6. Mantra Training

Marcus

"I'm sad and I'm also getting angry that you are being so silly, and so mean to yourself. I want to be nice to you. I have water with me. I have lots more to teach you. This is a small world, but it can be interesting. There can be good times, fun times, too. You are being a nasty brat. It makes you look ugly and it makes you seem stupid," I say, "which makes me sad because I know how smart and pretty you are, or can be, if you try a little!" I add reproachfully.

"Now, if you don't have the sense to be good to yourself, I'll have to be the one to do it! Take off your clothes and give them to me. I'll teach you the mantra, I'll give you a drink, and everything will be better by a bit. The better you behave, the nicer you are being not just to me, but to yourself. You cannot outsmart me or out-wait me. It's ten o'clock in the evening now. If I leave, it will be for the rest of the night. Nine or so hours. And you'll know how many hours it is, because when I'm away and I'm not happy, I'll leave the clock on." The clock. What a name to give to the regular flashes of agony in your jaw.

Laura

I listen, eyes glistening with tears -- but no longer wet with them, as my body tries to conserve moisture. I listen intently. I want to give up . I want to give in. I'm so thirsty, so cold. I'm also hungry -- I've never felt so empty before, and I can't even remember having to go poop. Nothing makes sense. Not you, not this place, not the pain in my teeth and jaw.

I want to give up, but I'm in so deep. And I'm stubborn. I stare at you. "Wh-why do I got to give you m-my clothes?" I ask, in a hoarse, whispered, husky voice.

Marcus

"Because I want you to. That's as good an answer as you need. But I'll tell you a bit more. Because they belong to me anyway, if you were smart, you would have realized already. I told you that you belong to me. I can do anything to you, and I can tell you to do anything. You belong to me and that includes your pussy and butt and all of that, so there is no need to hide them from me, no reason at all. If I want them, to touch them or do anything else I want to, I'll do it. You cannot do anything about it. I'm stronger, and I control everything. I'm the master here. This all will make more sense as you learn and progress, but that cannot happen while you are stuck on lesson one.”

“Now, I have explained lesson one to you in so much detail that even a five-year-old would understand. I will not discuss it further. You will undress now. And give me those clothes. Or there will be pain. Lots and lots of very nasty pain. Why would you want that to happen?" I ask, as if questioning your sanity, as if the situation was logical, straightforward, and you were the one acting all mad. Though, to be frank, I am annoyed and it shows on my face. You resist too much for your age. I underestimated your pride, and now I'm all the more eager to break it, totally and completely, to give you no respite, no compromise, no wiggle space at all.

Laura

I want to give in. My Mom always says I'm a stubborn little girl who doesn't know when enough is enough. Your words reduce me to tears once again. I am on a hair trigger with the tears anyway -- I'm cold, tired, hungry, thirsty, and very, very scared. I look so sad, sitting there, all balled up in the corner, so tiny. Your words scare me even more. I "belong" to you. You can touch my butt. My pussy. I know what that is because Caroline knows all those words and she told me. "Pussy." "Cock." "Dick." "Tits." "Cunt." She knows all those words.

I don't want to do it. I don't want to give you my clothes. Not at all. But I don't want to feel lots of nasty pain. Very nasty pain. And I'm so thirsty. I can tell you mean what you say. I just know. You speak with supreme confidence. I shiver in the corner.

Very slowly, my back sliding up the wall, clutching my slender arms to my chest, I slide up the wall. And stand. Staring at you. My expression says I'm giving in, or about to, but I don't want to. And I want you to know I don't. I want you to know that you're going to get in trouble for making me. I want you to know that I’m giving in only because I’m really hungry and super thirsty – as if you had nothing to do with those conditions. I stare at you reproachfully.

Marcus

I watch and wait. I could say something to make you hurry up, but that would just acknowledge that you are drawing this out, and if I did that, I think I'd have to punish you. So I just watch. And maybe, ever so slightly, ever so impatiently, glance towards the door. Just to let you know that while I want to be nice, you are not really what matters. It's me and my comfort that I put first. By a lot. If you take too much time, if you annoy me, I'll just punish you. And then walk out on you. And if I leave this time, it will be for the whole of the night. Eight more hours with cracked lips, splitting headache, in a dark, chilly room. I sigh slightly as you try to stare me down, unaffected, and glance, more meaningfully, towards the door.

Laura

I see you looking at the door, and I understand, finally, that further resistance is not only useless, but counterproductive. Of course, I don't use those exact words, since they're not part of my 11-year-old vocabulary. But I know that if I continue this, you will walk out. And I will be very unhappy. I’m certain of that.

Standing, looking at you sullenly, I unbuckle my school shoes. I pull my socks off my feet. My blouse unbuttons next. And I turn away from you, toward the corner, before pulling it off my slender, slight shoulders. My skirt is next. I unsnap it, and unzip, and slide it off my slim hips. My panties are plain, white cotton, with small pink flowers adorning the fabric. Of course, you've seen them before. You've seen all of me before. But I have no way of knowing this.

I clutch my arms around me, and turn. My clothes are in a puddle at my feet. I reach down, and grab everything up. My panties remain on. I'm not sure if I should come to you. My eyes ask the question.

Marcus

I don't give you a hint as to whether to come to me or whether to wait for me to come and get the stuff. I give you a different hint. A brief drop of the nose side of my eyebrows, a slight frown, and a glance at your panties. An ever-so-slight scrunching of the nose. Disapproving. You are on a good track, but not quite there. And clearly, there will be no approval, no further instructions, no help, until you have done this part right. I know that you know that I expect you to take the panties off, too, and you must know that I know. What's the point of your little game there? I look at you questioningly. And this time, I make a step towards the door. A small step, and without turning, but the signal is clear as summer sky.

Laura

I can tell from your expression and your eyes exactly what you expect me to do. And I can tell you are getting annoyed with me, and are about the leave. I'm too cold, too thirsty, and too hungry to let that happen -- not now, not after all of this. "Sorry," I squeak, before I put the clothes and shoes back down on the floor by my feet. Standing partially back upright, I skin the cotton panties off my slender, 5th-grader hips, down my legs, and step out of them, one foot at a time.

I stand upright, making no effort to hide my hairless little preteen quim from your gaze, before reaching down, panties in hand, and gathering up all my clothes and my shoes in my arms. Shivering, naked, unclothed now and almost tiny in appearance, I walk to you, my gaze solemn, my eyes still proud, but my actions indicative of surrender.

"You can take them," I say, almost as if it was my idea all along. I don't mean it exactly that way. I mean, simply, that you can take my clothes. You can see my slender, tiny little 11-year-old body naked if you want to. It simply doesn't matter to me anymore. I have given up, at least on this issue. At least for now.

My dark eyes look up at yours as I offer you my clothes. You tower over me as I stand there, your frame tall, wide, strong, powerful. Mine tiny, naked, slender. The contrast is stark, the imbalance apparent.

Marcus

I take the bundle from you, and even though your suffering is pleasing and arousing on some level, I'm actually glad that this one's over and the relief shows on my face. I do something, you're not quite sure what, but something subtle, and the door behind me opens, it doesn't stay open, just opens its hungry mouth long enough for me to toss the bundle of your clothes through and just like that, they are gone, the dark space outside the door swallows them, never to be seen again.

"You have to understand something," I say. "You are my property now. If you resist, if you fight back, if you disobey, you will be punished. I love the fact that you are proud," I say, honestly, "but only because that will make it even sweeter to make you swallow your pride and bend to my will," I explain bluntly. Now, repeat: Word for word, I'll give them to you precisely as I want to hear them, so you don't have to turn the ‘you’ into ‘me.’ It's supposed to be a 'you,' because you are telling it to me, and I am the only person in your life now," I say and take a deep breath, pausing.

"There is nothing but this. There is nowhere but here. There is no one but you." I make you repeat it. Word for word. Sentence by sentence. Then as a whole. Then again. And once more. And again. And then the third, second, and first. Second, first, and third. Second, third, and first. All of them. Each one of them backwards, from the last word to the first. I can see your exhaustion, annoyance, but I'm making sure that this time, the words stay engraved in your mind.

"Water is easy, I'll just give you the water, any moment now," I say. "Food, food will be trickier. The first thing you ever taste here will be my cum. You'll have to suck my cock, get it to squirt cum, and swallow that." I speak with strict diction and an upraised finger to make it clear that your input on this is not welcome, you opinion does not matter. "I'll give you another hour to learn and prepare. This time, there will be light. And warmth. And some water. And when you are done with it, I'll bring you some fruit, cereal, chocolate. Listen very, very carefully now. If, after that hour, you are still, or again feeling stubborn, I'll go to bed and will come again, but not with the same offer. In the morning, the food I'll bring for you will be baked Brussels sprouts with cheese instead. The reward will not stay the same. If you behave the first time round, it will be better. Now." I unscrew the bottle – how many times have I already done that?

But this time, I do not reseal it. I let it trickle. Down. Onto my feet. Onto the floor. I let it drip down, wash over my big, hairy, slightly smelly feet, trickle between my toes and then step back, leaving a rather large puddle of water behind. I point to it.

"Drink. Lap it up now and I will unlock the tap." It's another game, another little way into your humiliation and towards your breaking, another little sign that you will not be allowed to keep your pride here.