7. A Visual Tapestry

Laura

I stand, naked and collared, my arms at my sides, making no effort to cover either my preteen chest, or my hairless, smooth slit. It appears that I made a conscious decision not to allow myself to become upset at the fact that The Man (as I have come to think of you, complete with subconscious capital letters) is seeing me naked. Yet, you make no effort to touch me, nor do you ogle my nakedness, or comment about it. Nothing at all seems to have changed from when I was clothed. This confuses me. I do not understand The Man at all. I thought you were a sex pervert person -- but you don't act like one. I finger my collar absent-mindedly as you speak to me.

My clothes suddenly disappear into the maw of the door -- the door that opens and closes seemingly at your whim. And then they are gone. All of them. Everything. And a part of me knows that no matter what happens from now on, I will never see them again. They are gone forever. I know that The Man will take care of that. I believe him. A small part of me goes out the door with the clothes.

Not irrationally, I ponder how I can possibly escape, possibly run to freedom, if I am naked. My mind envisions escaping from this room -- I don't even 100% know it's a basement, but I suspect it is -- and running through a building (is it a house? a cabin? a jail?), naked and collared. Somehow getting outside, but I'm still naked -- and everyone can see me. Everyone, anyone. Seeing me naked. Losing my clothes enfeebles me. Some of my options are foreclosed.

I listen to your words, making eye contact, my expression neutral, but bordering on sullen and resentful. I don't like being called your property. Nobody owns anybody else -- I know that much. So I know that you're wrong. But I don't speak. And then you are telling me the mantra. I know I have to learn it. This much I know. If I want to quench my thirst, I need to learn those three mantra things.

I listen carefully as you repeat them, realizing what I had said wrong myself before. Like a student learning a mnemonic, I repeat the words after you as you say them, committing them to memory, engaging my aural and audible senses in the effort. My voice is soft, yet clear -- you can tell I am making the effort. I keep repeating them until long after I have committed them to memory -- slight exasperation showing on my face as you say "Again." I have them down. I know they are false. I know you want me to think that they are true.

In my mind, I rebel -- repeating the opposite of the words. "There is nothing but this." ("Yes there is -- there is tons and tons of more than just this.) "There is nowhere but here." ("Except for all of the other places I know like the studio, and soccer practice, and school, and Marissa's house.") "There is no one but you." ("And my Mom, my Dad, Calvin, Jeremy, Glenn, Marissa, Caroline, my other friends, my teachers . . ."). The list goes on as I rebell in my mind.

Finally it is over, and the word "Again" does not come from you. I stand there -- naked, fingering my collar, the heavy, thick, metallic, ever-present collar -- as you talk to me about food drink and food. I continue to make eye contact. My dark little eyes looking at yours as I keep a neutral expression. I can't, however, mask my surprise -- no, my shock -- as you mention matter-of-factly that my first meal will be cum from your cock. I know what those words mean because Marssa told me -- she knows ALL of the sex words. I know what your cock is, and my eyes flit down for a split second, before looking up again, embarrassed, as I know my brief look gave away what I know. My face flushes pink. I'm less clear about cum. Mariss told me what it is -- "It's the stuff that makes babies when it goes inside you." -- but I have no idea what it looks like, how it comes out, or, more ominously, what it tastes like. I imagine it as rather like pee. I tried my own pee once, on a whim. It tasted bitter and yucky and acrid and I had to drink some milk to make the taste go away.

(“So he IS a sex pervert person,” I think to myself. “I was right.”) I look somber. And then, the topic shifts to food. Your mention of Brussels sprouts and cheese stuns me, perhaps more than anything else you have said since I've been here. How could anyone possibly know that I hate those things more than anything else? My expression is one of astonishment. How could The Man KNOW that? I have hated Brussels sprouts since I was a toddler, but my Mom loves them and thinks they're good for me. And if there's anything I hate more than them it's cheese -- raw, uncooked cheese, cold and flabby and awful, the texture as bad as the taste. Sliced cheese, cracker cheese, cheese balls – uggh! They make me gag. You notice a slightly queasy look as it crosses my face.

And then the water -- I am so thirsty, and I can't help but swallow drily with anticipation and watch as you unscrew the cap. I want it so bad. And then . . . you pour it out. On the floor. Over your feet. Just being mean for the sake of being mean. A look of despair and put-upon-ness crosses my face, as I realize you are just going to tease and torment me. I wonder when I will get to drink again. Will I ever? Will you let me die? My body manages to conjure up enough moisture for tears, and my dark eyes start to glimmer. And then you step back. And tell me to lap it up. Lap it up? From the floor? I look astonished. Repulsed. There is nothing here -- no cup, no straw, not even a sponge or a rag. Your meaning is clear. Your expectation is clear.

My eyes glisten as I stare at you, my eyes flitting to the glistening floor. I don't want to drink it. Not in front of you. Not this way. Shame reddens my cheeks. I swallow, trying to maintain my composure. I shift on my feet. My brain works overtime, trying to find a solution, an out. There is none. With a tiny sniffle, I walk slowly toward the puddle, covering the two feet. Looking at you reproachfully, my eyes like daggers, I lower myself to my knees. Red-faced, embarrassed, teary eyed, I glance down at the puddle. Placing my hands on the floor on either side of the puddle, I gently lower my head. My hair dangles down, threatening to dip in the puddle. I sweep it behind my collared neck, and lower my 11-year-old face to the top of the puddle, my tiny little body prostrate at your feet. You hear a gentle whir of suction as I begin to slurp . . .

Marcus

It may seem like not much has changed, but it has, it is an important shift for me that you are now bare-ass naked. And even as we drill the mantra, my cock starts to respond slowly. Lust very slowly, gradually finds its way into my eyes. It's just not... sudden and obvious.

I watch you. I have you precisely where I want to have you, for the moment. I love the sounds you make, I love the fact you remember to hold your hair up, which, apart from other things, lets my view of your humiliated face, cheeks flushed, lips pursed towards the floor, un-obscured. I let you slurp the water, ever so slightly smelling and tasting of feet, of off the floor. When you've done a good enough job of it, cleaning up most of it, I step towards the tap, pop a key in that I've had in my pocket, unlock and remove the lock. I test the faucet, and it seems okay, nice, cold, fresh water running out of it when I turn it.

I drop the plastic bottle to the floor so you have something to drink from, the tap being low over the small sink and not easy to drink from directly.

"There. See? I'm a man of my word. And you just did one of the first really smart things since you woke up," I inform you in a patronizing, parenting kind of voice. "Drink as much as you like, but . . . the toilet stays locked; you'll have to earn that being unlocked, too, and you are not allowed to use or attempt to use the sink as toilet. So if you drink too much, you'll be stuck in a pee-messy, smelly cell," I explain calmly, laying the facts out for you.

"Like I said. I'll be back in an hour. With nice food, but it will not be a lasting offer." With that, I leave. The door closes behind me, the darkness behind it swallowing it like your clothes before. I collect those, and take them away from the dungeon. Given the constraints of your life from now on, they are as good as non-existent. I go up, to prepare a nice big plate of fruits, biscuits, chocolate, cereals...

This time, the room doesn't go dark after I leave. Or cold. It stays nice and warm, warm enough in fact to not make your nudity an ordeal in itself. And the walls keep glowing. And then, the room's potential unveils itself. Every inch of the floor, even around the toilet and the sink, comes alive with videos. Behind the firm plastic you stand on is a screen upon screen upon screen. And those screens now come alive. There are hundreds of them. And each and every one of them shows a porn video, of women and men, girls and boys, but mostly girls, around your age, sucking cock. In all sorts of ways and positions. Angles. Small cocks, big cocks, white, Asian, black. Gradually, cumshots start appearing. Mostly cum is being swallowed straight up, but some girls are made to gargle or show it first before they drink it up, so you can see exactly what cum is. And the videos go on. Some loop, others are replaced with other stuff. Ball worship, deep-throating, gang bangs with liters of cum being fed to women. Lots and lots of cum everywhere.

One video keeps looping, though. And unlike others, it appears on multiple screens. I've made sure that you will not miss this one. It's a young girl, on her knees, sucking cock of a guy who is being quite rough with her, essentially fucking her face. Occasionally, he pulls up and slaps her. She thanks him; the sound on this one is up so you can make it out. She says “thank you, sir,” and “am I allowed to suck on, sir?” and the answer is always yes, and she sucks on, and eventually swallows. The whole time she has her hands folded at her back. The whole time she is on her knees. The whole time, she deals with her discomfort without fussing or complaining. She's a shining example of obedience. These videos fill the entire hour, most looping many a time. When I come at the end of the hour, with the nice snack with me, you know as much about sucking cock as some sex-addicted teenager, many years your senior.

Laura

I am blushing, humiliated, as I slurp the water from the floor. Yet it is cool, refreshing, and reinvigorating. My slurps are vigorous, borne of my thirst, which the water helps to quench -- but there is not enough of it. My hands remain to either side of the puddle as my mouth moves about, my head lifting up slightly, pausing, as I search for another spot. lapping does not work, only slurping and sucking. A soft, hissing sound giving way to a slurping vibrato as my lips suck up the refreshing elixir. The odd taste, of unwashed feet, neither deters nor even slows me. I am a thirsty little girl. Soon -- too soon -- there is no puddle left to drink. The puddle is enough to take the edge off my parched throat, but not enough to satisfy.

Looking down at my tiny, kneeling little body, you can see the gentle, curving line of my spine, centering the alabaster white skin of my back and narrow shoulders, ending at the crack of my bottom. My young cheeks are white, smooth, rounded, and so pure. My kneeling, hunched-over, crouching position rounds them into succulent half globes of perfect, succulent, unblemished little girl flesh.

I sit up, still on my knees, settling back on my heels, watching, as you drop the bottle and unlock the faucet. My heart leaps at the thought of water, cool, wet, refreshing water, more of it, unlimited quantities. I hear what you say about the toilet, but at this point, my thirst is my primary concern. I'll deal with peeing later. And right now, cleaned out and parched as I am, the need to pee is far from my mind. All I can think about is water. More water. Drinking in its cool, refreshing taste.

I remain in my kneeling, seated position -- not speaking -- as you leave the room, and I expect an immediate descent into darkness. Indeed, I am plotting my trip to the faucet, memorizing its location relative to me, since I know that the darkness is total. But the darkness does not come. The walls continue to glow in a way that they have not in your absence before. And then -- images, so many images. *And sound. Images, below me, to the side, all around. I look down, amazed, my mouth gaping open. People. Naked people. Naked men and women. Naked boys and girls. Little boys and girls. Mostly girls. Girls around my age. Some younger, some older. Almost all of them completely naked. Some collared. Some in strange clothing.

I lean over, as I did to drink, but this time to watch, my mouth gaping open in silent astonishment. All around me, below me, everywhere, the entire floor, scene after scene of sexual acts. Oral acts. Boy and girls sucking penises (I think a penis is the same as a "cock" or a "dick" but I sometimes get confused between what Caroline tells me and what we learned last year in the 4th-grade Health class section on human reproduction). I watch one screen, then another. Some are silent. The sound moves around. Sometimes I can tell what image goes to the soundtrack. Sometimes the soundtracks overlap. The wet, slickery sounds of sucking mouths is everywhere. The images are everywhere. Some repeated. Alternating. All around me as I turn this way and that.

I watch, astonished, my heart racing with a combination of dread and fear and curiosity. I KNOW this is all X-rated. I shouldn't be watching. Yet, I've always wanted to see, always wanted to know. One video is on multiple screens, and I match it to the soundtrack. A girl. On her knees. Naked, Collared -- although her collar is different, thinner, more delicate than mine. I finger my collar as I watch. Her face is red, her eyes watering, her mouth wet. Her hands are not bound, but are behind her back. I watch, swallowing nervously, as the man cradles her head with his hands and humps his hips, driving his cock into her mouth. He stands over top of her, his feet on either side of her hips, looming, his legs bent at the knees, the corded muscles of his legs and calves holding him there, as his penis disappears into her mouth. She is small, slight of build. About my size. For a second -- just a split second -- I think I recognize her as Mary Caldwell. Mary Caldwell from down the street, in my grade, but goes to Atwell Academy. But it's not her. Not her at all. It's another little girl, kneeling, held by her head, impaled by the mouth, as her hands remain behind her back.

I watch the video, my tummy clenching and churning. All around on the screens now is white goo. Everywhere. Spewing from the tips of adult penises, squirting, jetting, spurting, shooting, oozing. It's that stuff -- I think it is "cum" -- thick, white, slimey-looking. It shoots and flies seemingly everywhere. On little faces, some even younger than me. Into open mouths. It bubbles from nostrils. I see it "displayed" inside mouths. I see little throats swallowing, and mouths opening again to show the work.

On the screen with the soundtrack, the man slaps the girl. I startle, and cringe. I look away, to the sight of a preschooler giggling as she suckles a man's testicles. I look back. The girl's hands remain clasped behind her little bottom in the small of her back. She says something. The man mounts her face again, feeding his wet cockhead back into her mouth. My tummy clenches. I watch as the process repeats itself -- the man cradling her head, this time with both hands on the sides of her jaws. She thanks him when he slaps her. She asks to suck his "cock" -- which must be the same as a penis, I determine. And then . . . he bucks, and groans, and her eyes bulge. He says something, and withdraws. Her mouth is closed. She remains kneeling. "Show," he commands. The camera pans in on her little mouth, inside of which pearlescent cum is pooled. She holds it there for several seconds. "Swallow," he commands. The girl's expression is one of concentration, and her lips move just a bit. "Show," he commands. And the little mouth is empty, all pink, and wet, with a little pink tongue. The video fades to a little boy, smiling, as he lollipop licks a massive penis.

It seems like less than an hour has passed when the door slides open with a "Witttthhhhhhh" sounds, and you re-enter the small cell, carrying a tray. I was on the floor and when you come in, I kneel, sitting back on my heels, my back straight, my hands in my lap, little eyes looking up at you. I feel oddly like I have done something wrong, by watching things that are forbidden. I feel scared, but mostly nervous. My heart is beating fast and hard in my little chest. I haven't even remembered to drink from the faucet . . .

Marcus

Even as the door opens, the sound fades away. The images pale. Disappear. But I know what you were doing. I know you were gaping at them, wide eyed, the whole time. You cannot fool me. Perhaps from the way I look at you, you finally guess that this cell is not as private as it may seem. When in it, you are being watched. You are seen. Observed. And if you doubted that I would bother, I quickly dispel those doubts.

"You didn't even drink. That's not good. You must be hydrated before this next bit." My eyes flick to the bottle, forgotten on the floor, and I cock an eyebrow. "Fill it. Drink. Drink lots. I'll give you a while." I sit down on the floor and wait for you to fill the bottle. Perhaps even long enough for you to down the contents. Only when you start drinking slowly, I tap the floor in front of me. Inviting you to sit, but it would be silly to see it as mere invitation. I expect you to obey and it shows in my body language, my energy.

"You know which one's my favourite," I say. It's not a question, and I don't even bother to specify that I mean the video. I know you'll get it. "It will take a lot of practice, but that’s how good you are going to be, eventually. Better I think. For one thing, you're way prettier than her." I pause and smile at you.

"So, your options today. You've seen how it's done. I don't expect you to be perfect or even amazing the first time round. A lot of what you have seen takes practice and getting used to. When something goes down your throat, you gag and cough. It's natural, and the only way of reducing that reaction to the point when you'll be able to ignore it and serve me perfectly is trying and failing again, and again. Hundreds of times. Until the several hundredth and something time you'll succeed. Not today. Not tomorrow. Eventually, though." I speak in a calm, friendly voice, kind of like a nice, good teacher teaching you about a new topic.

"Your task today is just to make me cum, and to swallow. It can take a while, it can be messy, it may not happen smoothly, but all it really needs in that case, is patience. If you keep at it, it's gonna happen, eventually, even if you are struggling and not doing too well. If you can't take all the cum, it will just spill . . . that happens and today, I will not make a big deal out of it if it does. But you'll have to swallow it all, so if you spill some on the floor, you'll do the same with it as you did with the water before. The reward for that is this nice food," I point, "the loo unlocked, and a mat to sleep on. I will not let you fail, you can only fail if you give up, refuse to go on, if you decide you failed. I will be patient, and will go easy on you," I say, sounding honest and serious about it. "But if you do fail, despite it, than it's sleeping in the dark, cold cell, no food, no mat, just hard floor. And the food I'll bring tomorrow, for your second try, will be a lot less nice, as discussed. Now. You can ask me any questions that are relevant to this task, this lesson. If you are rude, or annoying with unrelated questions, it will hurt," I say and brush a finger alongside my jaw.

For the first time in here, you are allowed and encouraged to speak. Even though it's within restrictions, still. I seem expectant and willing to listen.