Taken 47. The odd jobs

Laura

I am sleeping, albeit fitfully, as you enter, but I sense your presence and bring myself awake. My night was extremely uncomfortable in the cramped little cage, and I slept probably no more than half of the total time. I woke up several times. I'm tired, and I suspect that today will be a long, fatiguing day. I am lying on my side, my knees pulled up toward my chest. My brown, doe-like eyes look up at you, blinking, but I otherwise remain motionless. I see that you are in the same clothes as yesterday; your hair is mussed, your beard showing more than just a shadow. Nevertheless, I note that you probably look and smell a lot better than I do.

I am a mess; my hair is bedraggled and smelly with dried urine. My bottom still is inflamed from my extended, painful paddling. My pussy remains a slightly faded purple-and-deep-red color, although the swelling has diminished markedly overnight. My anus is ringed with bruising, and my entire nether region is sticky with cum.

I take your toe into my mouth as you offer it and begin to suck, still gazing up at you. My tongue begins to swirl and clean as my lips and mouth wet your digit. I taste sweat and floor grit. I listen carefully to your instructions. I don't want a repeat of yesterday. ("Say grace the right way, today," I urge myself.) I continue to look up at you with my big brown eyes as my tongue massages your toe. I'm eager to get out of the cramped cage, even if it is to start another day in here, with you.

When you extract your toe and check for my response, I am smart enough to remember your earlier instruction. "Good morning, Master," I say in a soft, passive voice. "It's not too much. I- I understand." You open the cage door and I slowly, awkwardly, nakedly knee-walk and shuffle my way out of the cage backwards, bottom-first. When I stand, and stretch, my body protests, and I groan. I'm sore. Sore and tired. Spending the night in that little cage was no fun at all.

I head to the bathroom, and start the shower. I can't wait to shower. I have a feeling that my time in the bathroom this morning will be the best part of my day. I've always liked being clean. As far back as I can remember, I never had to be encouraged to keep myself clean. When I step my naked body into the shower I close my eyes and sigh with pleasure. I soak and soak in the warm, cascading water. ("You'd better start scrubbing, Laur'. He's waiting.") I clean myself meticulously, every part, even between my toes. I'm careful when I touch my cunny because it still hurts and stings to the touch, especially underneath my folds, in my slit. I clean my butthole, too, better than I ever used to at home. Of course, it gets used differently than it did at home. My long, dark hair is next, and I wash it twice, reveling in the clean, fragrant smell of the scented shampoo.

I continue with my ablutions outside the shower, cleaning my ears, brushing my teeth -- twice (I'm not even sure why myself, but it just seems like I should). I look at my nails, white and clean. They're growing out now, and look more feminine. They look nice. I have to give you credit for that. I wonder, idly, if you'll let me paint them. I used to paint my fingernails and my toenails, but my fingernails haven't been this long before. I wonder what they'll look like painted. I wonder if you even want them like that.

I take my time cleaning and preparing my body, but in the back of my mind I know that it is not my time, but yours that I am expending. Nothing here is mine, even the very time that ticks way on the clock. So I take my time, and do a thorough job, but I don't dawdle. When I am done, I proceed to the kitchen as you instructed.

From there, we head to the medical ward. I don't like it there. The medical ward scares me as much or more than the dungeon. More, actually. The dungeon is a place of pain and fear, but the medical ward is a place of pain, fear, and permanent alterations to my body. Like my teeth, and my nipple rings. It also is the place of needles. So I don't like the medical ward, and my heart is pitter-pattering nervously in my chest as I lie on the table for your inspection.

You inspect me. I feel a bit like a thing, but I don't think I've completely lost my status as a girl, so I don't let it bother me too much. The baby oil surprises me. It feels good. Your hands feel good. The oil feels slippery and soft as you rub it in everywhere. You touch me all over. I'm used to your touch by now. I'm used to my nakedness in your presence. I allow it to feel good as you rub in the oil. ("You like it because you're a slut, just like he said," I taunt myself.)

I am considerably less happy with the binky and the diaper. Even at 11, I get the message loud and clear. I'm a baby, so I'll be treated like a baby. I noted your derision earlier -- the way you sing-songed the words "sex stuff" and belittled me for using that term. And now you're driving the point home even more emphatically. I get it. It's pretty silly for me to use baby talk to describe what we do here ("Yeah, yup, when he FUCKS you in the ASS you don't have to say he put his wee-wee in your bummy, Laur."). OK, fair enough, you’re probably right about that. But I didn't use the term "sex stuff" because I don't know those words. I know the words -- most of them, anyway -- but I don't know how in the world I'm supposed to guess what you want me to on any given occasion. Am I supposed to say "Master, I thought maybe you might like to FUCK me in the ASS this morning," or "Master, I thought maybe you could PISS in my mouth and have me suck your COCK later today." I mean, you can do anything you want to me, whenever you want, so what's the point in making me guess at what you want and suggest stuff? I don't get it. It seems silly to me.

I contemplate this as I assemble the breakfast. I have no idea how to cook, but even I can make toast, and also coffee. I get everything together, still clad in my diaper, with a pacifier in my mouth. The binky makes me drool, so I find myself sucking on it involuntarily. ("Great. You are a widdle baby, Laur' Laur'," I tease myself.). I bring the items to you at the table on a tray, enough for both of us, plus the place settings. I make your place. I make mine. I'm not sure if I should sit down. I can't ask because I have a binky in my mouth and you warned me about speaking earlier. I loiter for a second as you read the paper, not sure what to do. I sink to my knees beside the table. If you want me to sit at the table you can tell me, but I'm not going to presume my place is at the table when you didn't say it was. I vow to myself that I'm not getting in trouble today for anything. I'm not giving you any excuse to punish me. Not today. Today I will be thinking, alert, and perfect. Even if I feel tired already from my night spent in a tiny cage.

Marcus

We go through the morning "motions." I can sense you're really alert and trying. Spotless. You don't linger on anything, you don't waste time, you are efficient. When done, you kneel by my side, awaiting a permission to join me at the table. I like that. I like that a lot. The less you presume, the less certain you are of anything that is, really, a privilege down here, the better. I caress your hair, scratch you very gently behind your ear and eventually I pop the binky out of your mouth and place it on the table. "You didn't clean me after yesterday," I say matter of factly. It's not like you were given half a chance, and you were in a state that more than excuses such omission. But that hardly matters. I unzip my pants and free my stinky, dirty cock from there and make you climb under the table. "Sniff it. Breathe in through your nose. Nice and deep," I demand and press your face against the foulness of my unwashed crotch. I start my coffee, even my toast while you sniff and inhale the stench of my cock. Unwashed since the day before yesterday, since when it's done things and been places, it's starting to stink rancid. My whole crotch is overwhelmingly musky and sweaty too, since I never washed after my workout yesterday morning, nor after all the fucking, nor the night.

It takes about a minute for it to get fully erect, and for me to be satisfied with how much my musk has filled your cute little nose. You are now fully and thoroughly aware of just how dirty it is. And then, only then I command you to clean it up with your mouth and tongue. A dried, crumbly, smelly mess of my cum, your own pussy's and womb's flavor, lube, smell of your ass, perhaps a hint of your blood in the mixture. My sweat and musk. I make you clean it and taste and smell it all until it seems like you are in for delivering yet another blowjob, but I take even that grim "certainty" from you. I make you stop after a few minutes, before I'm too aroused, before I leak any pre, and make you abandon my cock spit-clean and glistening, dangerously hard, and obviously not sated.

"Enough. Into the chair. Say grace and eat your breakfast," I snap suddenly. You won't get me off like this today, certainly not multiple times, by by the looks of it, not even once. You will not get a chance to make me more mellow and soft and merciful. I listen to your grace, I watch you eat as I finish my breakfast and my coffee, I give you enough time to eat and drink your fill. All you can eat. Trying to somewhat stick to my resolution to not over-starve you. I remember you didn't sleep in your cell, and send you there to pop your pills, which you automatically swallow upon waking each and every morning, without even thinking about it, without even mentioning it. It's much like your fingernails, now nice, and kind of long. I so thoroughly cured you of biting them that your fingers no longer even venture toward your mouth. That’s good. You've learned that lesson well.

As you finish breakfast I pop the binky back into your mouth. I never thought of infant-level "ageplay" or dress up as particularly sexy, but I can sense it humiliating you, hurting what's left of your pride, and that's enough to make it a turn on. I decide to rub it in a little. "Braided pigtails. And make them high on your head to they really stand out," I say, and after some fumbling throw you two baby-pink hair bands. I collect a few more things. I heat up a bottle that was in the fridge. Attach a baby feeder bottle top onto it, it looks like a baby bottle a lot, but you have enough experience with me and down here and such things in general now to know that the cloudy, slightly clotted grey-white and transparent contents are cum.

We go to the bedroom. I make you lie down on the bed, face up, remove the pacifier and plop the bottle with the not-really fresh, reheated jizz into your mouth. "Suck. Drink." I demand. The bottle is only 0.3 litre, which is still large-ish for a baby bottle, and huge given its contents, even with my copious cumming this would easily be what? At least six BIG cumshots? I feed it to you right down to the last drop, watching and listening as you feed on my spunk. Then I command you to grip the top bit of the bed.

"This is called mental bondage. Your hands are now tied to it, by my command. It should work equally well as rope, since you know what happens if you disobey. Your hands are tied to the bed," I repeat, even as I start to tickle you. Belly, sides, armpits, all over, really. I tickle your stretched and exposed belly and you don’t try to block me with your arms. Good girl! You are staying that way, in that exposed position of torture, simply out of command. Your hands are free, but they are not, at the same time. And I tickle on, and on. It's a beautifully simple test of your obedience, physically nearly impossible, or at least very, very challenging, and yet, you've been punished so many times so brutally, that the definition of possibility is getting re-written down here every day. You obedience goes more and more against and over your instincts and reflexes and intuition. You obey. It's becoming hard-wired in your brain, chiseled to perfection and polished to smoothness. I stop as suddenly as I began. If you moved, tried to grab my hand, your punishment goes on the "to do" list, it's not a serious enough transgression to need an immediate response. We can deal with that later. Instead, I pull out a pot of Vaseline, give you a mysterious smile and then bite my lip, smiling mischievously. It’s time for some lessons about “sex stuff.”

"So. I can cum fucking your pussy. Fucking your ass. Fucking your face. Well, your mouth and throat, actually. I can be sucked and/or licked to an orgasm, by you, even if I don't move. Think about all of those things and what they have in common, what is it that gets me to cum, in the end? What makes you cum? And try and come up with another way, or a few ways -- extra points for that -- of making me cum, that doesn't involved any of them, mouth, pussy nor your butt-hole, and tell me how you would go about trying to make that happen," I say, starting our lesson of the day with a bit of a quiz. I have a video at the ready, but this isn't gonna be brash, rapid lesson of prompt descent into action and pain. First we talk. Then we'll watch. Then you'll perform. Then... we'll see. You might be in for yet another day of punishment and pain. But let's start at the beginning. What ways of making a cock squirt, a man cum, can an 11-year-old come up with? Eleven year old who was, up until recently, under-informed and misinformed, but whose life purpose now pretty much is tending to a guy and his cock, day in, day out.

Laura

I kneel, quietly and obediently, vowing to myself not to mess up today. You caress me lightly, rubbing behind my ear, and it feels . . . nice. Even better than the feeling is the thought that, possibly, things are getting back to normal. Of course, I have a bit of an idealized view of what "normal" is. To me, normal -- what I really mean is "good" -- is when you are not mad at me, not punishing me for something I did, or, more recently, something I said. If I can refrain from messing up and angering you, I won't be punished. ("But you always find a way, girlfriend. You always find a way.") I'm not going to mess up today. I'm going to pay attention and obey and think, and stay alert. Things seem to be off to a decent start this morning. At least you haven't slapped me, chastised me, or told me I'm in for a punishment. Yet.

When you remind me I didn't clean your cock after you fucked me last night, my first thought is that I messed up again. But hot on the heels of that thought is a sinking, helpless, angry feeling of unfairness. I remember last night! You never even gave me a chance to clean your cock! You made me clean up the pee on floor and then put me straight in the cage! It's not fair!

But you're not mad. A wave of relief washes over me. You just want me to clean it -- or, to start, smell it. I can do that. I reposition myself between your knees and lean in, obediently, nose first, embracing your penis, your groin, your balls. I press my face to your genitals and breathe in, and smell you, inhaling deeply. I smell sweat, and cum, heavy with musk. I smell you. Your scent. Or at least the scent of your underneath parts. I know that scent. I have licked and cleaned these areas of your body before. I press my face to your groin, rubbing my nose there, showing you that I am not trying to avoid the scent, not trying to get away. I'm being obedient. I'm being a good girl. I don’t want to be punished today.

When it is time to clean you properly I place my hands behind my back and clasp them there, in proper blowjob position. I open my mouth, and begin the process of wetting, then cleaning, your cock. I can taste your sweat and cum, the lube, foreign tastes and gritty textures. No matter. I will clean it. My tongue sloshes thickly over your head and shaft, licking, wetting, preparing. I remove my mouth and lick the lower part of your shaft as it bobs, wetting it, too. When it is sufficiently wet, I lean up, take the cockhead in my mouth once again, and lower my face down your shaft, taking your head into the back of my mouth, into my throat. I spasm my throat around your cockhead deliberately, just to prove how deep it is inside me. Then I withdraw, slowly, wetly, cleaning with my lips as I do. My tongue wets and swirls, cleaning your cock as I do. I bob slowly a few times, cleaning rather than fellating, then remove my mouth and lick, tilting my head from side to side as I chase your flexing, waving member. I taste your sweat, your chalky, dried cum. Streaks of dried lube and other dried substances dissolve in my mouth. I taste them as I lick and swallow. But I don't let it bother me. I concentrate on my task, on fulfilling your instructions. Having cleaned your feet and toes with my mouth, rimmed your ass, and licked your armpits, cleaning your unwashed penis is child's play. I’m not going to disobey today. I don’t want to be punished. I can do this, and I can do it well. So I do.

In a few minutes, your cock is all clean. I take it deep again, the cockhead into my throat, and look up at you. I know you well. I can read you. You asked me to clean your cock, but it is rock-hard, and now you need to cum. You'll want a blowjob. I begin to bob on your cock, and swirl my tongue in ways that I know you like, ways that bring you pleasure, ways that make you cum. I hope you’ll be pleased with my initiative.

But apparently you don't want a blowjob, and you order me to stop. I stand, confused, and sit in the chair. I look worried, and I try to search your eyes. Did I do something wrong? Why don't you want a blowjob? You always like my blowjobs. And not just one. Often two or three in a row. But not today. As I sit, I realize that you must still be erect under the table. You never fail to cum when you are that hard. Your forbearance under these circumstances makes me nervous. I don't know what is up. This is a deviation from the norm, and it makes me worry. About what, I'm not sure, but my mind keeps drifting back to your unsatisfied erection. I know it is there, beneath the table, likely still hard, and definitely needy. The knowledge that it remains there, unsatisfied and full of cum, makes me nervous.

I say grace, and this time I get it right from the start. I clasp my hands together. My voice is soft, without any tone of sarcasm. "Thank you, Master, for letting me clean your cock from yesterday. Thank you for letting me take a shower when I got up. Thank you for the food- for the food we're eating for breakfast. Thank you for- for not putting me on the horse." I hesitate for a moment, and then add: "Amen." It seems so blasphemous to say grace like this. That was why I hesitated to say amen. I'm probably going to Hell now, but considering where I am right now, it really is hard for me to worry too much about it.

I eat the breakfast that I made, and I eat a lot. I take a small portion to start, deferring to you, but you gesture for me to take more, and I do. You're being generous this morning. And nice. But . . . your cock. Your erection. I can't take my mind off it. I know that you need to cum. But you're holding off. And that is very unsettling to me.

I feel a flash of anger as you make me take the binky in my mouth again, but I suppress it. I don't think you saw or noticed it. I may be mad but I'm not going to show it. I’m not going to let you know I'm mad, and I’m not going to give you any excuse to punish me today. I'm mad because you're teasing me with the binky, teasing me about being a baby, because I said "sex stuff." I could have said "fuck" or "ass." I'm not afraid of those words. But I was taught not to swear. And I didn't see a need to. I didn't know you hated the term "sex stuff." That's kind of how I lump it all together in my mind, the stuff we do. If you don't want me to say that again, fine, but why are you making such a production out of it? Why are you giving me "baby" punishment?

I don't even react, and certainly don't flash anger, as you order me to braid my hair into pigtails. I'm still angry, but I just don't show it. I haven't worn pigtails in years, except for some lame photo shoots with Glenn when he insisted on them. I tried to tell him that pigtails were for younger girls, little girls, but he didn't care, wouldn't listen. When I was little I used to think pigtails were the best, and I was quite expert at making them for a year or so. But I outgrew them. So I definitely get what you are implying with the braided pigtails. I make them anyway. My expression is neutral even though you're not even in the room and if I wanted to I could look mad. But I'm not giving you any reason to punish me today. I'll not only make the pigtails, I won't even let on that I'm unhappy about it. I try to look carefree when you return.

I see the baby bottle, but I don't react. You're not gonna get me to do or say anything stupid today. ("Don't react, Laur'. Pretend you don't care at all.") I lie on the bed, and open my mouth for the bottle as you extract the binky and bring the bottle close. I start to suck -- and make a face. It's cum! Gross! ("He filled a bottle with cum? And saved it? Ewwwwww! Double ewwwwww! Gross!") OK, you won with that one. I made a face. You know I don't like it. It tastes nasty. It's not the right temperature, for starters. It's not warm enough. Those few degrees somehow make it slightly cool and particularly nasty. But I suck from the bottle steadily and swallow the cum. It tastes . . . stale. Different. I don't like it. My face shows it. But I suck, and swallow. I don't stop. I drink the cum from that baby bottle and swallow every last drop into my tummy as you tip it up so I can get the very last bit. I drink that, too. I'm not going to give you any reason to punish me today. I do feel a little queasy in my tummy, however. That was a lot of cum. But I manage to fight off the feeling. Throwing up would be very, very bad right now.

I grip the top of the bed on your command, holding it. My eyes show worry. You seem to have a mission this morning, a plan, and I don't know what it is. ("And he hasn't cum, Laur'. He hasn't had an orgasm, yet," I remind myself.) I listen to your words about "mental bondage" and for once I get what you mean. I understand. And when you start to tickle me I focus all of my concentration on holding on to the top of the bed for dear life. I grimace. I smile. I wriggle, just a little at first, then more and more. It tickles a lot, and I am a very ticklish girl. Ridiculously ticklish. My body leans away from your hands. My legs slide one way, then another. I moan, my chest heaving, as I try not to laugh aloud but it tickles so much. It is torture. Not "bad" torture, but it is really, really hard not to roll over and push you away. But I don't. I know I can't. This isn't a normal tickle game like I played with my girlfriends on sleepovers. This is real. You will hurt me if I move too much, and certainly if I remove my hands from the bed. I snort and exhale, trying not to laugh. I bite my lower lip. I lean. I writhe some more. Finally, mercifully, it is over. But my hands never moved. I passed the test. They stayed put.

I follow you with my eyes as you pull out the jar of Vaseline. I'm not sure what it's for. You have an odd expression on your face. ("He hasn't cum, yet, Laur'. Something's gonna happen.") I listen to what you have to say, and then I think about it. I ponder. ("Think fast, Laur'. Think about other ways. Other ways to make a man cum.") I glance at the jar of Vaseline. That has to be a clue -- but I don't get it. ("Come on, Laur'. He's gonna punish you!") I look very nervous. The only other thing I can think of his a handjob. It's like a blowjob but you do it with your hand. Caroline and Marissa were talking about it at one of our sleepovers. I remember the motion Caroline made, like a boy doing it to himself. "A handjob?" I ask, not sure if I'm saying it right. Do you "do" a handjob? "Give" a handjob? I'm not sure. I figure that simply saying the word might be enough.

You nod, and look pleased, or at least not displeased, and then ask "What else?" But I don't have a "what else." You've covered pussy, butt, and mouth; I got handjob on my own. ("Think, Laur'. Think hard.") I have no idea. Suddenly it occurs to me: If hands work, why not feet? "A f-footjob?" I say, uncertainly, not sure if that's a real thing or even how it would work. I look at you nervously. But I am rewarded with another nod, and another "What else?" Now I really am out of "what elses." I rack my brain, but I can't come up with anything. ("Come on, Laur'. Think!") "A knee job?" I ask, tentatively, more of a question than a statement. I look uncertain, not very confident in that one at all.

Marcus

I chuckle when you suggest a knee-job. I try to imagine that. "Never heard of that one," I say amusedly and realize you actually look worried when you hear me say that. "Oh relax, we're brainstorming here, no answer is wrong. Even a funny answer is better than no answer. Knees are a bit bony, you see. That would make it tricky. You could try in the back, behind your knees, you know, between the calf and the thigh. Generally, you either need something agile like hands and feet, or something soft and fleshy. Knees might not work, but these are just a few inches away . . ." I touch your thighs. "With some lube, if you held your knees together, thighs might work, here," I point at the fleshy bit where they meet the firmest, half way between knees and pussy, "or here, sliding over your pussy without actually entering it." I've seen that in kiddie porn before, when the girl's clearly too little for penetration. "Your butt is slightly too small I think, but you can also sandwich a cock between butt-cheeks and slide it over, again, without entering. Girls who have tits can similarly squeeze a cock between them, but I find that a bit eww," I say frankly. "You could use your hair, too, possibly not to get me off, but a nice strand of hair, sliding, rubbing, perhaps tightened in a sort of knot around my cock. I mean, any friction which is slightly slippery," I give you the vaseline, "but not too slippery which would take away the friction and make it too hard, too slow, can eventually get a guy off. You could probably manage with your nice, flat tummy, just shuffling up and down, pressing my cock between your belly and mine. It can be done with vibrators, too, and other sex toys."

"OK, we’re done with mental bondage; you are free," I say and touch your wrists as if untying you. A small detail, but nonetheless an important part of your training. Just like with ropes, even in mental bondage you are bound until I untie you, even if I stop paying attention to whatever I "tied you up" for. "Now watch and learn," I say and hit play, a pre-prepared video coming to life on the big flat screen in the wall opposite the bed.

It's about a half an hour's video -- time for us to digest and for you to learn. Because it some of the stuff there is quite unusual, only a small proportion of it actually "stars" kids your age, about twenty percent at best, then there are some semi-legal amateur videos with teens, and some videos are really just for educational purposes of the acts, the overly busty, slutty, made up and tattooed "MILF" style porn stars in them not only leaving me cold but actually turning me off, my erection faltering when such sections are too long.

There is a wide assortment of stuff. Handjobs indeed, several different techniques, including well-lubed stuff when the girls twist the shaft and whatnot, or roll it between their flat palms like when you make a roll out of dough. I haven't had half of this shit done to me; I don't mention it, but it will actually be new and experimental to me as well. Not in the sense that I haven't done these things with a perfect, stunning, much-desired 11-year-old before, but in the sense that I’ve never done them with anyone before, not even with adult subs and lovers. Footjobs. Between foot and belly, between two soles, with toes, between big toe and other toes, holding one bit with toes and rubbing the length with the sole and heel of the other, varieties and varieties of the same. Thigh fucking. Something where, for a change, younglings prevail, kids who were deemed by their fathers (or whoever else it is boning them) to be too small for proper penetration. Butt-cheek sandwich rubbing. An example how a titjob can be done even with very tiny tits (though it looks like the little girl is in pain, stretching her skin to wrap around the cock as best as she can, with little to no flesh in that region to assist her in the effort). I found a few videos of girls using their hair on guy's cocks, and the video ends with the precious few videos where guys are made to cum via prostate stimulation, small toys, dildos, fingers and such used to massage the "G-spot" in their ass, without being tied up or sissified. They are actually rare, when guys get cum-milked it seems to be almost always done in a humiliating, femdom-type setting, nothing I wanted you to see. I point. "Always ask for permission. The only way you're allowed to enter my ass without having an explicit, spoken go-ahead is with your tongue," I emphasize. That's the end of the video, but there's another one that follows after the screen's gone black for a while.

A girl, younger than you, slim like you, dirty-blonde with a slightly tomboyish hair-cut, naked but for a collar -- a brown leather one, but not entirely unlike yours in size and with a similar ring at the front -- on all fours, climbing under a dog and sucking on its cock until the pointy red shaft slips out of its sheath, and then positions herself for him so he can mount her, and he does, knotting into her pussy as she cries out in surprise and perhaps pain, and then lots and lots and lots of runny doggy cum leaking everywhere before and as the knot finally slips out. I caress your hair and whisper. "That's not for today. It's just a reminder that nothing is a no-no, nothing is a limit, nothing is impossible. Whatever I command you to do, you will do. Including something like that," I say, darkly amused, aware of the fact that this is yet another level of depravity and something that will likely gnaw on your mind a good bit.

When it's over, I grab the binky, throw it aside, and slip the diaper off you. The handlebar-style pigtails stay though, I kinda like them. "There, now you're a big, educated girl. No more a vague, unwitting baby," I say, though strangely, I like you smelling of baby oil. So weird. But I do. There goes your being too grown up for girlie-girl cosmetics; you might soon be grateful for something even that age-appropriate. It might be baby oil and baby powder from now on, at least when I feel like it. "Next time you act like a baby," I muse in an emotionless, mindless way without putting any power into my voice, as a sort of side note, "I will take it a lot farther. As in you'll be reduced to wordless blabbering, giggling and crying, and wetting and shitting yourself in a diaper, to baby-food," I wink to emphasize exactly what I mean by that. I haven't missed your expression, for sure. There's another easy, painless way in which I can motivate you, something harmless and simple that you nonetheless hate, another little thing in a long, endless row, that I can use to mess with you and make you do exactly, precisely and obsessively that which I want you to do. "For twenty four hours at least. Which will not excuse you from duties and corporal punishment, just in case it occurred to you that it might be a nice break, it would not be," I add, dryly.

I watch your nude body. Damn. You are a stunner. Skinnier by a handful of pounds, with pussy fading from purple, ass fading from a dark, ripe tomato-red colour, more or less healed but still discernible small marks of other abuse all over you. I have a raging boner now. I undress. I sigh and look at you in an enamored, but also lustful way. You make my cock throb. You make me wanna fuck you. Pin you down and fuck you. And beat you while I am at it. For a short while, I breathe, stay with that desire and consider it. There's nothing to stop me. I can grab your hair, pin you down, and do exactly that. My cock twitches from that thought alone. In the end it's exactly that, the fact that I can do it and can do it any time, whenever I fancy it, that I decide against it for the moment, and proceed with the original plan, though my heartbeat, as well as a level of potential sadism (hair-trigger happy, just waiting for an excuse to lash out), remains significantly heightened.

"All right, let's see it. Footjob first, then clean up the mess the usual way. Second, a handjob, aim the cum at your face and don't clean that up. Third is a free round. Do whatever the hell you will, as long as it isn't ordinary fucking. You can combine multiple things, too, start me off and get me hard with one, go on with another one, finish differently if it's not working out. You've got an hour and a half," I say and set the alarm. "Half an hour for each go, should be a piece of cake. It gives you a plenty of time to fool around, play and figure out what works and what not. Don't rush it. I also don't wanna come for the third time in LESS than an hour. Don't stress too much, I will not be mean, I won't be holding back and will even advise you and make correcting suggestions. You are not allowed to cum during this time, though if you get yourself wet and aroused, that's a nice, much-appreciated bonus. Extra points if you will. But a severe punishment if you cum unbidden, that's a given, right?" I cock an eyebrow. It’s not been all that long since I brought you here, and yet, the fact that certain things exist -- things you didn’t even know about before you arrived -- and are severely punishable, already has become a given. So much so it seems almost funny and absurd that I should mention it. Almost weird. "If you run out of time, there will not be a special punishment, I'll just fuck you, hard, instead of allowing your holes a day's rest, which is the current plan," I add, hoping that will decrease your anxiety further. This is supposed to be fun. For me, mainly, obviously, but . . .

I prop myself up in a sitting position at the front of the bed, using a pillow. "If you want me to move, ask politely, I'll get into whatever at least half-reasonably comfortable position you'll want me in. But I won't actively move during the acts. It must be you -- your moving, your effort -- that gets me off. Is that clear?" I ask. I run your braided pigtails though my fingers and move your head in a couple directions, just for amusement, just because they look like antennae or really, ready-to-grab handlebars, they really invite such handling. But then I let go and relax, reaching for the clock. "Get set, go!" I say, smiling. I've been generous with time, purposefully. I don't want you panicky and frantic and only finding one way for each of the ways that kinda works, speeding it up and sticking with it. I want you to explore and learn. To be inventive and creative and daring. I decide that might actually be worth saying and even as you position yourself to start, I look at you with a relaxed smile.

"Have fun with it. Experiment. I promise this is not meant to be hard, and it's not in any way a punishment, nor is it supposed to end in one. Consider it a game; a nice one. And get that frown of your face right this instant," I say kind of snappily, noticing something akin to a shadow running over your face. For once, I can't be bothered to ask what it was about. I'm kind of cured out of encouraging too much honesty. Especially this early in the morning, I'd rather settle for a fake smile than risk you winding me up again. That really wouldn't end well for you today. I'm horny. Very horny, in fact. I'm also slightly tense already, fully alert now that I've digested breakfast and the coffee has kicked in. I’m in a state in which I might just beat you to pulp if you stepped on my toes. And you already look more beaten than I would like. It's a bit absurd; while I almost always like inflicting pain on your lean, young body, I rarely ever enjoy the marks that I make, unless they’re fresh. Day after, they are a visible reminder of what I did to you -- the memory still fresh in both of our minds -- but those that linger for too long on your skin feel dissonant. I like to move on fast, sate my lusts and wants as they emerge, dish out punishments as you transgress, go through the ups and downs quite mercurially and quickly. Marks that are still distinctly visible and are older than a couple days or so kind of remind me I am not all- powerful or all-controlling, and that not everything is as ideal and smooth and perfect as I want it to be. Plus they remind me that I can't quite punish you with full-on brutality all the time, because you simply wouldn't last. You would not be this smooth and beautiful in a year, let alone a couple years, if I mark your young body over and over again and end up scarring or damaging you. I want you to last. I need you to remain cute and adorable so that when I do hurt you -- and I will, you can count on that -- it’s still as arousing and fulfilling for me as the very first time I took the cane to your upturned, helpless little bottom. I’ll never, ever forget the rush I felt that day as I marked your bottom properly for the very first time. I almost came as you screamed and writhed and cried, bound helplessly over the punishment bench.

You aren't encouraged to speak and I doubt you would right now, at least not so soon after your last unguarded comments. No. You mind your tongue now, and you will indubitably continue to do so from now on. Good girl. I lean back and relax. I love your feet. I actually lift them up to my mouth and kiss them before you apply the Vaseline and before I let you start with your effort. My eyes have a slight tendency to close, but I consciously keep them open. This isn't just about the sensation. It's the whole package. Your cute, perfect little feet working my cock. The way it keeps your legs wide open and your pussy totally exposed. I wanna enjoy every aspect of this. I try and savor it. I hiss slightly at first. Your feet are cooler than my cock. But not cold enough to be a buzz-killer and to threaten my erection. I moan when it feels good, grunt when it's too rough or intense, not slippery enough, and guide you through your efforts with mostly curt and brisk comments on how whatever you are doing feels.

I realize that between having had my cock "half sucked" already, and both the view and the sublime perfectness of this situation, I'm gonna blow my load a lot faster than in half an hour even if you perform poorly -- not that I expect you to!

Laura

I listen attentively as you explain sex concepts to me. My arms remain over my head, my hands grasping the bed-rail, simply because you haven't yet given me permission to remove them. Your voice and demeanor is reassuring -- I don't feel like you're going to fly off the handle and smack me, or drag me off to the dungeon, when you speak like that. Still, I'm aware that you haven't cum, that you have a need, and that my task will be to service that need in the very near future. I will. I'm ready. I don't want to be punished today.

What you tell me about sex makes sense. Your examples are understandable. A tiny part of me finds the topic . . . interesting. ("Slut!" I accuse myself). Honestly, what 11-year-old kid wouldn't find a private sex-ed lesson with an adult interesting? It's not the lesson that's worrisome to me; it's the practice that is sure to follow.

I'm similarly interested in the video. I haven't seen a movie or a sex video down here in a while. I don't have to do anything except watch, wide-eyed, and I'm pretty amazed at what I see. So many people having sex so many different ways. Men, women, and kids. Even super little kids. I never knew people could do stuff like that. Handjobs, footjobs, titjobs, buttjobs -- it's all there. There's one constant, and that is that every single segment involves people rubbing and stimulating erect adult cocks. It really is an education for me. I actually get it. Friction and skin-on-skin contact in just about every imaginable way will stimulate a penis to orgasm. And if I'm honest, it doesn't even look all that difficult. Or bad. It seems . . . very matter-of-fact to me. Like people everywhere do this all the time. Old and young. They all seem to be way more familiar with it than I am, or was before I came here. It makes me think a little bit. Like whether maybe I wasn't in on the secret of what people really do in the privacy of their own homes.

But that was the first video. The second video is something different altogether. The girl is naked, younger than I. Collared. The video has a less-polished look to it. Like it was shot on a cell phone. The dog looks enormous. And I have absolutely no idea what is going on until the second it actually happens. Until the little girl climbs underneath the dog and -- OMG! -- starts to suck on its dog-penis. I kept thinking a naked man was going to walk into the frame and shoo the dog away. My eyes are wide. My mouth actually gapes open in shock. In my wildest, wildest imagination, I never even conceived of the idea of people and dogs -- people and any kind of animal -- doing sex stuff. ("You better not say that again," I warn myself idly.) I am shocked. Horrified. Disgusted. And when the dog mounts her, I blink in disbelief, and swallow in fear. I can think of nothing -- nothing -- more horrible than that. Absolutely nothing. My blood runs cold and my skin crawls. My heart is about to beat out of my chest in fear.

I didn't grow up with pets. Nothing. Not a dog, cat, rabbit, or gerbil. Not even a goldfish. My mother hates animals, and never, ever would have allowed a pet in our house. She doesn't like pets in anyone else's house, either. I grew up very wary of animals. I'm from the suburbs, not the country. I've never ridden a horse (at least not a real one), milked a cow, cuddled a lamb, or touched the skin of a snake. In fact, a reptile guy brought a snake to fourth grade last year and let the kids touch it, but I refused. I was the only one in my class not to and I got teased for it. But I didn't care if its scales were dry and not slimy. I didn't want to touch them either way.

I stare in horrified disbelief as the huge, hairy dog fucks the little girl. Her discomfort and apparent distress does nothing to reassure me and leaves me feeling flustered, unsettled, nauseated, and a little faint. I place a hand to my chest, willing myself to breathe. When the video ends, and you say "That's not for today," your words don't reassure me. I want you to say that won't ever happen to me if I behave... Not ever. It can't! Oh God, please. It can't. I'd die. I'd die of panic and horror. I am very, very unsettled by what I just saw. I feel sick. My eyes look like I just saw a ghost and my appearance is pasty and unhealthy. I'm not really thinking straight. I can't rid my mind of the horrible image.

I come back to reality a little as you toss the binky aside and strip me of the diaper. I'm so used to being naked in your presence now that I'd rather be nude than in the diaper. I never had to use it; I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of peeing in it, even though I'm well aware that you could have made me wear it until I did. I'm still a little miffed about this baby stuff. I knew the bad words. I used "sex stuff" only as a shorthand for all of that stuff- all of those things that we do together. Fucking. Sucking. Blowjobs. Anal. I could have used those words. I wasn't being a baby. If you'd ever let me explain things, you wouldn't jump to so many conclusions. Sometimes you're just dumb.

My anger subsides as you describe the rules of today's activities to me. Footjobs and handjobs I can do. I'm absolutely sure of it. And if I'm being totally honest, I'm actually a little intrigued, possibly even eager, to do the footjob. I watched the video, saw the techniques. I can do that. I kind of want to watch your cock when it cums. It's almost always cumming inside me; now I might get to see it exploding like a volcano just from my feet touching it and that's interesting to me. The other good thing is that footjobs and handjobs won't hurt me. I like that part. I like it a lot.

I'm eager to get started. Actually eager. I can't explain it. You start the clock, and I'm about to start, but you keep talking, telling me to have fun and experiment and stuff. I'm like, OK already, I get it. I'm ready. My time is running, but you keep talking. That's not fair! I must have frowned 'cause I wanted to get started, and you saw it. I swear I wasn't being disrespectful. I want to explain! But I can't as usual. At least you don't seem too mad. But then you grab my feet and kiss them, but you don't stop the time from running. It's all I can do not to make a face.

Finally I can get started. I apply the Vaseline, and position myself for the footjob. I sit on my bottom and crab-walk closer to you, then pincer my feet on either side of your erection and press them together. My feet look tiny compared to your shaft. Your cock is warm to the touch and you make a little noise. I look up, frightened, but you're not mad. I butt-walk a little closer to you, and begin to rub your penis, my feet moving together up and down your shaft. My thighs are taut and working; my hairless quim is exposed and slightly parted, and I can see you looking at it.

I look from your cock to your face to see how I am doing. I try a different technique, grasping your cockhead over and over again with my little toes, not able to grip it fully, but the sensation not unlike the tongue job I recently gave you. Over and over and over I toe-massage your cockhead, until my legs get tired holding my feet up. "Um, Master? Can you um, like, lie down? And put your legs apart like this?" I ask, showing you with my hands. When you do, I butt-walk between your ankles. and place my feet on your abdomen next to your cock and rub it, my feet moving opposite to each other now. Then I take my right foot and use it to rub the top of your erection, while the toes of my left foot gently play with your balls.

If you look down at me, you will see a look of eager determination on my face. I'm interested in this. I want to see if I can make you cum just with my feet. I try a couple of other, different techniques. Eventually I return to my original technique, sliding my feet up and down either side of your shaft, using my toes on your cockhead. I want to see you cum. I want to see your cock explode all over your chest, even if I have to lick it up from the hairs there. I keep my head propped up, eager to see.

Marcus

I know the video, I've seen it a number of time. Studied it, actually. It's a relatively low-quality video, captured with an early version of a smart phone. The resolution isn't great, nor are the colors. But whoever is holding the phone holds it steady-handed and silent. He doesn't utter a single word of encouragement; no threats, no additional commands. The girl knows what to do, she was told before, and by the looks of it, she obeys her commands to the letter. Blowjob, good position . . . after which the dog mounts her agilely, swiftly, and she winces in discomfort, but is steady enough on all fours not to buck under his weight. This is not her first time. Not even in the first handful of goes, by my best guess. The girl in the video is young and tiny, but when whoever told her to let the dog fuck her, tells her to let the dog fuck her, she crawls in obediently, rouses the dog's interest with her mouth, and positions herself for it to happen, then lets it happen, cringing and wincing in pain, but rock-solid, steady. If, apart from slight pain and discomfort, she still feels shame and humiliation and disgust, she hides it well. More likely though, she just doesn't feel them in the first place; this is a part of her role, a common occurrence. The implications of it, the things one can assume about her life and her training. are massive, even crazy. I’ve watched the video more than a hundred times, and even slowed down, frame by frame. It's beautiful. It would be more erotic if it was an earlier attempt and she was more distressed and visibly ashamed, but the casual, matter-of-fact aura that surrounds the taboo, dirty exchange is enthralling. Even to my depraved mind what that little girl is obviously being forced to do is pretty much the ultimate humiliation, and an extreme that I've never even brought up with my willing subs and lovers in the past. This is white, untrodden snow for me. It’s uncharted territory. It’s also very, very alluring in its perversity.

Because I've seen the video so many times, know it by heart, could almost sketch it frame by frame and make a fairly accurate cartoon of it from memory alone, I don't watch it as it plays, I watch you. I feel an explosion of sadistic excitement inside me as I do. You don’t like animals. You’ve never even had pets. There was very little on your FaceBook and other social networks pointing at any particular liking of any animals. Your house kept pet- and animal-free. I expect that any animal would be a novelty to you. But a big dog? Now that you know what I could make you do with him and him with you? I expected you to tense, scrunch your nose a bit -- that sort of reaction. What you give instead is a rush -- like a large dose of good-quality heroin injected straight into my veins. It makes me shudder with semi-repressed jolt of pleasure, ever so slightly. Your jaw drops. Your face turns pale. You are utterly horrified. And I know, I know in that precise moment, that I will leave the dungeon today, and go get a dog. Not one day, not maybe, not after careful planning -- after all getting and keeping dogs, unlike kids, is legal and pretty straightforward -- but today. I've already been toying with the thought of introducing you to my snakes, should you ever relax too much, or ever stop being sufficiently afraid and respectful towards me, which so far hasn't happened. But the furry, dog-paw trodden path deep down into further depravity and humiliation lays clear ahead of us. I can't believe it didn't even occur to me before I started assembling this tutorial video. Such a profound, extreme way of de-humanization, sub-humanization and debasement, and by the looks of it one that will ring thoroughly true with you. Don't get me wrong. I'm not at all into animals. Or animal sex. I think it's weird and odd and, well, disgusting. I would never do it. But just to see the expression on your face when I tell you to do it. I already know I will go that far. As far as it takes.

I swallow a cruel, teasing comment. No, I will not boast. I will not threaten you. Not while there's no dog in the house, not while I can't make good on the threat. I hate empty threats. Plus the video did the job well enough for now, the video alone. There's absolutely no reason to escalate this further right this moment.

You listen to my lecture, my instructions, and just manage to conceal your irritation with it going on for a bit well enough to be spared a slap. That’s by the skin of your teeth. If you frowned any more, narrowed your eyes even by a millimeter more, you'd have a nasty red imprint of my hand on your face now, but you are learning to keep yourself in check, which saves your butt.

And then you start. You seem curious, excited, really quite eager to do this. To be my little foot slut. I certainly enjoy the view. I lie the way you ask me to, happy to expose myself to your effort, the only slight disadvantage being it makes it a bit harder for me to watch and see exactly what is going on.

You soon learn that non-penetrative, friction-based jobs are a lot trickier than fucking of any sort. Don't get me wrong: You're doing well. You discover that too much pressure on the cock-head is a no-no, and working on the shaft, especially close to the root, without paying any attention to the glans is a "meh" (I actually yawn at one point). The problem with my cock not being engulfed by sensation like when I'm fucking you or when you are sucking on it is that it is hard to keep it consistently happy. Nothing, no single thing works for long. It's not like finding the right depth and angle for throat penetration and repeating the exact same thing some three or four hundred times, or perhaps more, your head bobbing, to get me off. If you only work on the shaft, it's nice, but "nice" will not earn you cream. When you rub your toe over the piss slit it is awesome for a while, then it's slightly too much, and it quite easily turn uncomfortable, even slightly painful if you just try to keep it up. My initially very pleasured moan turns into a gasp and then a protesting hiss. It is not easy, nor straightforward. Endless variability is needed. Constant improvisation. You have to read me well, and adjust every few seconds. You have to be very fluid and mindful and careful with your effort. It's nothing like fucking. Simple repetition -- getting the knack of it and just sticking with it -- simply isn't an option. And while with blowjobs all you need to worry about is not biting me or scraping my cock with your teeth, this -- especially since the Vaseline is quite sticky and viscous and the friction of anything you do quite intense -- is a minefield. Many things don't work. Some illicit a frown or a displeased grimace, a few even winces and hisses of pain.

It's lucky for you that I love how little and cute your feet are on my cock. It's also lucky for you that this is working towards my first, big orgasm of the day. My erection is essentially a re-stirred morning hard-on, not too picky about it's stimulation. Even though it's a learning process, even though there are moments of clumsiness, it stays hard and solid and ready for your next move the whole time. If this was taking place in the evening after my balls have been emptied multiple times, I suspect that you'd be struggling to keep me erect, and the task of getting me off would actually be quite daunting.

I actually get close two or three times, but you sense it and get over-eager. A jolt of pain -- irritation from too-intense sameness -- chases the orgasm away. I'm tense now. Red-faced. I've been edged repeatedly, and I'm hanging damn near orgasm, horny as a mountain goat. The tension starts bubbling through as anger. If you mess up now, you're in acute danger of drastic, brutal, immediate physical violence. One word out of line. One mistake too many -- a painful sensation from something I've already hissed to -- could trigger me. You're also red-faced and sweaty now; it's not easy for abs to keep your feet up and moving, and any attempts at making it easier, lazier, resting your heels on my hips or belly generally fall into the "meh" category that doesn't take you anywhere. It's a hard, exhausting job. When I get near for the fourth time, my eyes bear into you. If you panic and fuck up, or just fuck up, full stop, so much pain will come so fast that you won't even know what hit you.

You get lucky. Your little foot presses my cock into my belly and you gently rub my balls and root with one foot and tease my piss-slit with your other, and manage not to do it too hard; in fact you do it ever so slightly too little, slower, less intensely than I'd ask for, edging me again. There's a moment there when your life is actually at stake. If you sneezed and your foot slipped, if you stopped then, the odds that I would completely lose it and just go ballistic, beating you into pulp, more literally than one usually uses this phrase, are actually crushingly in your disfavor. But then, two, perhaps three seconds later, I tilt my head to the side and erupt all over myself. My cum gushes out, the first splash massive, your toe makes it disperse and spray all over my belly and chest, for the second one the slipperiness makes your toe slide off the way and shoots as far as my neck and shoulder, and another one that mostly ends up on my collar bones and lower neck, and more and more, shooting all over my chest, and then a few that leak rather than jet, adding to the mess by creating a pool of stickiness on my well-formed, muscular belly.

I'm red-faced and panting, and for the life of me cannot decide if I liked this. It was one of the most powerful and overwhelming orgasms you have given me yet, but I'm not sure if going through the process of being edged multiple time, like I was the sub/slave here, and those several awful seconds in which, if something had happened, only the fact that it may have given me a heart attack would have saved you from a certain, brutal death -- a first degree loli-slaughter -- was entirely worth it. I collapse, relax, let my muscles finally unclench. I wonder to what extent you are aware just how close a call this was, how real and serious a danger you just were in. I glance at the clock and make a cruelly amused face, cocking my eyebrows. Almost forty minutes of your time is gone. First, and supposedly easiest orgasm to make happen took you longer than you can afford to spend on the remaining two; and you still have to lick the mess of off me.

Maybe an hour and a half for three unusually delivered orgasms wasn't as generous as it seemed. Especially since the intensity of the orgasm and the time my cock spent rock-hard means that it quickly shrinks and deflates to very nearly a totally flaccid state, something it usually doesn't do after my first orgasm in a series, let alone the first one in the day.

Laura

I was actually kind of eager to get started with my first-ever footjob. I mean, I saw footjobs on the video -- the first video, that is -- and it didn't look that hard. In fact, it looked kind of . . . interesting, I guess I would say. One thing is for sure and that is it didn't look like it hurt. A lot of sex st- . . . a lot of the sex things we do hurt in one way or another. In comparison, footjobs and handjobs look relatively easy.

Except that footjobs aren't actually all that easy. It started off easy enough, with my feet just kind of rubbing on either side of your cock. But my legs got tired holding my feet up like that. Even after I asked you to lie down a little more it didn't get all that much easier. It's not like I could just bulldoze my heels against your abdomen while I kept my feet rubbing away on your penis. You wouldn't like me driving furrows in your stomach with my heels. Plus it was pretty obvious to me from the videos and from knowing you by now that you weren't going to like it too much if I just kept doing the same thing over and over with my feet.

Only problem is, my legs kept getting more and more tired, and you didn't seem to like all of the different things I was doing. You kept grunting and even hissing at me, and I could tell that you weren't liking it. Of course, this had the effect of making me nervous, because I kind of figured if I kept doing that it would be like using my teeth during a blowjob. That is to say, it would be very, very bad if I did. I couldn't always tell what you didn't like right away, however, so I kept changing what I was doing. And that just made my legs even more tired, and then I started getting worried about the timer. I was pretty sure that I could get you to cum right away with my feet, but no matter what I did, you didn't cum. Adding to my anxiety, it was clear that you weren’t happy with my performance and were getting angry.

Then my feet even started getting tired, just like my legs. You wouldn't cum and wouldn't cum -- and the first time you orgasm is usually the easiest. I started to think that maybe you were teasing me -- not cumming on purpose -- but your grunts and hisses made it pretty clear that I wasn't doing it right. I kept trying to reposition on my bottom, giving my legs and feet a rest for a second and finding a position that worked for me and felt good for you. But nothing seemed to work. On and on and on I tried everything. And then, finally, I was actually resting my feet, one touching your balls and the other teasing your piss slit with my toes. I didn't expect this to get you off, but suddenly you had a strange expression, and tilted your head to the side, and I could actually feel your cum spritzing against my toe as it shot out of your penis.

I sat up, kind of eagerly, fascinated to watch your cum shooting out all over your stomach and chest. I never get to see you do this. You're always inside one of my holes, or doing it so I can't see. And I gotta admit, it's pretty impressive. Your cock holds a lot of cum ("It's in his balls, stupid. It just comes out his cock," I remind myself.) I see several thick lines of cum shoot out up to your shoulder and neck, painting your chest and abdomen in white stripes. I sit up as you finish, and stare. It's pretty amazing. I have a little pride that I helped to make it come out like that. If I ever have a real boyfriend I'm gonna be really good at making him have orgasms.

When you're done, I don't waste any time crawling to your side. You already told me that I'm supposed to clean you up in the "usual way," which means with my mouth. I lean down, and suck the closest whitish stripe into my mouth, dragging my lower lip across your skin as I do. I taste your cum -- musky and a little bitter, a little salty. I know this taste. The taste of fresh cum. Your cum. Still warm, not like the stuff you made me drink in the bottle. ("He saved cum for you to drink," I remind myself, a little revolted.)

I continue to clean up the cum streaks on your chest and stomach. The cum is fast turning from milky white and thick to shiny, glistening, almost translucent. I wonder why it does that. It's only thick and white when it first comes out. After that it gets thin and runny and goes everywhere. That reminds me that sometimes it goes into your pubes and I hate cleaning the cum out of them. So with a docile, tentative look, I temporarily abandon cleaning your chest and move my head down to your softened penis. I look up because I know that sometimes your cockhead is too sensitive to be touched after you come, but apparently not this time as you don't wave me off. Sure enough, the little puddle by your cockhead is loose and runny now, and about to run down into your pubes. I lick at it, then take your soft cockhead into my mouth, and suckle the sperm from your slit. I let it out of my mouth and very gently move it to the side with my hand so that I can lick up the cum that has run down to the base of your shaft. I manage to swallow the cum there without getting too much of your pubic bush in my mouth. Only just a little.

I return to your stomach and chest and suckle the sperm out off your belly button, then clean and lick your chest and belly free of cum. I've swallowed a lot of cum -- probably a deciliter -- plus some of my own spit. When I'm done, your chest and belly are shiny with little-girl spit, and 47 minute are off the timer. My heart starts to race as I realize I have less than half the time to get you off twice more. You said you wouldn't punish me if I failed to get you off three times, but you would fuck me hard in my pussy. But what happens if I don't even get you off twice? That probably would be construed as a lack of effort by you And that would lead to a punishment, I'm quite sure of that. ("You better go fast, Laur'. You better get to work.")

But number two is a handjob. I am sure that I can give you a hand job. "Master, can you please sit up, like this)" -- I quickly sit Indian-style, between your legs, demonstrating for a quick second, then move away. "You can lean back if you want," I say like I'm about to give you a massage -- which, to a certain extent, I am, even if it is of the X-rated and taboo variety.

I grasp your soft cock, and gently begin to knead and roll it between my hands. I am careful to be gentle. It feels neat, like a big floppy worm -- not that I know what a worm feels like, as I've never touched one. But it seems like a worm would feel like this. I start to stroke you, gently, but the Vaseline is kind of tacky and your cock is a little sticky and wet from your cum and my saliva, and that just doesn't work well with the tacky Vaseline.

"Just a sec', Master," I say, hoping you won't be mad. But I get the jar of Vaseline, and take a dab of it, and rub it between my palms. I place them back on your still-nearly-soft shaft and commence sliding my hands up and down you shaft, squeezing it on the upstroke, relaxing my grip on the down stroke. I glance at the clock -- 54 minutes gone, oh no! -- and glance at you with nervous eyes. But thank God, your cock starts to thicken, to harden, and within a minute or two your shaft is jutting upright from your abdomen as my hands stroke you up and down.

Once I have you hard, I start taking my slippery palms up and over your cockhead with every upstroke, gently squeezing and kneading you there. I can tell from your measured breathing and little twitches that this feels good. Then I start my hands at the very base of your shaft and roll them back and forth in a spiraling upward motion until I reach the top, then replace them at the base and do it again. The Vaseline helps to keep my hands moving smoothly against the skin of your cock. And when they rub and massage your cockhead I can tell from your reaction that it feels very good.

I resume stroking you -- long, measured, up-and-down strokes of my hands squeezing on the upstrokes, relaxing and gliding back on the down strokes. I lower my hands down your shaft and keep going, my hands trailing off you penis altogether, tickle-teasing the insides of your thighs, before sliding them up together underneath your balls, over your perineum, then gently grasping your balls, pulling them ever-so-gently outward, then grasping your penis at the base of the shaft ad gliding my hands up to the top of your cockhead and over, dragging my thumb across your piss slit, indenting it, pleasuring it. I look up, hoping to read in your expression whether my little invented technique just now met with your approval. I can't tell.

I would bet just about anything that what I am doing feels good to you. The Vaseline really helps to keep my fingers slippery and silky and I grab a bit more of it. Your cock feels soft and under my hands. I trace down your shaft and drag my fingers down the sides, where your thighs meet your penis, those little clefts there. Then I make a big ring with my thumbs and fingers and drag my hands up your manhood, stopping at the fleshy ring that marks the top of your shaft and the start of the thin, spongy, sometimes shiny pinkish-purple skin of your cockhead. I know that this ring of looser flesh is particularly sensitive, and I twist my little left, then right, about 90 degrees of rotational friction, before I resume long-stroking you again, from base to tip. Your cock twitches. I can't tell but I think you are close. The timer shows 21 minutes remaining.

Marcus

When I look at you, finally spent and quite mind-blown, you look like you just spent that time working out, which you kind of did. It's a serious effort, especially for your abdomen and butt and the whole of your legs and feet, actually. I'm not sure I could keep my feet lifted or resting just feather-lightly for as long as that. Once my mind starts to clear, I appreciate that given this was your first time, you've actually just done an amazingly good job. The anger that surged through me drains instantaneously and leaves me almost baffled. Irritation or displeasure would have been understandable, but the fact I got almost violently angry feels weird, like it was a misplaced anger from somewhere else that just tagged itself onto the tension of being edged, of my pleasure at being near a peak for a good while and unable to go over. I push that thought aside, glad that you didn't actually seem to have noticed just how badly furious I got for a moment there, and vow for the future to not hit you in immediate anger, but rather plan my punishments and keep myself under control.

You actually did a pretty good job. You quickly figured out that prodding and poking my lower abdomen with your heels wasn't nice, and did your very best to avoid it. You varied your effort impressively, and you strived to please. Okay, your abdominal muscles could be better trained to hold your feet up. You also could improve your agility in doing the various tricks, and you should learn to read and respond a bit more immediately to how I react, but damn. I bet there are girls who have given a number of foot-jobs and still don't do half as good a job of it as you did, there and then, despite it being your first time!

And you seem quite genuinely pleased, relieved, too, but also pleased and sort of . . . fascinated as you watch me cum. I only see it with the corner of my eye, having (wisely) removed my eyes from the trajectory of the cum when I felt it coming. I like that. I like that a lot, in fact. That's exactly what I want you pushed towards, the next thing to learn. To take joy in submission and servitude. To enjoy me enjoying myself, to get satisfaction and gratification from pleasing me. And you clean me up promptly, even though there's lots and some of it you have to slurp up from my relatively trim but thick and coarse pubes, and you do it without making a face; that's an extra point earned right there. You are efficient about it, but also thorough -- you quite correctly assume that leaving stickiness, not slurping every last drop and polishing the selfsame area with your tongue repeatedly, would be a punishable failure. The only thing is that together with the footjob taking too long, you've lost more precious minutes and I'm starting to feel certain that you won't make it within the designated time limit. Shame, that.

It took you a long time -- longer than either one of us expected -- but once you have cleaned the huge eruption of cum off of me I'm pleased and warm and happy and in exactly the state that you probably expect me to be in after a good orgasm. I’m relaxed, and prone to being noticeably more forgiving. But just as I take a breath to tell you that I might give you some extra time you leap off, grab more of the vaseline and start "phase two" with such stunning vigor that I can only moan and groan. Damn! I never really liked hand jobs. In fact, if you make me cum, without being told, irritably, to stop or finish me off in a different way, you'll be the first girl ever to have achieved that. To be honest, I'm a little sceptical about this; but as soon as you start, I know I could safely place a bet on you. You will do this. And it is going to be awesome. Because it starts off good, and it keeps getting better by the minute. Each new move, especially the ones focusing on my corona, elicits a new intensity of moans and gaps and dreamy, lip-biting hissing and intensity of breath, not hisses of protest or pain, but of intense, just-right pleasure. I'm amazed at the pace at which my arousal rises.

It feels great even in the position you suggest, but my cock is too low, not greatly accessible, and also my balls are squashed against the bed that way. Eventually I kneel and put two cushions between my heels and my butt, sitting on my heels raised like that with my knees spread to give you the best possible access. And then you really blow me away with your hand-magic. I don't think it feels this good even when I wank; I guess because when I ever do (I don't, lately) it's a matter-of-factly, straightforward thing. This here is exquisite! Blissful. The spiralling motion of your little hands really sends me high, arching my back, thrusting forward, shuddering. If that intensity could be kept up continually, I would probably cum in seconds, and then piss myself straight after if you kept it up. And you aren't afraid. You handle my balls, my perineum, everything, shamelessly, with focused determination to deliver what was ordered.

I'm in an overdrive, the precum actually dribbling from my cockslit now, one of the first times that you see it rather than just taste it, as you screw your hands, making a good 90-degree spin that threatens to blow my head off of me. I go lobster read, but not at all with anger; this is clearly just very intense pleasure, nothing else. I shakily grab the back of your neck and pull your face down, close to my cock. Not low enough to suck, to reach your face, but just so it is facing you from real close up. I gasp. And utterly, tensely, through mostly gritted teeth. "Gggg-oonnn!" I grunt. "Eyesss and mouthhhh o-o-open," I demand, and I barely manage to finish saying it before another hot, ropey load blasts into your face at full speed. The first blast hits your nose midway up and your left eye, the following splashing all over really, with some getting into your mouth and over your lip. One sticky, slimy string ends up clinging to your chin. But mostly it ends on your face, and in both of your eyes. Not even your brow is spared, with your eyebrows, and your sweet, cute eyelashes, all covered in white strings of cum.

Just about any other human being would pass you a tissue, hanky, towel, or something in this situation, as you wince and blink blindly, the cum stinging in your eyes (more or less depending on how long you really managed to keep them open obviously, but if both of them aren’t red, and if cum isn't in both of them, guess who will get punished?) After I cum I push your further down in a clear gesture, and as soon as the tip of my cock slides past your lips into your mouth, I relax and a flood of very hot piss floods your mouth. I sigh. I'm superbly spent, and I empty the whole of my bladder into your mouth. There's lots and lots of urine this time, and it's quite strong, as it tends to be in the mornings. I let you drink every last drop and suckle my cock clean. There's fourteen minutes left when all this is done, but I'm so wonderfully, deliciously, gorgeously spent that I couldn't care less. And actually, damn this, I don't want you to resume the race. My cock and I need a rest. I reach into your hair, pull you up and position you so you are sitting on my chest, facing me, legs spread wide, each on either side of my shoulders. "The third orgasm in the time limit," I say as I guide your hand to your pussy (yes, still sore) "will be yours. I'll give you plenty more time afterwards to get me off," I say, removing the stress of getting me off fast from the game -- assuming you can get yourself off in about quarter of an hour despite slight discomfort. But I don't mentioned any punishment that will inevitably follow if you fail, and I smile, encouragingly. I prop my head up with one of the cushions I sat on before, turning it with the cummy side down, making a mental note that I should have you run a load of wash at some point, and watch, from super-close up, what and how you will do, and how your pussy will respond.

I imagine, once I've spent some time watching such a sexy show for about quarter of an hour, I will be keen on being butt-cheek rubbed or thigh-fucked to another orgasm. Right now, it would be a futile attempt at a chore for you, and very nearly a punishment for me, so screw it. I tilt the clock over so you can't glance at it nervously, and if you manage to get off in under twenty minutes, I pretend that the timing was all right, not wanting to add to your punishment just now. We go over to the kitchen, where I pour us both a large glass of water and a small glass of juice, and I toss you a chocolate-coated muesli bar. If you failed, I just tell you this adds to your evening punishment, but leave it be for now. Snack follows either way. You also (finally) get passed some tissues and I even allow you to use the sink to wash your face and especially your red-red eyes. Small mercies, of course, but they count.

I sit on a chair in the kitchen and make you sit on my lap, straddling my thighs, facing me, and I play with strands of your hair, gently touching and cuddling you even as my cock slowly swells back into a ready-for-another-round state.

"The footjob orgasm felt amazing," I tell you, "but I got really pissed when you 'lost' my orgasms multiple times. Don't chase it so desperately next time. If you stayed playful and relaxed I would actually have gotten off earlier," I disclose. "But the hand job was spot on and amazing. Best I've ever had. The screwing and twisting bit around the ring was super cool. Loved it. It was more intense than I anticipated, that's why we are having a snack and you get some extra time for the last round. You earned it," I assure you.

We go back into the bedroom, I encourage you to take a piss before we resume and then I lie down again and look at you. Thirty minutes. An already-erect cock. And both of us relatively fresh after a nice break. What will you do? I'm curious, actually, and really looking forward to being surprised for once.

Laura

I'm working your cock intently with my slippery, lubricated hands, staring at your phallus. Despite all of the things we have done together, I haven't had much opportunity to handle your penis before, much less study it at super close range. The footjob gave me a close-up look of you cumming, and that was interesting, but this is even closer, and my hands can feel even more of your cock than my feet could.

Your cock feels slick and smooth and fleshy as I massage and squeeze it with my hands and fingers. The Vaseline is better than soap, better than spit, better than anything at allowing my hands to roam over your erection, feeling every inch of flesh, every vein, every contour and feature. Your cockhead squishes softly under my caress. I place the palm of my right hand directly over it, cupping it there, rotating my right hand left, then right, as my left hand fondles the underside of your balls. I do this several times, then move both hands to your corona once more, gently pinching and plucking at it with my fingers, pulling the skin gently outward, then rotating my hands 45 degrees and grasping the same way in a different place, then rotate them again until I have circled it fully.

I am so close to your cock as I fondle and caress it. I can feel the softness of your cock skin over the rigidity and firmness of your jutting erection. I wish I knew what makes it get hard like that. I know it has something to do with you being aroused, and your blood rushing into your penis, but I never understood that in health class last year and I was too embarrassed to ask. ("Can you imagine asking, in front of everyone?” I ask myself. “You would have gotten laughed at for days!") On the underside of your shaft I can see what looks like a tube, but when I press on it with my fingers it isn't all that hard and it gives way. I pull the shaft away from your abdomen just a little bit, and I can feel the rock-hard tension there as your cock fights to remain upright. It's pretty impressive how it juts like that.

I know as sure as I'm sitting before you that my hands feel good on your cock. Actually, your cock feels good in my hands, all slippery and soft. If I had any concerns about how well I was doing, you eliminate all doubt with your noises, facial expressions, and breathing. I look up at you occasionally as a particularly expressive moan or grunt or hiss leaves your lips. ("Wow, Laur'. He really likes this. Like, a lot!") I'm pretty pleased with how things seem to be going -- not just because if I can get you to cum quickly I might be able to make my time limit -- but because you really seem to like handjobs, and I much prefer giving you handjobs to any other way of getting you off. It's like a match made in heaven. I'll gladly give you as many handjobs as you want. It's actually kind of . . . fun.

When you reach for my head I kind of know what is going to happen, and when you position my face just off the end of your penis, I'm sure of it. I glance up as you make a really strange sound, and your face looks all red. I open my mouth and force my eyes open -- blinking and squinting, afraid of the first jet of ejaculate. Then your cock explodes, and cum starts spurting all over my face. I force my eyes open, but blink again, wincing, as your cum goes absolutely everywhere. ("OMG," I think to myself, realizing that this is your second orgasm in the last 30 minutes, and you seem to have as much cum or more as the first time.) I swallow quickly, and open my mouth once again. A spurt of cum ends up partially in my left nostril, and I almost wipe it away, before I remember what you said earlier. Not only do I successfully refrain from wiping it away, but I tuck my Vaseline-slick hands behind my back so I won't be tempted as your cock continues to decorate my face with semen.

When you finally are done I blink and blink and blink, trying to get the cum from my eyes without using my hands. God how I wish I could just quickly rub them out, but I dare not. ("Don't do it, Laur'. Master said. Keep your arms behind your back.") I try to keep my arms behind my back but my usual grip is stymied by the slippery Vaseline. I just leave them there, behind me, dangling, as you pull my head down, your cock sliding into my mouth. I taste the now-familiar bitterness of your sperm, and the slightly medicinal, oily taste of the Vaseline, but only for a second before your pee spurts against my upper palate. Quickly I adjust my mouth and lips and throat to "piss-drinking mode" -- a loose-fitting, lips-on-shaft hold that allows my mouth to channel the piss to my throat, and allows my throat not only to swallow but to swallow quickly, keeping up with the flow. I taste your urine, hot, bitter, and pungent. And I drink every single drop of it down into my tummy as my face runs itchy with cum.

Finally you are done peeing, and my mouth shifts back to "suckle-and-clean-up mode." I am extra careful with what I know is your sensitive cockhead. Gently I slurp the fluids from your upper shaft, tasting cum and Vaseline and piss. I swallow all of that down, too.

When I am done, and your cock is admirably clean, and fully spent, you tug me into position atop you. This confuses me, as I already had decided how to work you to a third orgasm within the allotted time. My orgasm will be the third one? Really? That should be easy -- except, my cunny still hurts from the flogging you gave me the other day. In fact, my quim remains a mottled purple color, although the swelling is completely gone now and the formerly intense colors are fading.

With a nervous, tentative hand, I reach for my pussy, and begin to finger my special spot. I wince, because it still hurts, but underneath the hurt, it feels good. ("Thank God -- there's the tickle, Laur'. Just make it happen deep inside.") I begin to rub my quim, looking up and away from you, with a far-away look. I'm not actually trying to ignore you or pretend you're not there. In fact, it doesn't even occur to me to be sheepish about the fact that you are staring intently at me from a distance of only about a foot away. It's just that, when I work my special spot, it's like I enter a different place, a different world. And sometimes it helps if I don't look at anything. Sometimes I think of that big, green, tennis backstop at the park, the one I saw so long ago. The one with the soothing green color of nothingness . . .

I work my special spot with the fingers of my right hand, my inner thighs corded and taut as I lift myself up on my knees and begin to breathe deeper with the exertion. Whatever pain I felt there begins to subside, or at least is way, way overmatched by the pleasure I start to feel. I'm not all that far from an orgasm. Giving you that handjob definitely got me a little bit aroused. My cunny is moist, and my hand feels good, and if I can just manage to keep my mind from worrying about anything -- about the timer, about you being so close, about the shame that I should be feeling doing this right in front of you ("Slut!" I accuse myself) -- I'm gonna have an organ- orgasm way before my time is up.

I look down at you as I pleasure myself, but my expression is far away, and my mouth is open. My face is shiny with cum, decorated with your sperm. I blink my eyes absent-mindedly, barely aware anymore of the stickiness there. My eyes focus in on Master, then look away, as I move my hand fast up and down my hairless snatch, my breathing heavy now, my heart racing. I moan as my pussy reacts, the first vestiges of tingling beginning to build deep inside me. Absently I reach my free hand to my left nipple ring, mouth open, lost in lust, and begin to tug at it, down, out, away from my body.

I moan as I masturbate myself, tugging at the nipple ring. It feels intense and good. I reach for the right nipple ring, and pull on it, tugging it down, out and away from my naked body. My moans increase. My eyes are blinking but unfocused as I stare into space. I stretch my left thumb and middle finger across my chest, hooking each digit into its own ring and tugging both of them downward simultaneously. I gasp, and moan, as I pull on the rings, tugging on my nipples. "Uhhhh," I gasp, as a wave of pleasure crashes over my body. My hand moves faster now, despite the fact that it is getting tired. My cunny is wet. "Ohhhh," I moan, as I pull down on the rings. My hand moves faster and faster, making a wet, slickery sound as I work my quim. I gasp. I moan. I tug on the rings and close my eyes, squirming, yelping, as the tingle explodes from deep inside me and sends waves of pleasure reverberating through my body. I press down on the rings, tugging them away from my body hard as I explode with pleasure, gasping, almost chirping as I finish the best orgasm of my entire life. Wow. I didn’t expect it to be so . . . intense. I sink down on your chest. I am completely spent, my cum-covered face etched in exhaustion and bliss. My orgasm took all of 12 minutes from start to finish.

You roll me gently off you, and I lie back, spent and panting, my chest rising and falling as I breathe. You pull me up and I follow you into the kitchen, hands still behind my back, where I drink eagerly from the water and juice. I have a glow of pink skin and a look of moist perspiration about me. I eat the snack, my face sticky with tacky, semi-dry cum. My eyes keep blinking, incessantly, and I am grateful when I finally get to wipe my face clean. I can smell your cum everywhere, on me, in my nose.

I climb atop you on the chair, naked in your lap, facing you. My purplish cunny looks moist and recently used. I look at your face as you touch me. I look disheveled and tired, but content. I listen as you speak, and I'm proud of the job I did. I glance down at your manhood, already erecting and nearly at full mast. I won't chase your organ- orgasms anymore. A tiny, proud little smile breaks out on my face when you describe the quality of my handjob. And for once my inner voice just doesn't say a thing.

I walk with you back into the bedroom, both of us naked, the size differential never more apparent, never more starkly in contrast. I take a quick pee, and return to the bedroom, almost . . . eagerly? I had planned out what I was going to do for your third orgasm long ago. I'm pretty sure you'll like it, and that I can do a good job with it. Your cock is fully erect now, as I walk to the bed and climb up. I crawl on hands and knees until I am over you, straddling you. I bring my feet forward, heels down, adjacent to your upper arms, as I use them and my hands to support my body, butt down, hips up, hovering just over your shaft. I lower my buns to your shaft, resting with it between them, in my cleft. I clench my cheeks together. "I'm gonna do a buttjob, Master," I say, with a mischievous little smile, as I begin to undulate my bottom gently back and forth on your penis, rocking my cheeks forward and back, forward and back atop your penis.

Marcus

I sense the shift, I sense it clearly. Several shifts, actually, tiny, minute ones, all in synergy, though. All of them signs that despite bumps along the way, you are changing from who you used to be towards what I want you to be. It is really quite fascinating. Some of it is just your natural tendencies being uncovered. If you weren't pure gold, deep down, I wouldn't reach the preciousness even if I dug like a madman. But you do have an masochistic streak, and are at an age when interconnecting it with your sexuality, permanently and inseparably, isn't an impossible task. You have a submissive side. Not the kind of soggy-biscuit degree of submissiveness that Robbie seems to have been waiting his whole life to sink into -- an unresisting, liquid-like submission that takes on any form and shape as and when needed -- but you do have a submissive, eager-to-please side, and it's more than just a streak. Again, something I wish to cultivate and further build upon. And you are sexy. And it's not just an appearance judgment; for a kid your age, you're incredibly coy and at the same time sassy, a rare mixture really, balanced in you in an unlikely fluid harmony, like an alchemical marriage of fire and water. Opposites complementing and completing one another, rather than clashing and negating each other.

You had fun getting me off, and took the cumshot in your face and your poor eyes not just obediently, but (give or take your attempts at blinking your eyes clean) almost stoically. And you liked masturbating and cumming, even though it hurt. In fact, you made it hurt more; you pulled at your nipples hard enough for it to be obvious that you were causing yourself discomfort. Damn. To watch an eleven-year-old pull hard at recently placed stainless steel rings in her nipples so hard she pulls them almost noodle-thin, abusing the soft pink flesh almost worryingly in a one-hand-two-rings clever grip as well, impressing me further. And you made noise, and you bucked and rocked, beautifully free, lost in the act, without holding back timidly, giving me a truly epic show. I watched and I loved it. I also learned; strength, pace, all of it. It's amazing, really; when I first rubbed you, you ended up in tears, and that was all wet and slick and your pussy in a spotless shape. Now? Your pussy still bears marks of an earlier caning, albeit fading and no longer fresh enough to keep it swollen, and you finger it despite and through the pain, and cum, beautifully. I'm pleased and impressed, and we're both in a good mood when we grab the snack.

You know what I want from you. There doesn't seem to be any confusion, resentment nor, at the moment, acute fear. And I'm happy and well-spent, with yet another orgasm coming soon, and trusting you that you'll do a good job of it. I suspect the handjob will be unbeatable. I will officially never, ever jerk off again; even if I want to shoot a load at or into something for a specific purpose, that has now become your job. I never believed anyone could get me off with their hand as good as I do it myself, which technically you didn't; you made it better. More intense. Damn!

You smile. And my spine tingles with joy and that overwhelming sense of everything being just right, here and now, when I notice that you look proud. You are feeling proud of having pleasured me well. Of doing something slutty and dirty. The first sparrow of the spring, a sign that you are able to take pride in what I make you do, in the truly, properly submissive way. We just bounce off each other, emotionally. I'm positively glowing and tingling with happiness and good mood when we make it back to the bedroom, and then I lie back to relax . . .

. . . and things get even better. When I see you descending on me, I stop you ever so briefly and apply a small glob of silicone-based lubricant; it makes for a smoother, easier sliding than vaseline and hearing what you are about to do makes it obvious that my cock slipping out of place will not be an issue, you don't go for anything too fiddly. My cock twitches and presses into your crack and perineum as you smile mischievously. That smile is absolutely priceless, a highlight of an already amazing day. You're losing inhibitions, forgetting society's rules and restrictions. You are becoming able to approach this as a game, a fun activity, to do it guiltlessly, with enjoyment. That attitude alone sends me flying high, soaring, into a fuzzy, warm, happy place. Absent mindedly, I grab for the small alarm clock and throw it; out through the door, into the dungeon, where it smashes into one of the heavy wooden bondage and torture machines, exploding into pieces that rain across the floor.

"No time limit. No punishment," I whisper, and half close my eyes, watching you in a blissful, slightly sleepy manner through my eyelashes.

Your small, warm, smooth-skinned, soft in a fashion, but at the same time firm buns -- especially as you clench them around my shaft -- feel absolutely wonderful on my cock, as they press the gleaming, oily member, hard as a rock, against my belly and start to slide. It feels absolutely wonderful. Amazing. Fuck time limits. I want this to last. I want this slow. After a while, I reach forward, slide fingers through your nipple rings -- a nice snug fit with the finger pads rubbing against your nipples inside of them -- and start to pull and push in a languid sort of pace, to guide your motion. I like slow, long movements as your butt slides over my cock, and soon we figure out that what feels best is when you relax your butt as you slide down towards the balls, and then clench as you move upwards towards the glans. You have me moaning, floating in heat and bliss and pleasure in no time. And the motion it requires of you is quite minimalistic; easy, really. This could go on for a while, and I hope it will. The anger that flared up when my first orgasm evaded me and got delayed is gone, melted away as I came and came again. This is pure bliss and joy. I'm still horny enough for this relatively light stimulation to keep me fully hard, aroused, and enjoying myself, but the edge has been take off my need enough to make me last, and to make me enjoy the fact that the pleasure is spread out and lasting.

This is a good day. Great day. I feel fit, energetic, and we seem well in tune. I can't think much; my head is filled with warm, woolly pink mist at the moment, but it does occur to me that I should reward you. This effort, and attitude should be recognised, appreciated, and encouraged. You must get a clear, shiny message that this is good. This is what I want. But that will have to wait. Right now, your gorgeous little butt sliding smoothly over the underside of my cock occupies so many of my brain cells it's a wonder that I'm not forgetting to breathe!

Laura

I don't exactly realize -- not consciously, anyway -- how eager I am to perform a buttjob on you and get you to ejaculate for the third time this morning. If I were aware, the conscience of my inner voice probably would be calling me a slut with great vigor, over and over. But to me, my eagerness is not a sign of sluttiness at all, and my inner voice stays mercifully quiet. I'm not eager to have sex with you, submit to you, or to be your sex slave. But I am eager to see if my butt can get you off, just like my hands and feet did. It almost seems like a competition, or a game. The sex "stuff" -- the fact that we are naked, that you are my captor, that I am here unwillingly, that you are and adult and I am a child -- all of these things are becoming fairly commonplace in my contemplation. Whereas at first those things were all I could think about in here, now they are such daily realities that I don't dwell on them. And because I no longer dwell constantly on my nakedness, or the taboo nature of what you do to me, it's easy to get even further sidetracked and forget that what we are doing is in any sense even "wrong" at all. Certainly you don't think it's wrong. My mind is starting to slip into a different reality -- one where sex between children and adults is commonplace ordinary. Some sex hurts, and some sex is more fun. This sex is fun. Getting you off this morning has been fun. The timer and the three-cums-in-90-minutes game makes it even more fun. The fact that I get to choose myself -- me! Laura Vandahl -- how do it the third time makes it even better.

The lube that you used is super slippery and awesome. It makes my bottom glide over your erection like they were made for each other. I'm feeling good. My legs easily support my weight, some of which is resting on your cock, anyway. My arms are supporting the rest of my upper body, but they feel strong. I undulate against you, giving you quite a show as I glide myself back and forth. I look determined, but eager.

I search your face for reactions. ("Does he like it? Does Master like the feel of it?" I ask myself.). I can tell you like it. You're not good at hiding it when I make you feel really good. Your face is very expressive. You look positively happy. I would wager a million dollars that you're not mad at me right now. The morning has gone well. The game has gone well. You scared the living daylights out of me when you smashed the alarm clock -- for a split second of sheer, unadulterated panic I thought you were going to haul me into the dungeon after it and do something absolutely awful to me -- but then I realized you just wanted me to take my time. ("Whew -- Laur', he scared the shit out of you!" I say to myself, as I realize that you mean me no harm). Aside from that very brief moment of sheer panic, I am as confident as I possibly can be that you're happy with me. The knowledge that I've gotten through almost the entire morning, without earning a punishment, being hurt or slapped, or having a punishment waiting for me for later, is simply awesome. ("Or do you? Did he say you were getting punished for something? I can't remember," my mind muses.)

Your happiness, and my feelings of accomplishment, put me in a good mood. An indulgent mood. I want my bottom to feel super good as I drag it across your penis. I want your cock to explode with pleasure, and when it does, I'll lick it up and that will be three orgasms in one morning! Plus mine, which makes four! I glide my buns over your shaft, providing just the right amount of friction. When you reach for my nipple rings, and begin to guide me, I have a half smile on my face, since I know you'll give me cues. And you do. We work into a rhythm, where I don't clench my cheeks together when I move back, but I mush them together against your thick penis as I thrust my pelvis toward you. I can tell you like that. Your fingers guide me, and your expressions and little sounds do, too.

It feels good when you tug on my nipple rings. Ever since you did that the other day I felt this neat little tingling sensation whenever the rings pulled against my skin. I don't know why, but it's a nice feeling. It kinda hurts, but not a lot, and it makes a tingle in my chest. When I was rubbing my pussy a few minutes ago, and making the tingle happen down there, it also was happening in my chest at the same time when I tugged on the rings. Isn't that weird? And then when I had my orgasm, the tingles kind of merged together, making my whole body tingle, which was awesome. I have to give you some of the credit: You said that sex feels good, and you were right. If that makes me a slut ("It does, Laur'. The worst kind of slut ev-ver!") -- so what? I don't care. The rings make the tingle feeling better when I have an orgasm. And I like orgasms. Who cares what anybody thinks about that except me? I don't care. Not if it feels good.

And it feels good right now as you tug on them again. If you keep tugging on them like that -- and I also feel what you're doing with the pads of your fingers -- we can do this all day! Your cock feels super slippery and good as it slides in my butt crack. It's taking a bit of effort to keep the motion going and to keep my butt partially in the air, but I don't care. My face is determined. And my cunny feels a little tingly even from not even touching it! How cool is that? So I keep d-r-a-g-g-i-n-g my butt over your penis. It feels good for both of us. I'm gonna make you orgasm, and then I'm gonna lick up your cum, maybe drink your pee again. And then, who knows? Lunch? Maybe a special treat? ("He's pleased with you, Laur'. Now don't goof it up!"). I rub my cheeks across your erection. I feel good. I feel accomplished. And I feel alive and tingly, and almost happy. Maybe things don't have to be so bad down here. Maybe they'll get better. Considering where I was a couple of days ago, maybe they already have.

Marcus

I let you ride me, I guide you gently, but with determination. I make this one last. When I'm really close, I actually make you slow down even more, and I make you draw out my pre-orgasmic bliss on and on and when I finally erupt it's with a loud cry and me arching, and my cock pulsing and pumping more than even before, even though it's nowhere near as prolific when it comes to cum. Only a few small, narrow strings and globs of white, thick cum spray out, marking my belly and chest; they don't even go as far as my neck this time, partially because your butt is firmly holding my cock pinned to my abdomen. My breath catches in my throat, I make a couple of choked, coughing-like sounds, leading you to glide over my cock three more times. Then I slowly but firmly push you off of me. My face is red with veins standing on it. My eyes are slightly bloodshot from all the tension. I gulp in a breath of air, a long, hungry gulp to make up for the lack of oxygen in the last minute or so. I sigh, shudder, breathe and sigh again. Rivulets of sweat dribble down my temples, neck, and various other places on my body.

My hand finds your hair, and I don't really have to, because you're already moving in, but I guide you to clean my belly up, and my cock. The silicone-based lubricant has a nasty, oily consistence, quite displeasing to the mouth, even if it doesn't really have any flavor of it's own; it makes everything else taste worse, ickier, including the bit of cum that there is to be licked off and swallowed. But there really isn't much to clean up this time. I lie there and mindlessly guide your face to where I feel a rivulet of sweat tickling me, and guide you in to lick it up. Then I let go of your hair, let my hand just drop, heavy and exhausted, to the bed and whisper hoarsely: "Keep going, find more of that," letting you hunt for tiny streaks of sweat and sweeping them up with your little tongue by yourself. When you are working on my legs, I wiggle my toes, not even saying anything, just shake my feet a little and wiggle my toes to get your attention. They sure are sweaty and in need of a clean up. But I'm strangely ticklish down there, not enjoying the sensation as much as usual, so I soon pull my feet away from your face and turn over, spreading my legs, pushing a cushion under my belly. Once again, nothing is even said, but what's up for a "clean up" now is clear. You're in for some really good, strong musk in there, but no marks of crap. It was polished clean thoroughly after last use by another little mouth, not that you know that.

The command is never spoken; you know what to do, you should know what to do, anyway. I just lie there and relax. I'm dozy, drowsy. It faintly occurs to me that all the doors apart from the entrance are unlocked, even the med ward and the security room. You could in theory go see the security cam panel and see Robbie. In theory. You could get some drugs, surgical tools, tools of torture, use them as weapons. But you are not me. If I was enslaved, no matter how broken, how hard pushed, I would live my life, for years if need be, constantly alert on some level, ready to retaliate the moment a window of opportunity opened. Ready to murder, maim, do whatever it would take. But you . . . you . . . I finish the thought with a smile and let it dissolve unfinished in a warm fuzziness. I actually doze off.

It's a light snooze though, and whenever your tongue stops pleasuring my butt hole, I grunt a little, or squirm slightly, to show my displeasure. A little is enough, though; licking, kissing and gentle tonguing, even just moving your head with your tongue stuck out and held in place. All of those cheats and tricks you use when your little mouth gets oh-so-tired, it all flies today, without complaint. I come out of it a little dizzy, but soon recover and awaken fully. I've destroyed the clock, so it's not until we go to the kitchen that I realise that between the butt job, the languid, wordless clean up, and the snooze I had with your tongue ceaselessly dancing over my musky rear hole, the morning had turned into afternoon, even if only just. I lead you into the bathroom, and it's into the bathtub with you to be showered with the hand-held shower, showered and washed, gently removing all the vaseline and lube of off you. I rinse you, sponge you down, playfully, gently wash you with my hands, teasing here, tickling there, delivering a super-light, playful smack over there. I try and make you giggle, repeatedly, just sort of goofing around, before a final rinse off and passing you a towel. I take my shower alone, I've had enough of touch and care for the moment, I just need a very strong jet of first hot and then tepid water, and then a scrub down with a towel. I vaguely recall I was trying not to wash and I avoid soaping and thoroughly washing my ass crack and cock, but I need a shower to refresh me and wake me up from my over-pleasured daze.

I dry myself, too, and dress in one of the many sets I have ready down here: "dungeon clothes" -- loose linen pants and a plain t-shirt. I tell you to go put sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt on (all in the bedroom) and join me in the kitchen. I reach into one of the shelves and plop a simple cooking book on the kitchen table. "We'll cook together," I announce. "I'll teach you.”. I open the larder. "Pick a meal for which we have all the ingredients. There's only minced beef in the freezer I think, possibly some diced pork. If you feel like chicken, I've got one upstairs, otherwise work with what you've got, that's rule number one of dungeon-cooking," I smile. "You don't have the option of running down to the store to buy a missing ingredient; in fact we're so remote here that it's not realistic even for me," I say, disclosing one of the first-ever pieces of solid information about the location of this place, though you probably already figured that out yourself on the walk to the lake.

We've got veg, a good range of spices, oils, vinegars and such, pasta, rice, and random, more-xotic ingredients as well: wine leafs, anchovies, capers, olives, artichokes in brine, spicy pastes, and purées. Other than lamb, beef-steak and fish dishes, we can do almost anything from the book; you really have a lot to pick from. I let you figure it out without advice (unless you choose something I know we can't do). And then we cook. When my needy cock isn't involved and my sadism isn't acutely calling for attention, I'm actually a good, patient teacher, with attention to detail. I show you how to properly hold and use a peeler, how to chop things into small cubes and thin slices without cutting yourself, how to quickly, efficiently clean ingredients. Little tricks and pieces of practical advice are taught along the way; it becomes clear that cooking is something I enjoy and do well, not just relatively well to you, but better than most adults, too. I show you and instruct you on everything, but even though it takes more time, I let you do the bulk of the work. When we get to the actual cooking, I make you wear slippers and an apron; I don't want hot water or oil spitting on your naked skin.

It is an unusual test of our dynamic; I hate shared cooking. I can normally get murderously angry and tense when I have to share a working space with someone else, but it's easy with you. Partially because you obey my every command, so we can't clash and get in one another's way while we do it, but also because I really lose myself in the teaching, the cooperation, the joy of such a simple, normal act, and keep sensing grateful, happy energy from you as we go on. I teach you how to set the table nicely: plates, cutlery, serviettes, wine glasses, water glasses, the whole deal. We'll eat civilized; no dog bowls and no kibble today.

"I'll serve the food. You go put on some of the nice clothes I got for you. Desigual stuff," I tell you and send you off with a pat on your adorable little butt that's almost fatherly. This would be your first nicely-dressed, decent meal since our “date,” early on, after which you semi-consensually lost your virginity. And it is; we eat what we've made, both dressed, and there's no imminent threat of punishment or madness being unleashed. The atmosphere is as closed to the "up above" standard of normal as it ever got down here since your arrival, and for the moment, it's exactly what I want. I have plans for the afternoon that might make you lose that smile and the ease with which you do everything, as if savoring every motion of this precious "dance," but I don't speak of those. I make the good times be good, simple times while they last, untainted.

Laura

I'm getting a little tired holding my body up, especially in my wrists of all places. They are straddling your legs, to either side, but bent at a 90 degree angle holding me up that is painful now. My hands are a little numb, but I keep sliding my bottom over your phallus. The special lube you used is amazing. The Vaseline would have become tacky and nasty by now, but not this stuff. I practice clenching and unclenching my buns around your cock. I can feel the heat. I liked it when you guided me, tugging on my nipple rings. I don't know why that feels so good, but it makes me tingle. It's just weird.

Finally, you cum. And do you ever cum. You don't make a lot of white stuff, but it seems like you really, really liked it. In fact, you almost look mad -- all red-faced, and out of breath, and making funny noises and stuff. I watch you in amazement. For a split second -- just a heartbeat, really, as you push me off -- I am worried that you are mad at me, but you're not. You're just . . . satisfied. I stare at you, surprised at the intensity of your reaction. I wonder what it is like to be a man, to make that stuff shoot out of your penis. Women and girls can't do that at all. I wonder what it feels like. I know it feels good, but in what way? What's the sensation? What does it feel like? Is it like the tingle that I feel, deep inside? Or different? ("You're not ever gonna know that, Laur', unless you grow a penis.")

I rise to my knees and crawl to your side, ready to finish the job as I always do -- by cleaning the cum from your body and especially cleaning off your cock. I lean down as you guide my head, and my tongue and lips gobble the warm ejaculate from your abdomen. ("Wow Master has a lot of muscles everywhere," I think to myself as I lick at your muscular abdomen and six pack, and your distinctive, firm pecs.) Like so many things down here, I've gotten used to the taste of your cum. I no longer dread it. In fact, I haven't minded the taste all that much since the first few days I was here. It just tastes like it tastes. Mostly I had to get used to the concept, and once I didn't find that as icky, the taste itself is actually pretty tolerable. It's not awful or nasty, but rather kind of bland. Warm and bland, and a little musky, a little salty. The taste varies somewhat from cum to cum, as does the consistency. This cum is the thicker kind. Very white. When it's thick like this it takes longer to dissolve into that clear runny stuff that goes all over everywhere.

The only problem is, this time when I move to your penis and begin to clean the head, I don't like the taste of the lube. ("Yuck!" I think to myself.) I make a face, then worry for a moment, hoping you didn't see it. ("Careful, Laur'. Don't blow it now," I tell myself.) But I really don't like the lube. Vaseline doesn't taste this bad. This stuff is really gross. But I clean your penis anyway. I force myself to. When I'm done with the head I lick the shaft. Cleaning. Tasting. Performing. I don't like it, but I do it. That pretty much defines my existence down here.

You begin to guide me to your sweat dribbles, and automatically my tongue goes out, and laps it up. ("That is so gross!" I say to myself.) It tastes bad, but I've licked worse. Way worse. ("Yeah, like pee, poop, and throw-up, underarms, butt holes" I remind myself.) As your hand leaves my head I search for other areas, tiny rivulets of sweat, which I lick into my mouth like a kitten, cleaning you, delicately, deliberately. Some are just sweaty patches at your temples. I lick them, too. I taste salt, and musk. I taste you. You have a distinctive taste, and smell. The taste of a man. The taste of my Master.

I take your toes into my mouth, not even minding, because I know I am almost done. I've been at this for hours, save for a small break for a snack. I'm tired, but I have a sense of accomplishment. Three orgasms for you, plus mine. This stuff -- the licking, cleaning, and toe-suckling -- is just literally and figuratively mop-up duty. I've never seen you do four cums in a row. We have to be done, or at least very close.

I'm worried, and maybe just a little hurt, as you wave me off from your toes. ("Maybe you weren't doing it, right, huh?" I ask myself.) But you just don't seem to want a toe-suckle. ("Is that called a toe-job?" I wonder.) You roll over, and even before you tuck the pillow under your hips, I am pretty sure what you want me to do. When you spread your legs, there is no doubt. With resigned sigh, I crawl between them dutifully, on my knees, and lower myself to a lying position. I place my hands on your hips, and snake-sidle my way in a little closer, bringing my face to your cleft. I can't help it and I look at your hole. It looks relatively clean. No traces of any . . . ("Don't say it, Laur'. Just don't say it.") I take a last breath, and lean in, placing my face between your cheeks, positioning my mouth against your asshole. As many times as I do this, I can't get used to it. It's gross and disgusting that you make me do this. ("Please don't make me do it long. Please, please, please," I silently beg to myself.)

I begin to lick your asshole, my face pressing between your firm, muscular cheeks. I need to get your ring and pucker wet before I can penetrate with my tongue, so I do. My tongue swirls and whorls over your opening. I know what to do. This is familiar territory for me. I know what to do, and I know how to do it. I know, for example, that I'm not to remove my mouth from your hole. Whatever I do, it has to stay there. I know that my tongue should be active and engaged at all times -- making contact, moving, pleasuring your anus. I know that I need to pace myself. You might want me to lick you for a while. In fact, you're relaxing already. I can feel it in your muscles. You are totally relaxed, as you should be in the aftermath of a three-orgasm morning. You just want a slow rim job from me. And I proceed to give it to you, even if I really, really don't want to.

I'm right. You're tired, and settled down, and you make me lick you for a long, long, long time. I never remove my face from your cleft. I lick, and suck, my mouth glued to your anus like a baby latched onto a nipple. I try to pace myself, but my tongue eventually tires, and I try to fake the action, nuzzling your ass with little facial movements -- anything to keep going. A few times I am sure you are asleep, but as soon as I take the slightest rest, or make the smallest pause. your cheeks clench, you squirm, or I hear a grunt. ("He's not asleep, Laur'!" I chastise myself in panic.)

It seems to go on an on. My face is hot and sweaty I can't see. I always have my eyes closed when I rim you. My world just becomes your asshole. There is nothing for me to see, nothing to distract me. All there is is the musky taste of your opening, the firm, give-away penetration of tongue in ass as I point my tongue and press it inside. Over and over and over and over I work your ring, pressing, licking, pleasing. My tongue against your swarthy, coarse asshole.

Finally, it ends. I am grateful. My face is red and sweaty and I blink in the light as I emerge from your cleft. I wipe my mouth. My tongue feels abraded and exhausted. Tongues are muscles and they get tired, you know.

It's off to the bath, and you're in a goofy mood as you bathe me. I can't help but smile and giggle a couple of times. Mostly it's because I'm in a good mood. After all, I'm done! I did it! I made you cum three times, cleaned you, and rimmed you for like an hour, and you're not mad! I've come a long way since this morning, when I awoke in a cage. Speaking of which that's probably why I'm so tired today. I didn't get much sleep last night. I really want to sleep in my own bed tonight. The fact that I think of the little red futon bed as "my bed" is lost on me. I'm 11. I'm a child. I'm starting to adapt to my surroundings, my new life.

The rest of the afternoon is kind of a blur, but a fun one. You actually teach me some cooking stuff. ("Don't you dare say that, Laur'. He hates it when you say "stuff" like a baby. You learned some cooking skills today.") I gotta admit, you are a really, really good cook. Like, a chef. Maybe if you weren't a sex pervert person you could get a job cooking in a fancy restaurant or something, 'cause you know a lot of stuff. ("Laura -- damn! Not 'stuff!'")

I run back into my cell, toss open the chest, and select a nice Desigual outfit. I quickly dress, actually forgetting my panties. ("Duh -- you don't even know how to wear clothes anymore," I taunt myself.) I put the panties on, climb into the outfit, and rejoin you in the dining room. I am positively eager to join you for a real meal. Not because I like you, but because I've done everything right today and I know you're not mad at me and I know the food will be good because I saw you make it and I helped. I eat, and it is good. It's good, and it's normal. It's been a good day. I can do this. I did do this. I feel pretty good about things. This is about as good as it gets down here, anyway.

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