Taken 46. On Board (bonus)

Robbie

My ears and tongue are throbbing. My tongue lolls out and I can't close my mouth the entire way because of the pain, which makes me drool. My tongue also is swollen. I just want to crawl into a corner, roll up in a ball, and die. I never should have lied to you. I get that now. Funny thing is, I didn't even think of it as a lie. When you asked me my name for myself, I didn't withhold that Kaitlyn name out of deceit. I wasn't trying to trick you. It was just easier not to tell you. It would have taken a lot of explaining, and I didn't realize that you really wanted to know. I've told lies before, lies designed to trick and deceive. And I've gotten in trouble before. But not like this. Never like this.

I answer all of your questions, every one, truthfully. My tongue is so swollen and pain–filled that my words are lisped and strange–sounding, even to me. I sound like a younger boy who is just learning to talk, or who still has a speech impediment. Whenever my tongue touches the roof of my mouth it hurts. It hurts a lot. So I try to avoid that sensation, meaning that my "Ls" and "THs" are slurred in a drunken kind of way. If a kid talked like this in school, for real, my friends would tease him for being gay. And I'd probably join in, at least a little bit, at least enough to be cool. The irony of this does not escape me.

I think we're done. We have to be done. I'm hurting so bad. I want to go to sleep. But when you say it is time for my punishment, making it sound like my real punishment hasn't happened, yet, I start to shiver. And shake. I can't help it. I am terrified. And as you lead me to the punishment bench, I can barely walk. I place my feet in front of me mechanically but my knees are weak, my body is shaking. Horrible thoughts flash through my brain. Scalpels, blow torches, needles. I am petrified.

You can see my body shaking as you position me on the bench and proceed to strap me down. I can't move, or certainly not very much, anyway. Enough to writhe and twist, but not much more than that. I try to look over my shoulder as you apply the condom to your hard cock, and I know I'm going to be fucked. And I know it's going to be hard. ("He's gonna make you bleed. It's gonna be bad. He doesn't want your blood on his cock."). My mind races with unsavory thoughts.

I watch as you lube the condom. The stuff looks brownish red as you smear it up and down your monster cock, then return for another dollop. And all of a sudden, the smell hits me –– pungent and spicy. It smells for all the world like hot sauce. I don't have much time to ponder why, as you position yourself behind me. And then the tip of your condom–and–lube–covered phallus touches my sensitive, recently de–flowered opening. I wince for a second, surprised at the burn, since you're barely applying any pressure. And then it dawns on me. Suddenly. Horrifyingly. The burn is from the "lube" –– the lube isn't lube.

I try to writhe but it hurts more. I pull my hips tight to the punishment bench but you just move an eighth of an inch closer and keep your cock tip nestled against my puckered opening. I am moaning, not in pain so much but the anticipation of pain. Pain that I know is coming. I'm a smart kid. I've figured it out. You're going to fuck me, hard and deep, with burning stuff on you cock. The first time you fucked me was too good to be true. It was nice, and gentle, and kind, and you never even rammed it in as deep as it could go. This is going to be a punishment fuck. And it's going to kill.

It already hurts as you make me repeat the words after you. Tears are rolling down my face as I speak. I know instinctively that there is nothing I can say, nothing I can do to stop what is going to happen. I also know, instinctively, that it's going to hurt, a lot. It already does. And even I say the word "ever," your cock starts to cram into my hole with all of your force behind it. My sphincter collapses as your cock knifes into my rectum, searing me, burning with a pain that I could not even have imagined existed.

But it does exist. My eyes roll back as I nearly pass out. Distantly, through a haze of pain, I hear a high–pitched, girlish screaming, the caterwauling of single–digit aged little girl in pain. And I realize, as my eyes roll back down, that the little girl screaming in pain is me.

Mercifully, when my mind replayed the scene afterwards, I could not remember how long my punishment fuck lasted. Honestly, I don't know whether it was five minutes or 20 minutes. But I remember the pain. The searing, burning, endless, excruciating pain. My screams and tears, my writhing, twisting contortions. I think I went in and out of consciousness, or at least semi–consciousness. I'm sure that if I actually passed out you would have revived me, because I wasn't supposed to sleep through this event. No, I was exposed to experience it. Live it. Endure it. And I did. Every painful thrust of it, however long it lasted. I felt them all.

I won't lie to you again. Not only will I not lie, I won't filter or withhold information, either. I've been taught. I've learned. The fiery agony in my rectum won't soon be forgotten. Won't ever be forgotten. I am Kaitlyn with a Y and my rectum is ablaze with pain. Everything hurts. I am certain, absolutely sure, that I have been torn, that I am bleeding. Maybe I'll bleed to death –– there are no doctors down here, after all. I think all of this before you grab my chin and warn me about the consequences of lying.

When it is over, I gulp down the frothy, warm contents of the condom, swallowing your man spunk obediently. It doesn't occur to me to decline. I understand pain now. When you untie me I can barely walk. Each agonizing step grinds my insides together, and releases more of the burning chemicals scorching my rectum. It burns. I moan with pain. I can't help it. My eyes are bloodshot and blurry. I'm not sure I can make it back to my cell.

I listen to your instructions. I look defeated and spent, but my mind is racing with clarity. I feel numb, but alert. It's a strange combination. I listen carefully. I need to fill more jars and write. And then you are gone.

My butt is killing me. My anus especially, where it is raw, red, and abraded. I strip off my girl clothes, slowly, moaning in pain as my motions hurt me and rekindle the burning inside me. I clean my butt hole gently, dabbing with cotton swabs, applying some antiseptic, my eyes wet with tears as I dab at it.

I can't help it and I nap. I am mentally and physically exhausted I sleep for over three hours. I awaken in a panic, knowing instinctively that too much time has gone by. precious time. I immediately prepare to write in the book. And with a gut–wrenching panic, and adrenaline–inducing, heart–racing panic, I realize that I can't remember the exact words I am supposed to write. I can't remember them, and there is no way to ask. I remember the gist of the words –– I won't ever, ever lie to you again, I swear. Or was it I promise? No, it was I swear. But I can't remember the words. Not exactly. Even though my mind was clear at the time, I lost the words in my nap. And I can tell I was asleep for a long time. And I haven't wanked, yet. Not even once. Panicky thoughts jumble around in my brain.

It is a very scared, very worried boy who begins to write in the notebook. I crunch over the page, my face ashen and intent, my hand curled around the pen. I write: "I swear I won't lie to my master again.". But that doesn't look exactly right. It doesn't sound right. I write again. "I swear I won't ever lie to my master ever." That doesn't sound right, either. And they can't both be right.

I force myself to concentrate. I write again. "I swear I won't ever lie to my master again.". Something doesn't sound right. But I'm behind. And I can't remember. And I can't ask. So I write. Over and over and over. On the next page I do all of the "Is" and then the "swears," one word at a time, in columns, each word 23 times, my 7th–grader scrawl filling the page in wavy lines of words.

My hand starts to tire on the fourth page. Not four back–and–front pages, but four single sides. I take a break, and wank myself to an unsatisfying orgasm. I capture my cum in a jar, lid it, and write the date. Or at least I think it's the right date.

I have a drink, and resume writing. I write feverishly. I eat a bit. I pee. I moan with worry, as I know I can't get it all done. I remove my makeup, quickly, smearing it, doing my best to work quickly. I look like a young boy again, sort of. A worried young boy.

When you return, whatever time that is, I have filled less than half of the notebook, and my handwriting has gone from tolerable, to wavy, to bad, to almost illegible. I have wanked myself to orgasm three times, and there are three small jars, labeled, with diminishing amounts of boy jism in each. When the cell door swishes open I stand quickly, naked, and face you, looking very, very worried, very naked, and very small. I clasp my hands in front of my young package nervously, and begin to tremble. One look at me and you know that I have failed. We both know. I want to disappear, but there is no place for me to go.

Marcus

I walk in, in silence, and suppress a yawn – it's very late. You and your training are, let's be fair, only secondary to Laura's. You're basically Laura's birthday gift. If you don't please me, and if she really pisses me off, it might end up being your severed head on a silver place that she gets. Maybe with your cock and balls stuffed in your mouth. I shudder; I've seen an image like that before, news related to Mexican drug cartels, I think, but that'd probably be too much butchery even for a thoroughly fucked up guy like me. Probably.

I take the notebook first. Leaf through it. Shake my head, with a slight frown first as I see the inaccuracy of your statement; with a deeper one later as I see your hand–writing deteriorate. And then I throw the notebook in your face when I see you barely filled a half of it.

"Pick it up," I demand and take it from you again. I grab it by one edge and whack you over the head with it and drop it – deliberately with the edge of it over your toes; not a serious pain but enough to make a kid wince. "Pick it up," I repeat and slap you with it a few times before tossing it at your feet again. "Pick it up." This time I bend it. "Poor effort," I simply say. "For a boy who could find my fist with this crumpled in it," I point at the notebook, "stuffed up his ass right up to my elbow, that's a poor effort." This time, I toss it on your bed, we're done with it for the moment.

I look at the jars. Three pathetic jars from a boy who boasted wanking up to five times a day and who was supposed to cum as much as he possibly could. I look at you. A long, steady, silent looks that tells you that you are fucked.

"Robbie," I say calmly. "I don't think you quite understand. Out there, when you don't score, when you disappoint, it's nothing. It blows over; all those girls who totally dig you, your sweet mum, they are very forgiving. Your buddies might not be so forgiving, but they are dumb oafs, their macho egos are eager, tempers hot, but they have a very short memory. I'm neither a forgiving little girl or a dumb oaf. I though I have made that kind of clear," I say poisonously. And then I stay silent for a long time, but gesture at you to remain silent – and if you attempt to say as much as a single word, you will be silenced with a right hook to remember not to ignore my commands, even the unspoken ones. Enough to make you hit the floor with your mouth bleeding; not that I expect an interruption. You look more likely to shit yourself in fear than to defy me.

I pull a string out of my pocket, tie it around your balls and the root of your cock, quite tightly, and use it as a leash to lead you into the dungeon. I make you sit down into what looks very much like an electric chair, the kind they use for execution. I only untie the string when you're in, buckled around your thighs, knees, calves, feet, belly, chest, neck, upper arms, lower arms and wrists, immobilized like a statue. Even though you are freaking the fuck out, I know how to make a boy hard. It only takes a few strokes, rubs, prods and pokes to get your cock up. And then I place one flat electrode over your perineum, and screw a steel tube into your cock. It's thin; as far as urethral insertions go, I'm being sensible with you, a teenage "virgin" when it comes to being invaded this way, and it's got special made rounded edges and I do use lube. Nonetheless, your cock is now noticeably thicker because the shaft is filled and your piss–hole forced ever so slightly open by the tube that's filling it. I plug in the TENS unit.

I can see you are about to break the silence and I look into your eyes from so close out nose–tips actually touch. "Nothing you can say will make me not do this. Right now, begging and whining will only mean I'll stuff your mouth with a HUGE gag, likely big enough to dislocate your jaw. Care for that?" I smirk and then finish the set up. Again; a threat I'm very ready to make good on. I love gaping mouths, after all.

And then I turn on the E–stim unit. I don't fuck with the frequency, I have the perfect one already set–up, it's just under two "kicks" a second, the only thing I adjust is the power. I watch your expression carefully, this is highly individual, but essentially any current that stimulates you through an electrode that INSIDE your cock is bound to be powerfully efficient. And it is. And the way I placed it, the way the currents run through just the right nerves, making just the right muscles contract, they make you cum in a time that even a veteran wanker like you could not have possibly imagined, something like fifteen seconds. Your cream erupts from the tube. I do nothing with the settings of the TENS. It keeps kicking. It keeps your cock up, and it keeps forcing those tiny muscles that make you shoot cum work overtime, that single orgasm seemingly emptying your balls in one go. Seemingly. I let it run; that's all it takes. It forces you to cum again. And again, and again. It takes six orgasms, forced out of you all in under three minutes, for you to start shooting blanks. Nothing even dribbling out of your cock any more.

I turn up the juice and watch you squirm and writhe in pain. But the result is just as physiologically inevitable. You cum some more. And a little more. It's just ejaculation; it's too forced, too painful, and too... localized to feel like a real orgasm. And I turn the power up one last time, enough to make you scream like an animal; it must seem like your sensitive parts are being fried; it must seem a wonder that no smoke is coming out of them. Completely transparent, sperm-free liquid lazily dribbles out of your cock and then stops – you've LITERALLY been milked dry; there is nothing left in your ball sack, nothing in any of the related adjacent glands. I let the thing force you into the not–quite–orgasmic ejaculation a few times out of sheer malice a few more times before I turn it off, pull the tube out, unstuck the electrode from your perineum and I smile, picking up your shrunken sack between my fingers.

"See? This is how empty I want to see your sack when I command you to empty it for me. Not that that's a command you are likely to hear soon," I add cruelly. I put you into a chastity harness that would be impractical in real world -- if you had to wear clothes and do stuff. It doesn't just confine your cock right at the root, limiting it into a tube that prevents it unavoidably and without compromise from becoming even half erect, it cages and denies your balls any attention too, and is secured as a steel band around your hips. There is a ring over your anus, enough to keep your butt cheeks slightly apart, enough to allow you to take a shit and clean it as and when you need to. It has a ribbed inside. I show you the but plug that can be screwed through there; a pointy, bulky steel bud that is thicker than my cock even before it expands. I screw at its base and you see just how devious it is; it opens like a blossom; it can open to up to five times it's "bud" size.

"You will not touch yourself, attempt to tamper with the device, and you will capture every drop of cum or pre that leaks out of your cock; don't hide even a single drop." Not that you are likely to leak any soon the way you have been milked, and not that you are likely to leak much at all given just how constrained your cock is; okay for pissing but that's about all. "If you fuck up, I'll make the harness complete," I say and point at the evil, killer plug.

I walk out on you and it takes me more than half an hour to find what I was looking for. I return, unstrap you, let you out of the chair, and lead you into your cell. But not before I point to the large–ish puddle of jizz, half fried by now, on the floor. I press your face down towards it. I don't give a shit I have just put a stud in your tongue yesterday.

"Clean up. Lick it up," I demand. There goes your trying not to use that sore muscle. Tears, maybe even blood may be involved, but we're not done until you have cleaned up the floor after yourself with your lips and your marked, swollen tongue.

Once in the cell, I give you an old, old pen, the kind that is only used by artists for black–ink art these days; it is essentially a quill even though the tip is actually metallic and not really a feather. I also give you a tiny, tiny scalpel. It is round and short; the blade is good to open a single vein, useless to make a deep wound. Not a suicide tool, this. Finally, I give you a black box with a red button.

"You will finish the notebook. In your blood. Yes. You will cut yourself and use your blood as ink," I say adamantly, not joking in the least. And from here on," I point to the last line, "they will actually say I swear I will never lie to my master, ever again, not a letter off. And they will be super–neat. Pretty handwriting. Invent a handwriting for Kaitlyn, if you have to; make it a neat, curly, proper handwriting. If you make a sloppy job of it, I'll give you another whole notebook to try again. Don't press the button until that's done; and don't expect me to rush right down when you are. I will come, once you have pushed it, at my convenience to see that you really are done. Until you are done, there will be no water, no food, the toilet won't flush. And I'm being merciful here, just pushing you to REALLY obey me; you are not even being punished this time," I say, smiling. "Be grateful, and don't disappoint me again."

This time, when I leave, I take all the leftover food with me. I push a button in the control center, and cut off your water; the last bit of it is inside the toilet, should you be that desperate and should that occur to you before you use it. I go to sleep; I don't think you'd dare to rely on me taking a long time coming, but if you do, you're lucky – no matter when you finish and push the button, you're in for over 24 hours of dehydration and starvation and DEAD silent solitude. I sleep just fine and then I'm busy the following day; so I only come to check on you again much, much later. In the small hours of the following night.

Robbie

I stand there, naked, defenseless, timid, knowing with every fiber of my being that I am in for it. It was the nap that did it; it was too long. The nap eliminated any chance that I could fill the notebook before you returned. Not that I was likely to be able to do so, anyway. Plus I had the words wrong. My right hand was cramping so bad that I actually tried writing with my left; but it didn't work. My handwriting deteriorated to illegibility, and it was far too slow. I switched back, but the situation was hopeless.

So when you return, I know I am screwed. Part of me wants to run, but where? Another part of me wants to cower, but what good will that do? Yet another part of me wants to beg, just this once, for a second chance. But none of these are real options, so I stand there, watching your facial expressions with a funereal trepidation.

I flinch, startled, as you throw the notebook at me. It hits me in the face and the pages flutter open as it falls to the ground. You are pissed. My heart is racing as I pick the notebook up and timidly hand it back to you. I'm pretty sure you intend to beat me with it, and I'm shortly proven right. But I don't dare try to run or protect myself. I just stand there, wincing, squinting, cowering, as you smack me with the notebook and make me pick it up and hand it back to you for more. What else can I do? I'm a kid and about half your size. Like I'd have any chance in a fight with you. So, I stand there as you hit me.

My life has changed a lot since I came here. There is no fairness here. There is no protection for me. You could beat me to death if you wanted to and nobody would stop you. Nobody would even know. All I can do is hope that you won't. Hope that your anger will diminish. I don't exacerbate the situation by saying anything. I know that would just make things worse. Plus, the thing you put through my tongue makes me talk funny, lisping, like a girl. You'd probably just laugh if I tried to speak. Anyway, it hurts when it bangs around inside my mouth when I do talk. So I'm better off just shutting up and letting you beat me. I just have to take it. There aren’t any other options.

Finally you stop hitting me, and I stand there, naked and cowering. When you look at the jars I know you're angry all over again. Only three jars today, the whole day. I shouldn't have taken that nap. I could have had two, three, maybe even four more jars filled for you. I listen, scared and defeated, as you explain the way things work in this place. When you pause, I almost say something –– just to fill the silence –– but you look like you're on a hair–trigger and might deck me if I so much as open my mouth. I think better of it. I remain silent.

I am shaking when you tie the string around my cock and start pulling me into the dungeon. God how I hate that place. It's totally sick that you would set up all that stuff in it, just to hurt people. Worst of all is the fact that I don't even know what half of the stuff is for, which makes it even more scary because I know it's all there to torture and hurt people. Not just any people, but kids. Kids like me and Laura, and God knows how many others who came before us. Or may come after us, it occurs to me.

I don't like the chair you make me sit in at all. It looks like one of those electric chairs they have in prisons, especially with all the straps and stuff. I'm really scared as you strap me in; the only thing keeping me from totally freaking out is that I don't see any cords going to it to provide electricity. I'm super scared, though. I don't know what you're gonna do but I know it's going to hurt whatever it is. I don’t try to fight you, though. I can’t.

I hate when you touch my cock like you own it. Or, if I'm being totally truthful, I hate the way it gets hard so fast when you do. Even though I'm scared, I get hard in about 10 seconds after your touch me. Sometimes I despise the way my cock does stuff like that to embarrass me. Now I have no idea what you are doing –– but I freak out when you put the patch thing on my cock, because that does have electricity to it. Now I’m scared you’re gonna electrocute my cock!

I don't have a lot of time to think about it because the next thing I know you are shoving and twisting this rod down the inside of my cock, down my piss hole, and it hurts! I moan and struggle because it hurts like a bitch, and I'm about to say something but you warn me not to. And when you say you'll dislocate my jaw if I talk, I can tell you're dead serious. So I shut up. At least I don't think you're gonna kill me anymore. But I'm pretty sure you're gonna hurt me bad.

And then –– holy fuck! That thing inside my piss hole makes me feel weak inside like I'm wanking, and I can feel the cum load building super fast. I think I shot in like 15 seconds! This is confusing because I thought you were gonna punish and hurt me. But man . . . it's fucking doing it again. Woah. I think I just came again. Wait . . . you gotta turn it off . . . ow! Or shit! Oh my God. I think I just came again. It's starting to hurt bad now. I am panting and gasping. But still it's like it's buzzing inside me.

Ow! Shit! I gasp, and groan. And when you turn it up again, I cry out. It hurts. Fuck! I think my cock is going numb. I think I came again. Oh shit! It burns! I writhe and wriggle in my binds, but I can’t go anywhere. Oh God, please make it stop!

I am spent, trembling in pain, and totally, utterly drained when you turn the thing off. I stare at you, wide–eyed, as you lecture me. I can't even believe what just happened. I don't even know what just happened. But I think I came about a dozen times –– I'm not sure, because I lost count. There is cum all over the floor and my balls are aching. I feel like I just ran a marathon. Fuck!

The thing you put my cock and balls in next is bulky and weird, and for a second I am scared that it, too, plugs into electricity. I look fearfully at the plug thing that's supposed to go in my butt. It looks like it would split me in half. Please don't put that in me!

I had a feeling you were going to make me lick up my own cum. But what choice do I have? I kneel down and try to suction up the stuff that's still wet with my lips. I have to lick the floor to loosen up the dried part –– soooo gross! –– and it hurts because of that thing in my tongue unless I am really careful and just use the tip. It's totally humiliating to have to eat my own cum up from the floor. I blush with embarrassment.

I listen, unhappily, as you tell me I have to write in the notebook in my own blood. I'm not like, totally squeamish about blood, but I'm not keen on cutting myself. You make it pretty clear that I don't exactly have a choice. I still have to fill about half the notebook. Fuck that's a lot of blood. You are totally sick. And crazy. Sick and crazy like a bat to make kids do stuff like this.

And then you're gone. But not before you take everything. It's me, the notebook, the pen, the cutting thing, and the stupid box with the button in the middle of it. I smashed the bed so I don't even have anything to sit on, except the toilet. As the door swishes closed I've never felt so alone. How sick is that? You electrocute my cock, hit me, make me lick my own cum off the floor, and I'm worried about being left by myself until I finish writing in the stupid notebook. Maybe I'm the crazy one. Going crazy, anyways. Who wouldn't in this place?

It's obvious to me that I'm going to be alone for a long time. Even if you come back as soon as I press the button on the box, it is going to take me hours and hours to fill the rest of the notebook. Hours and hours and hours of being alone.

I go to the faucet, but no water comes out. I flush the toilet, just to see, and the last of the water flushes down and away. It is not replaced. The cell is empty. Empty except for a notebook, a pen, the box, and the cutting thing. And me. 12-year-old me. I’m naked, collared, and quite unhappy. This isn’t fair.

It would, of course, be easier if I had a desk, or even a bed, but I don't. I have only the floor. I sit down, Indian-style, and pick up the notebook. It is crumpled and bent, and I try to straighten it out with my hands. I put it under my butt and sit on it, moving around on it like a human roller. When I retrieve it, it is mostly flat again. I can write in it more easily now. That's a start.

I pick up the little knife, and peer at the tip. It is tiny, but it looks sharp. I have no idea where I should cut myself. I don't want to cut myself, but I have to fill that notebook. I fear what will happen if I don't.

I decide to cut the inside of my left thigh. My skin there is white, smooth, and soft, and I figure that it won’t hurt as much as some other places I can cut. As I sit there, cross-legged, my thigh is an accessible target.. I bring the scalpel to it, and softly pull the tip of it across my inner thigh at about the halfway mark. The line is about a centimeter long, but I didn't break the skin fully. I move over, and try again. This time I cut through the skin, but only a tiny bead of blood surfaces. I swallow. I couldn't write one line with that little blood. I wipe it away. I grab my thigh on either side of the cut, and squeeze. Another droplet of blood emerges, grudgingly, but it is clear that this cut will not provide anywhere near enough blood for the task at hand.

I turn to my left arm, looking for a vein, something -- anything -- that will work. I stare at my wrist. But I don't want to cut myself there. ("Yeah, slash your wrist and bleed out before he comes back. That'd be perfect. Just perfect," I think to myself.)

In the back of my mind, I know that time is ticking. I have to start, because I know I have a long time before I will finish. Using my own blood is going to slow the process to a crawl. I will get very hungry, and very thirsty before I am done. I need to start. Soon.

With a burst of desperation and courage I grimace with determination and suddenly take the scalpel and draw it across the side of my left arm. Instantly I drop the scalpel to the floor and wince in pain, holding my arm. Whereas my first tentative cuts were too timid, this one is perhaps too much. The cut is about four centimeters, and blood immediately begins to bubble out across the entire length of it. My instinct is to draw my arm to my mouth and suck the blood and the pain away, but I suppress the urge. I need the blood to write with.

I dip the quill in the blood and bend over to write, holding my left arm in the air and away as I do. I write "I swear I . . ." before the blood on the quill is too faded to continue. I dip it in the blood again, rolling it around. I write ". . . will neve . . ." and have to dip again. With a growing horror, I realize that blood makes for a terrible ink. I write ". . . r lie to my . . ." before the quill stops writing once again. I dip again, and write ". . . master ev . . .." I dip again, and write " . . . er again."

I sit up a little. I have written one line. One. I have hundreds to go. Thousands. Half a notebook to fill. Blood is dribbling down my arm now in little rivulets. Precious blood that I need. I can't collect it, or stop the flow. Looking wan and miserable, I pick up the quill and resume writing.

My work is slow, painstaking, laborious. After a few lines I manage to get a little better at accumulating blood on the tip of the quill, but it still takes me at least two dips to finish a single line. Ever so slowly, I work my way to the bottom of the page. At the top is ink from my work earlier, with a real pen. A third of the way down the blood starts, red-turning brownish as it dries. At the very bottom the blood is fresh and quite red. I stare at it, with a detached amazement bordering on horror. The page literally is written in blood. My blood. The thought makes me feel queasy. I suddenly feel cold, and my body gives a little shiver.

The cut on my arm keeps bleeding, dibbling to the floor, and onto my leg. I try to use the quill to gather the blood before it dries, but now I am chasing little driblets and drops, and it slows me down. If I go to where the blood is deepest at the cut I can roll the quill around and get half a sentence worth of ink. If I chase droplets on the floor I have only enough for a few letters. It is a fight between saving the blood and making progress in the notebook. Eventually, realizing that the slower pace will take days, I opt to source the blood only from the cut, and let the extra drops go.

I get almost one full page back to front -- 46 lines -- from this cut before it clots closed and there is no more ink. I have over 100 pages to go -- I know because I counted them. With a pit in my stomach I realize that at this pace, I will need 100 cuts just like that one to finish. ("How does he expect me to do that?" I ask myself in horror.)

Aloud, I say: "This isn't possible!" with a scared, upset, whiny voice. My expression is horrified. But there is no answer in the cell. Nothing changes. It is just me, the notebook, the box, the pen, and the scalpel. I eye the box. Should I press the button, summon you, and explain that there is no possible way I can do this? The mere thought is laughable. You would beat me to a pulp. You wouldn’t hesitate. You’d beat the living shit out of me, and then you’d wrap the notebook around your wrist and arm and stuff it up my butt. I can't hit the button. Not until I'm done.

I eye the cut on my wrist and consider reopening it with the scalpel. The cut doesn't hurt much now -- just a little sting. But it would be weird, and painful, to cut it again, in the same spot. I eye my thigh again, the tiny little prick I made earlier already forming a scab. I wince, and suddenly cut myself there. Three centimeters. Not as deep as the one on my arm, but deep enough to bleed. I grab the quill, and begin to write . . .

Four hours later, I am a very, very unhappy 12-year-old boy. I have filled eleven pages of the notebook in blood. My back aches from my position on the floor. My left arm, left thigh, and left calf are lined with cuts, eight on my left arm, ten on my thigh, four more on my calf. Some of the cuts are just lines, but some have little smears and traces of blood emanating from them. Random smears of blood are on the floor, on my other leg, my chest, even my penis. My face is ashen. My skin, always a pale white, is now white as a sheet.

I get up and take a break, feeling tired and shaky. But the cell is silent. I try the faucet again, and pee in the toilet. There is nothing to do but resume. I kneel back on the floor, then sit, splaying my lower left leg in front of me. ("You need to make the cuts closer together. You're gonna run out of new places," I warn myself.)

Five hours later, I have filled another 12 pages of the notebook. My face is a mask of horrified disbelief. My hands are shaking. I look pale and sickly. The cuts on my left arm, thigh, and the side of my calf have grown in number. Like a lattice-work, they appear in parallel lines from wrist to elbow, groin to knee, knee to almost ankle. Between the cuts themselves, and the smears of smudges of blood all over me, on my nose and chin, I look like an accident victim. The blood on the floor of the cell makes it look like a crime scene.

I lie back, staring up at the ceiling, taking a break. I can't stop shaking. I fall asleep.

I awaken several hours later. Nothing has changed. It is me, the. notebook, the box, the scalpel, the pen. I am thirsty. The blood has dried on my skin. I open a new cut across my left shin, and resume writing. Within 10 minutes, the trembles and shakes have returned, worse than before. I am thirsty and have a headache from lack of food.

At the 24-hour mark, I have filled 47 pages of the notebook, but I have 55 to go. My body is more red than white now -- covered with little cuts, smears, and smudges of dried blood. I am shaking constantly. I can work only for 30 minutes or so at a time before I need a break. My eyes are hollow. I keep going, cutting, collecting, writing. My thirst is painful, constant, and enveloping.

At 36 hours I have filled 58 pages. My shakes are Parkinsons-like. I have 44 pages to go. I sleep more than I write now.

At 42 hours I cannot continue. My body is in near shock from the dozens and scores of cuts that line my legs, my arms, my tummy. 63 pages are full. 39 remain. I surrender. I can't go on. I am too tired. But I won't hit the button. Can't hit the button. I know I could die here, by not finishing. But I am too tired to care. I lie down once again, and sleep.

Marcus

You are starting to react the way I expect you and want you to; when I come in and lash out at you for failing to finish your task, you just stand there. You pick up the notebook over and over again and hand it to me to beat you with. It's plain bullying, undisguised, undecorated, unpretentious, I'm being nasty and I'm not trying to hide it even in the slightest. It may be the fact that with Laura, I'm actually kind of in love, and I actually want her to believe that all this has some kind of point for me, and therefore, possibly for her too. You, you're a guy. You're a sexy little thing, a slim, fit, handsome little soccer player whose coppery, gleaming mane needed a haircut some weeks ago and is now touching your shoulders. It will grow longer, girlie long, until I’m satisfied or you’re no longer growing at all. It already affects your Bieber-looks, and once it's past your shoulders, down to your back, you will look a lot more feminine, and more fun will be at hand, giving you pigtails, twin-tails, whatever I fancy. Not a hair will be cut of that radiant head of yours, unless I change my mind, of course. If I decide to shave your head bald, with a razor, it will happen. You don't get to decide that. But I want you long haired. Too long haired for a boy your age. I want the line between you and Kailtyn to blur even in everyday life, making it easier for you to step into the role on command. You are so handsome you're only a few small steps away from being turned pretty at any given point. But pretty isn't the aim today.

I treat you harshly simply because you are a boy. You are slightly less cute, slightly more anatomically comprehensible to me, stronger, and bigger than Laura; you’re nowhere near my proportions, but your body is less fragile and better padded. I'm less worried about accidentally breaking something when I drag and pull and manhandle you. And you don't resist. My brutality has taken that out of you even faster than I took resistance out of Laura. Even your body obeys as expected; I milk you until it's painful, until the orgasmic spasms of your cockette are totally blank, and nothing -- not even that watery, sperm-free transparent liquid -- is leaking out anymore. I milk you dry, literally, again with no qualms about causing rather a lot of pain. And then you bend down to the floor and use your recently pierced, swollen tongue to lick it all up, and I know I've got you right where I want you, little boy. Too bad for you.

And I leave you with a god-awful task at hand, and leave you. I check on you though; there's no privacy down here, and I want to watch you perform. I’m curious to see how a 12-year-old boy will cope with a form of self-torture. What I make you do to yourself is pure sadism, motivated by your knowledge that what I’ll do to you if you fail will be 10 times worse.

I actually spend a fair amount of time just watching you as you struggle to cut and write, cut and write. I can see the toll that this is taking on your body as you work to fill the notebook. I leave you stuck without water, food, company, and hours turn into days, checking in periodically as you slowly turn the cell into a crime scene. Eventually, the floor in the center of the cell where you’ve chosen to sit looks like a slaughterhouse, and you look like you’ve rolled in it. It would turn most people’s stomachs to see the mess you've made in the cell, and made of yourself, while attempting to obey. Writing in the notebook in your own blood takes so many cuts. So much blood spilled. You shock me, actually. I'd have approached this a lot more economically, opening one decent vein with a single, deepish cut. Your approach is way, way more drastic. You begin with a handful of smaller cuts, then a dozen, then, by the look of it, heaps and heaps of them in lines. A hundred? More? It’s probably only a pint or two of blood altogether, but it sure looks like more. You collapse repeatedly, always to wake up after a few hours and go on, shaky-handed, weak, sick, near-delirious.

I walk in after 42 hours. I could leave you sleeping but in truth, such dehydrated, malnourished sleep would only weaken you further. I grab you, toss your bleeding, shaking body over my shoulder, and carry you straight into the dungeon, to the water-boarding board. I strap you up real tight. I don't bother with feeding you or even giving you a drink; I find a vein that's not been too fucked up, one on the inside of your elbow that must have seemed too big to cut with the scalpel. I wipe the area with an antiseptic wipe and then laugh, realising the absurdity of treating a tiny prick when you are covered, literally covered in cuts. I put a needle in through your skin, and let a half litre sack of IV drip straight into your bloodstream. The IV feeds you water, sugar, minerals, and vitamins. As it starts to drip I add a small dose of caffeine just to really wake you up.

You are strapped down so hard that I can leave the IV in, doing it's work even while I go on with what I have planned, but I actually give you those twenty minutes it takes to go down into your system to rest. I use that time to clean up all those wounds. Lots of alcohol swabs. I even undo-the scabs and reopen some of the wounds, only to apply strong, pungent emerald green tincture on them; it is strongly antiseptic and stays on for days as crust, and it prevents larger scabbing and greatly reduces the risk of scarring. You've actually made more of a mess of yourself than I intended. I tidy it up very neatly, very carefully. Twenty minutes pass, the IV runs dry just as I finish, with no time wasted idling at all. You have really, really cut yourself an insane amounts of time. It almost looks like a painful suicide attempt by someone who doesn't know shit about anatomy.. In the end, I remove the IV needle from your arm.

The room stinks of the green tincture, nastily. Once at maintenance, I flush and clean your mouth and tend to your stud; some four days old now and the swelling has already reached its peak and started declining; impressive that, not as bad as advertised. I guess out there in the normal world no one pierces tongues of fast-healing 12-year-old boys and prevents them from eating -- apart from a little bit of cum -- while the wound heals. It not oozing anything, not bleeding either. I do one last bit of preparation: an electrode up your butt through the ring of the chastity harness, and some wires onto the tube over your cock and the cage around your balls. Now that's all that out of the way, I pick up a large canister and look directly at you. You seem to have rejuvenated somewhat from the IV. Good. You’ll need the energy to cope with what I have planned for you.

"There's a very important lesson that I have taught Laura that you are clearly yet to be taught," I say with oozing mockery, with gleaming sadism in my voice. "You don't get to give up. It's a key lesson, I'll think you and I will get on much, much better once this lesson is out of the way. You don't get to give up. You don't get to choose to live or die. You don't get to decide what is possible and what is impossible. Logic has nothing to do with it. Common sense has nothing to do with it. My words define reality. If I command you to fly on top of a cliff, you will jump off of the cliff flapping your arms just as hard as you can. If I ever decide to take that tube off of your cock, and give you a wooden board and a nail and a hammer and tell you to nail your cock to the board, you will lay your cock out on the board, hold the nail to it, pick up the fucking hammer, and you will do it. If I make you kneel on top of a wood-pile, command you to stay put, and set it on fire, you will burn, until or unless told otherwise. The only advice I have for your right now if you want it to end at some point, is to obey me fully, and blindly, regardless of what you think, feel, want. Your will is totally irrelevant and insignificant. Your obedience defines you. That's what you are. That’s how you exist. And there are no limits and no exceptions to it." That's what I tell you, face-to-face. I speak slowly, deliberately, patiently, and clearly.

And then I prove it to you.

Head down nose-dunking is for girls. I tilt the board, plop a wet cloth over your mouth and pour the water into your nose from up high. Laura got a taste of medieval not-quite-drowning, you get to experience full on, modern day Guantanamo Bay-style water-boarding. Five seconds. Pause. Cloth off. Your eyes reveal your complete and utter panic. They are bulging, and you are suddenly wide awake. That's the spirit, boy!

"Ask me to do it again," I demand. There's no winning. No easy way out. Obedience, utter and utmost and unhesitating obedience will make it end eventually, but this is as much a lesson in utter helplessness and your own insignificance as anything else. Nothing you can do -- other than die on me unexpectedly from some unforeseen heart weakness -- will make this stop before I decide that I'm done and stop it.

And I repeat the process. Tilt. Cloth over mouth. Water poured right up your nose from a height that forces it into your nasal cavities, throat, and larynx. CIA agents give up after five, six, seven seconds of this in tests. Those who defended the method were nearly all been persuaded -- by going through a single brief demonstration of it -- that it should be abolished. You, my boy, don't get to give up. You get ten seconds before I stop, remove the cloth, and allow you a breath. Then I flip a switch and watch you arch in agony as the circuit between your cock and balls and the anal electrode connect. Not a TENS unit this, not small twitches of nerve stimulation. This is hardcore electric current, agonizing and drastic. Ten seconds would give you burns where the electrodes are. Twenty might cause permanent damage -- frying you alive, essentially. You get three seconds to begin with.

I'm really not fucking around here; all subtleties and fineries put aside, this is intentionally over-drastic, this is not sexy or even very entertaining, this is a breaking session, full on. This is your undoing so I can remake you in my image. I take this far. All the way, one could say. I get hard. It surprises me, I'm not committing this as a kinky, sexual, fun thing; this is utilitarian, hands on, pragmatic torture, with none of the dark playful thinking I apply to sexual games.

"Tell me I am always right. Tell me you will always obey me."

Another ten seconds of water-boarding. So simple. So efficient. I have you under the right angle. A wet rag over your face. And I pour and aim the stream precisely into your nose. Unnecessary? No. Wait for what is coming. I must be sure you will say anything and everything.

"Tell me you will kill yourself for me. Mutilate yourself for me. Tell me you will eat my shit. Swear that there is no God. Say that you hate God, should he exist. Now say that you hate your mother. Call her a filthy whore. Yell at her. She's brought you into this world after all, and she allowed this to happen. And you wouldn't be here if she watched over you well. Say it. Say that you hate her. Scream. Yell at her. Denounce her."

Each time you linger or hesitate, or don't give me what I want exactly as I want it and straight away, another ten seconds of the drastic torture ensues, and randomly, mostly for trying to mitigate the wording, I fry your ass and cock for three, four, even five seconds. If it takes more than ten second intervals to really break you, so be it. I refill the canister if I have to. I pour the water steadily for fifteen, as much as twenty seconds if I must. I told you there are no limits, no exceptions, and if I have to spend hours to prove my point, if I have to not go to sleep tonight, so be it. I'm willing to sacrifice sleep, and whatever else it takes to really break you.

"Now tell me you can and will finish the notebook. Good boy, that's right, you will, I'll make sure of it. Tell me what your least-favorite food. What do you hate? Can't bear? Don't eat?" I make a note of that, of course. I only torture you more if I have to, if you break, budge, I don't keep pushing. The thing with water-boarding is you don't really pass out from it, it's the sort of torture that really keeps you awake.

Finally, it is done. I pull out the electrode. Remove the wires. Untie you, strap by strap, releasing you fully. I strip my pants off and sit on an armchair.

"That's done for the moment," I say. "Next lesson will involve no less than drilling your teeth open," I say and cock my eyebrows amusedly. "Pray that you don't need another lesson. Now come here, boy. Come, crawl here. Now suck my cock. I want a throat-deep sucking, licking while you are at it, the tip never going out past your lips again once you have started, and it will go on for a long, long time. You will swallow everything that comes out, jizz, piss, whatever. And you will keep going. You don't have the right, the option, to give up. And the moment it gets too sloppy, too poor an effort, the moment my cock goes limp without my balls emptying a sufficient amount of times, it's back to the drawing board -- sorry, the water-boarding board," I smile, possibly the most fucked up smile in the whole universe. Fuck your exhaustion. Fuck your collapsing earlier. Fuck the fact you haven't eaten for days and days and only run on whatever was in the IV. You will suck my cock. Now. And then you will eat what you said you never would eat, and you will eat it gladly, gratefully. I bet you’re so hungry that you'd be grateful for dog food by now, even a gourmet boy with a refined palate like you.

Robbie

I am out of it when you return. Weakened, perhaps in shock -- not from blood loss, but from the trauma of cutting myself dozens of times, coupled with the lack of water, food, and sleep. It simply is too much for a kid to handle. You hoist me up and sling me over your shoulder, but I am only barely aware. I drift in and out of consciousness and semi-consciousness. Vaguely, as if in a dream, I am cognizant of being strapped down, and the IV being attached. It doesn't hurt. I don’t really care.

I start to come around a bit as you tend to my wounds. I wince as you reopen a few of the deeper ones. Truth be told, none of them are very deep. I did not go about the blood-letting very intelligently. I have avoided veins, and cut only flesh. Nearly all of the cuts provided some blood, but few of them provided a lot, and none of them provided enough. Had I simply bloodied my nose, or cut into a vein, I would have had much more blood and done much less damage to my skin. Instead, I cut myself superficially, over and over, in little parallel lines, up and down my body. And my body has reacted by going into a form of shock.

The IV rejuvenates me fairly quickly. Fluids, restorative vitamins, and sugars get me functioning again, and the caffeine helps to bring me back to the present. I can smell the malodorous green tincture -- pungent and medicinal -- as you apply it to some of the deeper wounds. I open my mouth on your command and allow you access to my stud. I am fully awake now, and well aware that I have been moved, and that I now am strapped down on a board of some sort.

As you begin to speak, I look up at you, a scared expression on my face. It's not supposed to be like this when you're a kid. Your words give me no room for hope. No margin for compromise. I can barely move. I don't know exactly what you are about to do, but your words make clear that I won't like it at all, whatever it is. That it's a lesson to me. A means of breaking me and bending me to your will. But I'm ALREADY doing everything you tell me! I am flabbergasted that you could hold my failure to fill the notebook entirely against me. It wasn't even possible! Look at me -- I'm covered in blood and cuts. What you made me do was impossible!

And then -- Hell on earth begins. You tilt me back (a weird and unfamiliar feeling in it's own right), put a cloth on my face and begin to pour water on me. On my face. At first, for a split second, I think -- what in the world is he doing? But only for a split second. Then I realize: I can't breathe. I am drowning JUST from the pouring water. It goes up my nose. Stinging in my sinuses and nasal cavity. I thrash, but I can't move. I panic. I can't breathe. I thrash about as much as I can, which is not much at all given the restraints. My body arches on the board as I pull against my binds. I've never experienced anything remotely so horrible.

Five seconds seems more like an eternity to me. Part of my brain that still functions wonders how pouring water can be so awful, so terrible, so much like drowning. I was dunked in a pool once. Just as I took a breath. Half of the breath was water. The boy who dunked me didn't know that, and he held me under for -- no more than five seconds, probably -- but in that time, I felt like I was drowning. But this is worse. Way worse. Exponentially worse. And when you let me up, my eyes are glassy and wide with panic, bulging slightly. I snort and chortle and gag and choke as the water drains from my nostrils and I gape like a fish, trying to breathe through my mouth. For some ungodly reason it takes a good 8-10 seconds before I can breathe, and that's after you have pulled me up.

I stare at you in panic. I am simply terrified that you will do it again. NOTHING could be worse than that. You want me to ask you too? "Please . . . please," I gasp, with a raspy, hoarse voice. I just want to catch my breath. I need time to regroup. Surely you MUST see that?

Well before I am ready again -- as if anyone could be ready for it -- I am drowning again. My heart patters in abject panic as you tilt me back again. In the half-second between the start of the tilt and the pouring of the water, my eyes bulge in surprised mortification. I'm not READY!" my mind screams. But you don't care. My world is awash noise and horror as the water pours down from above, on my face, up my nose, going inside me. The feeling is like death. Like drowning. It induces panic and terror and horror beyond imagination. It seems to last forever. I cannot breathe. I wasn't ready. My body thrashes and arches on the board, fighting the ligatures, but I cannot free myself. My skin is an unholy white -- white as a ghost, a sheet, as my body bucks and pulls for air. But no air comes.

When you tilt me up, before I can breathe, before the water has drained away, my cock and underside explode in a fiery pain. I had forgotten about that. Not anymore. The electrical shock prevents me from breathing. It is so indescribably painful that I nearly pass out. And then it is over. My body flops back to the board. I am spent, exhausted, defeated. You win. I can't take any more. I certainly can't ask for anymore. I won't survive. Clearly you see that . . . "Please. . . I'll d-do it," I gasp. "I'll do it, OK?" I say, in a stalling, gasping, pained voice, higher-pitched than my usual.

I am making little sounds of distress, little moans -- “unnhhh . . . unhhh” -- like a catatonic youngster who just saw his Mommy killed in a hit-and-run accident. My body very suddenly breaks out in terrible trembles. Full-on body shakes, body QUAKES. My eyes are bulged and terrified and there is a horrified, deep-seated misery in them. I want to obey. But more than anything, more than the world, I want you never to do that again to me. Not ever. I would watch my loved ones roasted alive rather than have you do the water thing that you do. And yet -- I have to ask you and I KNOW I do, else you will continue to do it until I ask. The formula is quite simple. The reality is quite simple.

Funny thing is, you'd pretty much already broken me before this. I was obeying. I wasn't fighting you, overtly or passively. I did what you commanded. To me, this lesson is about effort. I get it that my writing effort wasn't good enough. You gave me a task and I failed. How I could have tried harder will have to be something I deal with another day. But I needed to try harder, until I succeeded, even if I had to amputate my leg for blood. It is a very miserable, very broken boy who says, in a whispered, petrified, shaking voice: "Please . . . please do it a-again," I say, horrified at my own words.

Hell ensues. There was a little part of me, a very small part, that was hoping that if I showed obedience and asked for you to do it again, you would show mercy and not actually do it. But there is no mercy. The horrifying, floating, drowning, dying sensation resumes, for another endless eternity. Water swirls into my nose and throat -- everywhere -- stinging, hurting, awful. My naked body arches off the board, fighting, repelling, struggling. There is no stopping it. No stopping the drowning. And then it is over, and I am upright again with dizzyingly speed. I gag and chortle and gasp and shake as the water drains from me and I stare at nothing with zombie eyes. I can't focus. I can't hear.

But then you speak, I listen. And then . . . I simply DO. Everything. All of it. I repeat. I agree. I blaspheme. I denounce. I promise. All of it. Every word. I say things I never thought I would say, promise things I never thought I would promise. I denounce the ones I love. I promise to perform vile and horrible acts. All of it. And -- I even suppose to myself this is the point -- I mean it. My responses are sincere. My obedience is full. You, controller of the water, the pain, have commanded it. I not only obey, I believe. I am broken. Fully, utterly broken.

You unstrap me and I crawl to you. I am trembling. Ghostly white. I feel cold from the water. The trauma from the last two days is visible in my blood-shot, exhausted eyes. I want to collapse, to sleep. But I know if I do, punishment will come, swiftly and painfully. I take your erect penis in my shaking right hand, and bring the tip to my mouth. I lean in. I open for your cock, and lower my mouth down around it. I begin to suck you, my tongue working on your cockhead and glans as I bob. I settle in. Exhausted as I am, I know that this will take a while. And failure no longer is a viable option.

Marcus

Poor kid. You really tried, with the cutting and all that. It's not really your fault that you panicked and messed up, made an effort in a rather dumb way, which prevented you from succeeding. You've been through so, so much it actually sends a small pang of guilt to my stomach, and a brief flicker of compassion, but not a big enough one to kindle a whole flame of mercy. I still want you to serve me, despite your sorry state.

As you crawl to me, trembling, pale, shaky, with the last thing on your mind being sex right now, and you grab my cock and lower your mouth over it and start to suck, a thought flashes through my mind. I'm getting good at this. This was drastic, almost unnecessary, but it was efficient. You've learned, very clearly, very decisively, beyond a shadow of doubt, that you simply can't fail, can't give up, can't decide you've had enough, that you're hurting too much, too tired, too hungry, thirsty, sad, sick, whatever. You've learned the insignificance of your opinion on the matter of things being possible or impossible, meaningful or pointless. I stroke your hair out of the way. Damn I love red hair. Coppery red, rich, shiny red hair. Laura is the first ever brunette I like better than I generally like redheads, but that's because she is divine and one in a billion. You are stunningly handsome. Even pale and sick and broken and not far from shitting yourself with fear of what I've just done to you, you're a looker. It makes my cock twitch in your mouth.

Right now, you are in a shape that would be a good enough reason for you to collapse, or even die on the spot. It's really not the time to be teaching you anything. But fuck that. I want my blowjob the way I like my blowjobs, and I have no reason to settle for any less.

"You kinda suck at this," I tease. "Hands behind your back. Come on, that should be an automatic reflex, the moment your lips touch my cock, your hands should be out of the way, out of sight," I explain. "If I want a handjob, I'll ask for a handjob. Right now, you're using your mouth. Lips. Tongue. Throat," I go on with the list. "There. Off with your hands. Look up. Apply some suction to make your mouth fit more tightly. Lips around your teeth, you don't wanna bite me, or scrape my cock with your teeth. Trust me on that one, you don't," cock an eyebrow. It's a small gesture, and the warning is lightly, plainly said. But by now, you've met me -- properly met me -- and learned about the hows and whats of here, so even that little warning should ring with the echo of broken teeth, pulled out teeth, face bashed in into a bleeding mess. It's as easy as that. You bite me, I very nearly kill you. I don't even have to say it so explicitly; we both know it.

I run fingers through your hair again. Gently, almost lovingly. But then I slide further, and grab your skull more firmly and pull you towards my hips to force more of my cock into your mouth, making you gag. "You are my little bitch today. Your supper is my cum and a can of dog food. And you will say a polite thank you for both of those," I smile cruelly. "Now unless you want to be face-fucked to the point of passing out, stop messing around and take my cock a good bit deeper than this. Gag on it," I demand.

"We're very close to introducing you to Laura now," I say, matter of factly, as you suck. "You'll get a taste of pussy. Soon," I smile. I imagine letting you watch us fuck, horny and needy, and then commanding you to lick her pussy clean off my cum when we are done. It sends another strong twitch of pleasure through my cock.

"More tongue now. Right over and under the piss-slit. You're a guy, man, come on! You know what feels good. And you've got a bigger mouth. Longer tongue. You have absolutely no excuse whatsoever to be a far worse cocksucker than your little schoolmate. I was tough on her almost every step of the way. Maybe I should be tough on you too? Beat you bloody each and every time your effort is even an inch short of perfect?" I muse. "I know, I know," I smile compassionately when your bloodshot eyes flare up in panic. "You've already been beaten. And cut. And half drowned. And electrocuted too. I get your point, boy," I smile, stroking your hair, nodding at you. "That makes me wonder what the hell I have to do to you to swallow that cock balls-deep and finally get me off. Douse you in gasoline, light a smoke, and stub it on your very flammable skin unless you finish the job before I'm done with it? You look tired. You want this to be over, too. So make it happen. Make it happen, Robbie. You're a damn good soccer player. I've checked your record. I know you are tough when you wanna be. Be tough now. Show me that a little gagging isn't something that will stop you from pleasing your master. Show me effort. Real effort," I demand.

Somehow talking to you both honestly and without slipping into the somewhat apologetic mode that kicks in when I look at Laura is easier. It just is easier, between us guys. Somehow, even though it's probably an illusion, I have a certain sense you understand me. On some level, you probably do. Avid masturbator like you, you know about pressure and tension and how it can drive you nuts. And given that after a period of heightened, exaggerated release you are now in rock-solid, sudden chastity, you will learn tons more about it soon. I wonder how long it will take for your hormones to start driving you crazy. In fact, I suspect if you weren't hungry, exhausted, destroyed, you would be feeling a pang of the need already.

My orgasm almost surprises me. It's not like with Laura's exquisite tongue-work and building up tension and with her alternating between sensations and techniques with delicate care put into that effort, which keeps me suspended on the verge of orgasm for a long, long time, and then makes me cum with a mind boggling intensity. Your no-nonsense, less-refined approach feels a lot less like what I am used to when it comes to blowjobs lately, and lot more like fucking, or jerking off. A lot better than jerking off, but there is a straightforwardness to it that I can appreciate. I realise that yours is actually a perfect approach for a first thing in the morning, wake-me-up-empty-my-balls-and-drink-my-piss kind of blowjob. I cum. Groan. It's good. It's more direct, less artful than it could be; it feels a lot less like a game of teasing and delaying and stalling. It's a good way to get off. Easy and relaxing.

I sigh. My hand ruffles your hair and holds you in place for a bit. "Okay. That's was different, but not necessarily really worse than what I'm used to. Here's your choice," I smile. "Call it a day and go to bed with dog food in your tummy, or do it again, right now, and I'll cook you a meal. Whatever you like, from among whatever ingredients I have in the house. Once you start, you can't give up though," I remind you. I'm trying you, testing you, messing with you. I know you are dead exhausted. I also know you have quite a refined palate for a kid. The difference between a can of dog food and a freshly made decent meal is even larger for your than for the average kid. It's a strong button to push. I look at you.

Are you a kid who is gonna play it safe, perhaps a little cowardly, and settle for the minimum needed for survival and quit, here and now, offered the chance? Or will you be bold in your submission, and strive for more? Grit your teeth (hopefully not literally) and bear it, and earn my favor, and an entirely optional reward. I look at you. I can work with both. In a slightly unfair, condescending way I have you labelled as more towards the former; and right now, I realise that the latter would amuse and please me a bit more. But I simply don't know. I look and watch curiously. And wait for you to make the decision.

You are handsome. Strikingly pretty. Suddenly I want you to be brave. I want you to succeed. I find your eyes my scrutinizing gaze and smile a crooked half-smile. This is a challenge. You know I love challenging you. If you manage to think clearly, for a brief moment, you will realize that even though the choice is up to you, there is a wrong and right answer here. I'm letting you decide, but I'm not indifferent.

Robbie

I am so tired as I begin to suck your cock. I haven't eaten in almost two days, and I'm weak. My ordeal with the little scalpel and the notebook traumatized me and took a lot out of me physically. I haven't had much sleep. You restored me a bit with the IV, only to subject me to the waterboard. That exhausted whatever reserves of energy I had. I am thoroughly spent now, mentally and physically. It shows in my face and eyes. My eyes especially are bloodshot and hollow. I look pasty white and gaunt. I am shaking like an old man with Parkinson's. My arms and legs are lined with red scabs and daubs of the green tincture. Smears of dried blood appear randomly all over my torso. In short, I’m a mess.

I suck your cock, trying to please you with my lips and tongue. On your command I place my arms behind my back and use my mouth alone. I don't go very deep, but my tongue is active, and my lips grip your shaft with suction and pressure as I slide up and down on four inches of your erected member. I'm too tired to think very deeply. Complex thoughts are out. I know that I need to suck you to orgasm and swallow your cum. So I concentrate on that, bobbing, applying suction, tonguing your shiny, fleshy cockhead.

I was doing fine until you told me to watch my teeth, in a sort of a watch-your-teeth-or-I'll-pull-them-out-of-your-mouth tone of voice. Your warning has the intended effect and scares me, so I guard against teeth contact now, wrapping my lips over them protectively. But that affects my suction and undoubtedly diminishes your pleasure. The firm suction I applied was the best thing about my blowjob, but now even that isn't very good.

You pull my head down on your phallus and I gag, and scramble higher on my knees in an effort to pull back. My hands almost leave the small of my back. I think better of it. I will my throat to relax and my tummy not to expel whatever paltry contents it contains. I still have only about half of your shaft in my mouth. I feel like I'm not very good at this. You tell me I'm not as good a Laura. I'm not sure what to believe. Do you really have Laura Vandahl here? Really? She disappeared, and so did I, so I know it's possible. But where is she? And why haven't I seen her? Maybe you kidnapped her and killed her, and that's what you're going to do to me.

As you criticize my effort and technique I try to suck you better. It actually helps when you say "You're a guy, man, come on," because it makes me think of what would feel good if somebody was sucking my cock. A girl, I mean. I hadn't thought of that. I start trying to do some things that feel good if I were on the receiving end of a blowjob. I feel stupid that I didn't think of that myself.

The part that I'm really struggling with is when you force my head down, or tell me to gag on your penis. I try. I really do. But I swear I'm going to throw up all over your cock and then you'll probably beat the living shit out of me. I can't image anything more gross than having your cock vomited on. But I swear if I have to take it any deeper I won't be able to stop from throwing up next time. When you threaten to beat me, hurt, me, light me on fire, my heart starts to pound with fear in my chest and I look up, panicked. I can't tell if you're kidding. I'm too tired to figure it out. Do you really have Laura? Did you really beat her? Make her suck your cock? I thought you were gay. Plus she's only in 6th grade, year younger than me. I don't really know her that well. And why would you want to kidnap her? She doesn't even have any boobs, yet. Of course, I'm a boy with no boobs, and you obviously don't mind fucking me. In fact, you probably wouldn't have kidnapped me in the first place if you didn't like kids, at least boys. Maybe you like girls and boys? My head is spinning. Damn am I tired, not to mention confused.

I concentrate on sucking your cock the way I would want it sucked. I take my lips off my teeth and d-r-a-g them up your shaft, sucking hard, then bob down again, my tongue pausing to rub the very top of your cockhead, right on your slit. I taste your precum. I press down and gag again, holding your there. My face reddens quickly. It's not like I know how to do this very well. This is like on-the-job training.

I’m listening to your words as I suck. Meet Laura? Taste her pussy? I can't tell if you're serious. Maybe you have her here and are doing the exact same stuff with her? Did you rape her? Fuck her in the ass? Make her suck you? Or his she dead? Are you gonna make me taste her dead pussy? I shudder at the thought. I'm tired. Confused. Scaring myself. My mind isn't working very well. Maybe I should just concentrate on your cock.

I try to show you effort. I kneel up a bit higher, use my tongue, bob, and apply a nice suction. Your cock is big and thick and warm in my mouth. I work my tongue on your cockhead -- I know I'd like that. Your precum is flowing now, tangy, flavorful. And then suddenly, with almost no warning, you cum. Your spunk spurts and flows into my mouth, and I swallow, gulping and drinking your warm fluid. I swallow it all down. I don't miss a drop. I didn't know you were that close. You hold my head on your cock but I know better than to lick it. My cockhead gets totally sensitive after I cum. I look up. Did I do at least OK? Are you satisfied? I can't tell from your expression.

I look into your eyes with my own red-rimmed version as you speak. I am so tired. I'm still not fully sure but it sounds like my blowjob was at least decent. You make your proposal: Another blowjob in exchange for a good meal. I've already resigned myself to the dog food. I'm hungry, but even worse I am dead, dead tired. I just want to lie down and escape this place with sleep. Real sleep. I contemplate your offer. I know it will take a long time to suck you to a second orgasm. I just can't. I feel like collapsing right now. Plus my jaws and lips are sore. And my knees.

I hesitate for a few seconds before giving you my answer. I'll trade the good meal for sleep. Even the dog food is OK if only you'll let me sleep. But there is something in your eyes, your voice, your expression. I'm not too tired to know that you want me to agree. You want another blowjob. Your cock still is semi-hard, not fully deflated. You want me to say I'll do it. You want me to make the deal.

But I might have to suck you for an hour before you cum. I couldn't do five more minutes. I'm so tired. I ache. I'm not very good at blowjobs. You're giving me the choice, right? You wouldn't give me a choice if it wasn't real, right? I make my decision. I can't do it again. "I just . . . I just want to go to sleep -- I'm really tired," I say, softly, hoping you don't mind.

Marcus

"You're a pathetic, weak, whining wimp and sissy. And right now a dissapointment to your master. Admit it. Say it. All of it," I demand sternly. I'm cross. Disappointed. You're probably in no mental state to care for humiliation, but I decide to rub the situation in nonetheless. I open a large (half a kilo) tin of juicy smelly dog-chow and plop it straight onto the floor.

"Eat. Hands free. All of it. Polish the floor clean. Part of your exhaustion is hunger," I explain. While you contemplate eating, I go and clean your cell. I'm really looking forward to introducing you two, then, when one of you is temporarily "out of order" I can always summon the other for such annoying chores. I wash whatever mess is left, clean up the whole cell, and drag the mattress in, and straps from the med ward, and then I go get you, tapping my foot impatiently if you're slow with your food. I'll make you eat the whole amount though, even if I have to stuff and funnel it down your throat and duct-tape your mouth afterwards not to "lose it". I make you drink a litre of rehydrating solution enriched with minerals and vitamins.

I make you lie on the bed, strap you down. It's not the kind of bondage you couldn't, with tons and tons of effort eventually perhaps somehow squiggle out of, the mattress isn't totally firm and I don't pull the straps too tight, I don't want them to limit your breathing or blood flow in any way. I blindfold you. Before I pop ear-plugs into your ears I tell you specifically not to try and get out of the bondage, and command you to sleep and rest. And sleep. And rest. You're allowed nothing else.

"If you free a limb from the straps, I will amputate it and serve it to you as your next meal," I growl darkly. I don't mean it, but you have absolutely no way of knowing that. Au contraire, to you it must seem like a realistic, totally seriously meant threat from a monster like me.

I attach a tube to your chastity device, with a large plastic sack at the end; if you wet yourself, it will end up there and not on the mattress. I let you sleep for the rest of the day, come in the evening, feed you, or force-feed you another whole large can of dog food, pour as much of the vitamin mineral rehydration solution as you can take without drowning on it, I change the piss-sack, and abandon you for further nearly twelve hours, just nipping in to check on you before I go and see Laura in the morning. I check that you haven't shat yourself, do the necessary minimum to keep things sanitary according to your status, change the piss bag, force feed you another large can of dog food, pop a single plug out of your ear and command. "Not a word. No begging, no whining. Sleep. Rest," before replacing it.

When I come late that evening I first do all the motions like before. Force feed you a can of dog food. Empty the piss bag. And so on and so forth. I stop touching you then and step aside, letting you believe, for a minute, that I've walked away and that this enforced "break", this, by now more than 24-hour-long, sensory-deprived sleep will simply continue. Then I lean down, pop the plugs out, remove the blindfold and look at you with a displeased, slightly disgusted expression.

"Have you rested enough? Are you ready to serve now?" I ask in an icy cold way. You better sound awake and eager, boy. Another twelve hours and you'll already be at risk of some nasty bedsores. And who knows if I will be game, in the morning, I just might come with another round of force feeding, leaving you immobile and deprived of your senses for another whole day.

I'm reasonably lenient with you, though. I'm not madly keen on over-overdoing this. It already is overdone."Stretch. Move. Jump. Run in place. Show me how many push ups you can do. A dozen sit-ups. Squats. Stretch more. Legs, arms. Back. Neck. Come on, *girl*!" I laugh. Your gender down here is fluid. Right now, you're a girl. Simply because I called you one.

"Stand up. Look me in the eyes," I demand and grab your chin. "Catch a breath. Shake out any tension out of your arms. Breathe deeply. Now listen. If that's all you can do, then you're absolutely not resilient and strong enough to be of any use to me. If that's really all the push ups you can manage, I'll take you next door and drown you like a kitten, just to put you out of your misery." I actually grab the back of your neck. "Shall we? You don't seem that keen on performing well enough to keep me happy and yourself alive anyway," I muse and push you towards the door. I actually drag you all the way to the med ward. Fill a large bucket with cold water.

"Drop to the floor, bitch, and show me how many push ups you can REALLY make. Your actual physical limit, not some pathetic, poor number that you can do without even properly breaking sweat. Do it. There's no punishment this time. Make enough of them, impress me, and you will live. Disappoint me, and you will die," I say flatly and poke the bucket, your potential death-sentence right there in front of you, in your plain sight.

I think when you are done, should you do something like ten or LESS push ups, I will actually, seriously think, for a moment, about drowning you. I grab you by your red ginger hair, and drag your helpless, exhausted, shaking body to the bucket and press your face right to the surface of the water. If you try and put up a fight you'll only make it more amusing.

"Drink. That wasn't too bad," I allow and let go of your hair once your face has dipped into the water. "Have a shower. Wash well. Brush your teeth, take a piss, a shit if you must, and count. You've been strapped up for an evening, night, day and a night. Count, as you wash, how many days and hours it is since you last came. I'll whip you, once for each hour your count will be off." It will also remind you that this is by far, by very far, the longest orgasm-free period of your life since you came for the first time, actually. Longest time of no release, with a cock trapped in a tube that doesn't allow it to get even half erect and stops you from touching it in any pleasurable way. At a glance, your balls look full and swollen, now that you've had some food and sleep and you body got into a more normal rhythm. Today should be fun.

When you are done, I do another check of your small cuts and wounds, and tend to those that still need it with a bit of antiseptic, healing promoting salve. It's mostly just a few spots where you cut slightly too deeply. Then I make you go to the security room. I sit on the sofa, you'll kneel between my legs.

"Next time I hear about you being sleepy and tired, you'll end up floating in a full on sensory deprivation tank for 48 hours, and that's if you are lucky. Clear?" I demand brusquely. "Now how long has it been since you last came, and how does THAT feel right now?" I demand.

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