Taken 45. Horror Vacui

Marcus

It brings back memories, of you sucking me off for the first time, so very early on, clumsily and hesitantly. The deep-throating lesson, when I directed you by turning my thumb, and made you gag and swallow around my shaft in random as well as in semi-regular patterns to get me off. It makes me realize that although you've been here for a relatively short while now -- I've lost count of exactly how long it’s been -- you already know how to pleasure and please me better than any of my previous lovers by far. Heck, if I had ALL my previous subs and lovers lined up right here, I would chose you over all of them put together. You were made for me, girl. Partially by whatever one wants to believe in, God, universe, genetics, chance, and partially by me and my persistent effort. You are, pound for pound, inch for inch, the best cocksucker on the planet, at least when it comes to sucking MY cock. Indubitably.

Tears appear in your eyes. You look up at me and you are fearful. That is so sexy. The combination of obedience and fear, of your eyes praying, panicking, your body tensing with fear, as the fight-or-flight response kicks in, is just incredible to see. You use all of your focus, all of your energy on my cock-tip, and it’s is phenomenally, sensationally magnificent. The tip of your tongue dances against my piss slit, slides under, and turns and twirls and circles and flicks, as if inexhaustibly, even though it's such a struggle, such a pain to keep going on. You are your tongue. You are doing you absolute best and utmost to make me cum. Your tongue begs, beckons, beseeches me to cum. You want nothing else on Earth right now more than my orgasm, my cum in your mouth. A rush, a surge of rightness, of everything in the world being just the way I want it and not even an atom off, right here and now, overcomes me. The perfection of this moment is truly extraordinary, sublime. It's from this place, this whole body-and-soul elated feeling of fleeting, divine brilliance, that my balls eventually cling to the root of my cock and expel my third load in under an hour.

It's very hot, quite watery, and it's easily a single gulp to swallow, the contractions that follow just ooze a tiny bit more of slightly sticky salty wetness into your mouth before my cock ends up pumping dry, nothing coming out any more. I check my watch. It's twenty seconds past limit. I chuckle and show you the watch. This means you probably made me cum right on the mark or perhaps, slightly more likely, just seconds too late. It's entirely and totally up to me to decide how to handle this. I relax my bladder and a few droplets of really strong, very salty urine trickle into your mouth.

"That was slightly past the limit," I muse. I want to see your face tighten in fear, in panic. "Suck it clean, make sure it doesn't dribble," I demand, before finally pulling out of your heavily abused and very thoroughly used mouth. My cock loses its stiffness faster than ever before. It’s exhausted now, just like you are. It shrinks to its totally flaccid state already while you clean it, and the chill of your drool in the room actually makes it retreat and deflate further than you've ever seen it, to less than its normal flaccid size, no longer a "tube" but more a round pod of skin, the loose skin of the shaft hanging over the glans in shrivelled folds, which makes it look oddly cauliflower-like. I scratch my totally empty balls. They also loosened and my nuts hang low and reduced in size in the sack which looks more stretched, more used than ever, too. It's way longer, lower, hanging like this, than my cock at the moment, whereas normally the tip of my cock and the lowest point of my sack are more or less at the same level. Now there is a stark, sudden, noticeable difference. You've really sucked me dry. Though as we both know, this sack replenishes and refills really fast.

"Not the horse. I'll give you a chance. One chance to redeem yourself, though it will come with a bit of a scary experience," I offer. "Painless, but scary," I say honestly and truthfully. "Follow me meekly, obediently, in a totally trusting way. Like a little lamb. That's your only way out," I say. Mercy. Is it really? I didn't keep up my absolute, resolute evilness for very long. Only, as you will soon find out, I actually did. I am keeping it up.

I guide you to the corner of the dungeon near the bedroom door and open the vacuum-bed, peeling the top layer of sticky, latex-based plastic from the bottom one. "Perfect trust. One chance," I whisper as I make you lie down, face up, legs apart, arms apart. I lower the top sheet over you, peel it off again, make you shuffle and re-adjust, try again, and make you shuffle another tiny bit. Finally, third time lucky, the top layer folds over you neatly and the mouthpiece now is in the right spot. It will lock around your mouth, but a tube will stay between your lips through which, even as the foil tightens around your mouth, you will be able to breathe. It also stops you from loosening the grip of the vacuum-bed on you by breathing into it and reducing the strength of the suction. I then zip the thing up and use the small but fairly powerful vacuum cleaner in the one-way vault to suck the air out from it.

It clings hesitantly and softly at first. It’s noisy, very noisy for your ears in there, with the air swooshing and hissing out. Then it starts to cling to you all over, near your midsection first, near the vault, but soon it has a firm grip on you from head to toes. Moving an arm or a leg becomes impossible. And yet, the air keeps being sucked out. I squeeze bubbles out from in between the foil, I leave the vacuum cleaner running. It grips you snugly, tightly, and quite powerfully.

Even through the tube is thick enough, breathing becomes slightly harder, simply because of the pressure and constraint put on your chest and lungs. It's not a dangerous reduction of your breathing capacity -- nothing that you could not compensate for -- but it makes breathing a conscious effort. You cannot breathe and not think about it, not strain a bit. When all the bubbles have been pushed out and the vacuum cleaner is turned off, you are in the tightest, most restricting bondage a human being can be, save perhaps being cast in concrete or something equally extreme. You cannot move your limbs or body by even millimeters. Like not almost at all, but actually, literally not at all. Not even your fingers. Your hips, torso, head, and neck, are all glued in position, making you as motionless as a statue, apart from the slightly strained rising and falling of your chest underneath the foil. It's an intensely claustrophobic sensation.

It's not just impossible to move, it is hard to even attempt to. Simply flexing your muscles without actually making any motion is a serious effort and strain, and some muscles you simply cannot tighten and flex because the "frozen" position of your body doesn't allow for it. When I speak, I do so very loudly, because I know how much this contraption distorts and muffles all sound.

"This is a vacuum-bed," I start. "It's not just the suction, by now, it's also the very high friction and clingy quality of the material that holds you in place. You cannot move, cannot escape; other than me opening the vault, there is no way out. If you piss yourself, your urine will mostly fill the area between the foil and your skin, and can reach as far up as your eyes, so I don't recommend it, even though pissing lots and lots would eventually give you a tiny little bit of a wiggle space, potentially," I explain. "It's a vacuum-based fixation device. You're all neat and helpless and compact in there. I find it very convenient. It could become your bed. It could become the way you sleep at night. Perhaps I would slide it under the bed in the bedroom, so you are totally out of the way. A thing, tucked away while not in use.”

“If you refuse to respect me, and not just the things I can do to you, but me, as a person, then you become just that. A thing. If there is no relationship, no affection, no extra effort on your part, no willingness to please me because I am your master and you are my pet -- a state of mind in which you think about making me happy and making me feel good without having to be barked commands at the whole of the time -- then there's absolutely no point in treating you like a real human being. You become a mouth, a pussy, an ass, and some flesh around it that I need to keep alive but that's it. A thing, on the one hand, doesn't need any nice touches, nice surprises, or nice moments. It doesn't need to talk and be talked with. A thing doesn't care for her master, and therefore master doesn't need to care for a thing.”

“A pet, slave, a submissive girl -- there's a whole range of words we could use, none of them precisely defining your position -- is, on the other hand, a feeling, thinking, real human being. Whether she is happy about her position, whether things are hard or easy on her, whether she chose to be in her position or not, she is a real girl, and deserves for her master to keep that in mind, and maybe cut her a little bit of slack here and there, and when it suits him, show her a little kindness, a little human warmth. That doesn't mean she can be any less obedient, and that he'll demand less of her; on the contrary, actually. She has to be more devoted! Striving to please. She needs to think of her master before she thinks of herself. And yes, she has to be a slut. She has to accept both her master's and her own body's needs, must not deny or hide them. She must be honest and open, and leave her pleasure at her master's discretion, even whim. She actively works on pleasing her master. She does her best to greet him with her pussy wet and warm and welcoming, and she smiles a sweet, grateful smile before she opens up wide to swallow his shaft down. Her caresses and kisses aren't meant to avoid punishment. They are truly loving and caring, they are there to please. To pleasure. I hope that difference is now very clear to you." I run my fingers over the plastic so tightly and firmly clinging to your skin. It looks especially interesting where it is stuck and firm and taut over your red swollen pussy.

"Huh for yes, huh-huh for no," I instruct. "Remember lying is punishable, even as far as by the death of your little brothers." I expect a pretty much solid row of single "huhs"; you are not very likely to surprise me.

"When asked to tell the truth, you said more than just truth, you were unnecessarily rude, yes?" I wait for your response, and it comes as a muffled “huh.”

"You meant to hurt me when you said those words." You respond affirmatively once again.

"Remember I told you there were only two things that could get you killed down here? An escape attempt, and trying to hurt me?" Your affirmative response is somewhat delayed, and if you weren't panicking already, I'll bet my house and my ass to be whored out in San Francisco that you are now.

"I could just plug this tube now, and you would die. Nothing can stop me. Right?" I listen for your anticipated response.

"Are you afraid?" Another delay, but the response is, again, as expected.

"Even if I forgive you and let you live, after what you just admitted, I could just slide you under the bed and only come back tomorrow when I want my cock sucked again. Right?" In short order I hear another, muffled “huh” from below me.

"If I don't do that. If I even simply just allow you to go back to your cell, if I treat you any better than a thing, it means I'm being nicer than I have to be, and it's something you should be grateful for, yes?" I hear your affirmative response once again.

"You are NOT allowed to answer the next question immediately. Take a few breaths before you do. Think, don't react straight away. One 'huh' is, you don't care. You hate me and what I do doesn't make a difference and you want to stay a thing so you don't have to put up with relating to me. Two 'huhs' is, ‘master I am very sorry to have tried to hurt you, I will strive to please you and make it up to you as best as I can.’ Three 'huhs' is, ‘I really fully understand this lesson. I don't want to be a thing, and will ACTIVELY strive to pleasure and please you, I will put you first, I will make every effort to prove that I am worthy of you; I will be anything you want me to be, and I AM a slut.’ One, two or three huhs. Wait for it, wait for it," I say, my voice trailing off.

I remain silent for almost a minute, perhaps one of the longest of your life, if I'm assuming right how this whole thing and situation feels to you. I'm fucking with your head. I really am. And I'm fully aware of doing it, and thoroughly enjoying it, thrilled by how I keep collapsing your world and defences and survival strategies over and over and over again, like a house of cards, leaving you building structures that are more and more pleasing to me, more likely to satisfy and serve me the way I wish to be served.

I swear if I hear less than three "huhs" I will eat my shorts, and if it's a single one, then fuck me, I'm gonna throw in my socks, too, and piss on it all first. If you haven't just been pushed to the utmost extreme of panic, if you haven't just learned a massive, massive lesson, then all those dozens of books on psychology, behavioral science, and conditioning were a total, utter, complete waste of time. It flicks through my mind that perhaps, it might occur to you that giving me a single huh is a means of committing suicide, but I doubt in a panicky state like this, you would choose such an awful way to go. No. You will bend. I’m sure of it. And I’m ready to eat my pee-soaked shorts and socks if I’m wrong.

Laura

I know there can't be much time left. I know it with every fiber of my being. It takes every ounce of effort and stamina and concentration to keep my tongue working and swirling against your cockhead without it going into complete shutdown mode. I keep it right on the edge of collapse, my jaw aching, my lips tingling, as I lick and flick and taste your pre while trying, desperately, so desperately, to pleasure your cockhead. I'm not the best at measuring the passage of time but any second now I expect you to state -- in that neutral, oh-so-sorry way of yours -- that my time is up. The seconds tick on. I will my tongue to work, to obey. And then, suddenly, I feel a tell-tale sign in my mouth. It's hard to explain but it feels like your cock is retracting away from me, simultaneously pulling back and expanding. I know when it does this that you are about to cum. The sensation this time is less-noticeable, but I feel it in my mouth all the same. ("He's going to cum, Laur'! Just a few seconds more!")

I've never wanted your cum more than I do right now, and just s I think that you feed it to me, spurting a thin, watery stream against the top and into the back of my mouth. I hear the familiar, muffled-yet-close, inside-my-head "Thwirrrt" sound in my mouth as your cum jets and splatters against my palate. I relax my exhausted tongue as I taste your ejaculate, thrilled and relieved to swallow its familiar, salty, spunky flavor. ("Thank God, Thank God, Thank God!!", I say to myself.) A few seconds later and I taste your urine, strongly acidic. I swallow it down without a second thought, as a feeling of relief washes over me.

It doesn't even occur to me that I might have failed, until you check your watch, and then show it to me. Your cock remains in my little mouth even as I look, now aghast, at your watch. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings, but it looks like 25-30 seconds past the limit. ("But he didn't say he had to finish cumming!" I say to myself in a panic.) I look up at you, wide-eyed. Surely you wouldn't . . . couldn't . . . . But you tell me I am past the limit. My heart skips a beat. ("The horse, Laur'. You get the horse now," I taunt myself.) I can't do the horse. I can't. I'll . . . die. I'll just die. ("No you won't, girlfriend," I remind myself solemnly. "You’ll wish you could, but you won't.")

I debate telling you about my tongue, explaining why I was just a few seconds late, but your cock still is in my mouth and you tell me to suck it clean, and right now I want nothing more than to do so, to obey you, to clean your cock with my mouth and hope -- no, pray -- that you won't make me ride the horse over just a few, tiny little seconds. I clean your cock with my lips and tongue, lovingly capturing every drop of fluid, every tiny hint of cum and sperm and pee that I can find. I gently flick the slit, barely touching it, because I know it is sensitive after you cum. But I don't want to spill a drop. Nothing can dribble from your penis. Nothing. And nothing will.

I think my new favorite words in the English language are "Not the horse," and the moment you utter them I feel like breaking down, sobbing and crying and thanking you over and over and over again. Honestly, my reaction to your pronouncement goes beyond relief. It's truly an emotional experience, and as you extract your cock from my mouth I turn, fighting back tears. I want to thank you so bad, and also apologize for being an ungrateful little brat -- but I don't; I can't; you haven't given me permission to speak. ("You are soooo lucky, girlfriend," I remind myself.) I am a little sheepish at the wave of emotion, of the gratefulness, that I feel. But I still don't want you to see my tears. I look away.

I follow you as you instructed. Quietly. Meekly. Naked. My body is slouched as I walk, half bent-over in a supplicating, I-dare-not-look-up manner. I don't want to mess this up. I have one chance and I know that you mean it. As I follow you to the dungeon my tummy clenches as I wonder if this is a ruse, and the horse will have a rider tonight after all. ("Master never lies, Laur'. You're the liar, remember?") You take me to that strange, black bed-type thing in the corner. I've seen it before, playing fetch, and just from being in the dungeon. I've walked past it numerous times as I left or entered my cell. I've never know what it is for, or what it does.

"Perfect trust. One chance." Those are your words as I lie down on the bed-thing. You said it won't hurt, but I'd lie there obediently even if it did. I am so relieved not to be on the horse that you don't have to ask me to trust you. I have faith that whatever this is, whatever you plan to do, it can't be worse than the horse. It just can't be.

I adjust and readjust, as the sheet goes entirely over my body. It is strange and plastic and it hangs heavily on my body, sticking to the bottom of the bed between my legs, above my shoulders. My heart starts to beat harder in my chest as the sheet goes over my head, with no eye holes, and only a tube for my mouth. "Oh please, please, don't poo in my mouth," I think to myself, as I see the tube, the opening, and realize that you are trying to position it over my mouth. I feel a chill wash over my body as my world goes dark. The mouth thing is in the right place now. I can't see and everything is muffled as you smooth the top sheet over me.

I tense as you start the vacuum, fearing an electrical shock. The sounds is loud, and at first, I'm not sure what is happening. But then slowly, almost imperceptibly, I feel the top sheet start to tighten around me. In a few more seconds it is gripping me, pressing down, everywhere the sheets come into contact, they press together. And everywhere my shape keeps them apart, the top sheet pulls down on me, pressing, constricting, tightening.

The mouthpiece turns from its slightly angled position and now points down, right over my mouth. Instinctively I tilt my head the last fraction of an inch necessary to assist its trajectory into my mouth. It enters, seating itself there, and I take a tentative breath as the vacuum continues to suck the air out of the gaps and pull the top sheet against my body.

The bed seems to be constricting me everywhere at once, uniformly. As the pressure increases on my thighs it simultaneously increases on my forehead, my chin, my chest. It tightens down against my swollen pussy. And then it tightens more. Everywhere. Pressing, constricting, squeezing. I breathe through the tube as it feels like weights are being applied to my entire body. It becomes difficult to move, then impossible. And still the pressure grows. With a panic I realize that it takes effort to inflate my chest to breathe. My heart flutters as I wonder if I will be squeezed to death, like a bug. Everything is so tight. Movement is impossible. It feels like 100 mattresses are stacked atop me, contouring to my body, weighing me down.

Finally, the pressure stops increasing, yet still the vacuum runs. Then it is turned off, and everything is quiet. Still. Perfectly still. And dark as night. I feel like I am in a cocoon. The only motion is the rising and falling of my chest. Every breath is an effort. I cannot even hear my own breaths. ("Don't panic, Laur'. If you panic like this, in the dark, in this thing, unable to move, it'll be the worst panic ever, and you'll lose your mind. Please don't panic. Trust Master. Trust him.")

I manage to avoid a panic attack. The only thing that prevents it, the only thing that stands between me and a complete psychological breakdown, is your instruction to me. Trust. Perfect trust. I must trust you. This will be scary but not painful. I have to trust you. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master," I repeat to myself over and over and over again.)

I can hear you as you begin to speak. Your voice is muffled and distant even as I know that you are speaking quite loudly, and quite close to me. I listen closely as I try to remain calm. But I am on the verge of panic. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.") I listen. I hear. Your words reach me. I fight against the panic. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.") It is so dark in my cocoon. The only sound is your voice. I listen. I hear. I fight the panic rising in my chest. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.")

I don't want to be a thing. My eyes wet with tears. I was ungrateful. I was a brat. I feel the panic rising again. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master."). You were nice, but I didn't appreciate you. You tried, but I didn't. I don't want to be a thing. I want to be a person, a girl, a human. I am crying now, and the panic rises. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.")

I hear your reminder, and your questions. I will myself to concentrate. It takes my mind off of the darkness. "When asked to tell the truth, you said more than just truth, you were unnecessarily rude, yes?"

My response is a more than just a "Huh." It is an emotional, tortured, grieving, "Huuuuh," long and mournful. I regret those words sooo much. So terribly, horribly much.

"You meant to hurt me when you said those words."

"Huh."

"Remember I told you there were only two things that could get you killed down here? An escape attempt, and trying to hurt me?" I hesitate, the meaning of your words dawning on me. The full meaning. I hurt you. I really did. I feel the panic rising. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master . . .")

"Huh."

"I could just plug this tube now, and you would die. Nothing can stop me. Right?"

I hesitate again. But your words are true. Indubitably true. "Huh."

"Are you afraid?"

"Huh."

"Even if I forgive you and let you live, after what you just admitted, I could just slide you under the bed and only come back tomorrow when I want my cock sucked again. Right?"

I hesitate, your words inducing a visceral panic. ("Trust Master. Trust Master.")

"Huh."

"If I don't do that. If I even simply just allow you to go back to your cell, if I treat you any better than a thing, it means I'm being nicer than I have to be, and it's something you should be grateful for, yes?"

I hesitate only a second. "Huh."

I listen to your next instructions, to the range of options, the menu of possible responses. And then the wait. My world is silent. And dark. I am alone in my cocoon, alone with my thoughts. The panic rears itself again, unbidden, even as I ponder, even as I wait. I fight it off, my heart racing. ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.") I don't want to be a thing. I want to be a little girrrrrllll!! I want you to free me. I can't breathe. I can't breathe!! My eyes are soaked with tears. My heart is fluttering in my chest. ("Breathe, Laur'. Breathe!") I can't breathe. It is so dark. I feel like I am floating, drifting . . . ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.")

The silence is utter. Total. I'm not a slut! I'm a girl. I want to be a girl, a real girl. I want . . . I want . . . ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.") It is so dark, so quiet. Stifling. This must be what it is like to be in a coffin, buried deep underground. I don't want to be a thing! ("Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master. Trust Master.") It's so dark; my world is darkness. And quiet. Tears flow.

"Huuuh! Huuuuuuh! Huuuuuuh!" comes my emotional, agonized, gasping response..

Marcus

Huuuh! Huuuuuuh! Huuuuuuh! indeed. My oh my do you sound distressed, or what? One would almost guess you are claustrophobic. Mhmm. I stroke your nipples through the foil, trace your rings. They are very visibly outlined there, the way the foil clings to your skin, they stand out beautifully. I trace those smallish, thick circles of surgical steel with my fingertips. Mhmm. Good girl. Good girl. That's muchos better.

"If you are anything less than the best possible, most pleasing slave at any moment from now on, you will be severely punished," I announce. "Keep that in mind. Any action, choice, anything that you do, say or even think that isn't in my best interests and aimed to please me is punishable," I state firmly and clearly. "And right now, I want your utter and complete trust, no less. If you panic, that alone I guess, will be your punishment. You will be out of this bed, in under a minute, alive and about as well as you are able to trust me," I say, amused. "Is that clear?"

I wait for your huh, which is, of course, also an out-breath, and I plug up the breathing tube. Just like that. I don't cover it or partially close it to restrict the airflow, I plug it up fully, and totally cut off your air, in a situation where your breathing was already a worrying effort. I do it on an out-breath, so your lungs are empty and your need for oxygen acute and immediate. "Trust your master," I demand, I command, as I hold the plug. "One deep breath in, and out," I say, and pull the plug for exactly the minimum possible amount of time for you to do that (it's very easy to see your chest rise and fall and work with that). Then I plug the tube again. "Just trust me. Just over half a minute to go. Everything is gonna be alright, if only you keep trusting me," I say calmly.

"Another breath, a single one, in and out," I say and release the tube. If you start gasping and heaving in a panicky way, you get cut off choking. It's the difference between fearful obedience that makes this a scary but manageable task, and going over into a full on fit of panic fit in which case this minute will be a pure Hell unleashed. I do it once more and then open the tube and click open the vault.

Air hisses and gets sucked into the space between the foils. They become very loose and soft very, very suddenly. It's a matter of just a few of seconds. I lift the top sheet of off you again and pull you up to sit up and lift you up into a nice, firm hug (but not too-tight, not choking, aware that you will be catching up on breathing now). It really was a mere minute of breath play, and the intervals during which you were left without any air were short. If you managed to obey, not too bad an experience, if you didn't, you've just taken a peek into Hell. But right now, you have a firm, warm, human hug -- your first touch in days apart from having a cock inside you or being grabbed and manhandled roughly.

I hold you until you calm down, until your breath and heart beat return close to normal.. I hold you, stroke your back and hair. I take you to the bathroom, and I give you a bath, and wash you, like a baby, like when I did it upon your arrival, one of the first things we ever did together.. I wash you gently and thoroughly. I don't tease your pussy right now. I doubt any touch down there could give you pleasure. It looks ruined. I know it's just temporary, but it's hard to imagine that this mess will be gone with nary a trace in just a few days. But that is the miracle of human resilience and regeneration, especially with young children. It works to both of our advantage that you tend to heal quickly and well.

I wash, rinse, and dry you, and then I brush your long brown hair.. I clean under your collar with swabs and antiseptic wipes. The collar is loose enough, but because it’s fairly heavy it leaves marks on your shoulders and lower neck where it rests against your flesh. Maybe a padded, leather collar could replace it on occasion. One that would stay snugly half way up your neck and let those areas rest. Maybe one day, but probably not. I like the way the heavy, metal collar looks on you. I like the way it reminds both of us who and what you are.

I also toy with your nipple rings, sliding them through the holes in your nipples this way and that to make sure they are clean, that the wounds are in no risk of getting infected and inflamed. I check your butt, creaming it, popping a suppository in, sliding both my little fingers in and gently pulling it open just enough for a quick peek in. No blood, no sign that your lunatic, semi-suicidal stunt caused any serious issues. You were lucky. You were also, I swear, MADE and meant to take abuse. I've never seen anyone with wounds healing so cleanly and quickly, with bruises fading so soon. I wash my hands and put some salve on your pussy, just to make sure those spots where the skin is kind of broken are sanitized and moisturized and healing clean, without scabbing and scarring.

After the wash, I go to the kitchen, toss a blanket in the corner for you to curl up and rest on. "Think of things to offer and suggest for the evening,” I tell you. “Things that will please and satisfy me. We'll discuss the rest of the day over the meal."

I cook a good, hearty meal. Goulash. With spongy, white, not-quite-bread-like dumplings. Served warm, with lots of chunks of beef in it, with paprika and onion and rich meaty juice. It’s a real, solid supper. It’s fresh, fragrant, mildly but distinctly spiced, and thoroughly human. It's early for supper but then you skipped lunch serving me, and lived off of dog food yesterday and this morning. I pour you a glass of cranberry juice and myself a glass of wine. The bottle has been open for a while -- I can't recall exactly how many days ago, but it's still drinkable. I set the table for two; making you eat of off the floor right now would be an empty gesture, you know your place. It would merely stand in the way of the conversation.

"Come on then, food time," I announce and look at you as you sit down. "Say grace," I tell you. It's a test. You know I mock and scathe god, you know I am, at best, a heretic. You should know better than to go 'Our Father, who art in heaven . . .' or something like that. You should know to whom you ought to be grateful for the gift of this meal. Somehow, though, you forget, stumbling your way through a traditional prayer, and I readily remind you who provided the meal, and who decided, mere minutes ago, not to kill you, or not to degrade you, permanently, to the level of a mere thing. I remind you to whom do you owe your humanity, at least as much of it as I chose to give you. You get it right the second time around, and I smile.

We eat. Do you look hungry, girl, or what! Well, since possibly some kibble first thing in the morning, you've had nothing in your stomach all day but cum and piss, and more cum, and more piss. That reminds me that you could be potentially dehydrated, and I pass you a large glass of water, saying "bottoms up." And then we eat. I let you go through your whole first portion, four dumplings and plenty of meat and sauce, without slowing you down for conversation. If you are smart enough not to pick out the onions and chewy bits of meat and whatever else you find on your plate that is not so pleasing to a child, you get a chance for second helpings. Around that time, and with second glass of juice and wine, comes my question.

"So, what do you have to say for yourself, right now? Speak freely, but carefully," I demand. "And end with some suggestions for the evening. And if you say something like 'whatever pleases you', then you're in for a thrashing, because that's not nice and obedient, but lazy and uncreative," I warn. I lean back, take a deep swig of wine from my glass and give you a long, scrutinizing look. You've gone from a dog-food eating thing, who existed in darkness, untouched and barely spoken to, to a place opposite me at a dining table, with delicious food and water and juice to drink and a right of speak. Unlike before, you are now aware that this is a privilege, something that can easily be taken away from you, something that takes some effort to earn, something that has a cost, a favor from your master that you have to return in whatever way is possible for you, the slave-girl. I think we're in for an interesting evening, a taste of a whole new dynamic after a BIG lesson learned. Not that you're all out of trouble and with your human "rights" fully restored; not by a long shot. But for you, there's hope, and for me, there's lots of fun and pleasure to be had and to look forward to.

We'll do whatever the heck I like and decide, but for once, you're allowed to choose and suggest. Not just a small choice, A or B, or which movie to watch, but an actual open-challenge question. I wonder what your little brain conjured up in the time that I spent cooking.

Laura

The affirmative "Huuuhs!" resound up through the air tube with emotion as I struggle on a knife's edge of panic, encased in my dark, constricting, cocoon. "Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master," I repeat over and over to myself, trying to stay sane, trying to stay calm, all the while hoping and praying that you will free me from this existence. I know that if I panic -- here, now, constricted as I am, unable to move, barely able to breathe -- I may well lose my sanity, even my life. I fight the urge to give in and panic with every cell in my body. ("Trust Master, Laur'." He's not going to let you die. You have to trust. Just breathe. Slowly. Fight it. Trust Master. Breathe.") But it is so hard. I want to writhe and squirm and fight myself free and pull the tube from my mouth and breathe and stand up and be done with this dark, muffled, encased little world. But I can't. I have to trust. My sanity is at stake.

I try to focus all my energy on breathing, but no matter how hard I try, I can't get enough oxygen. My heart is beating so fast. The call for oxygen in every muscle is extreme, and I can't bring enough into my lungs to meet the demand. I try to take a deep breath, but the constricting plastic cocoon limits how high my chest wall can expand. I feel like an asthmatic. I lose ground with every breath. I come closer to panic with every insufficient inhale. It takes all of my willpower to stay sane. ("Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master," I repeat, over and over and over again.)

When I was a little girl my mother once took me to the playground at the local public school and there was a tennis backstop there, made of wood, big and green -- used by adults and big kids to practice hitting tennis balls back to themselves. It wasn't in use at the time, and I remembered being fascinated by it. Its height, its width, its big, medium-dark green appearance. I studied it, and for some reason, I was mesmerized.. Later that night, at home in bed, I thought about that wall again. I could see it in my mind -- big and green and imposing. For some reason, I found is mesmerizing. I found that if I focused on the greenness of it, staring right at the center of it in my mind, I could clear my mind and block out other thoughts. In the years since I have used the memory of that big green backstop to focus and clear my mind -- to ward off scary thoughts at night, to clear my mind of nervous concerns, and most importantly of all, to calm myself in moments of stress. It's something about the size of it and its color. The color green: soothing, rich, and comforting. I think of it as "my" big green tennis backstop. Like I have a connection to it, even though I haven't seen it in years.

Lying here, immobilized in my cocoon, I focus my mind now on my big green tennis backstop, my mind staring right at the center of its big greenness, focusing there, concentrating on the soothing color, clearing my mind. ("Don't go insane, Laur'. Don't panic. Look at the green. Breathe. Look at the green. All there is is green.") I concentrate on my breathing. My heart rate ticks down a notch as I focus on the rich greenness. You start to speak. ("Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master.") I listen to your words, through the haze, through the greenness, almost Zen-like in my focus. I hear. I comprehend. I am willing. ("Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master.") "Huuuh," is my reply.

I do trust my Master, and as my heart rate continues to normalize, I breathe as you instruct me, concentrating on your words, flinging myself headlong down into the deep well of trust, focusing on the greenness. I breathe, and hold . . . ("Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master.") Breathe, and hold . . . ("Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master.") Breathe, and hold . . . ("Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master, Trust Master.") And somehow it all comes together, and simply works: the greenness, my lowered heart rate, my concentrated breaths, the intervals in between, my trust. It works, and I breathe, and it is sufficient now, and I can feel the panic slipping away, almost hypnotically. I feel myself floating, on a wave of trust, listening to your muffled, far-away sounding words, trusting, obeying, connected to you and the outside world through the air tube but I don't even mind when you close it. I don't even try to breathe then. And I don't feel the panic anymore. I feel . . . peaceful. Connected. Serene. I feel emotional. Grateful. Enraptured. It is a moment that I never will forget.

When the constriction gives way and I return to the land of light and sights and sounds and you lift me up, it is as if I have been reborn. I emerge from my dark, muffled cocoon and into the land of the living once more and the emotion overtakes me. As you hug me I begin to cry, tears springing to my eyes and flowing hot and wet and uncontrollably down my cheeks. My body trembles, veritably quakes. My sobs are loud and emotional and heart-felt as I rejoice in the rapture of my rebirth. Your gentle, comforting embrace evokes a depth of emotions -- relief and happiness to be sure, but also trust and faith and gratitude and beneath it all, yes, love -- I never have felt before. The intense emotions are raw and exposed and uncontrolled with an intensity that I can't remember ever experiencing. It is a physical and emotional joy that I experience with profound intensity, in the warmth of your gentle, comforting embrace.

You hold me as I cry, but I do not need to be comforted because mine are tears of joy, not sorrow. I feel like a tremendous weight has been lifted off me, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Gentle human touch is precisely what I need. Loving touch. I crave it, and I revel in it, sobbing with joy. When my tears abate I feel serene. My body is tired, as is my mind, so I simply relax. I am quiet and passive as you bathe and clean me, completely surrendering in both body and mind to your gentle touches and ministrations. The sudsy warm water comforts me and even soothes my inflamed pussy, taking the pain away, at least momentarily. I close my eyes as you work on me. I am trusting. Floating. It feels good to be clean, truly clean, for the first time in days. It is like my body has been reborn along with my mind.

I pad on bare feet into the kitchen with you, naked, collared, with a serenity that I have not felt since I arrived here. I gratefully curl up on the blanket, feeling drained and tired but in a good way -- like an athlete after an intense workout. I'm glad you don't expect me to assist as I wouldn't be much help in the kitchen just now. I realize how hungry I am and somehow I know that good food awaits. But if it's dog food again, that's OK, too. I won't mind. I don't mind. Not anymore.

I'm right about the food. It smells divine, and the scents wafting through the kitchen make the hunger in my tummy acute. ("Please don't let it be dog food for me," I beg to myself. "But it'll be OK if it is," I add.) I watch you as I lie there on the blanket. You're so good in the kitchen. I wish I knew how to cook half as well as you. I see you set two places at the table and I feel good about that. My mind wanders back to our first "date" -- the night I lost my virginity. That was a good night, in many ways. The food was good. We ate at the very same table. There was conversation. And afterwards, there was sex. I was scared but you were gentle and kind and loving. ("And you didn't appreciate it, remember?") Did you love me even then? Were you waiting for that night for a long time? Did you want it to be special? I ponder these thoughts as I watch you cook.

Eventually it is time, and I rise to my feet, my body protesting my interrupted rest. I walk nakedly to the table, utterly unashamed, my body looking clean and smooth -- except of course for my swollen, purple-colored pussy. As I sit down at my seat it doesn't even cross my mind that I am naked. It simply doesn't matter anymore. I no longer think or worry about it.

My serenity is interrupted when you tell me to say grace. I look up at you, my eyes questioning and uncertain. I've never said grace before. I can't tell if you are serious, or if this is a test, or what. I wasn't raised with much religion but I know I am way more religious than you. You've said bad things about God and made me say them, too. I fear that you're testing me, but I don't know what the test is about. I don't know the correct answer.

I swallow nervously, my mind racing, and clasp my hands together. "Th-thank you, God, for-." You stop me instantly with a single gesture, and look at me sternly. ("Oh please, Laur'. What did you doooo?") "Did God cook dinner for you tonight?" you ask me. I shake my head no. "Did God forgive you for hurting him?" I shake my head no. "Did God invite you to sit with him at this table, like a girl, and not a thing?" I shake my head no contritely. "Did you trust God to help you to breathe back there?" you ask, gesturing to the dungeon. I shake my head no again. "And so has God done anything for you, even one single thing, since you came here, to this place?" I eye you sheepishly, contritely, and shake my head no, once again. "Well then . . . why don't you start over with grace. And Laura -- think about what you plan to say before you say it," you tell me sternly. The implication in your voice is very clear to me.

I swallow, and gather my thoughts. And then I speak. "Thank you, Master . . . um, for cooking dinner. And for- for letting me sit here. At the table. And for the juice." I look up, and then back down, and then remember what I forgot and hurriedly clasp my hands together. "And thank you, um, for, um, forgiving me. And for being nice when you don't have to." My eyes flit up, glistening a little bit. It wasn’t a very good prayer. It didn’t really capture everything I should say, and everything that I should be thankful for. But no additional words come to mind, and I think I’m done, save for the final word. I'm not sure whether I should actually say it -- whether you'll get mad -- but I decide to, anyway. "Amen?" I ask, more than say.

You seem satisfied, and a wave of relief washes over me. I eat. I eat and eat and eat. And drink. I am sooo hungry. And thirsty. I revel in the food. Real food. Good food. I eat all of it. Even the stuff I wouldn't normally eat, like onions and other weird stuff that you always put in things. Dog food has a way of making any other kind of food taste better. So I eat it all and it all tastes good. You offer me seconds and I gratefully accept. I eat and drink until I am full. My tummy actually is a bit distended from my consumption, and I feel uncomfortable. But I'm full. Perfectly, utterly, wonderfully full. Of real food. Human food.

That’s when you offer me the opportunity to speak once again. I am very wary about speaking. I don't really even want to speak anymore. Certainly my desire to tell you what I think about you -- thought about you, used to thinks about you, whatever -- is gone. Eradicated. I won't make that mistake again. Not ever. "I w-want to say, um . . ." my voice trails off nervously. I look up. I shrug nervously. I look like a shy little school girl nervously making a presentation before her teacher and the entire class. Except this little girl is naked, collared, and in the presence not of her teacher and classmates, but of her God and Master, her kidnapper, rapist, captor, and torturer. Words have meaning and effect and impact in this place. I know that now. I no longer trust myself to use them. I don't want to mess up.

My eyes suddenly glisten. "I want to say . . . I'm s-sorry for . . .f- . . .,” I stammer, as actual tears form in my eyes, simultaneously, and begin to roll down my cheeks.. "For what I said," I squeak. My lower lips quivers. "I'm sorry," I say, looking up at you. "I . . . I'm r-really sorry," I sob. "I didn't . . . I didn't mean . . . to- . . . to hurt y-you." What I say technically is not true, as I did intend to hurt you with those words when I spoke them. But the intensity of my experience since then has convinced me that I didn’t mean to. My tears and sobs are very real, and very remorseful. "And I'm sorrreee," I add with a wail. I am very lachrymose and upset, perhaps more than you have ever seen me when I am not actually undergoing physical torture.

Marcus

I actually move from my spot, interrupting the meal. I turn your chair sideways and pull you into another, bearish, big, warm, strong hug. "All right, all right, all right, girl," I say. I sit on your chair, with you in my lap, sideways, one arm over your upper back, drawing you into a sort of semi-hug, one hand stroking your hair, your back, your arms. "There, there. That's forgiven. Not quite forgotten," I raise my tone a bit, "but forgiven. And forgiven is forgiven. I don't lie, do I?" I ask. Of course I lie, through my fucking teeth, but because I am what forms your reality here, my lies become truths. Indeed, they ARE truths for all practical purposes, and when they aren't, you don't really get a chance to figure that out. Aside from messing with your head and manipulating you, I actually make a point of not lying. I am blunt, and reasonably honest, and when I give my word, I try to stand by it. I do my best not to break promises, not to go back on my word as much as humanly possible, and when I do suddenly change my mind by a bit, it's usually in your favor, for your benefit, easily accepted as a blessing and a mercy -- nothing you would complain about.

"There, there, my little Dandytart. It's all fine, sweetie. I'm not mad anymore. You learned your lesson. You did apologize. That counts for something. You know better now. And you know what pet?” I ask you. “Even if you were mean to me, and even I was hard on you -- and I sure as Hell was -- let's get some things straight. I know that the last couple of days were tough, and I get the fact that your life with me is no cushy, velvet-covered, princess-like existence. But I still love you. I still think you are the most beautiful girl there ever was, inside and out. You've got a good heart. You know how to put someone else first, you did that for your little brothers, you can learn how to do it for me, too. You're a good person," I say and take a deep breath. I pause for a long time before continuing.

"And you know what? And listen carefully now. FUCK whatever they told you and taught you. FUCK your jealous, silly classmates. They know nothing. Even all the rest of your class put together, they haven't been through as much as you have. They have no clue! They are just dumb kids. How could someone like that ever judge you? Why should you care? Even if they were all here, even if I packed you a lunch and gave you a school bag and sent you to school tomorrow, why should you worry about what they have to say?” I pause again, shaking my head before I resume speaking.

“You were hurt when I called you a slut before. You were hurt badly." I tap your chest where your heart is. "You were hurt here. It was one of the things that made you so angry. Now look me in the eyes," I say and turn your face and tuck the loose strands of your hair behind your ears. "Listen really carefully now. You ARE a slut. I am, too," I say, and I smile. "Words are only BAD words 'cause people are afraid of 'em. Because people are small and scared and they know nothing. ‘Cunt’ -- such a bad swear word. But what's wrong with a cunt? It's the sweetest, most delicious bit of a girl. It's where a girl gets her pleasure, and gives pleasure to her man, and where woman gives new life to the world. How can that be a cuss word? Eh?”

“And what is a slut? A slut is someone who listens to her passions. It’s someone who knows and responds to her desires. A slut burns with passion and desire, and isn’t ashamed or afraid to admit it. Sluts are smart. They know. And they are strong because of it. Sluts are dangerous -- or seem to be, anyway -- to people who are still afraid and who don't know and who won’t acknowledge their own passions and desires. I will continue to call you a slut, and you will call yourself a slut for me, but I don't want that to be a bad thing. It’s not meant to be an insult. I used it to tease you, and maybe that was silly of me because I didn't know just how a BIG a word it was for you. I meant to hurt your pride, yes, because you were still being proud for the wrong reasons. But you should, you MUST find pride in serving me, in being who you are and can be, down here, for me, with me,” I tell you.

“But if I angered and confused you, that’s not what I meant to do. Being a slut isn't a bad thing. How many orgasms do you think Caroline had last week? How many did you have? If we had her here, next to you, who would know better how to please me, or, for that matter, any guy, any time, for any reason? What's wrong with knowing how to please someone? I know how to please. I know how to rub you, lick you, I know just how to tug and pull on those pretty rings of yours to make you feel tingly-fucking-liciously good. Is that a bad thing? Would I be better, would I be more, if I was clueless and clumsy? Would you be better, would you be more, if you didn't know how to move your tongue, how to serve me and make me cum?” I pause again for maximum effect. “So. Deep breath now. You are what you are, you are who you are. You messed up, but that happens when you are 11. I don't hold grudges. I'm a lot of things, but I try not to be unfair and rigid. So let's put what you did and said behind us, completely. And, when you say you are a slut, say it proudly. You know better than to be afraid of that word. You have power and knowledge which you can choose to use, or not. Those who don't have them, just don't. They don't have the choice, they don't have the understanding. You've come a long way, and you are now learned, and wise for your age. I mean it. You trust me with your life, you should trust me on this one, too."

I finish my long, semi-spontaneous monologue and kiss you right on the lips. I kiss you and keep kissing you, warmly, passionately, hungrily, and I let my tongue slide into your mouth and I just kiss you on and on. I don't care that both of our mouths are heavy with the flavors of goulash and onion and that you've swallowed buckets of my cum and drunk probably a gallon of my piss -- if we add up all the times I used you for my toilet in the past couple days. I just want to be connected with you and I want to kiss you and so I do, hotly, passionately, without pretence or any bullshit. I actually manage to lose myself in the kiss. I forget about everything. For a moment, this dungeon, this whole enforced, unnatural situation -- your collar, your nudity, your swollen, purple pussy -- none of that exists. You are the girl in a blue-and-yellow, one-piece swimming suit that made my heart skip a beat and my jaw drop when I first saw you. A little girl I fell in love with at first sight, even if it was on-line and totally one-sided; you are the girl I always wanted, always desired, and the person I wanted the most in my life, and the person who is right here, right now, on my lap, skin on skin against me. I kiss you more, and when I break the kiss I'm actually dazed and confused and as I pull back, I realize that I have wetness on my cheeks.

I have no have exactly what the fuck just happened, but it seems that somehow, spurred by your sincere and moving apology, my monologue and the magical, fairy-tale kiss, there's tears in my eyes and all over my damn face. I wipe them with the back of my hand and sniffle one last time, and shake and smile an extra-crooked, extra mischievous smile. "That didn't happen," I say in mock-seriousness. "If that ever gets mentioned again I'm gonna tickle that memory out of you," I say, and give the sides of your belly a brief tickle. Fuck me! Did I actually just cry or what? I let you off my lap, back into your chair and blink my eyes and stretch and breathe as I walk over to my chair, pour myself a very full glass of wine and down it. I frown, still a bit confused and unsure about what the fuck just happened. Your apology was forced. Tortured out of you, essentially. It's entirely my doing. My manipulation. I have no idea why it feels so profound and important and real and why it touched me, somehow, at my very core.

I pour you a smallish glass of wine. "Down it," I demand, still being a little bit irrational, without a particular reason for wanting you slightly drunk. You will not forget what you just saw, what just happened, and I have no idea if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I guess, like most things that happen here, it simply is, and I don’t have to give a shit about it either way. It happened. Whatever I say and think about it now is just an interpretation. It's not real. The moment, right there, lips on lips, mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue -- that was real.

I look into your eyes as if I really believed I could see into your head, your mind, your soul that way, like I'm looking into them for the very first time, and then I finally man up again. "You're supposed to suggest a program for the evening, and if you don't, real fast, you're in trouble, Laura," I chuckle. "And you barely got out of trouble, so you better start talking," I add, in a light, playful tone, pouting my mouth and scrunching my nose. I feel lighter, and younger, and . . . just different than I did before. I wonder if the fact that you've sucked my balls dry in a record time, a super-fast sequence of three, has something to do with it. I pour myself another glass of wine, but I don't touch it. I focus my eyes on you, and wait for your response.

My brain buzzes now. I'm slightly drunk, and not just on the wine. Suddenly, you, across the table, don't seem small and weak and tiny and in my power at all, even though you are, and perhaps more so than ever before. You feel hugely important, essential and just . . . stunning. I'm enchanted, somehow. Bewitched. What the fuck have you done with me?

If I were any drunker, or if I were horny, or if I had anger still left in me, I'd probably beat the shit out of you, solely on the suspicion that you are somehow responsible for my current state. But I'm only slightly drunk, I'm sexually sated, and your apology totally drained whatever grumpiness and irk was still burning inside me; it put that fire out. But something still is burning in the pit of my stomach. It's a similar feeling to that tranquillity and a sense of perfection and all-rightness that helped me cum for the third time today. It's like all of this suddenly makes sense. All of this is right. All this is . . . it. It’s everything. My whole life, working my ass off, my frustration with my subs, my years of self-loathing and self-hatred and self-doubt and all that; the decision to make a dungeon and get myself what, and who, I truly wanted, stumbling upon you on the Internet, finding out that you don't actually live all that far away, ALL of that now just suddenly seems to make sense. It's like it's meant to be. Like my life was a mess of puzzle pieces and I started to put patches together without really knowing what image I was building and finally right now, for the first time, I see the whole image. The Opus Magnum. That which is meant to be, was meant to be, will be. A sense of purpose in my life and all of it's fucked-up-edness. This is true happiness. This is the Truth of Being, this is my life as it was meant to be. This shit is real. I've never felt more alive then I feel as I gaze into your eyes, and wait for whatever you say. You cannot really mess up now, whatever you suggest or offer or say will be fine. The perfect moment is now, who cares what we will be doing in a couple of minutes.

Laura

There's no faking the sincerity of my apology. Even if I could tell a lie down here -- which I can't, simply can't, and won't, for reasons we both know very well -- there is no way I could have faked my tears, my warbling voice, my embarrassed and emotional little glances. Obviously my apology was coerced, essentially tortured, starved, and beaten out of me over the last couple of days. But that doesn't make it any less sincere to me. I feel, truly, in my bones, very, very sorry for what I said. That my pussy is a swollen wreck and my digestive tract is full of dog food may have helped to bring me to the point of my apology is irrelevant. I believe that I came to it on my own. Although you treated me harshly, I absolutely deserved that and I believe that my apology was organic and not coerced -- and that's really all that matters.

As you draw me into your arms for the second time today I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I've wanted to apologize for a while, but you never gave me the opportunity. I'm sorry I tried to hurt you. Sorry I did hurt you. And I know that the harshness of your treatment of me over the past couple of days was fully earned and richly deserved. But now I am forgiven, because you tell me that I am. The feeling is liberating. And no, you don't lie to me. I'll give you that. ("He never does, Laur'. You're the one who lies to him, and keeps thing from him. Right?")

I listen intently to your words as you speak. Your voice is different. Not harsh and commanding and unforgiving, but kind and understanding and explanatory. You tell me that you love me, that I'm beautiful, and it brings tears to my eyes once again. I know that you mean it. I wish you didn't, 'cause then I wouldn't have to be here, but I know in my heart of hearts that you love me and you wish that I loved you back. Part of me -- the part that's kind and generous and sweet -- wants to love you back, but I can't. I just can't. Not after everything that's happened. I feel guilty. But in my heart, I can't love you, don't love you, won't love you. Even if you're nice. And I'm sorry for that.

If I listen closely there's even the hint of an apology in what you say, which astonishes me. You are apologizing to me -- not exactly, of course, not using words like "I'm sorry" or "I apologize," but that makes it seem all the more sincere to me. You dance around the apology, suggesting that maybe you shouldn't have said things the way you said them, or teased me about being a slut. Your semi-apology has a greater impact, a greater effect on me, than you'll ever know. It makes you seem more like a normal person.

As you speak I feel more than a bit silly about my recent behavior. You're right -- I did act like a baby because you used the s-word with me. I mean, I still don't like the word, but you're right that it doesn't even matter what anybody thinks. They're not here, with me, or with you. I flinch when you swear using the really bad word, but you're right. Why do I care what they think? They're not here. They . . . they wouldn't even understand. I turn to you, looking in your eyes, as you brush the hair from my face. You tell me that you're a slut, too, and confusion crosses my face as I look at you. A man can't be a slut -- can he? I can't tell if you mean you really are a slut, or whether you're just saying that. But I guess either way I know what you're trying to tell me about the word, about how I feel. And I nod. Words don't mean anything anyways. ("Sticks and stones can break your bones . . . " I start to tell myself, before willing my inner voice to shut up.)

I'm listening so closely to your words that they spin in my head. And then we kiss -- deep, and long, like lovers. I close my eyes, floating away, as our tongues dance and intertwine. Your touch, your embrace, your mouth, your kiss -- they reassure me. They comfort me. Everything is forgiven. Everything is alright. If I'm a slut to kiss you like this, to react this way, then I'm a slut. And who cares what anybody thinks? Nobody cares. Nobody even knows. You've never kissed me like this before. Ever. I know that you love me. I wish that I could love you back. But I can't.

The kiss goes on and on, and for the time it lasts it almost seems like we're equals. When it ends, and I open my eyes, I see tears in yours, and on your cheeks, and for a brief moment -- a brief, fleeting moment of astonishment-- I feel mortified, like I somehow have managed to hurt you all over again, because I'm unable to love you and you can tell, you could tell as we kissed. And I didn't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you. Not any more.

I don't know what to say. I'm embarrassed, and I can tell that you are, too. ("Wow, he really loves you, Laur'," I say to myself.) My eyes are wide, and I nod as you tell me to forget it. I want to forget it, but I never will. Ever.

I drink the wine down, eager for something to do. I don't like wine; it's bitter, and I make a face. You stare at me, studying me, and I look up in wonder. All of this is new. You are so different this evening. Raw. Unvarnished.

I have to tell you what I want to do tonight. Me. And I'm not sure exactly what you want me to say. I've been thinking about it, a little here and there. I know I want a movie. But I know that you expect more than that. And I don't want to mess up in my first attempt at coming up with our schedule. I'm not good at this.

"Can we watch a movie? And snuggle?" I ask, tentatively. "And after, um, we can do sex stuff? If you want?" I look up, waiting for your reaction.

Marcus

And just like that, the magic moment is gone. Well, it was good while it lasted. I sigh, and shake my head once more.

"Did you even listen to anything I just said, and before?" I ask, crossly. The moment was perfect as it was while it lasted, but on the list of satisfactory responses, on a scale of one to ten, you get something like two. "Come over here," I demand. "Movies and snuggles are a reward for when you have been good and pleasing and when everything is going well, and all my needs have already been satisfied. I might like it, too, but it's first and foremost a reward, a treat for you. I literally just said you barely got out of trouble. I basically just stopped punishing you, before supper. Do you think you've been so good lately that you deserve a treat, two treats in fact because I have already, out of sheer generosity, treated you to a nice supper? Come!" I demand and lead you into the bathroom to the back wall where there is a floor-to-ceiling mirror. "Squat down. Spread your legs wide. And take a good look at your pussy. Is this how a good girl's pussy looks like? Is this the pussy of a girl who has earned a reward, a treat? And what the hell is 'sex stuff'? “That's everything, and nothing. That's no effort put into the suggestion at all," I say sternly. I'm mad. More like irate, actually, but yeah, you did mess up your very first task as not-a-thing, as a pet and a slave, a role you chose for yourself and which you know now, full well, that is the much preferable option down here. "I warned you being a girl, a slave wasn't the safer option. It comes with privileges, but also with punishments, when you mess up. Such as when you are told to come up with a suggestion to please your master, and instead come up with a treat for yourself and a vague after thought of his needs. That's messing up," I say coldly.

"Down to the floor. Face down. Hands behind your back. And worm your way into the dungeon, for punishment," I snap. You must have thought a few tears, a small leak of emotion made me all soft and lovey-dovey, but you thought wrong! And now you will pay for it. I'm already there on the sofa with a big, heavy leather paddle in my hand when you finally manage to make your way there. No easy feat, that!

"Over my knees," I bark. "You didn't get it in the general, so now we'll be specific. You’ll get 10 strokes with this, and then you will apologize for being selfish and not properly thinking of your master before yourself. Then I'll spot you 10 more strokes and ask you a question. The answer that pleases me more is the correct answer. Get it right and you’re down to nine strokes for that round. Wrong answers will result in another stroke being added to the total. I'll always take one down for correct answer, until we get to zero, in which case the punishment is over. But if you’re not making steady progress and working your way down, your last choice will be whether to spend the night in the vacu bed or on the horse. Is that clear?" I demand. Let's put your knowledge of my body and my likes and dislikes to test.

I position you over my lap and deliver ten, hard, heavy, no nonsense blows to your tender little ass. They are harsh, mean, punishing smacks, loud and firm. No fun and games involved. I wait for your apology.

"Head-bobbing, tongue sliding blowjob or deep in the throat, gagging around the whole of my shaft?"

That's an easy one. You should get that right, but you still get nine strokes this round.

"I come really sweaty from working out. Shower and sponging me down, or a neck-to-toes tongue bath?" Right again, but you still get eight whacks delivered to to your bottom with resounding force.

And on we go.

"Wetting yourself in the bed at night, and being punished by being pissed on by master, or pissing on the dungeon floor while he watches and cleaning it up with your mouth?" we're getting harder. I'm getting harder, in fact. My pants bulge once again. Your timeout from my sexual demands is officially over.

"Butt sex and then blowjob, or blowjob and then pussy-sex?"

"Licking master's mucky, muddy boots, or his sweaty, smelly feet?"

Even if you are good at this, you will have trouble sitting the rest of the day. The paddle is merciless and harsh, and I use it with considerable force.

Laura

But it's not fair! I was hoping that we could watch a movie and doing something fun. I actually thought about asking if I could prepare another dance recital for you and I was going to ask if we could have popcorn with the movie. So I totally misread your quasi-apology and tears, and the effect of my apology, and the merit of not being a thing and being a real girl. But the real unfair part is that I had no idea how to suggest doing sex stuff for you. I've never done that before! Not once! I knew you would want to do sex stuff and I said that -- but how am I supposed to know what kind of sex stuff you want to do with me? Plus I'm smart enough to know that you can't use my butt or my pussy, because both are in really bad shape. And I already made you cum with my mouth three times today -- well, mouth and throat, but whatever. So I didn't want to say I'd do that again, 'cause then you'd say I wasn't being creative or something and get all mad. So since I didn't know I figured you would know what you wanted to do and we could do that after the movie, so I just said "sex stuff."

But now I'm in trouble again. Just like that. ("Nice going, Laur'. You messed up in like 30 seconds!" I taunt myself.) I can't seem to get anything right. And I have plenty of time to think about it as I worm my way across the floor into the dungeon. I'm very careful to worm in such away that my swollen and distended little cunny does not come into contact with the floor, because when it does, it hurts! It takes a long time to arrive. I look up and see you on the sofa, and navigate there, using my hips and knees to propel me from side to side, like an eel. Just the part in the dungeon the short distance to the sofa, takes over four minutes.

I am nervous and remorseful as I stand up and prepare to position myself over your knee. ("I did think of your needs, Master!" I say to myself, defensively.) I want to explain. I don't deserve a punishment -- I know I don't. It wasn't on purpose. You never give me a chance to explain anything! All you do is just punish me all the time! It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair! I did think of your needs.

I see the paddle and it looks massive and scary. I already am trembling a bit. My pale skin shows goose pimples on my upper back, buttocks, and thighs. As I climb onto your lap and present my bottom for punishment, you can see my tortured, purple and deep pink cunny -- mostly purple, actually, along with beaded red areas of blood blistering where you nearly broke the skin with the pussy whip. I clamshell my legs together so that none of the blows will land there. Above all, I don't want that. Not at all. Aside from the fading cane stripes, my cheeks look soft and "normal"; my still-red and bruised anal area does not show.

The first blow hurts. I knew that it would. I flinch and my butt cheeks clench together just as hard as they can. I ball my hands into fists as I hang down over your lap. I prepare myself, steel myself, for my ordeal. The second blow brings my feet upright, bending at the knees. The thing about being spanked -- or whipped, or caned, or flogged -- that I have come to realize is that the initial impact makes the most noise, but isn't where the maximum pain is. The maximum pain comes just after, when the blood returns. And when that happens the pain and burning feeling crescendos up and up and up and up, and I'm never sure how high up it's going to keep going. Especially when you hit a spot that you already hit, which with the size of this paddle, is pretty much every blow after the first.

On the third blow I whimper. Just a little sound of distress. Boy did that hurt! It burns and burns. This is a no-nonsense punishment, a make-it-hurt-a-lot-and-teach-a-lesson-promptly kind of punishment. And it's working. My legs fly up on the fourth blow, which is the first one to hit nothing but parts of my cheeks that already have been hit at least once. I yelp. My shoulders writhe. The burn is fierce. The fifth blow quickly follows and the crescendo of burn prompts a yelp of pain, a squirm, and the first tears in my eyes. I can't help it. The simple-but-effective paddle stings and burns and hurts.

As you paddle my upturned bottom, I have time to contemplate that not much actually has changed. I apologized, yes, and you forgave me. We hugged, and kissed passionately, and you cried. But I still am a slave. You still will punish me, harshly, for anything I do wrong -- even if I have no idea I'm doing it wrong. But it's not fair! How am I 'sposed to know what you wanted me to say? Anything I said would be wrong, because only you know what you wanted me to say and expected to hear. It's not fair! I squeal aloud as the sixth blow lands. The seventh makes me squirm and it is hard to hold position. My bottom is a deep shade of pink now -- inflamed, burning, and painful. And I have no idea how many I'm getting. I didn't understand what you meant about adding and subtracting and all that stuff. You always think I get everything you say and mean but I don't! I'm a kid! Plus half the time I'm under a lot of stress when you say things. I've gotten better at concentrating and remembering when you speak -- I know what happens when I don't listen -- but I'm still a kid. It's hard for me. So I have no idea what you mean about adding and subtracting except that it sounds like I'm in for a long and painful visit with the paddle.

The paddle lands for the eighth time. My legs fly up and I squeal again. The burn is fierce and unrelenting now. My bottom is warm to the touch, smoldering with pain. ("Don't forget to thank him, Laur'. You have to thank him!") The ninth one hurts the worst. Hard, flush against my clenched butt cheeks, making a resounding "Splattttt!" sound of leather striking young flesh. My legs jiggle up and down, extended, toes curled, as I yelp in undisguised pain. The tenth blow quickly follows, drawing forth a squeal and leaving my hurting, upturned bottom a rosy red color.

When I speak, to apologize, my voice is warbling, pain-filled, and very, very sad. From the timbre of it, the anguished, very unhappy, weepy semi-rasping sound alone, you might think I am closer to eight years old than 12. "I'm sorreeee Master!" I sob. "For being selfish and not thinking of you before myselffff!" My legs kick against the pain as more hot tears drip to the floor beneath me.

"Head-bobbing, tongue-sliding blowjob or deep-in-the-throat-gagging around the whole of my shaft?"

"Gagging around the whole shaft!" I sob, in that same, chastised little voice. The paddle lands over and over on my distressed butt cheeks, driving the point home, reminding me about your needs -- and proper behavior -- with every stroke. I'll remember. I will.

"I come really sweaty from working out. Shower and sponging me down, or a neck-to-toes tongue bath?"

"Neck-to-toe tongue bath!" I sob, my legs kicking against the pain. And again the paddle lands. Loud, quick, fire-cracker impacts against my inflamed buttocks. I squirm -- not enough to be perceived as trying to escape, but enough to reveal my agony -- and yelp aloud with every fiery lick. My bottom is a medium-red color now. It looks like it hurts, and it does. Fiercely. Intensely.

"Wetting yourself in the bed at night, and being punished by being pissed on by master, or pissing on the dungeon floor while he watches and cleaning it up with your mouth?"

This question slows me. My response is not immediate. ("Laur', think! Think! Which one is it?") And when I give it, it is wrong. I give an anguished whimper of fear as you add to the total, instead of subtracting. ("Noooooooo!" I think to myself.) My face is a rictus of boo-boo as you paddle my upturned bottom, reinforcing good behavior.

My punishment, as in so many other instances in this place, goes on and on. I promise myself repeatedly that I'll be good. I vow not to slip up again, to avoid punishment, to avoid pain. You punish me only when I mess up. ("Then you have to stop messing up!" I cajole myself. Even my inner voice is pain-filled, I notice idly.) My bottom almost seems to be glowing now. The top layers of skin are red and inflamed, bright, almost shiny. You can feel the heat given off by them.

"Butt sex and then blowjob, or blowjob and then pussy-sex?"

"Butt sex an' bwojobbbb!" I say, squirming, sobbing, my trembling lower lip leading me to baby-talk, almost sing-songy. And when my paddling resumes I can't believe how much it hurts, as you deliver several more blows with the same intensity as all the others. I squeal and yelp and weep as the pain simply becomes unbearable. But my hands remain at my sides. I remain on your lap. I make no effort to fight you. I just leave my tortured little butt cheeks upright and exposed for you to paddle and paddle and paddle again.

"Licking master's mucky, muddy boots, or his sweaty, smelly feet?"

"Licking your smelly feeeeeeeeeet!" I sing, my voice so pain-filled and tortured that it sounds almost other-worldly. But we're not done. Not by a long shot. My bottom glows ruby red, shiny, hurting. Down comes the paddle once again.

Marcus

Your pussy is a mess, and now I make your ass a mess, too. Your butt-hole has barely healed from your wild ride on my over-large cock, more likely it is still healing, your cunny is a serious, serious swollen mess of purple and dark red. You get all the questions right but one. Of course I would rather see you piss and clean up after yourself. What's the fun in a wet, smelly bed, even if I get to pushing you "appropriately," making the punishment match the crime? I soon realize my math doesn't work. I don't have that many questions, and I don't want to nor mean for this to go on for ever.

"Smoothie from my ass, or cereal with my cum instead of yoghurt, for breakfast?"

Whack, whack, slam, whack, smack, plop, whack, whack, wham-whack!

"As a serious punishment, licking my butt after I've taken a shit, or twenty whip-lashes to your back?"

A couple more smacks, but they are turning half-hearted, and softer than before. I stop before even finishing the count, and don't ask another question.

And then we are done. Of course it's ass-smoothie and butt-licking -- one of my favourite activities on the receiving end, ever. I don't have to stop here, but I do. Your ass is starting to darken and bruise and I don't want to leave too long lasting a damage. So I stop there. But we're not done, of course. We've corrected your dramatic misunderstanding of your current situation, but there's still the task of pleasing and satisfyng me.

"That's enough paddling. Now let's give you an idea of what I like, and have fun doing, so you are more inspired next time," I smirk.

"Stand up! And stay put," I command and bind your arms behind your back in a "reversed prayer"-type shibari tie which is a punishment in itself, or will be, in a few minutes, anyway, even though you are young, slim and flexible so it will not be as bad for you as it would be for a mature adult. I walk into the kitchen and come with my hand clenched into a full, balled fist. My other hand lifts your chin and I glare into your face, sternly, aggressively.

"Piss yourself," I snap. And you better relax your bladder fast. I look like I might punch you and knock you right out. But you haven't used the toilet for a good while and you drank lots with supper, so it should not be an issue. Also, there's a different reason than anger for my holding my hand like that. As soon as there is a pool of piss on the floor, I spill rice onto the floor right next to it, on a dry patch. Grab you by your hair to guide you.

"Kneel." Of course I make you kneel on the rice; where else?

"Bend over," I go on, and grab the back of your neck to help bend all the way until your face is touching the floor, without falling over fast and banging it. Of course, the way I do it, your face is now pressed into the cooling pool of piss on the floor. Your hair drops into it and soaks some of the piss up.

"No slurping or drinking yet," I demand.

"But open your mouth, stick your tongue out, and keep it on the floor, the whole time," I instruct.

"When I cum, you will lap up the mess, squat down, let the cum drip and push it out as best you can, and clean that up, too. Then I'll untie you, you'll sweep up the rice, and spend the night in a cage, so that you can contemplate your new role, and think about the choices you knew and learned were right, and about actually making such choices to please me. And to offer things to me that really please me, even if you don't understand why, and even if they mean pain and discomfort for you. Is that clear?" I ask, pull my pants off, lube up my cock, and mount your swollen, beaten pussy from behind. I fuck it hard, and long, and deep and I almost, almost cum, hilted inside, or very nearly anyway, way past the initial resistance of your cervix, deep in your womb, doubly squeezed real tight by your pussy, the swollen opening and the tight cervix. Just as it seems that the agony is almost over, I pull out.

I apply more lube -- a very generous amount, taking no risks this time -- I press the tube against your pucker and squeeze some more directly in. And like that, kneeling on rice, with hands dark red and turning purple in agonising bondage, face pressed into a puddle of your own, now cold piss, I part your crimson butt-cheeks, mount your sore, still reddish puckered asshole and I fuck you until I cum, to show and prove to you that being my slave, while preferable to being a THING, definitely isn't about cuddles and snuggles and movie watching on any average day. I never quite hilt myself in your ass, and I avoid sharp and sudden thrusts, I don't invade your colon and merely use your anus, four inches of it or so, to provide the friction to get me off. That's about the extent of my mercy. Also, I untie your arms the moment I cum, simply because they are darkening and becoming a potential health-hazard. But I make you lap up the piss, and push out the cum, and lap that up, and then, like that, sticky, smelly, messy, with hair wet with piss and your entire body sore, I cram you into a cage so small you cannot turn around in it, cannot squat, and cannot lie, the only position being curled up on your knees, or, in a foetal position, slightly kinked and with back rather harshly pressing into the bars. I'm sated, and only slightly annoyed that you're too used and exhausted to be pushed to do your exercise. Well, tomorrow is another day, I think as I turn the light off, and leave you in darkness, not in your cell, but in a tiny little steel cage (thank god for you it has a solid wooden bottom) on the floor of the dungeon.

I consciously resist the urge to have a shower, go check Cell number two, brewing and almost ready, that, and go to sleep sticky and smelly, which is also how I turn up back in the dungeon the morning after, with scab-like patches of dried cum and the stench of your ass still on my cock. It's time to teach you a whole new way of making me cum, and you better pray your sore and aching body is up to the task, despite all that happened yesterday!

Laura

My bottom is killing me. My paddling goes on and on and on and on. The burning crescendo in my backside has reached a plateau of white-hot pain as the heavy leather paddle rains down on me. But my training is such, my obedience is such, that I continue to lie there, defenseless, as you turn my bottom into a glowing, shiny, ruby-red volcano of pain. I make no effort to block the blows, escape, or otherwise defend myself. Interposing my hands, I know, would bring an even more ferocious punishment down on me. So, writhing and wriggling, squealing, sobbing and keening with pain, legs kicking, I take my paddling. Every single last fiery blow.

If you had an audience, if a representative sampling of adults could see my punishment from start to finish, most of course would be aghast at the mere sight of the heavy paddle, my nakedness, the way you make me position myself, bottom up, across your lap. Even those who from time to time administer corporal punishment to their own children -- or had it administered to them when they were younger -- would flinch at the ferocity of the initial blows; they would assume that five, or perhaps 10, would suffice for a particularly severe offence. Adults with a fire-and-brimstone approach to life and parenting -- those who believe in the adage "spare the rod and spoil the child" -- would blanch at the duration of the paddling and the intensity of my agonized yelps and squeals. Even hardcore BDSM practitioners would stare in mesmerized disbelief at the deepening red color of my buttocks. Yet my punishment continues even beyond that, on and on and on, with a persistence and a ferocity that only a very tiny percentage of men in the world today could match.

"Smoothie from my ass, or cereal with my cum instead of yogurt, for breakfast?" you ask.

"Smoothie from your asssssssss!" I wail, in a little-girl voice of agony. I pray for my paddling to end, but as you pointed out not an hour ago, my prayers aren't answered down here, in this place, where there is nothing but pain and servitude. I have no idea how many paddles I am to get; I still don't understand what you told me.

"As a serious punishment, licking my butt after I've taken a shit, or twenty whip-lashes to your back?" you inquire, giving me a brief pause.

"Licking your buttttttt!" I howl, my voice other-worldly with agony. My bottom feels like a fire has been lit on it. It burns so much. I gladly would lick your butt right now, gladly lick the poo from your butthole, if that would end the pain.

I get all but but one of the questions right, and suddenly, mercifully, surprisingly, the blows stop. My crying, however, does not. I sob and weep and wriggle and clench my butt cheeks together in an effort to extinguish the fire. I don't know if you're really done, or if this is just a break. It hurts so much. It burns so bad.

I am hiccupping with distress now. The food in my tummy is all upside down and compressed from being over your knee, and I feel a burning in my throat from acid reflux. At your command I eagerly dismount and stand up, teary-eyed, my face contorted into a so-sad little-child boo boo expression. I sob, trembling with pain, doing a little version of the pain dance -- lifting each foot a bit in turn, as if marching -- as you tie my arms really tight behind my back, their positioning causing me to emit a pained gasp as you cinch them together in a way that they are not supposed to go.

As you leave the room I am a very, very sad little girl. Of course my bottom hurts and burns, and now my arms and hands are going numb, but worst of all is I can't even comprehend how quickly everything went so bad for me. I've spent the last couple of days wishing I could apologize to you, wishing I could end the dog food and the torture and the torment. In my mind if I could just have a second chance, just manage an apology, I'd get my old Master back, and things would be better. And the thing is, it worked! Everything happened as I hoped it would. Well, not exactly when or how I thought it would, but I trusted you, there in the darkness, in my cocoon, and you spoke to me. You took mercy on me. You gave me a second chance. You allowed me to speak just like I prayed you would and I apologized. And you hugged me, just like before, and we kissed, long and deeply, passionately, like lovers. And you forgave me. You absolutely did and you said we would put what happened in the past. And that I could be a girl again, and not a thing. A real girl.

But then I messed up. I didn't mean to, but I did. That's not even the worst thing that happened, though. The worst thing that happened is that I realized after I messed up that I did get my old Master back, and unlike the fairy tale Master that I somehow thought I was getting when we hugged and kissed and you cried while you kissed me, I instead got my real real Master back, the one who punishes and hurts me with a ferocious cruelty. My thoughts turn to despair, and tears of anger and frustration and self-pity fill my eyes. Nothing I do ever is good enough for Master! Nothing's ever going to change in this stupid place! Master's going to hurt and beat me no matter what I do or how hard I try. I'm 'sposed to know what he wants me to say and if I don't know, I get punished! It's not fair! It's not FAIR! I hate this place! I hate M- ("Don't Laur'. Just don't even think it.")

I catch myself just as you re-enter the dungeon and I look red-faced and angry for a split second, but when I see the look on your face and your clenched fist, I deflate, my heart racing in fear. You grasp my chin, forcing me to look into your eyes. I am terrified that you can read my last thoughts. You sometimes almost seem to have that skill. ("Does he see? Can he tell? Does he know?" I ask myself, panic rising in my chest).

When you tell me to piss myself I comply immediately. Instantly. Hot pee flows down my leg as if I was about to wet myself in fear, which isn't exactly far from the truth. I have plenty of urine in my bladder and it makes a sizable, yellow-tinged puddle at my feet. There is little doubt in my mind that I will be tasked with cleaning the mess up later, with my mouth. The only question is what will happen between now and then. I soon find out.

As I kneel on the rice grains and they grind into my knees, tears come to my eyes once again. It's not the pain. It's the realization that your elaborate punishments are never going to end, as long as I'm down here, as long as I live. I'll never be good enough. I'll never behave well enough or perform to your satisfaction. There always will be a punishment, no matter what I do. And not just regular, normal punishments. Most of the time you think of every detail to make it hurt more or be nastier for me. If licking up my own pee isn't bad enough, I have to do it while kneeling painfully, with my arms wrenched behind my back.

As you press my face to the pee-puddled floor and I stick my tongue out, I soon learn that there is much more to my punishment than licking and sucking up my own urine. I can sense your erection, sense your arousal even before I feel your lubed cockhead at my sore, tortured pussy. ("He's gonna fuck you Laur', and it's going to huuuuurt!" my inner voice teases me. Sometimes I hate my inner voice.) Your cock enters me suddenly, brusquely, and I gasp and squeal with pain. My pussy lips burn from my whipping, and your entry is hard, deep, and unannounced. I'm actually shocked that you're using my pussy so soon after punishing me there. But use me you do, plunging in and out of my vagina as I kneel in abject misery in a puddle of piss with rice grains biting into my knees.

It's not just any pussy fuck, either. You cram your cock deep inside, past that other place, the Deep Inside Place, where I feel that pressure, that stifling, heavy-brick pressure. And this time it hurts, it really, really hurts, and my eyes explode with tears as I gasp, face down and tongue out, into the cold puddle of smelly urine. "Unnnhhhhhhh," I wail as you press past my inner barrier with your cockhead and into my womb. "Unnnnhhhhh! Unnnnnnnh!" I sob in disbelief as you rape my tortured pussy with deep, hard penetrations. I cry and cry and cry as you take me deep and hard on the floor of the dungeon.

When you pull out I gasp at the friction and the sudden emptiness. I moan in discomfort but I know that you are not done. You're not done because you haven't cum, and I know that you don't ever stop before you orgasm. I don't know what you are doing because my face is plastered to the pee-wet floor. My arms and hands are mostly numb now, and what small parts aren't numb tingle with pain. I gasp with discomfort. ("It'll be OK, Laur'. He's almost done. Prolly anyway. Then you can sleep.")

When you press your cockhead to my anus I am not even really surprised. I tense and groan as you push in -- your cock feels thick today; somehow bigger and wider -- and begin to fuck me. ("He's almost finished, girlfriend. It's almost over.") I grunt in pain as my bottom hole becomes reacquainted with your member. You fuck me, not too deep ("He's worried about your butthole, Laur'. Your inside parts, when you kinda went crazy.") And then you cum, and I can feel the thick hot goo splashing into my bowels. Idly I wonder if a girl could get pregnant from her butt if her inside parts were in the wrong places.

I moan as the binds come off my arms and wrists and hands and the blood surges back, causing a hot, tingling, burning sensation. My limbs are numb and useless for a time as I begin to slurp the cool pee from the floor, like a wet-dry vac, re-drinking the waste fluids that I only recently voided from my bladder. As I work I can feel your cum oozing from my butthole and down my leg. You weren't that far in my bottom to inject me deeply, and your copious, almost super-human cum load overflows my capacity and a good bit of it ends up trickling and oozing out. I push out some more, with a loud, wet, "thhllbbbbbbbbbbbb" of a greasy fart, which ends up splattering cum on me all over down there. I lick up the cum, as well, cleaning the floor thoroughly, while trying to keep my hair out of the mess. It's too late, of course. My hair is stringy, wet, and smelly. It feel gross, and I desperately, absolutely, want and need another bath. Or a shower. I'll take either.

But I get no opportunity to clean myself. You force me into what I think is the smallest cage in the entire dungeon. It is tiny. Barely a foot high and 18" wide, and way shorter than my outstretched body. It's like a coffin, but smaller, and with bars. ("Thank God it's not the horse, Laur'. At least it's not the horse.") As the lights go out in the dungeon, plunging me into darkness, I lie on my side and curl up, drawing my knees to my chest. They rest against and between the bars, as does my back. I lie my head down on the wooden floor, a very unhappy little girl, and cry myself to sleep.

Marcus

I walk in and give you a look. A long, contemplative look, scratching my chin and humming. Same clothes as last night, now a bit wrinkled because I slept in them. Stubbly face. Hair kind of dishevelled. Apart from brushing my teeth, I simply didn't bother with any hygiene at all since yesterday. I stick my foot into the cage, brush my big toe over your lips and slide it into your mouth.

"Good morning, pet. Suck on it nice and good and listen carefully. I don't want to hear anything other than 'good morning, master' for now. Here's what's going to happen. You'll go and have a shower. Nice thorough shower, inclusive of your hair. You'll brush your teeth, floss, trim your nails if they need it. Clean your ears with cotton swabs.. Afterwards, I'll take you to the surgery for a thorough examination. If your butt, pussy or anything else need tending to, I'll tend to them. Then you will go and make a breakfast for us, just buttered toasts and jams and marmalade today. Some fruit if you like, then put the rest into the fridge." I unlock the cage and give you a brown paper bag with an assortment of fresh fruit. “Also a coffee for me -- the usual. Before you dig in, you'll give grace and list all the things you are, or, anyway, should be grateful for. You took two tries and stuttered your way through yesterday so you clearly need to practice this complex and essential skill," I muse, the last bit of the sentence dripping with mocking sarcasm.

"I will then teach you 'sex stuff,’" I say, spitting the two words like they taste sour in my mouth. "Referring to any form of fucking and servitude in such vague terms is a punishable offence, from now on," I add. Why should I not mention something that irritates me, after all? If I dislike your behavior, in any way, I correct it, that's the whole point, right? "You're a sex slave in training, not some kind of baby. Call things with their right names. Cock-sucking, fucking, ass-fucking or ‘anal,’ rimming -- that's when you lick my butt hole, I don't know what else. Simple words, you don't need to know any special terms. Ball-licking, foot-licking, jerking off, masturbating yourself, they are all different things. And I'll teach you more. No rice will be involved. Was that too much all at once, or is the plan clear for now?" I check.

"I'll be in the kitchen, reading the paper. Go get me when you are clean." I say, and go do exactly that. I could fix myself the coffee, even the breakfast, but, whimsically, I feel like being served, tended to. I want my coffee, my juice, my breakfast, all of it, without ever lifting my butt off of the chair today. I read and relax, and when you come back, fresh and clean and all tidied and neatened up -- a stark contrast with my smelly old butt right now -- I wash my hands, so they are sanitary, and go take you to the medical ward for whatever finishing touches your body needs to be ready for the day. Antiseptic, cooling salve, baby oil, whatever you need. The baby oil is nice. Such a strange smell. Feels mismatched for you at your age. I rub it in your skin, all over, apart from where I have applied other things. You smell, and with your buttocks still kinda red and pink, also look like a baby, after a fashion. On a whim, spontaneously, I go through drawers in the ward, and find a pink pacifier, and plop, it goes into your mouth, and put you in a diaper, and only then, when you've been sufficiently babified, usher you to get on with your duties, which right now are a breakfast and a much-needed coffee for me. I tidy up the surgical table, sterilize things, and proceed into the kitchen a while after you.

It's mainly for my amusement that I make you look, and perhaps feel like a baby, but you've also kind of deserved it with your total vagueness about 'sex stuff.' A beating, brutal fucking and a night's sleep later, I'm still a bit irate that you didn't come up with anything better than that, when asked to suggest something to please me. Well. Now you know better, and I will soon extend your repertoire some.

I'm in much need of a good strong coffee (so much so that if it's not strong enough and good enough, I'll make you pour it out and make me a new one, giving you a “you're in trouble again” look) and I'm frankly curious about your “grace.” About your heightened, renewed awareness of how much in your life you owe to me.

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