkness. Nothing. Then they go on again at 7:00 a.m. and the nothingness continues. Not a sound. Not a distraction. Nothing. Me, I spend the rest of the afternoon doing errands, checking finances and such, the evening enjoying Robbie, a part of the night coding and planning out your exercise routine. In the morning I exercise. A jog. A thorough workout. The days are getting blazing hot outside. A nice warm spell. I swim in the lake, run back. Take the day easy.

Later I walk into your cell, still quite sweaty, and with the slight smell of lake-water and sun on me. I've exercised hard, and it shows. I'm topless, and have only sweatpants on. I pull those off and sit on your bed, making you scoot off it if you happened to be there. I check that by now there are two empty packets of suppositories, as well as an empty can, and an empty puppy breakfast pack. If not, you're in for a caning later.

"Strip. Suck me off. Then get dressed and get on with your day," I snap. I actually motion signs with my hands as I say it, but I doubt you will even notice. I wish you already knew the hand commands -- a form of sign-language for 24/7 sex slaves -- so I wouldn’t have to speak to you at all. I don't touch you. I don't greet you. I just sit there, with a smelly, sweaty cock, demanding a blowjob, no niceties or even not-so-niceties, and nothing else. No games, no punishment. No attention. I don't even look at you as you suck, rendering your nudity meaningless as you lose your clothes on command. I'm not sure how this will affect your pride and emotions immediately, but I'm sure you can only take silent, heartless, indifferent treatment for so long at your age.

I intentionally don't make any little sounds and I make you keep your eyes down. No eye contact today. When I cum, it's almost a shock; only the pulse preceding the actual flood of cum is a brief warning; nothing else gives away that I'm almost done until I'm done. I cum, wait for a clean up, push my sweatpants up, and leave. The door closes behind me seamlessly for another long spell of solitude, just like in the early days, before you were tamed and trained.

I go to my office and code. I code like a madman. The cell can do an awful lot of tricks, and I decide to utilize it to the utmost, every bit of it that's not covered with furniture. I code; it will automate a task that I'd otherwise have to keep doing manually, but I also code with that same malicious grin I had on my face yesterday. I code because training you that way, letting a machine do the job, will be a part of your punishment, a part of your new routine. It takes hours and hours. But then it's done.

A very complex and variable routine, it utilizes the cameras, the motion sensors, the fact that every bit of floor and wall and ceiling of your cell is a screen, all of it. At around 4:00 p.m. the backbone I coded at night has been fleshed up enough to be usable; it might need further tweaking and alterations to be variable enough, and some overseeing that it gets more strenuous over time, but not too fast. A special perk? I could have recorded the commands in my own voice and either leave them as is or change them to a different sound, or taken the words from an online dictionary with a pronunciation guide that still would have sounded human. Instead I just use Amazon Kindle's text-to-speech, in all of its slurry and robotic glory, as a part of the effect. It’s dispassionate female voice with an odd attempt at a British accent.

That's what you hear come alive at 4:00 p.m. "Get out of your bed. Change into clothes in which you can exercise. Take off your socks so you don't slip. Get ready." Pause. "You will see lights flashing on the wall of the cell. You have to catch them, touch them with your hand, while they glow. They will flicker before they expire. Usually they will only be on very, very shortly. If you miss a yellow one, you get a level one zap to your teeth, one second. If you miss an orange one, you get a level two one, two seconds. If you miss a red one, three seconds, third level pain. Nasty."

And then the routine goes on. It's got an element of randomness built into it, and it goes in waves of difficulty. It starts easy. One light every five seconds or so that stays on for something like three seconds. Piece of cake in a cell like this. And they usually aren't at completely opposite ends of the cell, either. That changes though. The speed goes up, and up. When it peaks, fifteen minutes later, there's a light every two or three seconds, and it only flashes for two seconds, some, the yellow ones, only a second and a half, and they are more widely spread, just about everywhere you can reach in your cell. Some are on the floor, and some are quite high up the wall. And it's not uncommon to have a yellow one on one end very quickly followed by a red one on the opposite end, creating a risk that if you really try and catch them all, you'll end up with the bigger punishment and pain than if you skipped the yellow one in the first place.

They are usually a good distance apart, but sometimes really close, just to break up the pattern and to confuse you. They generally are one low, one high, so you have to really stretch and strain and exercise. The pain is delivered exactly as promised, mercilessly. All it takes for agony to ensue is a hesitation, tripping, or simply letting your thoughts drift and not paying enough attention. The game slows again. And then picks up an even madder pace. And slows down. Third peak of speed, almost hour later, doesn't go so frantic with speed alone, but introduces a new challenge, two balls of light appearing in two different spots nearby at all times, occasionally three. You have to use both your hands at once and sometimes a foot. And you have to keep turning and looking and leaping and figuring out how to stretch and take care of all those lights, the fading out of which if you don't touch them means pain. Lots of pain.

"Exercise over," announces the robotic voice. "Ten minutes rest. Then ten sets of five push ups. Ten sets of ten sit-ups, use the foot of bed to hook your feet. Ten sets of ten squats. Twenty minutes to finish all those. Then ten minutes rest before next exercise." Of course the push ups and such, especially to check you are not slacking off and doing them properly, I'll have to check on the camera, but that doesn't change the fact that it's just you and the robotic voice in your cell, driving you towards exhaustion, emotionless, robotic.

The last bit is a game I pre-coded ages ago and just made it a part of routine, something way too complex to have done in a night and an afternoon, it's the same for the rest; the light chasing game is something I had done before, inspired by videos of cats chasing laser pointers on YouTube, which now just came in handy. But this one is better.

"In the following challenge, no mistakes are allowed. A mistake will end the exercise, cut the lights and water supply and limit air flow, making the room unpleasant until master next comes and delivers punishment. For the next exercise, take off your clothes. Listen carefully to the following instructions. They will not be repeated. Yellow squares,” says the voice as a yellow square appears in the middle of the floor, “are safe to stand on. Orange ones are only safe to stand on if you are touching a yellow square on the wall. Squares will move, float, and not just around but up the walls, so you will need to jump and skip. Stepping on a black, unlit bit of floor is an end-game mistake, as is stepping on any other square then yellow without holding onto a yellow one. Stepping on other colored squares does not end the game, but will give you a tooth-shock, the strength of which varies with color and will not be explained to you. While the floor is still blue-gray, for three minutes, you are in a demo mode and can figure this out, get used to it. Once the floor is black, the game is on. Get set, go!"

This game is made infinitely harder by the toilet, sink, bed, chest, and whatever other mess was around in the tiny cell. You can’t step on those. And the yellow squares were precious few, there was always one, but often small and moving rather fast, moving in a mesmerising chaotic disarray, and once they reached the edge of the wall they floated up it. They also changed sizes, sometimes direction and often speed. There was a lot of skipping and hopping to be had. The pace was reasonable, one could almost call it slow, but it required constant attention nonetheless, and almost constant motion, albeit at a mere walking pace. And it went on, and on, and on.

Laura

I hold your spit in my mouth for a long time, tasting it and absorbing it. I can't be certain how my apology went, but at least you're not smacking me for speaking out of turn. The one thing I'm sure of is that my apology was sincere. Not only do I not like what I see in your face, my instincts tell me that I'm not going to like what happens if I truly have managed to succeed in getting under your skin. Plus, there is the lingering, added thought that it simply isn't nice to look somebody in the face and say that you hate them. Those were mean words. Even if I directed them to you -- my kidnapper, my rapist, my torturer -- it's not like me to say something like that. I wasn't raised that way. I don't want to become that person, even down here, even with you.

When you return with the dog food, I am resigned. With or without an apology, I knew I wasn't going to escape punishment, and having my diet limited is about the least that I expected. I hate the dog food -- especially the horrible, slimy stuff in the cans -- but it is edible, and I can eat it now without throwing up, even if sometimes I want to. ("Good girl, Laura. Laura's a good girl," I taunt myself with doggie praise.) What dismays me is how much of it you bring. Two weeks' worth of food is a lot of cans and pouches. ("Great, Laur'. Perfect. Nice work. Hope you enjoy," I taunt myself again.)

I listen resolutely to your next words, about making my butt better, and then about exercising. You intersperse those words with warnings about what I should say and how I should say it the next time you give me the opportunity to speak. But I already figured that one out on my own. ("How about maybe you don't set out to get him mad next time, Laur'? That didn't work out too well, now did it?") I will take the medicine and get my butt better. I'm curious about the exercise -- I kind of like exercise, and I probably need to do more off it down here. But there is something about the way you say it that doesn't ring quite right to my ears. You're saying the word exercise, but the way you're saying it, and the words that surround it, suggests that it will be much more than push ups and calisthenics. This worries me. The exercise you envision will take my mind off the bad thoughts that you think I am having. Suddenly, my blood runs cold and I shiver. ("He doesn't mean horseback riding, does he? On the wooden horse? Oh God please don't mean that kind of exercise. Please don't make me do that," my inner voice says, in a panic.)

Even before you bring me clothes -- utilitarian, functional clothes -- I can tell that something is different. Something is off. You have something planned for me, and I'm just as sure as I can be that I'm not going to like it. You may think that you can read me like a book, but I can read some things about you now, too. I've been studying everything about you for a while now. I know when your moods shift. But I haven't seen this one before. This mood is different. More calculating. In my view, more sinister. Like you already have decided to do something -- something major -- and I don't know what it is. And not knowing what it is makes me fearful. Very fearful.

I'm to wear clothes now, but it's not a privilege. It's not a reward. When I get to wear bright Designal outfits it usually means a fancy dinner, a movie, a dance recital, or even a date. These clothes are a punishment, like the dog food. They are boring, unfashionable, little more than serviceable. I can't figure out why you want me to wear them, or wear anything for that matter. They're almost worse than being naked. ("They are worse than being naked, girlfriend. They're punishment clothes. He's so mad he doesn't even want to see you naked.") When you leave, I instantly feel lonely. And alone. More alone than I've felt since my first few days here. I have a suspicion that you don't plan to return for a long time. With the food you left me, it could be a long, long time before you come back.

It is a long time. The afternoon drags on, then the evening. I am bored, yes, but worst of all I am worried. How badly has the train gone off the rails? Just how mad at me are you? If you don't want to see my body or do sex stuff with me, what am I going to do? Or, better question, what are you going to make me do? And when are you coming back? I count 15 cans of dog food, and like quantities of the other canine edibles. You could be gone for two weeks. Or more. And that worries me. It worries me a lot. ("You might go insane, Laur'. Remember what he said? Remember what happens to people when they lock them in a jail cell all alone, forever?")

When you return the next morning, I am relieved, but there is no greeting. I scurry off the bed at your gesture, and stand. You've been working out. You look sweaty and less than clean. I strip my clothes off on command, without the slightest hesitation, but you hardly look at me.

Despite your sweaty body I am eager to suck you, and I proceed with vigor. I kneel. I lean in. My lips and tongue lovingly caress and tease your cock before I take the familiar, bulbous head in my mouth and swirl my tongue over your sensitive glans. My tongue dances and darts around your cockhead as I wet your phallus with saliva and slowly lower my mouth and throat onto your shaft. I am determined to give you the best blow job of my young life. An apology blow job, if you will. A blow job that is so stupendously good that you'll forgive me, and realize how much I can do for you, how much pleasure I can bring.

But you barely even react to my mouth. There are no satisfied groans nor sighs from you. No twitching or flexing of your penis like I am so accustomed to. For the first time in a long time, I can't even tell what part of what I am doing is enjoyable to you. I take your entire member into my mouth and throat, resting for a long while with my nose in your sweaty pubic bush, willing my throat to spasm around your fleshy cock. But still I get no reaction. None. Not a groan or a sigh, not a held breath. Nothing.

I perform fellatio on you to the best of my ability, even adding little oral flourishes to my effort, but nothing works. I can't even tell you are close to cumming until just before you do. When your cum spurts into my mouth and throat, the same volume is there, the same taste is there, but there is no passion in the delivery. It is a perfunctory orgasm, joyless, more like pumping gas into a car than ejaculating semen into my mouth. Your lack of enthusiasm concerns me. I throw myself into cleaning your shaft and balls, ignoring the musky, sweaty taste and concentrating instead on making it pleasurable for you. But as soon as I’m finished, without further delay, you stand and leave. Part of me was hoping that you would want to get off again this morning. But you don't. You simply depart.

The rest of the day is a bore. I brush the cum taste out of my mouth, then replace it with a packet of dog treats for breakfast. I clean myself at the sink. I dress. I am bored out of my mind. I eat a lunch of dry kibble. I remain bored. At 4:00 p.m. I am startled out of my bed by the sound of your voice. I stand, turning my head, trying to find the speaker. I remove my socks as ordered, change into workout clothes, and listen to the directions. It doesn't seem hard. And aside from the shock part, it almost seems like it might be fun. (You may be locked in it most of the time, Laur', but you hafta admit -- the cell is pretty cool, huh?") It will be something to do, anyway.

It doesn't take long for me to realize, however, that my exercise is not just exercise. It also is punishment, as well as pain and torment. As I scurry about my cell, my eyes are wide, focused on the next appearance of a colored tile. My bare feet convey me about the cell. I am moving quickly. Sprinting. Trying to catch the tiles because failure means pain. It's as simple as that. My jaw and teeth sing with pain. The worst are the red ones. Yellow is tolerable, orange is worse, but red . . . red is not to be trifled with. I don't miss the red ones, not if I can avoid it, anyway.

Within 15 minutes or so I am tired, damp with perspiration, and mentally fatigued. I scurry about the cell, gasping as my jaw jolts with pain. You have made it so I can't get them all. No matter how hard I try, some of them are impossible to get to. I have to let some yellows go. The yellows light up my jaw for a brief period, but the pain is tolerable. More like a mini tooth-ache. Orange is longer. Sharper. Gasp-inducing. I try not to miss those. Red is bad. Stop-me-in-my-tracks bad, which makes getting to the next tile more difficult.

By the end of the hour, I am very tired, both mentally and physically. I’m very thirsty, and I drink a lot of water. I have 10 minutes before my other exercises start. Push ups, and endless sit ups on the hard floor. Squats. Over and over. When I finish with them I am tired, sore, and in need of a break, but my form was decent, even good. ("He's prolly watching you, Laur',” I remind myself.) I take another drink. I am gasping and panting. I've gotten out of shape since I was abducted. I'm tired. Very tired. I've been on my feet for a long time. I want to lie down.

But there is yet another exercise. Or is it a game? It begins slowly. In fact, it stays slow. Doable. But chasing that yellow square is hard. It moves. It climbs the walls. I have to plot its course, plan my moves. If I get confused, or distracted, I get a shock. I already had a headache from the repeated shocks, and now it’s becoming a migraine. The pain in my head makes it harder to concentrate. I continue, but so do the shocks. The green ones are worst by far. Any color green -- lime, forest, whatever. They all hurt. A lot.

Worst of all is that this "game" goes on an on. And on. And on. Early in my captivity, throughout my captivity, you have demonstrated an amazing patience, a seemingly inexhaustible capacity to countenance the mundane. But this is automated. So it also can be truly endless. I chase the yellow square about the cell, stumbling and reaching to avoid the shocks. I will dream about squares tonight. Yellow squares especially. My head and jaw hurt. I am wet with perspiration and my hair is stringy. Still it goes on and on. Slow enough for me to keep playing, but my fatigue is starting to show.

And then it happens. Suddenly. My brain signals cross as I follow a fairly simple yellow square sequence. My brain tells me that the yellow will appear where a black unlit floor square is now. I plan to step on it with confidence. But the yellow square continues normally up the wall. I am too tired and mentally drained to change my plan. ("Why did you think it was going to go there, you idiot? You just lost the game, after all that.") Unable to stop myself, I step on the unlit black square . . .

Marcus

The lights flicker. There is a miserable "dn-d-dun" sound of failure, like what you might have heard in an old TV quiz show if you ever stumbled upon one. The cell goes dark; only the security lights are on. No more light. No more water. And the fresh air supply chokes down to a trickle. It will give you enough oxygen to survive, without even any risk for your health, but the stuffy, sweaty smelly air from here will all keep coming back, so the cell will be as damp and smelly and unpleasant all night as it is now. And the temperature will drop, not drastically, but just enough to make the smell further unpleasant, to be stuffy at a temperature at which it normally has no right to be stuffy. And that's that. Evening and night. And a good bit of the morning. Just darkness. Dullness. Stench. And stuffiness, heaviness, clinginess of air that makes it all even harder and more oppressing.

I do lots and lots of shopping -- someone actually asks me if I expect the winter to come back or the world to end, which I laugh off and just say I'm gonna be busy with work and want no distractions -- and arrange for deliveries to the shed at the gate of the property, all pre-paid, so I can minimize my contact with the world. I didn't wash so I didn't look great (or smell great for that matter) which makes my story of being erratically busy plausible. I work out some more when I come back and so it's approaching noon when the lights in your cell finally brighten up and fresh air gushes in and the dull, awful "game over" state of your cell is finally done with. You have about twenty minutes to catch up on stuff. I take a shit in that time, and intentionally only give myself a basic wipe, not bothering to make a perfect job with the paper. For what I have planned for you I want my ass to smell, and I want there to be at last a small visible trace, a smear, that shows this kind of sloppiness.

When I walk into the cell it's fresh again, even the water started flowing so you could have a drink and flush the toilet and all that to make it, and you, presentable. The time was tight, twenty minutes tops, but if you remember you are not allowed to have bad breath, bad hair, or a bad smell when I return. I come in in my workout clothes, smelly, noticeably worse than yesterday, and with a long, thin black cane in my hand. Not a natural one; this one is from a special sort of plastic. It can reach very high speeds very fast, and can be flicked against skin with agonizing intensity from a mere inch or two away, which makes it perfect for hitting sensitive, fragile spots when accuracy counts.

"That's twenty strokes for failing the game," I announce, straight to the point, as if you lost the game five minutes ago instead of the 15 hours it has been since your cell went dark. "Strip." I then briefly examine you, to check that you obeyed and sponged yourself down as best as you could. You get five more strokes for each and any sign of unpleasant smell or dirt on your body. I check that you kept taking the medicine, three times a day, lots of the cream should be gone and four more suppositories at least. If not, there will be more strokes for each dose missed. Five more if you don’t have a clean set of those utilitarian clothes on. I announce the count each time it goes up and state the reason. Skipping any of your dog food, five more. I'm obsessive. Precise. Not interested in excuses and apologies. I slap you, just to test your reflexes, to make sure you still remember the correct response to that. If your “thank you, sir,” doesn't come immediately that's five for the “thank you,” and five for the “sir.”

Then it is off to the dungeon. We head straight to a low stool with a big hole in the sitting part that I don't have to explain to you anymore. It’s a rimming stool, and we’ve used it before. You go under, of course, face up. I take off my clothes, then make you bend your legs so your heels are right under your knees, and your knees wide apart. I flick the cane in the air and it makes a sharp, hollow "whhhhhht" sort of sound. A part of the sound is missing, though -- the biting "tsh" it will make against your skin.

"The rules are easy, “ say. “I will now deliver the punishment," as the cane touches your pussy to dispel any doubts there still might be about just where the cane will be landing. "You will keep your knees wide apart, no less than foot apart. And your hips in the air, tilting your pussy towards me to make my job easier. And the whole time, you will be licking, cleaning and rimming my ass," I conclude and then add, rather importantly. "Hits during or straight after which you close your knees don't count. Hits that you don't come and greet -- for which your butt doesn't leave the floor -- don't count. Hits during which your tongue isn't on or inside my butthole don't count." So if you mess up a lot, we'll be here for a long time, and your pussy will be a bloody mess at the end. That’s basically the point that I don't explicitly spell out; you're smart enough to figure it out and if you somehow don't, you will get it soon, once you feel what this little plastic punisher is capable of. I'm confident of that. Certain of it, in fact.

I correct, perfect, and adjust your position and then slowly sit down on your upturned face to give you a good opportunity to see the state of the hole that you'll be worshipping throughout your punishment. When I’m situated and ready, with my ass directly over your face, I smack the cane down over on your upraised little pussy, straight in line with the top-to bottom axis of your body, and it goes "whht-tsh" right on your slit, the actual line between your folds, and yes, in case there was any doubt, right over your clit -- demonstrating to you that it's good for other things than being licked and stroked and played with gently. I watch as your legs quiver and then close, and your tummy heaves from the pain. Your mouth disengages from my ass with a muffled little yelp of pain. That one doesn’t come close to counting, which I tell you. Your body sinks down, and I wait -- very patiently, if I might say -- for your hips to lift your pussy up to greet my next blow. You’d better not take too long, however, and fortunately for you, you don’t. Before long the cane hits you again, exactly the same. I feel your little tongue licking my ass, but your legs close once again, only to flap open like a bird’s wings, and close once more. That one doesn’t count, either.

We continue like this for a while, and eventually you learn to keep your legs parted. I continue to use the cane as you continue to rim my ass. My pace is slow, and varied. I’m in no hurry, and I don’t want you to be able to predict when the next blow will come. I’m enjoying the feel of your tongue licking my hole, so I make you hold your pussy up for a good long while until I am good and ready to hurt it. Even when your legs don’t close anymore after I hit you -- smart girl! -- the quivering, flinching, pain-filled reaction of your smooth, girlish body to each blow of the cane is intoxicating to me. My cock is jutting up my groin at the sight. There is no hiding the fact that I love this, not that you can see my arousal from your prone position on the floor. I love the sound that the cane makes on your delicate, hairless little pussy. When I go for the whole of your slit, leaving red marks from your perineum to roughly your clit, the sound is more hollow, like “whht-tch.” But when I aim specifically for your clit, marking the upper bit and your mound, it's more like “fft-sh.”

I deliver the first ten strokes without changing the left to right position or angle one bit, probably making you believe that vertical smacks straight over your clit are all there will be. But if I actually kept that up through the entire punishment you would soon pass out. Your little child clit already is swelling and showing more prominently, making each new stroke harder and harder to bear. And so I go to the left and right of it, and deliver a few strokes at an angle, making a star of lines over your pussy that all meet and cross right under your clit. In short order your pussy is very, very red. More like purple actually. We are at twenty strokes, the original punishment, and I pause. Now it's onto the extras, which more than double the original punishment. Many of these will be delivered in the original manner, over that little pear which is now swollen and out of its hood, a nasty shade of red, and oh-so-easy to hit.

And you still have to lick, and keep your knees apart, and your butt up off the ground. No mercy. No compromise. No lenience. If I have to hit you three, four times before I count one, so be it. I will. You asked for it, and I’m happy to oblige you It's been almost 48 hours now since we spoke, since I touched your hair, your face, or any part of you. The new regime is on. You wanna hate it here? Fine, let me make that easy for you. It’s certainly easy enough for me.

Laura

I knew my foot was going to the wrong spot as soon as I willed it to go there, but it was too late. I couldn’t stop it. The message to move it there had been transmitted from my brain and my eyes watched in horror – almost in slow motion – as my foot alighted on the darkened square. And then . . . the universal, three-note sound of failure, semi-darkness, and stillness. For the past several hours, I have chased little squares around my cell. Running, squatting, looking, always alert. And now it’s over. Suddenly. Completely. The contrast is vivid. I know even before I try it that the faucet won’t work, or the toilet. But because I’m terribly thirsty, I check them anyway, navigating in the near-darkness of the security lights, just to confirm. There’s water in the bowl of the toilet, and for a brief second I consider kneeling and drinking it, but I don’t. As thirsty as I am, I still have some pride.

I’m tired. I haven’t had this much exercise since I arrived here, and in the two weeks since I was abducted I have fallen out of shape. I step back to my bed and sit down on the edge, still breathing a bit heavily from my exertions. You made it clear that I would be punished for failure, and I have nothing to do now except await your return. Sitting in the darkness I can feel the stillness of the air. I don’t know much of anything about ventilation but I can tell when the air in my cell is off. There is a finality to the stillness. And of course the air itself changes. It becomes heavier. Damper. Uncomfortable.

I sit there, still, in the darkness, waiting for you. Somehow I’m sure that as soon as I lie down you’ll enter my cell and either order or pull me off the bed for my punishment. I don’t want that. I want to stand up on my own as you enter, and face you, and accept my punishment stoically., bravely. So I sit. Time passes. I wait. I know that you will come just as soon as I lie back on the bed. So I wait more. My legs dangle and kick occasionally, then in rhythm to a Justin Bieber tune as I sing along in my mind. Then they just dangle again.

Nearly an hour has passed in complete quiet and utter solitude. The air in the cell is clammy, stuffy, and cold. The body heat from my exercise routine has worn off, and I am feeling a bit cold. I give up. I lie back on the bed and pull the blanket over me, placing my head down on the pillow. Somehow I know that you won’t be coming now. It’s not like you. Punishments here are either immediate or long-deferred. The time for an immediate punishment has passed. The interval for a long-deferred punishment has not yet lasted long enough. You think I don’t pick up on things down here, but I do. When a single person becomes the center of your universe, it’s hard to misread his tendencies. It’s like a married couple that has been together for 40 years, except it doesn’t take anywhere near 40 years to notice tendencies when your Master is the only person you see, day after day after day.

I don’t fall asleep immediately. Oddly, despite all my exercise, I’m not even all that tired. I crawled under the blanket because I was cold. I might as well lie down because there’s nothing else to do. But I’m not tired. I’m more contemplative. I think about the cell walls, the squares, the patterns as they replay over and over again in my mind. The cell is dark but my eyes are open and I still can see the squares -- moving, appearing, disappearing. I have to give you credit that my cell is amazing (“Yeah, and he did all this before you got here, Laur’. He got it ready for you. Maybe not just you, either. Maybe there were other kids before you. Maybe there will be other kids after you.”) My thoughts don’t worry me this night. What has happened has happened. What will happen will happen. Slowly but surely, any thought that I have control over myself or my fate is draining from my mind the longer I stay in this place. The change is so gradual that sometimes I don’t even realize it is happening.

I am aware that your demeanor has changed since I told you that I hated you. You promised that I could say anything I wanted and I did. And now you’re being extra mean and unfair because I said those things. (“No he’s not, Laur’. He didn’t punish you for saying it, but do you expect him to like it? How would you like it if someone you loved said that to you?”) I feel a pang of guilt for what I said. Not because I didn’t mean it, not because you said you love me, but because it’s just not something that I would normally say. Not to anyone. (“It was mean, Laur’. Even if he's a crazy sex pervert person he told you that he loved you and you told him you hated him. How do you think he’s gonna feel?”)

I feel bad. I actually feel worse about what I said than I do about the obvious consequences that have attached to saying it. As I lie there in the darkness I feel like I want to apologize again – somehow doing it so that you know that I’m not apologizing because you’re being meaner -- you can even keep being meaner if you want -- but because I shouldn’t have said what I said in the first place, even to you. (“Yeah, that will do the trick, Laur’. Tell him that you’re sorry for saying mean things -- even to him. Be sure to tell him just like that: ‘Even to you.’ Yup. Good plan.”)

Finally, I drift off to sleep, and I sleep for a long, long time. It is a restful sleep. The exercise has made me tired and very thirsty. I get up once more in the darkness to try the sink, but the water still is off. I paddle over to the toilet but it still won’t flush, and now that I have peed in it there is no hope of slaking my thirst from the bowl. I return to bed, curl up in the still-warm center, and fall back asleep. Despite the clammy, cold, non-functioning condition of the cell, I sleep soundly this time, straight through until morning.

When the lights go up again I squint, rub my eyes, and sit up. I can feel the cell coming back to life; not just the lights, but the air circulation, and I know even before I try the tap that the water is back on. I sit up with a little groan, swing my legs over the edge, and yawn. I raise my arms over my head with another little groan and stretch. I stand. My legs feel a little tired. (“Yeah, you ran around for like hours, yesterday, girlfriend.”) I paddle over to the toilet, squat, and pee quickly. (“He’s watching you, Laur’,” I tell myself. “It’s almost time for your punishment now.”) Then I head to the sink, and drink three full glasses of water in quick succession.

I stand, and face the door. I just want to be stoic about what is to come. But you don’t come. I wait for a few minutes, standing and shuffling my feet. But you still don’t come. So about 10 minutes after the lights go up, I decide to start my day. I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I take the suppositories. I take off all of my workout clothes except my shirt and sit on the bed, cross-legged, naked from the waist down, Indian-style. I try to peer down at my bottom underneath my privates, but I can’t really see. I touch my butthole. It is sore, like it always is after you use it for sex, but it’s not burning. I take some cream and rub it around down there. I’m not sure what, exactly, is wrong with my bottom and made it bleed like that. (“It’s the inside part, Laur’. There’s all sorts of stuff inside your bottom like your stomach, and your kidneys are in there, and prolly your lungs and stuff.”) I’m not sure about anatomy, and I’m not sure what I did, but I remember how mad you were and how . . . scared you looked.

When I am finished cleaning my butthole I pad my way over to the chest, and select a pair of functional cotton panties, plain white. I am in the process of stepping into them as the door swishes open and you enter the cell. I was planning to be stoic when you arrived, but a little wave of fear crosses my face as I stand up. I still have my t-shirt on from yesterday, and now my panties. Somehow, despite the fact that you have seen my naked body scores of times now, not to mention had sex with me in every orifice, it feels strange to stand there, before you, with no bottoms on over my panties. I cross my hands in front of my sex nervously as I eye the thin plastic cane in your hand. I can tell from the growth of your facial hair that you have not shaved in a couple of days. It is not clear that you have bathed, either, and in any event I can tell from your clothing and your hair that you recently have worked out. (“He’s gonna be all sweaty and stinky when you do sex stuff, Laur’,” I warn myself. “Get ready to give him a tongue bath.”)

You announce my punishment and order me to strip. I succeed in being stoic about it as I skin the t-shirt off my shoulders right in front of you and remove my panties, leaving me fully naked once again. My hands are at my sides now, my hairless cunny fully exposed to your gaze. (“You’re so strange, Laura V.,” I tell myself, as the irony of my now-uncovered exposure is not lost on me.) Despite the cruel-looking little whip in your hand, 20 strokes is not so bad; I’ve had worse. I am quiet during your inspection. I haven't bathed or even attempted to, so the original 20 soon goes to 25, to 30, to 35, and to 40. (“That’s not fair,” I think to myself. “I didn’t have enough time to get ready. I didn’t know I was ‘sposed to.”) As I contemplate the unfairness of your inspection you slap me. Your blow surprises me, and turns my head to the side, but I make no effort to protect myself from another one, and my immediate response – before I even make the conscious decision to speak – is “Thank you, sir,” in a whispered, rough, first-words-I-spoke-this-morning kind of voice. As your inspection proceeds 40 goes to 45, to 50, finally capping out at 65. I’ve not had that many strokes of the cane before. The thought does not reassure me.

It gets harder and harder to be stoic as you lead me into the dungeon to the stool. I know that stool. It’s like a toilet, but it’s not. It’s too low. It’s a butt-licking stool. I know it. I’ve used it. Or, rather, I’ve been under it. And that’s exactly where I go now. As I look up through the bottom of the seat where you will sit and present your ass to me, I am quiet. I look resigned and unhappy. I adjust as you guide me into the proper position, my arms at my sides. I tuck my heels up to my butt, exposing my cunny and pubic mound to you. As you instruct me I practice arching my butt and hips off the floor a few times, repositioning my heels to assist in the motion. Each upward undulation of my hips causes my thigh muscles to go taut; my pussy arches upward, exposed, my slit separating a tiny bit with each exertion.

You touch the end of the whip to my sex and I know where the strokes will go. I am under no illusions about the small whip. It will hurt, and sting, and I know that with every fiber of my body. I’m trying so hard to be stoic. I had promised myself that I would be stoic. But the 65-stroke count, the vicious appearance of the whip, elaborate preparations for my punishment, the numerous rules and penalties associated with it, the knowledge of what is to come -- the Hell that is to come – weighs heavily on my mind. I am very unhappy. I am dreading this. I no longer feel like being stoic. Right now, I just feel like crying. It’s not supposed to be this way when you’re 11. I should be in reading class right now with Mrs. Woodson, not lying underneath this chair so I can lick your butthole while you whip me on my private parts. It’s not fair! It’s not fair that you can do this to me! I fight back tears. (“So much for just taking it, girlfriend. Wimp!” I taunt myself.)

As I look up I see – I can’t help but see – your ass as you prepare to sit. The crinkly hairs around your hole look disheveled, somehow thicker, unclean. Your hole itself does not look super clean, which means it’s dirty, which means . . . . I shudder. I hate this. I don’t want to do this at all. I want to wake up from this nightmare. I want to go home. But none of that is going to happen. Nothing is going to stop it. (“You just have to get through it,” the little voice tells me, for once helpfully.) I force myself to tilt my head the right way as you lower yourself, making sure that my mouth is positioned to access the sunken center in the cleft of your ass where your butthole is. My arms remain helplessly at my sides, my fingers clenched into fists, as I take a last breath and you lower your ass to my mouth. My tongue alights on your stuffy, sweaty, crinkly-haired asshole and begins to wet it, the first step in the process of rimming you. I taste what is there to taste. The sweat, the skin, the musk, the gritty remnants of your last bowel movement. You feel my tongue as it swirls and whorls, wetting your hole, cleaning it at the same time, preparing it for penetration. As I begin to lick, I arch my hips off the floor, presenting my spread privates to you for punishment.

The first strike of the whip sends a searing, electric, painful jolt through my entire body. I am surprised at the intensity, and my hips slam back to the ground as I emit a little muffled yip and my tongue stops its work on your anus. My legs clamshell together as the pain burns and I try to grind my pussy lips together to extinguish the fire. My tongue retracts into my mouth and both of my arms bend at the elbows and fly up, my hands open as if to ward off my assailant. But my assailant is you. And you are seated comfortably, incontrovertibly, on my face. I can do nothing to ward you off, or protect my cunny, or stop the pain. You calmly advise me that the first stroke does not count. (“And if you don’t get your tongue on his butthole the next one won’t count, either!”) I remind myself.

Hurriedly, I return my tongue to its unsavory task, and begin to lick and wet your sunken orifice. With an uncertain wobble, my hips rise off the floor to greet another blow, then lower again, then finally rise. I don’t want another blow. My cunny is burning already after just one! My eyes water with tears of pain and unfairness. 65? You’re gonna do 65? On my privates? The next strike of the whip hits in almost the exact same place. I yelp in pain into the cleft of your ass as my hips thud to the floor and my knees open and slam together, open and slam, open and slam, in an effort to ward off the searing pain. It doesn’t work. My cunny burns and burns, bringing tears to my eyes once again. Not tears of unfairness this time, but tears of pain. Bright hot, searing, little-girl pain. My cunny burns and burns. I knew this would be Hell, but this is worse than Hell. And it hasn’t even started. You tell me that the second stroke doesn't count, either. Of course it doesn't -- I closed my legs not once but three times as I reacted to the pain.

My tummy heaves with distress as my tongue returns to your asshole and I lift my hips once again, reluctantly spreading my legs apart, exposing my inflamed slit. My hands clench and unclench with my arms beside my body as I tremble, afraid, dreading the next blow. (“Oh, please! Please! Hit some other part this time!” I silently beg you.) I can taste a gritty filth in my mouth as I lick. I can’t see. My world is reduced to my face buried between the muscular cheeks of your ass and the burning, searing pain in my pussy as I await for the next strike of the whip to land on my most sensitive part.

My punishment goes on and on, seemingly endlessly. Blow after blow alights on my pussy; yelp after muffled yelp emits from underneath you. Some of the blows count; many don't. Through it all I lick and clean your asshole, licking away your filth, cleaning, tasting, smelling. My world is darkness. My world is pain. My world is your warm, sweaty ass. It actually helps, just a little bit, to have the movements of my tongue to think about as I begin to spear it in and out of your rectum. As I lick, I writhe and sob beneath you as my torture continues.

When it is over, finally over, it is a very unhappy, very weepy, very distraught red-faced girl whose teary-eyed face emerges from underneath you. My eyes are red and glassy. My cheeks and nose and chin are wet with perspiration and tinged pink from my prolonged time in the cleft of your ass. My cunny is inflamed and purple, my puffy folds swollen to twice their normal size. I look quite unhappy, looking up at you with a boo boo face from underneath the ring of the rimming stool.

Marcus

Oh boy, oh boy. Well, actually, oh girl, but you know what I mean. You really aren't good at this particular punishment game. I only count the “real” strokes, those for which you greet me properly and keep your open, but I have a faint idea that I've only counted something like one in three on average. Which would explain why your pussy is looking the way it is looking now. My best guess is I have delivered two hundred strokes. Two hundred times, the thin, flexible, mean cane has landed on your crotch. Mostly right over your slit, making your folds, both inner and outer, as well as your clit, drastically swollen. Your pussy looks awful. Purple. Blue. Dark red. It's puffy, too, almost like when you put yeast in dough and let it rise. It's incredible, really, that I somehow managed not to break the skin and make it bleed. There is bruising that is almost shiny and blood-red, but nothing actually trickles from there. You crawl out from under me, my pucker, by then, rimmed and polished beyond perfection.

You climb up from under the chair. One unhappy little girl, one very happy man. Somehow I really can't bring myself to feel sorry for you. I don't feel even a shadow of an echo of compassion or tenderness just now. Did your heated, passionate declaration of hatred kill something in me? Or did it just stifle a flame that will need to be rekindled? You better hope it was the latter. I promised you that I wouldn’t punish you for your outburst, but I didn’t say that it would have no effect on me. Right now, I look at you, and even a granite rock would take pity on you, but I won’t. Any compassion that I once had for you is gone. You had better hope that the change is only temporary, because I thoroughly enjoy hurting you. In fact, hurting you wantonly, even casually, is more like the real me. Right now, I could grab your hand, snap one of your fingers, and still not feel sorry for you. I pay attention to this odd, detached, extreme state of cruelty for a while as I observe you, with some curiosity. You don't make my heart melt like you did before. You amuse me. Right now, you’re just a toy for me to play with. I wanna get off and I will use you to do it. I sit on the leather sofa and gesture for you to kneel in front of me.

"Remember my favorite video?" I ask. It was weeks ago now; you will remember it, though. It was especially formative; introducing you to our first sex act ever. "As usually, rules of the game are simple, but strict," I state. "You suck. Hands behind your back, strictly. I may instruct you, the way you've been trained, to swallow or gag and so on. When I push you off and slap you, you will thank me and politely ask for a permission to suck on. The game is over when my cock goes totally limp and can't rise any more. All mess will be swallowed, and you will clean me up thoroughly at the end. Any deviation from the rules, and I will fuck your red-hot swollen pussy like a stallion, hard and brutal, which will be about as unpleasant as it sounds, I bet," I smirk.

There is no break. No pause. I grab your twin tails, and I make you take the whole of my needy, eager, nearly nine-inch cock at this super-aroused state down your mouth, throat, oesophagus. I wiggle it, turn it a bit left, bit right, push your knees away from me to improve the angle, and pull again, until your lips are circling the very root of my cock. I couldn't stuff my cock any deeper in your mouth, not without cutting it off and feeding it to you. I'm fully and thoroughly hilted in, three, maybe four seconds into the session, your nose and cheeks and eyes pressed into my dark, crinly pubes, your lower lip and chin against my balls.

"Lick my balls," I demand, and give your hair another tug to make it obvious that I mean for it to happen like this, while you are choking on my cock, not as a some kind of break or respite. I watch your face darken nastily as I pull you off tortuously slowly, looking for just the place where you can gasp in at least a small, struggled breath and stay that deep, so you have to steal panicky, tight, barely-sufficient half-breaths around my thick shaft. You don't get a chance to lick my piss slit and do your teasing magic today. I alternate between choking you, hilted down your throat, and half-choking you, with the tip of my cock in your throat but not deep enough to stop you from breathing through your nose a bit. I never pull out far enough to allow you a good breath. Not until you start looking like you are actually on the verge of passing out, at which point I push you out and away, finally freeing your airways fully, only to slap you hard enough to make stars dance in your vision. It's not a play slap or a teaching slap; it's a hard, mean, abusive slap that will likely leave a bruise on your cheek. I wait for the correct response, ready to hit you again if you hesitate or make poor effort, equally ready to push you over and plunge myself balls deep in your very nearly destroyed pussy if you mess up big time. You don’t, so I merely plunge my cock back down your throat once again.

A shudder runs down my back. I'm a god. A god of life and death. You have been tamed, conquered. You no longer have unbroken will of your own. It took a while, longer than I expected, but in fairness I’ve been using you carefully, preserving you for the long term. But now I feel unrestrained. You hate me? You hate it here? You have no idea how bad it can get, girl. None. You have no idea how deep my sadistic streak runs. You couldn’t even begin to know. With these thoughts in mind, I hilt myself in your throat and hold. And hold. And hold. I keep a firm grip on your hair, and show you that even ten out of ten stars cocksucking skills won’t help you now. I make you, quite deliberately, pass out, choking on my cock. I pull out straight after and slap your face until you come round, but there is no mercy, no apology, no recuperation time. My cock slides back into your shocked, unprepared mouth while you are still gasping and coughing. I hilt myself in again, and pull out and slap you so hard it's really more luck than anything else that I don't knock a tooth out.

"You forgot something," I say coldly and this time wait for your “thank you, sir,” and your “please let me suck your cock some more,” before plugging your mouth up again with my shaft. I intentionally grab your hair near your skull up above your ear where it hurts, and yank to and fro, mercilessly, but a little less deeply this time, which allows you some room to breathe. Very little, but it’s something. I continue to yank your head down my shaft at a quick, mechanical, steady pace until I blow a load. I slow down as I cum and thrust myself back in deeply for a while, my cock slightly decreasing in size as I feed you my sperm.

We stay like that for a while, with my spent, softening cock deep in your mouth. No rest for you. You stay in position, awaiting my decision. After a while, when I feel good to go once again, I shift onto the edge of the sofa, lift myself up a bit and for a change, rather than your hair, I grip your skull between my hands firmly, and start face-fucking you. I pull your head hard against me until I’m all the way in, then push you away so they are good, deep thrusts. I go brutal, I go wild, I go messy. I hump your face, pump against it, phlegm and snot and cum and precum frothing up, mixing, foaming. I pump and pump and pump. I use you like an object. Like a thing. Like a slick, wet, warm friction around my cock. You are nothing more, less than an animal, even. More like a toy. Just a single-purpose thing. I cum for the second time and somehow do it just as the tip of my cock is sliding past where your gag reflex should be, or is, even though you have learned to suppress it and switch it off on command, just as you sneeze around the shaft, which results in all the cum being forced into your nose and shooting out of it like snot. It looks hilarious. I laugh. But it will not make your job any easier because for some time, until the cum turns runny and dribbles and leaks out, your nose is clogged, much like if you had a nasty cold. Out goes my cock again, and wham! Another whole-handed, loud, resounded slap to your face. And soon after, my cock, briefly diminished but still more than eager to rise again soon, is returned to your poor, over-used mouth.

"Okay," I muse, as if giving you a respite, allowing you a break, doing you a favor. "Next one can be done with tongue over and under the piss slit so your throat can rest some. But if you stop licking, you will be punished. Obviously, I mean, I didn't even have to say that, did I?" and I lean back and relax. A tongue-gasm, a subtle, long-winded way of getting off even when I'm fresh, but after two cumshots in a row, you are in for a loooong, laborious effort. This could easily take an hour. And if you get too tired to keep up a good job before you get me off, it could go on forever, or until I get too annoyed and go from enjoyment to punishment mode. I give you no tissue, no chance to blow your nose, wipe your face, anything. This is a your-mouth-is-a-slave-to-my-cock session, and there are no small mercies to be had. Not this time. As your tongue starts to slide over my piss slit, I take advantage of briefly not being fully erect, and relax and empty my bladder into your mouth, my piss very, very warm and rather strong-tasting today.

Laura

I am teary-eyed and weepy as I crawl out from under the rimming stool. I can't stop crying. I walk funny, stiff and hunched over, sobbing, as the pain in my pussy burns and burns and burns. I delicately cup the swollen, inflamed flesh of my mound and slit in my right hand, and cover that hand with my left, wincing, with a mortified expression. I don't want the swollen folds to rub against my thighs, as the slightest friction with them causes my very swollen privates to burn with pain.

Beyond my physical pain, I am emotional and very upset. You've never punished me this severely for something so trivial as stepping on the unlit square during the chase-the-moving-lights game. You warned me that I would be punished, true, and I expected to be punished, yes, but I did not expect you to turn my privates into a swollen, burning kaleidoscope of painful colors and tortured skin. You've punished me far less severely than this for far greater infractions. I didn't expect this. I couldn't believe how long it lasted. Every slice of the cane brought agony to me, punctuated by my muffled yelps of surprise and pain from underneath you, my face buried in the cleft of your ass as I dutifully cleaned your asshole with my tongue. I couldn't help but close my legs, and often failed to rise to greet the cane. Those blows didn't count, more than doubling my original punishment, actually tripling it.

I am very, very sorry that I said what I said when you gave me permission to speak. It is quite clear that you are treating me more harshly as a direct result of what I said. To my horror, I am learning that what I thought was a miserable, wretched existence before was a veritable vacation compared to what you can do to me if you're angry. And I have made you angry and offended you. Both states have persisted for a couple of days now, and I'm not liking the consequences. Not one bit. I want things to go back to the way they were. I'm quite sure that I'll be more . . . appreciative of what I had then. If I ever get the chance to have it again.

Worst of all is the realization that there is no way I can stop this, no way I can prevent the punishment, no way I can avoid the pain. Just like I realized during my time on the wooden horse that I could not give up, check out, or die, having my pussy flayed alive while I cleaned your ass with my tongue under the rimming stool has reminded me very vividly, and very effectively, that things down here can get considerably worse if I don't mind my words, behavior, and attitude. I know this now. I get it. You can put me to what essentially is unlimited pain, and I can't do a thing about it other than suffer. The realization that there is no limit to my suffering -- that it could be constant, severe, infinite -- is very sobering. It's a wake-up call, that's for sure.

I drop to my knees on command and crawl to you, still sobbing, and still hurting, and still sporting a boo-boo face. I want to apologize. I want to sob out a stammering, heartfelt apology and beg you for forgiveness. Yet . . . there is something about your eyes, your demeanor, your very aura that tells me not only that my pleas will fall on deaf ears, but that I will be ruthlessly punished for the attempt, for violating the rules if I dare to speak out of turn. Your eyes look dark. Heartless. Soulless. Whereas I used to see a sparkle, a glimmer of humanity, now I see nothing but coldness and ruthlessness. Your eyes terrify me. It is as if every vestige of humanity has left your body. I have no idea whether it will return. I want my old Master back. I want him back very badly.

I remember the video well. The one that played over and over. I remember the soundtrack to it, the slaps, the little girl who reminded me of Mary Caldwell. How she sucked, and endured, and begged to suck on. How she thanked the man for slapping her. And those weren't love taps; they were full-on, heavy-hitting smacks that turned her head around and reddened her cheeks. But she made no move to defend herself. Her hands never moved from behind the small of her back. She thanked the man for hitting her. I remember being mortified and astonished by that. I couldn't pry my eyes away from the sight of her. That video preceded my first-ever blowjob. It and the other videos introduced me to my purpose down here. Yes, I remember the video well. I remember watching it with horrified fascination.

I'm good at sucking your penis. I've known that virtually since I started doing it. Your groans and moans, the way your cock quivers in my mouth, and thickens, right before you orgasm -- all of these things confirm my skills at fellatio. I'm upset and hurting right now but I plan to give you a top-notch blowjob, using all my skills. You'll see how much pleasure I can give you when I try really hard. Maybe you'll forgive me if I do an extra-special amazing job. That plan didn't work before but I am re-dedicated to the task. You'll see.

But I don't get that chance. As soon as I have placed my hands behind my back and my mouth to your cockhead, you are cramming and grinding your cock to the back of my mouth, into my throat, down my throat, until my nose and forehead are pressed to your abdomen and pubes. It is all I can do to loosen my throat this time. I barely suppress a gag, but manage to hold on. You know I can't breathe when you hold me down like this, and I barely got a breath before you grasped my hair and fed me your cock. My chin rests on your leathery ball sac. I can't see, much less move, as you impale me through the throat with your erection. All I can do is hold position and wait for you to permit me to breathe.

I try to lick your balls, but it is impossible. My tongue is just too small. Still, I force it from underneath your shaft and try to reach them, knowing that the effort is futile but also know that I must try. I barely flick at them. I can't breathe. You usually don't hold me in position like this. My toes curl on the floor beneath me as my fingers clasp behind me in distress. Finally you ease my head back until I can just about, almost, take a breath. I gasp. I need you to withdraw by another inch, maybe a half-inch, so I can get a good breath. But you don't. You hold me right in the spot where I can just barely sneak a half-breath. I'm not getting enough oxygen. As you start to cram my face down on your shaft once again I still don't have enough oxygen and I begin to panic. I feel faint and see stars, but I manage somehow to avoid passing out.

Just as I can feel myself fading to a black, a mercy that I welcome, you pull off and slap me hard, causing my head to recoil on my neck. I see stars again, but for a different reason this time. I manage to hold position and gasp a "Thank you, M-master . . . may I suck on?" in a pained, meek, gasping voice. I don't want to mess up. I don't want to do anything to give you a reason to punish me. Not today. Not with you in this mood. Not with that heartless, soulless glow in your eyes. Your cock goes back in my mouth, and back down my throat. My face is crammed to your abdomen. I can’t breathe. You hold me there for a long time as I try to massage your penis with the muscles of my throat.

I must have passed out. The last thing I remember before coming to is you riding my face down your shaft, to the hilt, my nose buried in your crinkly, sweaty man hairs. You held me there, and held me, and held me. I remember concentrating on not moving my hands, not fighting you, when my eyes rolled back in my head and everything faded to black. I awoke with a startle as you slapped me, not sure how long I had been out. Within seconds, however, before I could even gather my senses to thank you for the slap, your thick cockhead was back in my mouth, cramming its way down my throat as I gasped and gulped for much-needed breath.

I can feel my eyes rolling back again as you mouthfuck me, bruising my sensitive throat, depriving me of oxygen, depriving me of the opportunity, even, to pleasure you with my tongue. You slap me so hard I nearly pass out again, and this time I am quite simply too out of it to thank you. With your next slap, as you remind me, I stammer out a thank you and a plea to be allowed to suck on, whereupon you commence riding my face, impaling me, pulling my hair and finally, finally cumming. It is with a profound sense of relief that I taste your spunk as you send it straight down my throat and into my tummy. I long for a much-needed break.

But you are not done. You hold me there, my lips still wrapped around your cock. I can breathe a bit, now, but it is clear that you intend to go again. It’s a while before we get started, but your cok remains in my mouth the entire time. Eventually, I feel it starting to harden once again. You grasp my head and face like an object, skull-fucking me with abandon, oblivious to my glassy-eyed, oxygen-deprived expression. I see stars. I try to breathe. I can't get enough oxygen. It is all I can do to hold my position and keep my hands clasped behind my back. Your are rough and firm and heartless as you face-fuck me, using my mouth and throat like a cock sleeve. There is no compassion. There is no mercy. You simply use my face like a fuck doll, slamming your erection between my jaws as saliva and pre and cum and bile ooze out from between my tight lips and your shaft to form a growing puddle of fellatio goo on the floor below.

I gag, and sneeze -- an obstructed, partial, half-sneeze that backs up and explodes in my sinuses and leaves my eyes glassy and tinged with red. Surely you must be done. But you slap me, and I thank you again, robotically, and ask to suck on. You immediately oblige me, feeding your semi-hard shaft into my aching mouth for a third round, savoring the warmth and tightness of my orifice. I look utterly exhausted.

It is a blessing to be allowed to hold your thick, spongy, bulbous cockhead in the front of my mouth, where it barely fits, taking up almost all of the available space. My nose dribbles snot and bile and cum onto your shaft as my tongue begins to pleasure your cockhead, drawing circles around your piss slit, licking and prodding and flitting as I continue to kneel with my hands clasped behind my back. I am aware that this may take a very long time. You've just cum twice in a row. Your cock is only semi-hard. It will take a while to bring you off just with my tongue. I settle in on my knees, concentrating on my task, as the familiar, acrid taste of your piss first dribbles, then quickly begins to sluice into my mouth. I swallow reflexively, gulping noisily, as I drink from your member, swallowing your pungent offering quickly as I have been trained to do. Your urine is strong today, but I gulp down every drop. And when you are finished urinating, and your acrid pee has joined your sperm swimming in my tummy, I resume pleasuring your cockhead with my tongue, swirling and sliding against the smooth, spongy pinkish-purple skin. I'm very, very tired. And you’re not even fully erect.

Marcus

Damn, it feels so good not to care. It feels good to just indulge. To be the most selfish bastard ever and ceaselessly use and abuse you just to get the sensations I want, as much of them as I like. Before, I tried to tend to your sense of what is fair and unfair, I tried to help you make a sense of your life here to an extent, to make sure when you tried hard and good, it paid off and when you failed to please, it hurt. Long story short, I used the time-honored, carrot-and-stick method. Trouble is, you showed no appreciation for it; you didn't at all realize the advantages of the carrot being in the mix when I can just use the stick. I can simply command, and demand. I can be a mean, selfish bastard and keep things totally one-sided. The dungeon offers such a horrendous array of punishments that I can discourage you from failing without ever giving you a treat, or a hope, without ever showing even the tiniest flicker of niceness. Oh, you probably regret saying what you said. You probably regret being sulky and glum. If you don’t regret those things already, you soon will.

I kind of expected some resistance at some point, an outburst of frustration with just how hellish this experience -- which used to be mitigated by occasional good food, cuddles, movies, orgasms, even sweet treats like your favorite candy -- turned out to be now that there is no pretense on either side. But your instincts are right. You know me well. You have been hurt a lot, many times now, and you know better than to mess with me when I am feeling cruel and sadistic and unforgiving. You know there are needles that could be under your skin and fingernails in a moment, you know there are instruments of torture, such as the horse, that you could end up riding all night, you know the options are endless, and with electric current and especially your teeth in the game, I can make almost any torture endless, even infinite, while preventing you from fainting or falling asleep.

It is amazing, really, to know that despite your age, you have such a good, thorough, hands-on understanding of just how extreme things can get down here. To know, at your age, that there are things worse than death, and that they are just around the corner, that they could happen to you, almost whimsically, is quite a burden of knowledge to bear. And I have given you this knowledge. I have instilled it in you. I have whipped and beaten and shocked and water-boarded and pierced it into the marrow of your bones. If I let you go today, and then met you in a year's time, would you still drop on your knees on command? I'm not putting that one to a test, obviously. But it's a curious thought. When you teach someone something this deeply, this drastically, at such a susceptible, tender age, do they ever unlearn it? Do they ever forget it?

I don't know, and will not know for sure. What I know is that right now, you are a well-tamed, well-trained little 11-year-old cocksucker. I used to think you had a long-term future with me, but now I’m not so sure. And so you suck and swallow, and thank me for slaps that are harsher and meaner than ever. You lose consciousness, and even as you do, you never push or grip of claw at me. Even as you come to, you never dare to put up a fight. Meanwhile, I'm amazed. I'm loving it. This is more natural to me, and it feels nice to be unfettered. You keep your hands behind your back and your jaws open wide, almost dislocated, for the most brutal and ruthless face-fucking to date. You drink my piss, every last drop, without as much as much as batting an eyelid.

And then you start moving your tongue on the underside of my spongy, half-hard cockhead. You look almost grateful, or at least relieved to have the privilege of being allowed to serve and not just be used like a thing. I relax and do absolutely nothing. I rest. I even let my thoughts drift, even though I know full well that will make it harder for you; it will take longer to get me off. You are in pain, sore, raw, and exhausted. But that's not my problem. I'm fine. More than fine. I haven't gotten off like this for a while now, and I kind of like this specific way of being "tongued" to an orgasm. The fact that it takes a long time only adds to the pleasure of it. I can just indulge and enjoy myself. Only . . . it starts to take slightly too long. It might be something like half an hour into the routine perhaps, that I start feeling you slowing down and being less enthusiastic, less intense with your tongue. My hand slides into your hair and pulls, to make you look up.

"Don't slack off. You have ten minutes to get that cock to squirt, or a night of horse-riding ahead of you, on that sore cunt of yours, which I will fuck first, to get off, if you don't manage to get me off," I announce in a stony voice and take a glance at my watch. It's almost half past. I'll give you those few extra seconds as a bonus. At twenty to the hour, you will have coaxed a third orgasm in a row from my cock, or you will have gotten into some serious, serious trouble.

This is a level of sheer sadism. It feels unreal, almost, and inhuman, definitely, and I know I won't be able to keep this up forever, hate me or not, I want some kind of connection with you and at some point, it's gonna be me who craves touching you and being a bit more soft about it. Damn, girl, you have some kind of hold on me, and I don’t know why. But you don't know that, and I can hide it well, especially now and here, where it's simply not present. Nice has temporarily run out; it’s simply gone. If at least treating you like a piece of shit, like a mere cock-sleeve wasn't so satisfying and so gratifying in a pure, simple, primal way, there'd be hope for you that I will slip, change my mind, that my guilt catches up with me and brings about at least a small mercy once again. But this is what is it, and for the time being, it is what I need and want. Tough luck, kid.

I feel my cock twitching and swelling in your mouth. I am close. If you keep it up, if your tongue doesn't go wooden, if you don't pause now, you will have succeeded well within the ten minute mark, with perhaps three minutes to spare, actually. But after all that mouth abuse, who knows how much more you can perform, how well you can keep this up? My thoughts turn to your hot, swollen, temporarily ruined pussy. It makes my cock twitch again. Maybe I should start doing sums in my head and make you fail, just so I get to fuck it while it's in that state. The thought has a certain dark appeal. But I'm also feeling lazy, and I like tongue-induced orgasms better than I like a normal lay (as long as fucking the beaten, swollen pussy of one's 11-year-old sex slave still counts as a "normal" lay) so I focus on the sensation and give you a fair, sporting chance to succeed.

Laura

Tonguing your cockhead – without you holding my head in both hands and ramming it in and out of my mouth – gives me time to think. While good portion of my brain devotes itself to pleasuring your penis with my tongue – which swirls, and flicks, and rolls, and whorls around your cockhead in a manner that is designed to give you good pleasure and bring you to a third consecutive orgasm – the rest of my brain, the part not concentrating on fellating you, has time to contemplate the current state of my existence and the conundrum in which I now find myself.

I messed up. (“No, you really messed up,” I chide myself. “Big time.”) It’s not just what I said to you; it was more than that. I truly didn’t appreciate that, in many ways, you were being nice to me. Not “nice” in the sense of normal people. But “nice” in the sense of down here, in this place. "Nice" in that although you owe me nothing and could beat and rape and hurt and torture me over and over and even kill me with impunity, you actually showed kindness, did things you didn’t have to do, and sometimes even treated me like a real person. I didn’t appreciate any of those things then, but I certainly appreciate them now. I miss them, and I want them back, and I'm not sure that I ever will experience them again.

I really, really messed up. ("Yup," the little voice in my head agrees.) I have to readjust my thinking. I have to take stock of my situation. I do this while my tongue licks and pleasures your cockhead, but my mind is far away from that task, thinking, cogitating. I'm 11 years old. I've been kidnapped. My kidnapper is huge, strong, and smart. He isn't going to let me go, and there is no earthly way that I ever am going to be able to escape. My kidnapper has prepared an entire underground compound in which to keep me. It has a cell, a bathroom, a kitchen, a medical ward, and a dungeon -- a torture chamber. My kidnapper likes to do sex stuff with me, usually every single day, often more than once, for hours and hours and hours at a time.

My kidnapper insists on complete obedience. If I don't obey, he hurts me and makes me obey anyway. He makes me do gross and nasty stuff like lick his butthole and his armpits and drink his pee. He spits in my face. He makes me do sex stuff in my pussy and butthole and especially in and with my mouth. I'm not supposed to talk to him unless he lets me. When he gets mad he punishes me and makes me eat dog food. He makes me wear a collar and go around naked most of the time, and he put rings in my nipples and 'lectodes in my teeth while I was sleeping so he could hurt me by remote control.

My kidnapper can hurt me in all sorts of other ways, too. He sticks needles in me and beats me and slaps me and hits me with the cane. He puts me on the wooden horse and under the butt-licking stool and ties my hair down to another machine and poops right on my face and in my mouth. He makes me say things over and over, and plays silly games, like fetch and chase-the-squares. He says he'll hurt my family and made me swear I'd never lie to him or he'd kill my little brothers. ("He'll do it, too," I remind myself ominously.) He's mean and he yells and he gives me that don't-mess-with-me look and speaks to me in that super-special serious voice that tells me I had better not disobey, or else. ("Yeah, like that super low, growling, gravelly voice when he gets all intense and super mad and stuff?" I ask myself, remembering, hearing that voice live in my head.)

I lick and pleasure your cockhead as I ponder my situation. It is not good. But despite all of the bad, sometimes you are nice. ("You mean he used to be nice, right?" I chide myself.) You let me write to my parents. You gave me an iPod. You gave me candy. Sometimes we watch movies and you let me pick them. Sometimes you make yummy meals. You let me do the dance recital. You let me clean your house. ("That wasn't being nice, Laur'. He got you to clean it for free! -- Yeah, but I kind of liked doing it," I tell the voice.) I think about all the times you were nice. ("Sometimes he even makes you feel really good, Laur'. Doing sex stuff. Making your pussy tingle. Giving you organ- orgasms. Right? Huh? What about those What about snuggling?" my inner voice reminds me.)

My tongue dances around your cockhead. My mouth and jaw hurt, and my tongue is tired and aching. My throat hurts, and my pussy is throbbing and absolutely killing me. It's getting harder and harder to make my tongue respond to my commands. I readjust my lips around your shaft, tasting your pre, but feeling no signs of an impending orgasm. I slow down, pacing myself. This is going to take a while. My mind wanders again . . .

I want the old way back again. The way you were before. When you sometimes were nice. The times you were mean mostly happened because I messed up. I either lied, or disobeyed, or didn't perform right, or didn’t give the right effort, or try. I know that now. When I do well you compliment me, even reward me. I get good food and maybe a movie, maybe some candy. And when I'm bad, you're mean and all that, but you almost always tell me in advance and give me plenty of warnings. Or mostly you do, anyway, unless I make you super duper mad.

But now I've gone and messed it all up. You're mad at me and probably hurt from what I said and you're just being mean all the time. My tongue laps and licks at your cockhead, across your slit, feeling dull and aching. ("Can you fix it, Laur'? Can you get it back the way it was?" I ask myself.) I don't know if I can fix it, but I want to try. I want to apologize again. My eyes glisten as I feel remorse for my words. Remorse for my thoughts. Longing for the way things used to be between us.

I am in the midst of my musings when you grasp my hair unexpectedly, pulling my head up. My eyes latch onto yours, and I have a sense of foreboding, like I missed something, like I messed up again. I listen to your words and my blood runs cold. Ice cold. The mere mention of the horse causes my skin to crawl with terror. My eyes widen. I never, ever, ever want to ride the horse again. I have vowed to myself that I will do anything, anything, you tell me to do if my punishment is the horse. ("How will it feel on the horse with your privates all swelled up and hurting, Laur'," I ask myself. "Like a thousand times worse? Huh?" I taunt myself.)

I have ten minutes. Ten minutes to make you cum or I have no doubt that I will ride the horse tonight. The thought fills me with dread. I would rather die than ride the horse. I'd much rather die, and that was from before, when my butthole wasn’t sore and my pussy hadn’t been caned. I shudder as I remember the horse, my first ride, wanting to die, unable to do anything to stop the pain. I begin to lick and swirl your cockhead with renewed effort and focus. Your thick, squishy cockhead becomes my life, and I lick at it fiercely, flitting and pleasuring it for all I am worth.

But almost as soon as I begin, my tongue starts to rebel. It fights me. It disobeys. It tries to go slack and unresponsive. "OH NOOOOO!" I think, in a panic. My tongue is tired. You have used my mouth three times and I have been licking and swirling at your cockhead for over 30 minutes now, trying to induce a third orgasm. And now it won't respond to commands, won't react, won't obey. My eyes flit up to yours in raw panic. ("Did he notice?" I ask myself.) I can't tell if you know. I try to make up for the lack of tongue action with my lips. I use them to try to massage your head and glans. I will my tongue to recover. ("Come on! Pleeease!" I beg the irascible muscle.)

But it won't move. The clock is ticking and my tongue won't move or respond. "Tell him, Laur'! You have to explain why you can't lick him!" I beseech myself. But you won't care. I know you won't. I can tell. You'd be perfectly happy putting me on the horse and leaving me there all night. Tears flood my eyes. Tears of unfairness and dread and panic. I twist my mouth on your cockhead, willing my tongue to respond to my commands.

I manage to catch a second wind, and my tongue stiffly resumes its efforts. I try to pace myself, but it is hard because I am working against the clock. How much time can possibly be left? ("He said 10 minutes, Laur'. And that was like five minutes ago, or longer.") My tongue works and prods and licks and swirls. I am careful not to push it too far, to bring on the numbness, the non-responsiveness. As much as I am desperate to make you cum, to taste your thick man-spunk in my mouth, I know that if I overdo my tongue will shut down.

I pace myself, licking and swirling, completely focused, like a laser, on the task at hand, and on the strength left in my tongue. My lips try to massage a bit, just to help. I don't know if it will be enough. I don't know if I can make you cum. The seconds tick away as I work against the clock. I've never wanted to drink your cum, to feel it gush and spurt into my mouth, as much as I do right now.



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