9. Laura Meets Her Purpose

Laura

I listen, intently, wide-eyed, seemingly not scared, as you explain about scrotums and balls and things like that. I have only a rudimentary understanding of such things from the Human Reproduction module we had in Health class last year when I was in 4th Grade. And there were no videos or even pictures then, just sketches, sketches of penises and "vaginas" and "vas deferenses" and "wombs" and "copulation" and things like that. All of the information was accompanied by the giggling, tittering, high-pitched voices of 9- and 10-year-olds trying to mask their embarrassment -- and hide their curiosity -- at the anatomically-correct sketches that were used to illustrate the lesson. I did good on the test at the end of the section, but I didn't really understand everything, nor did any of my classmates. The total pubic hair among my entire class of 28 at the time probably would not have equalled the crotch area of a single, normal-sized, unshaven and untrimmed adult, so there wasn't a lot of -- or even any -- sexually charged atmosphere in the co-ed room The information was antiseptic and almost quaint -- not anything like when Marissa and Caroline and I talk about when we play outside of school. In those sessions, Marissa likes to regale us with stories of "cocks" and "pussies" and "tits" and "cum" and "fucking." I'm interested, surely, but not overly so. My body has not yet started reacting to the sight of a cute boy. I don't even really like boys.

And suddenly I am lifted up in the air again -- I marvel at your effortless strength -- and placed before you, my legs uncoupling from their position behind your hips. I reposition and kneel, my bottom perched on my heels, hands on my slender, coltish thighs, legs together, almost appearing eager, but inside my heart starts to beat again, pitter-pattering in my bare, undeveloped little chest, as I realize that the time has come. My eyes are wide, my expression curious and nervous. I feel chilled again, and round my shoulders down a bit, making myself smaller, pulling my arms against my sides.

I watch, quiet, as you kneel up, and your hands move to the waistband of your loose-fitting, comfortable-looking cotton pants. I stare, my attention focused, as you pull them down, and then . . . there it is. No underwear. Just Your penis. Your cock. It flops down, free from your pants, semi-flaccid; it almost seems to be pointing out at me, languidly, casually. I stare at it, my face a mask of reluctant curiosity and worry. Your penis is about 6" long, gently curving downward in its semi-hard state. Not rock hard. Not jutting, just there, pointing at me, casually, almost expectantly.

I am relieved to see that it is not slimey. It is dry, the head a surprisingly pleasing, purplish pink color, separated from the shaft by a ring of floppy brownskin of some sort. The head has a slit in it -- not a hole, but a dark pink slit, the inside of which looks wet. I always thought it was a hole, like a nail hole, where pee comes out. I stare at the slit, surprised. Peering a fraction of an inch closer to see if what I see there is wetness or just a hollowness, leading inside.

I'm equally pleased to see that it is not all hairy. Some of the men in the videos had thick, unmanageable tufts of nasty-looking thick crinkly black hairs covering the bottom half of their penises. They looked nasty. But your hairs are short, brown, close to your stomach, and not on your penis part at all. Below your semi-hard penis I see your scrotal sac. It is dangling, wrinkly, leathery looking, and it IS covered with a thick fuzz of those nasty yucky crinkly hairs. I look at it for a second, and my face changes a bit, my expression taking on a bit of a "yucky" look -- like a little girl who sees Brussels sprouts on her plate for dinner and doesn't want to eat them.

The shaft of your penis looks super smooth, even with the sprinkling of greenish veins bulging the skin from underneath, it looks smooth, and soft, like calfskin, or soft leather. And it's not slimy at all, but rather dry, and soft-looking. If the circumstances were different, I might want to touch it once, just to see how smooth it is. A tiny, almost imperceptible hint of a smile now teases its way onto my face, as I imagine touching the funny-looking pinkish-purple head, and making it flop and bobble for a second like it did when you lowered your pants. The head part looks really soft and dry. It reminds me of the brain model in Mrs. Duckham's class, somehow, and again a hint of a smile crosses my face at the strange thought. ("You are so weird, Laura V! Can't you be serious for a second?" I think to myself at the incongruous Mrs.-Duckham's-brain-model image in my little head.)

My eyes flit up at you, catching yours. My expression has returned to nervous; having completed my study of your phallus I now look and feel uncertain. I'm not sure if I should lean over and take it in my mouth -- 'cause the way it's kind of semi-dangling I'd have to lean way over and kind of come at it from the bottom, like I'm drinking from a kitchen faucet, and this wasn't how any of the girls or boys did it on the video and I'm not sure if I'm 'sposed to do that or something else. I blink, my eyes doe-like, as i look back to your penis thing. I almost do a double take as it seems like it may have grown -- straightening, lengthening, thickening -- just in the last few seconds. I swallow nervously, as a chill shakes my kneeling, nude, slender, 11-year-old body. My left hand fidgets nervously with my collar as I look back up to you, uncertain how to proceed, only 11, very innocent and quite naive...

Marcus

It's fascinating to see you so awed and mesmerised at a sight that's so commonplace to me; not that I'm looking my or any other cocks that often, let alone form your current position or angle, but seeing someone's genitals is nothing out of the ordinary. It doesn't excite me. Your pussy kind of does, because despite all my perversion and experience, it's the first actual, real-life preteen pussy I ever got to see, and I know that I won't be limited to looking. I'll touch it, taste it, play with it, torture it if I feel like it, and eventually, I'll use it, despite the misfit of our sizes and the pain that it is inevitably going to cause you, I will stick my cock in. Now though, you have a chance to please me relatively painlessly.

"Take it in your hand, gently. Near the root. Point it upwards. Bend over, open wide, real wide, and take it your mouth. Be very careful not to grate your teeth on it. The easiest way of making it feel real good is using your tongue a lot, especially on the underside, near and on the tip. Sliding your lips over it again and again is good, too, but it's harder that way to avoid hurting me with your teeth, even without meaning to, and your jaw will probably start aching sooner. See how deep you can take it, but don't make yourself puke, remember you just downed lots and lots of water," I warn you. "It's nice if you bend lower and plant kissed over the shaft, too. From down near the sack, upwards, all the way to the tip. Once you have it in your mouth, you can stroke it, too. It feels good when you move the skin up and down, like this," I say and grab the cock, giving it a few casual strokes, a motion done millions of times over. Jerking off, even this small demonstration, makes the cock ever so slightly bigger and gets it to point a bit upwards. The veins become a tad more pronounced, too, and the pink head darkens slightly and swells further, bigger.

I could never bear, when watching kiddie porn, videos in which the kids were so clumsy and awkward and the daddies or whoever they were had to guide them through the process step by step, correcting, renegotiating, guiding. Somehow a kiddie kid, silly and confused and all that is less sexy than the idea of a kid that one wants to fuck. But here and now. It makes my heart beat faster that you are real. That you really are new to this, innocent. It's... intoxicating. I gulp. So much is stirring and mixing inside me.

There is an urge to grab your hair, slap you left and right, stuff my cock down your throat and just... face fuck you like the whore you will eventually be trained to be. But there is also a tendency to just leave it be, hug you again, forget all this scary, adult, age inappropriate stuff. To be nice. And more. Lots more. All sorts. Flashes, fantasies. My cock hardens further, points upward now, even without holding, actually. And I wait.

This is the compromise I opt for. I'll get my way, you'll start learning, training, and yet, will not be seriously harmed and hopefully not even too traumatised. I don't want you to collapse, break down and shut off. I tingle all over in expectation. I want this. I want this bad. You don't even know how bad, perhaps worse than you want the long denied meal. It's lucky. perhaps, that you have no idea. You could mess and fuck with me a lot more, if you knew how I'm feeling just know, but luckily, you don't. You are a true, real, clueless, innocent. Heart melting.

"Go on!" I encourage you, my voice a bit more snappy than before, on the cusp of losing patience.

Laura

I listen, looking up into your face intently, like a student being taught a sequence of skills that will allow her to master a task. And in a way -- a perverted, depraved kind of way -- that's exactly what your instructions are intended to do. I listen as you explain how I should touch it, please it, pleasure it with my mouth. How I should hold it, how I should bend over, when I should use my tongue, and all that. My eyes flit down to your phallus and then back -- then quickly returning to it. Your penis has grown! It is longer and harder. It juts now, rather than dangles. The head is darker, larger, more bulbous. I look more than a little surprised -- as I should, for I have never seen an adult penis become erect before.

I continue to kneel before you, my little bottom pressed back into my heels, my feet top-down underneath my little body as I listen, a wide-eyed, just-turned-11-year-old preparing to fellate her first adult penis. And then, quick as a rabbit, I jump up, catching your eyes and saying "One sec," before I run over to the sink, pour myself another bottle of water, and turning to face you, naked and so slim, down half the bottle as I hold my right index finger up in a "just one second" gesture. I am off my heels and on my feet before you can react.

After three or four gulps, I put the bottle back down and walk unhesitatingly back to where you are kneeling, before kneeling back down myself. "I was still kinda thirsty," I explain, my innocent, dark little eyes looking into yours before returning to gaze at your erection.

Staring at it, I kneel walk myself a little closer, until it is right there, not even four inches from my little face. My eyes are wide, my expression more of curiosity than fear, as I reach out with my right hand, and gently, tentatively pet the top of your shaft near the root, feeling the soft, and surprisingly warm,soft skin of your penis for the first time. I look up at you, even as my slender little fingers grasp your thickness, encircling it, at least partially, with my thumb and fingers.

Swallowing, mustering my courage, I pull your jutting mancock down a little. Opening my mouth really, really wide, I lean forward, my tongue partly protruding. Staring intently at the purple-colored head until my eyes nearly cross, I take your manhood in my mouth for the first time. Voluntarily. Without fight or complaint. Innocently.

My mouth is soft, warm, wet, and enveloping as my lips close over your bulbous, helmeted cockhead. I look up -- eyes wide and nervous -- the sight of your penis inserted in your mouth, together with the feel, bringing your erection to it's full, steel-hard state. I hold you in my mouth for a moment, tasting the slightly musky scent of clean, dry skin. Your cockhead is big in my little mouth. It fills much of it. My lips latch around it right where the ring of loose skin seems to separate the head from the shaft. After a second or two, you feel my little tongue as it gently begins to probe the underside of your cockhead. My tongue is tiny, my little probes soft and kitten-like. And then, I slowly draw my right hand up your shaft, my thumb on the bottom, my fingers on the top. My motion is slow, just a lazy, gentle drag, as my hand experiences the fleshy soft skin of your penis for the first time. ("It's really soft -- and warm," I say to myself, confirming the former suspicion, but surprised at the latter discovery.)

I knee walk a little closer so my neck is not as bent, as my right hand drifts back down the nearly 8" of cockshaft that are not in my mouth. My tongue continues to move left and right under your cockhead, and then swirls up to circumnavigate the entire head as it rests in my wet, satiny-soft middle-schooler mouth.

I look up at you. My eyes are wide, but not afraid. Perhaps nervous, but almost -- interested. My right hand slowly moves back up your shaft, as if reveling in the surprisingly soft, warm, calfskin texture of the sensitive skin. I look -- adorable. The fulfilment of hours upon hours of fantasizing over my modeling photos.

Marcus

I almost can't believe it. A wet dream, the hottest, sexiest fantasy of my life to date come true. You, naked, collared, with the tip of my cock in your mouth, a sensation I'd be willing to kill, and risk dying for, your little tongue a very light stimulus, lovely, sweet, but much, much lighter and softer than imagined. Even with me so horny, so long since I even wanked, this will most likely take a good, long while.

And then you look up into my eyes, and I fucking lose it. I'm not a sweet, nice, first time boyfriend your age. I'm not even a daddy type, not the nice kind of guy. I have strong, dark instincts and desire, and just now, as you unwittingly do the most erotic, teasing thing you could possibly come up with, our gazes meeting, my desires, my long pent up lust wins over.

"You know what you are after," I say, my voice strained and hoarse all of a sudden. "You've seen her do it," I snap, my voice a lot less kind and patient and lecture-like than it had been just a minute ago. "Hands behind your back!" I command, and there is no or else, no plan B. It's not a request, suggestion or an option. It's an order, firm and loud and direct. "Use the flat of your tongue, more pressure. And deeper. Take me deeper. Deeper!"

"And again. And more. Again! Deeper! Move that tongue, sideways! And again. And deeper. And more. Hurry up. Faster. Faster! Keep it up! Eyes on me!" Yes, I want to be looking into your eyes as you start to gag, and cough, and struggle. Yes. Yes.

"Let the drool drip. Forget about pulling back to swallow, this is supposed to be a messy job," I “reassure” you.

"Faster. Deeper. The moment I have to put my hand at the back of your head to guide you, I'll be the one deciding how fast and how deep, and it will be a LOT deeper and faster than this, so better hurry up and try harder!" I warn you.

My cock is now fully hard, steel hard, just over nine inches long, thick, hot, oh so hot. It throbs slightly. No. This will not take a long, long time. There's no fucking way I'd allow that. I want a release, and I want it... soon.

Laura

My eyes make contact with yours as my so-soft, dainty little child mouth gently holds your cockhead just inside, my tiny, kitten-like tongue probing tentatively at the fleshy knob. All my life I've been able to ease my path with my dark, doe-like eyes, my innocent, cute little smile, my pint-sized, cute little ways. It works on almost all adults, including my teachers -- especially the rare male ones -- my Dad (when I see him), my soccer coach, my friends' parents, my agent (even though he's just a fat, nasty old man), even Glenn, my normal photographer. The only person it's never worked well on is Mom, but she's a special case because she lives with me 24-7 and is so driven concerning my modeling career -- plus she's a girl, and my charms work better on men, so I've found. Mom is very demanding, and it's almost as if I don't have time to work my charms on her. Always going here or there. Photo sessions, dance class -- I find it boring most of the time, but she insists. But aside from her, I've found that a cute little smile, an adorable little mannerism, even a cute, naive little question usually is enough to get my way, or get me close to it, anyway. It puts me in control, and I like it.

And so, just when I think I have you under my spell -- at least as much as I can salvage from the status quo imbalance of power between us right now -- your words become harsher, your instructions more direct, your gaze less indulgent, your threats more specific. This confuses me. A lot. When I jumped up for more water, and drank it right in front of you, without asking permission, I was testing things, testing you, testing the waters. And it worked. I took my drink, and came right back over -- because I know what I can get away with and when. I knew there was no way I could avoid putting your penis in my mouth, not right now, not given th circumstances. But I had paved the way for doing it on my terms, in my way -- or so I thought.

Your words stun me, and I stop tonguing you, holding your phallus in my mouth as I look up, with genuine surprise on my face. It takes me a second or two to digest what has happened, and when I do, I blush red, surprised and embarrassed at this reversal. Stunned, I let go of your shaft and awkwardly place my hands behind my back, like the other girl. My instincts tell me that this is not a good time to challenge you, or disobey you, not at all. But I am sure it is merely a temporary setback -- when this is over, I'll have to redouble my efforts. Just a setback, I tell myself. It always works.

I lean forward a bit, pressing your penis further, deeper into my mouth. It is so large, the tip on the back of my tongue now, two full inches of thick meat protruding between my middle-schooler lips. It tastes fleshy, musky, with an almost metallic-like tang of precum as the tip begins to leak. I pull back, holding the helmeted head inside my warm little orifice.

Yet the instructions keep coming -- harsh, demanding, not to be trifled with. I blush red again, as I press my head forward, trying to take you deeper, holding it, the head and one and a half inches in my little mouth. I can feel your cockhead in the back of my mouth, over my tongue, and I stop pressing when it touches the top of my mouth, way back inside.

I pull back, but the harshness of your commands stops me, and I look up, hurt and stunned. I press back, wincing a little, my eyes watering, not from choking, but from the meanness of your instructions, your tone of voice, as if you've rejected my charming ways. I slide my tongue this way and that around the head, underneath it, around it, not having any idea what the "flat" of it means or "sideways" for that matter. I just move it around, trying to comply, my little face unhappy now, impaled by fleshy mancock.

My saliva starts to pool and I drool -- but you warn me before I can pull back, and a streamer of 11-year-old saliva oozes down my chin as I kneel before you, hands in the small of my back, bobbing on your penis. My lips are wet and slippery now, as I press deeper -- wincing -- and withdraw, afraid of gagging, afraid of going too deep. My eyes are wide, dark, and sad, rimmed with moisture, as you command me to look up at you. I do, but reluctantly, unhappily. I pause to swallow a mix of saliva and precum down my little throat, not wanting to drool it, even thought you told me it's a messy job. I've never liked messy. Or slimey. Drool and spit and stuff like that are gross. Yuck!

My face is a rictus of unhappiness as I bob on your steel-hard erection, stopping -- occasionally wincing -- as the top of your cockhead touches the roof of my mouth way back over my tongue. I don't like the way that feels. I pull back, and press forward again, as I feel another globule of drool forming in the front of my mouth. Obstructed by your meat, I cannot swallow, and it dribbles out once again, this time dripping onto my right thigh. Yuck! Ewww! All wet and drooly and gross. Still, I look up at you, hands behind me, naked, collared, 11, and bent to my task. This is awful, and I don't like it at all. I decide that you're a big meanie, not to mention a sex pervert person. I am tired, very hungry, mad at you, and I need to pee. Hopefully things will get better soon. I can't imagine them getting any worse.

Marcus

Oh but your charms do work on me. I'm lost in those doe like eyes. I could just about drown in them. I love those eyes. They are gorgeous. They are cute. They make me fall in love with you. Only, when I am in love, it doesn't mean you get to do what you want. I means that I feel a burning, nuclear-fusion hot desire to make you do what I want. And I'm totally cool with you not being overly happy about the way this is achieved. In fact, your discomfort, your unhappiness, anger, all those emotions that now flash through your eyes only turn me on more. More. And more. And turned on, anything beyond a little turned on, is pretty much equal to dark, rough and aggressive inside me, inside this burning blazing furnace of paedophile lust and sadistic desire that's me.

My civil, nice side is silenced now. Pushed over. Cast aside. All but forgotten. I liked the warm, soft, wet, curious and gently eager feeling of your mouth taking my cock in gently, exploring, testing out the new experience. But I like this way, way, way better. Things get messy. Your face darkens with the effort and with the shame of the act, and all the other emotions that this is stirring within you. And I'm loving it. Your head bobbing obediently over the head looks and feels amazing, and while you hate the mess of drool and pre (not that I tend to leak that much of it, but right now, horny as I am, yes, there is some...) I love it spilling and gravitating down your chin, dripping onto you. Messy and slimy. Filthy. Enjoy. Filthy might as well be your new second name.

I yell now, no longer even remotely calm or patient. "Faster. Deeper. Keep it up, and stop pausing, damn it! Keep the pace up!" I say. The pausing annoys me, it breaks the flow and build up of my pleasure, and that's what matters. Your discomfort amuses me, turns me on, perhaps, but it most certainly is not stopping me. How much more of this. Ten minutes? Maybe less, and I'll have my rocks off.

But then I realise, remember, almost matter of factly, almost... by the way, that I own you. That, for the first time in my life, which was up and down, and generally not too bad, apart from the big whole side of it that has been miserable and frustrated because of my sexual inclinations, I don't have to compromise. Not here, now, today. This is not democracy. You are not a girlfriend who could stop because she's not comfortable with this anymore, and you certainly will not whine about it for days on if I push you a bit. And so I push.

My hand grabs your hair at the back of your head and follows your head to the point to which you are willingly accepting my cock.

"Keep moving your tongue, fast, and listen," I growl and it's beastly, guttural, dark. Fucking scary.

"Listen carefully, I will not repeat this and the consequences of messing up will be... Big," I warn you. "I will now show you how deep you will be taking me, and you'll then keep at it. Going deep, going fast, moving your tongue, and most importantly, not pausing or stopping any more. If you fail to please me, I will grab your hair like I'm doing now, and I am going to fuck your face," I say and rock to and fro a bit to show what I mean. "And you will keep your hands of off me. You will make very sure you keep your hands of off me. Because the punishment for touching me, pushing me away, or hitting me... will be needles under your fingernails. Big, sewing needles pushed under and along your fingernails. Deep. Far. Now," I grunt and push you another half an inch, an inch perhaps. Not quite enough for the act to become a proper exercise in deep-throating, but definitely past your gagging point. "This is how deep you will be taking me. Go!" I command sharply and release your hair.

Laura

I flush red, my eyes blinking, unhappy now, as your voice commands me, instructs me, orders me, in a tone that is not at all friendly, not at all loving, not at all nice. My world is turned upside down. Nobody has treated me like this before. Ever. Not only am I not getting my own way, running the show, using my charms, but I am being ordered, coerced, forced to perform.

I try to speed up my pace, my little body leaning forward to help, as my head bends in, holds, backs off. My little hands remain behind my back, resting just over my bottom in the small of my back, the backs of my hands pressed together, slender little fingers clutching, grabbing at air, with every undulation. I'm doing the best I can. My little tongue waggles back and forth, trying to swirl, trying to massage your spongy cockhead, its motions random, left, right, up, sideways, down. Trying to do as you ask, trying to be DONE, so I can get back to using my charms on you. It is difficult to charm anyone with a fleshy club of man cock in my mouth.

My jaws starts to ache as I rock head-first on your penis, taking you to that depth where your cockhead taps the roof of my mouth, but no further. My lips feel numb as they remain stretched around the thickness of your pulsing member. I startle as your hand grasps the back of my head, and my arms reflexively start to outstretch before I regain control and return them. Impaled there, held there, my eyes look up at you, filled with terror and dread.

I listen as you speak, and I can tell from your tone, from your expression, from your gaze, that you are absolutely, perfectly, unapologetically serious in what you are about to say. Your cock is wide and deep in my mouth as you explain what I am to do. As I listen, my face turns a deep, red color of humiliation and fear, and my eyes glimmer over with tears, blurring my sight. I feel a knot form in the pit of my 11-year-old tummy. I feel dread. And fear. My skin feels cool on my tiny body. I shiver.

I listen as you explain the consequences of touching you. Your reference to needles scares me to the point that you think you see my eyes almost begin to roll back in my head, in a near-faint. In fact, I nearly do faint at the thought of the needles, but not quite. I remain awake, alert, albeit terrified, impaled by the mouth with your phallus, listening with increasing dread to your words. The thought of needles running through my head. Sharp needles. Shots. Pain. Blood. Needles make me more than just queasy -- they fill me with dread, the deep-seated, inconsolable, panic-driven dread of a living nightmare. My Mom still has to hold me down at the pediatrician's office, often with the help of a nurse and Dr. Warner herself. I hate needles. I beg for oral medications in lieu of shots. I try all my charm to avoid them. Needles fill me with dread like just about nothing else.

I clasp my fingers together, interlacing them behind me. I won't touch you, I vow to myself, I wouldn't dare. Needles are not something to gamble with, not for me, not now, not ever. And I sense that you are serious. Very serious. I feel cold once again. I shiver.

And then, suddenly, my head is propelled forward, and your cock jams into the back of my mouth --a tight, constricting fit for the helmeted cockhead. My eyes bulge as I gag. My tummy immediately ejects a column of thin, watery fluid up my throat, which explodes from my mouth and nose, onto your cock, and down on my shapely preteen thighs. The first volley of fluid is quickly followed by a thicker, denser emission of sticky tummy bile -- white and viscous -- which fills my mouth and starts to ooze out. With a red-faced, watery-eyed, and very, very miserable "Aaaa-accccckkkkkk!" I withdraw, cringing, with a grunt, your cock flopping free from my mouth. I lean down: "Acccckkkkkkkkkkkkk!" I gag, as I vomit up a full bottle's worth of water onto my knees, my tummy heaving, my face red and puffy, veins in my neck revealing the strain. My hair hangs down, bedraggled, over my forehead as I retch. My hands, for now, remain behind my slender back. I tremble from the strain, the retching, and the fear.

Marcus

I look into your eyes and see the fear at the mention of needles there. I barely hold back a smile. That's a useful thing to know. You hate needles. I like needles. Very little damage, lots and lots of pain. Great value for price. I imagine your reaction when I decide the time has come to mark you, properly, as a slaves, when I get big, big needles and push them through your nipples and possibly other places, to make spaces for plain, sexy little rings, permanently marking you as my property. Mhmmm. For now, the fact alone that you are afraid of them badly is enough, even if I don't have any here, and would have to rummage a good while before finding a set of them anywhere in the dungeon.

And then you retch. I pull back and let go of your hair, of course. Let you retch over yourself, not over me. Mostly it's just water and not even lots of that, but still, it's gross, unappealing, seriously takes the edge off your cuteness. Too bad. Cuteness was your last chance for this not to turn seriously, full on rough. I slap you. Reflex or not, your fault or not, tossing after such a brief, subtle poke at your throat is pathetic, bad performance. I'm not impressed with it, not even for a bitch who has just started training.

Talking of bitches in training, I grab your hair at the back of your head again, yank it, side to side, and lower my face closer to yours.

"What does a bitch say when she has been slapped by her master?" I ask. You've heard it six, seven times in each loop of my favourite video, easily a hundred times over. You've seen it done. Now... you better do it. I raise my other hand again. Ready to slap you again, and again. As many times as it takes to get you to say thank you. But I suspect you're not in a state to refuse me out of spite, to knowingly resist. I freaked the shit out of you, and rightfully so.

I then guide your face, your mouth back on my cock. This time, you see, I don't want a pause, and so there will NOT be one, you will not run off to rinse your mouth, have a drink of water, pull yourself together. No. You will continue with your throat burning, with the sour, acidic taste in your mouth. Right now.

I snap, irate now. "Get busy, bitch! And the moment you pause... I take over. And then... remember. Needles, needles, needles...." the last word turns into a long, dark, snakey hiss. You're in for a rough one, that's for sure. And you better swallow the load that I can feel will, unlike my original expectation, take no time at all now to come about. Because the fact that you retched onto the floor under us doesn't mean I won't make you clean the cum up from it if you spill some.

Laura

I gag and retch, a thick, slimey stream of tummy bile dangling yuckily from my lower lip as I lean over, red-faced, teary-eyed, shaking, with a horrible, just-vomited taste of acidic stomach juices in my mouth, burning my throat. I lean further out, over my knees, not wanting to touch the slimey gooey yuck dangling there, not wanting it to fall on my already wet, coltish young thighs. I make a sobbing, gasping groan as I wait for it to fall. And then, suddenly, I see stars as your palm slams into the left side of my face, sending the slimey streamer 180 degrees up the opposite side of my face, where it glues there, thickly, on my right cheek. All this time my little hands have been clenched together at the small of my back, but now they instinctively clutch the side of my face where your slap impacted as I emit the high-pitched, mewing, keening, sobbing cry of a very, very distraught little girl.

My sobbing lasts only a split second before I flinch and squeal with fright as your adult hand grasps a clutch of hair at the back of my head and swings my head back and forth, forcing me to look up at you from my hunched-over position on the floor. My face is a rictus of misery -- red, puffy, and wet in appearance, while my expression is a mixture of pain, hurt, shock, and terror. I cringe, staring at you terrified through blurry, tear-filled eyes, as you lower your face to mine, as you ask your question, as you raise your hand again. For a moment -- a dizzying, terrifying, horrible moment -- I do not know the answer, do not know what to say. My frightened, distraught 11-year-old brain, under extreme duress now, simply does not make the association.

But I am a smart girl. Grades in school come easily to me -- partly because I'm adorable and work my charms, but partly because I have a sharp brain. I pick things up quickly. My first instinct is to apologize. And I would, readily, even eagerly, sincerely, as your raised arm makes me want to get this right, very, very, very badly. But even through the haze of my terror, an awareness knifes through, a memory. Of a little girl who looks a lot like Mary Caldwell, kneeling, naked, collared, hands behind her back, on the floor, with a man standing over her -- no, almost on her -- the man naked, his arms cradling her head, his muscles coiled, as he feeds his penis-thing to her mouth, quickly, rabbit-fucking her as she kneels there. My brain remembers the Mary Caldwell look-alike girl THANKING the man each and every time has slapped her, before he reinserted his cock in her mouth, and resumed the mouthfuck.

I can tell you are a split second away from striking me again, so I quickly open my mouth to thank you. But nothing comes out. A glob of bile must be resting right in the right place because while my lips and tongue form the "Th" in "thank" my throat refuses to emit a sound. My eyes bulge in terror as I make a two-handed wave of distress. My face turns a deeper shade of red, almost purple, as I force an animalistic-sounding "Uhhaaaaackk!" from my throat, the veins in my forehead and neck swell visibly beneath my skin. "Thank yoouuu!" I gasp, in a desperate, gaspy, high-pitched little voice.

And then, suddenly, the hand gripping my hair pulls me to your cock once again, as you thrust it forward with a practiced undulation of your hips. With a little squeak of distress, I focus my teary eyes on your straining cockhead, my little body wet and trembling as you hold my head in position. Unbidden (you note with a degree of satisfaction) I replace my small hands behind my back, interlacing the fingers so as not to be tempted to touch you. Despite all the retching, the recent trauma of your slap, and the mental effort it took to conjure up the memory of the little girl thanking the man for slapping her, the memory of the needle threat is still very fresh in my young mind, even before your sinister reminder.

Wet, cold, and terrified, my body is trembling nearly non-stop now as my mouth opens for your cock, my lower lip and jaw shaking as I lean forward for it. My preteen mouth is as soft and warm and wet as before as your cockhead resumes its rightful position inside.

Marcus

"There's a good girl," I smile as your head lowers onto the head and starts bobbing again, resuming the effort. "Remember the correct response to being slapped, there's just the one," I say. It's a small rule, one quite easy to remember. It's a rule that will change into a habit, a habit that will turn into a reflex. I'm I. P. Pavlov and you're my drooling little doggy-dog. My little girl bitch. I know just enough about conditioning to be able to make permanent changes to the way you instinctively react. I could do that to an adult, even, with enough patience and effort. The thing about a sensitive, still developing, fast learning eleven year old is that it won't take much patience at all, and rather than effort, the whole process will be fun. For me, anyway.

I don't replicate the guy's style from the video in the end. I can feel my orgasm fast approaching, and I don't wanna pause to mindlessly slap you, just to test you further. And since you seem determined enough to keep going, perhaps not as deep as I would like, but fast enough, and... definitely busy enough between your lips sliding over the head of my cock and your tongue working the underside that it's starting to look like grabbing your face and fucking it violently will remain plan B for the day, one that will not be executed. Frankly, I'm not keen on being retched on, even though the despair and discomfort it causes you pleases me almost enough to make for the unpleasantness of it.

"Laura V. My little Dandy tart Cocksucker," I muse in a well pleased, smug, cruelly amused voice. I feel you tense. I know, that minus the last bit, that's how your daddy sometimes calls you. I've done my homework damn well. You would not believe the amount of stuff you can learn once you've hacked into someone's computer, smartphone, and eventually nearly all accounts they have anywhere on the web.

"Come on. PinkiePie?" I smirk, saying the name of what seems to be your favourite My Little Ponny, Friendship is Magic character, and what most definitely is your email, FaceBook (naughty, naughty, you are supposed to be 13+ for that one!) and several other places password. "It took me like... three tries to guess that one," I tell you. Now, of course, this is getting seriously creepy. Even aged eleven, you can probably easily imagine that not only that you are sucking the cock of someone who has kidnapped you and who can hurt you and punish you in a million ways, among them by jamming needles into places on your body where you most certainly don't want anything jammed into, let alone needle, but also of someone who has read every email, FaceBook message and status you have recently sent and received. Welcome to the twenty first century, baby.

You don't know half of it. It would not occur to you that a hacked laptop can be used in a million ways, as can a phone. Eavesdropping on you. Listening to your phone calls. Reading your texts. Watching you, through webcam and phone cam... seeing on my screen what you see on yours, seeing you typing, using your computer in real time. You have no idea that I, looking like quite the hulk, like my kind of stuff to do in my free time is box and weightlifting, am in fact quite a computer wizard. If Obama can do it, so can I. That's kind of my motto.

And so while your head bobs over the cock of a stranger, me, my sweet Laura, I'm having my cock sucked by someone rather intimately familiar. By I girl, now naked and collared, whom I have seen in jammies, panties, topless, wrapped up in sweater, trying on stuff for photo shoots, even bare-bottomed on an occasion or two. A girl into whose mind I've had rather a good sneak peak with the help of the modern technologies. You think you are exposed now, naked and kneeling in front of me? If only you knew... the idea makes me smile. It makes no difference now, it matters not. That world is gone, for ever. This cell is your home now, and the dungeon at the back of which it is positioned is your world.

This thought, this thought of my utter, God-like omnipotence over you is the one that finally brings me over the edge, and with a groan, a cry and a gasp, I fill your mouth with cum. The first splash is more than a generous mouthful in itself. But then, there is a second one, just a fragment of a second later, and almost just as large. It's cum. Your first load ever. Hot. Shockingly hot, warmer even than the surprising warmth of my shaft in your mouth. Sticky. Thicker, gluier than it looked on most of the videos. Of a denser, whitish grey colour than on most of them, too, not that you can see that just now. And there's lots. A third contraction, a third mouthful's worth. And more. Bit smaller each time, but it's lots. It's too much. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. By the time my cock stops twitching and pulsing, after some eight or nine contractions altogether, I've expelled well over a decilitre of cum, just over half a small drinking glass' worth, which would not be much if it was juice, but actually feels like an awful, awful lot being all warm and gooey and sticky and tasting of nothing much at all, the vaguely salty, slimy near lack of taste contrasting with the musky, slightly acrid scent that fills your nose rather unpleasantly.

And no matter how you handle the blast when it comes, this is not over until all of it ends up in your belly. That knowledge sends a second wave of shimmering, shivering tingly warmth up my spine, almost a second orgasm, sensation wise, though there is no more cum just now. I don't have to compromise, and I won't. My eyes look at you, steel hard, steady, cold.

Laura

Hands behind my back, trembling, teary-eyed, and very, very upset, I lean into your cock, mouthing it and lapping it with an awkward, inexperienced, little-girl approach to cocksucking that is motivated by fear -- fear of pain, primarily, but overall, a fear of you, a fear of the unknown. I bob on your jutting penis. my entire body swaying as my preteen lips envelope your shaft and my mouth attempts to swirl and please your bulbous, bulging cockhead.

I am crying silently as I suck, little tears running down both cheeks, my eyes glimmering in the glowing ambient light of the cell. My face is a mess -- wet with tears, water, saliva, and bile, with a streak of precum on my upper lip for good measure. My eyes are starting to take on a bit of a hollowed, sunken appearance, as it is now way past my usual bedtime and it's been a very long day for a little girl -- despite the fact that I spent several hours of it out cold as you transported and prepared me.

My jaw and neck ache as I suck you, and my lips feel flabby and stretched as your penis slides in and out of my mouth. The fingers of my hands open and close, clutching at air, as I rock and suck, rock and suck, taking your cockhead to the roof of my mouth on each descent, as deep as I dare, wincing though, desperate not to gag.

I tense, hesitating momentarily, as you sing to me, using my Daddy's words, even using the tune that he sings them to me in. Even as I resume sucking (for I know it would be bad to stop) my little head is filled with sadness at the absence of Daddy, and at the fact that you seem to know everything about me. "Laura V. my Dandy tart," he would sing, just like you are singing now. A play on the first initial and the sound of my last name, Vanndahl -- Laura Vanndahl. "Laura V. my Dandy tart, Laura V. my Dandy tart," he would sing, over and over as we snuggled. I miss him. Tears flow from my dark, doe-like eyes as I bob on your throbbing mancock, momentarily lost in memories.

Still sucking, bobbing, unhappy, uncomfortable, I listen as you explain how you found my password -- oh no, I think to myself. Even my Mom didn't know about my Facebook page. My little tongue swirls underneath your cockhead as I try to remember what I posted there, what Marissa posted -- OMG, what Caroline posted! My little lips caress your shaft as they slide back and forth, partly onto the helmeted purple head, before I bob back down. Of course, I have no idea what you have seen, or how much, or all that you have heard, any more than I can know about the horrors of the dungeon that lies just beyond the walls of my cell. Indeed, If I had any idea what you were thinking, what you had in mind for me, I might very well lose my sanity on the spot, descending into semi-comatose state of little-girl fear from which I might not emerge, not the same, anyway. It's best, perhaps, that I not know, as I suck away on your penis, my tiny body undulating back and forth on my heels, naked, collared, trembling.

It seems like I suck forever, and my entire body hurts now, seemingly all at once. My jaws ache from being stretched so wide for so long. My neck aches from craning and tilting back. My shoulders ache from the position of my arms and hands. My face stings from your slap. My knees and ankles hurt from rocking against the hard floor. My head aches with hunger and fatigue. My butt cheeks are numb from the backs of my heels. Just as I think I cannot do it any longer, cannot bob any more, my mouth senses a change in the texture of your penis -- a thickening, a widening. I hear you groan and cry and gasp, and I stop, worried, looking up at you with those eyes of mine, as you flood my 6th-grader mouth with sperm for the first time.

Thank God I had pulled back to look up, and was holding just the head of your cock between my lips, because the spurt of thick man fluid quickly fills my mouth. I can hear the sound of it squirting from your penis in my head, a juicy "Thwwwwirrrrrt" sound as it jets into my mouth, ricocheting there, followed by another urgent spurt. And another. I flinch, my body reacting in a startle reflex, but I know better than to pull back. I close the back of my throat, constricting the opening there as you unload the contents of your adult testicles in my preteen mouth. Squirt after squirt jets into my mouth, overflowing my cheeks, sluicing out between my lips and your shaft in a flood of jism, dropping into the puddled mess on the floor at my knees.

I look up at you as the flow of cum abates, my little eyes and face so tired now, even as I constrict my cheeks and use my tongue to urge the remaining sperm out of my mouth and onto the floor. Now that the flow has ebbed I can taste the flavor -- odd, slightly salty, a thick flavor, like an unflavored gelatin, or a flour paste. It remind me of Play Dough -- the stuff you're not supposed to eat but every kid eventually puts in his or her mouth. I haven't played with it in years, but I remember how it tasted. Slightly bitter. Musky. Your cum, however, is wetter, slimier, and just plain yucky. My tummy clenches in protest as I look up at you, my little hands still clasped neatly behind my back. I am not sure what you expect me to do . . .