10. Good Girls Clean Up After Themselves

Marcus

I frown. Not only that you didn't swallow it all - I didn't expect that, but would have welcomed a surprise - you spewed out and wasted lots, quite deliberately. From the looks of the mess you've made, you hardly swallowed any. What kind of an attitude is that, damn it?!

Even when I normally speak, my voice is quite deep, quite... powerful. It's deeper than the usual, even for a big adult man like me. Now, it drops by a whole another octave. It gains a rumbling, thundering quality. You can feel it as well as hear it. It makes your skin vibrate, like a big, loud drumbeat. It's the voice of a shitstorm brewing. Hurricane Marcus that's about to hit you if you don't please, don't satisfy, don't perform as expected right now.

"I made it absolutely, crystal clear that the first thing you'll eat will be my cum. What makes you think you are allowed to spew it out?" I ask darkly. Ominously. Sounding like an Oracle of Seriously Bad Fucking News For This Little Girl. "I am angry now," I tell you, and I don't need to extrapolate on that much for you to know that that really is bad news. "Look me in the eyes and listen very, very carefully. You will drop to the floor, slurp up, suck up and lick up every last drop of the mess you have just made. You will swallow. Then you will use your hands to wipe whatever you have on your body, and you will lick them off, too. First though, you'll return your mouth to the cock, and clean that up. And this was the last time I'm telling you that. If you forget to clean up after a blowjob in the future, I will not shower, or bathe, or anything like that, until the next session, and you'll have to deal with the mess, dried up and smelly, whenever the next time comes." My voice is still menacingly, diabolically low, like a sound echoing from the gates of Hell itself.

My fist clenches, the muscles in my whole arm standing out, tensing. You are dancing atop a cut-throat razor here. One more step out of line... If I punch you, and I look like I wanna punch you, good and hard, you'll still be collecting your teeth tomorrow. My big hard fist versus your soft little face, that's like jack-hammer versus a sandcastle on a beach. And fuck, whatever happened to my nice, calm, composed attitude... Well it sure as Hell is not what's driving me now. I look pissed off, dangerous, hungry, venomous, furiously hissing, overflowing snake pit kind of dangerous.

"*N O W* !!!" I roar. "Face on the floor, and suck it up, otherwise when I'm done with you, you will beg me to feed you more cum, with cheese and brussels sprouts on top!" How many days of hunger, of proper, full on, unmitigated starvation would that take? Two? Three? A pampered, well loved kid from an upper-middle class family like you barely skipped a meal in your entire life... and you already skipped two main ones and a few snacks at this point. Odds are, three days later, you would beg even for shit if that was the only thing on the menu. My face, a grimace of steely mercilessness hints on my dark thoughts. I'm tempted to try. If you have any sense of self-preservation, than all the bells and alarms are going off like mad right now, if you have any intuition whatsoever, it's screaming at you to quickly and quietly obey now.

I grab the food plate I prepared for you. Delicious fruits. Biscuits. Cereal. The much needed sugar the level of which is dizzyingly low, nauseousness-inducing in and by itself. My jaw is tense. Even in the most optimistic, fantastic visions you may have for future you cannot possibly NOT see that if you disobey now, I'll leave you, I'll leave you a sticky, stinky, sick mess of yours and mine bodily fluids, taking the food with me, leaving you for a long, agonising period of very severe hunger, darkness, on the hard floor... with a full, aching bladder, the loo still locked, the temperature dropping. What a night would that be. It's up to you, or perhaps at this point, it's up to your subconsciousness, God knows how impaired, fogged over and regressed your thinking is at this point, after all you have been through.

I already know what I'll do first thing in the morning, but even though it's way past bedtime for you already, we're simply not done here yet, so I should not let my thoughts wander too much.

Laura

Your softening penis drops from my terrified little mouth, as I remain on my knees, hunched over, looking up at you. My face, as described, is a mess of fluids -- tears, snot, bile, saliva, precum, and now jism dribbling from the corners of my mouth. My eyes are sunken, yet still wide, and my face reveals my exhaustion. It must be near midnight now -- not that time matters to me anymore. In fact, time is the one thing I have a lot of, and that's why you get to control the length of my days and nights, lest I become too complacent in any routine. Right now it is over two hours past my bedtime, and it's not like I'm staying up late to watch TV. I've been working, and almost every muscle in my body is aching from the effort. And I'm not nearly done.

I want to curl into a little ball but I am rooted in place, stunned, as I watch your anger ascend to new, and scary heights. I want to interrupt, to interject, to tell you that there was no possible way that I could swallow your cum -- it simply came too fast, too hard, too much. I couldn't possibly have swallowed it -- it was all I could do to keep from gagging. And then it started to overflow my mouth, and there was nothing I could do. I want to tell you this. This and more. But I can't.

And now my eyes look down at the shimmering, viscous, slimey-awful mess at my knees -- a horrifying, disgusting mix of cum and vomit and bile and froth, pearlescent and gooey, slimey and horrible. My aching, empty tummy clenches at the sight and I gag, nearly adding to the mess with another round of stomach contents. I am shaking, terrified, at your anger, and at the prospect of having to eat the mess before me.

Mom could tell you that I've never liked things that are slimey. I despise gravy. I despise anything even resembling jello. If it's ooey or gooey or viscous, I won't touch it. The horror before me is by far the worst, most-horrible, awful, unappetizing, stomach-churning mess that I've ever seen. I look up, my face pale, my brain searching for the words to tell you that I couldn't possibly eat that without expelling the contents of my stomach over and over and over.

And yet, there is no question that you simply don't care. There is no compromise in your voice, your gaze, or your demeanor. My 11-year-old brain wracks itself for a solution, but I find none. I feel faint. I see stars. It would be a relief to faint. Your words sound echoey, far away -- but then the word "NOW" hits me like a slap. I gasp, my terrified eyes refocusing and again looking into yours, and suddenly, my head moves forward almost on its own accord, my mouth opening, my little face tilting, as I begin to suckle and clean your glistening penis. I never made a fully conscious decision to do it -- I just did. I have to. So I do. Tilting my head, I lip and tongue your semi-flaccid member, cleaning the ooze of semen from your tip, licking at the wet head, running my lips -- slightly parted -- over anywhere I see wetness.

The quantity of cum still on your penis is minimal, and I swallow it down, ingesting more of my own saliva than anything else. I shake and tremble as I work, absolutely petrified of you now, just a tiny, timid, overmatched 11-year-old trying to survive.

It probably was a very good thing for me that you commanded me to clean your cock first, as to my surprise I am able to do so without retching, despite the taste, despite the goo. And it takes a minute or two to finish, which gives me time to reset, to steel myself, to prepare. I try to think away the taste. Just one lick or suckle at a time. Cleaning. Swallowing. Licking. Swallowing. One area at a time.

And finally it is done. Your penis is cleansed. It glistens with preteen saliva from the tip to halfway up the shaft as it hangs there, spent, before me. I swallow one last time, and look up at you, my face still pale, now tinged grey -- or is it green? I look sick. I make a little whimpered, shivering exhale, a moan really, my eyes still glistening with little-girl tears that occasionally break free to roll down my soft cheeks. I sit back, nudging my heels out a little behind me, moaning again in horror. But I hesitate only a few seconds, before I place my little hands on either side of the puddle, and look down with a horrified, so-sad little expression.

With a whimpered little sob, I close my eyes, and lower my shaking little head towards the floor. Some of my locks are dangling down but I am too far out of it to adjust them, and they feather into the pool of fluids and float there, alongside my jaw. With a trembling lower lip, eyes closed, I lean lower still. My little body looks so tiny, so helpless as you loom over me. The contrast in power and strength between us never more apparent. My shaking preteen frame looks even younger than my 11 years as bend to the task, naked, collared, shivering.

Slowly, I lower my mouth into the muck, holding there for a second, eyes closed, as my tummy clenches and threatens to expel its meager contents. "No Laura, no," I beg myself, silently, as I battle to get my tummy under control. I do. I manage, somehow. And then, softly, you hear the gentle "whhhhhhhhst" sounds of air being inhaled, followed by the liquidy vibrato of fluids being sucked inside. I pause, resigned to my fate, completely sure that I am going to vomit now, right now, after which I will be beaten, or even killed. I am completely still as my mind stages a pitched battle with my tummy. The outcome is in doubt for several long seconds. And then, eyes still closed, I swallow the cold, clammy fluid down. Another pause. A gasp of relief and horror. And then, once again, "whhhhhhhhst sluurrrrpp" can be heard, softly, methodically, at your feet.

Marcus

I sense your exhaustion, see how dreadfully drained and knackered you are. You've been pushed too far. I feel jubilant, victorious, maliciously smug and sadistically pleased at making you do all of this. But even as you so obediently, yet so weakly, so very near a physical collapse, the release, the good, warm aftermath of my orgasm finally kicks in and I start to feel some pity for you again. Pity. Compassion. I even worry a bit. I'm a horrible, terrible, evil, nasty person, but I'm not a psychopath and it is impossible now not to feel empathic. Once you are done with my cock, it hardens again, and there will be times when I'll make use of that. Another blowjob, just like that, or sex of some other kind. Almost as an afterthought. As long as I can get it up, you can be used and forced to make me cum. Over and over again. Not tonight though.

I see you fight your inner battle and then you lower yourself, fighting hard to keep the contents of your stomach in as you slurp, swallow, slurp, swallow, and so on. Methodically. Almost... Rhythmically. *Now* I'm impressed. Now I'm satisfied with how hard you try. And I'm also proud. Proud of you. It warms me. Seeing you force yourself so much, so hard, sinking so deep really, really feeds my ego. Big time. Damn. My own personal slave, doing her best to do the worst, or at least what she thinks is the worst that she can be told to do. Damn. And you also look cute again. In a messy, about to pass out, unhealthy, trembling sort of way, there's so much weakness and helplessness that I cannot but see it as cute, though it's not your usual, radiantly, vividly pretty kind of cute.

You toil on. And I let you. I watch. I'm impressed, more and more with each passing moment, with each slurp, each sound of another small, forced swallowing. It's arousing, it's intoxicating, but you're slow with it, and when the novelty wears off, my merciful side almost prevails. I'm tempted to cut this short, to play the nice guy once again, to be done with it. But I know, if I'm to train you the way I want you trained, I must show no weakness. You must know that I do not compromise, do not settle for less. Do not forgive. I silently pray for your stomach not to turn, punishing you at this point would be inhuman, inefficient, and no fun, too. You're barely with me. I don't want you like this. I don't want to waste my effort on influencing you; you seem to be spacing out, attention fading, crumbling. Your ability to learn, to memorise is limited to near zero. I pray, and we both get lucky.

By the end, it's almost an ordeal for me, too. A small ordeal, relatively to what you're going through, but an ordeal nonetheless. As soon as the floor doesn't have any obvious mess on it, command you to kneel up, I make you rub your hands over the drying mess on your skin and lick them up. I speed through it, I'm not obsessive, I'm playing stern and firm, but underneath, I want this to be over for the day, and I'm making sure it doesn't last even a second longer than it has to.

I'm glad, at this point, that I prepared your sleeping stuff for you right outside the cell's door. I'll just toss it in now, no long trip, no anything. But first. Your price.

I stroke your hair, softly, not too surprised that you cower and flinch, expecting more violence, more pain; yes, you have met the fiery dragon of my fury. Good. Don't forget it. But I only stroke you gently, nicely.

"Good girl. You did it. You've done well. I approve. I'm pleased. Good girl. Good girl," I repeat, reinforcing the message. I pass the plate of food to you. You look like you are about to collapse.

"Eat," I command, a lot more softly than when I was ordering you before, but it's still a command. I refill the bottle of water and pass it to you, too. "Drink. You will be sleeping in ten minutes. Don't worry. We're done for the day. You've done well. I'm proud of you. I'm impressed. You've done well. Good girl." I switch to my earlier, kind self, and beyond, showering you with praise, letting you enjoy the delicious, completely non-slimy snack, not really a proper meal, but heck, you'd retch if I gave you a proper meal. Sugary, light, juicy, easy to eat and digest is exactly what you need. I let the door slide open and spread a smallish futon on a dry patch of the floor. I place a cup with toothpaste and a toothbrush on the sink. I unlock the toilet, both the lid and the flushing mechanism which was locked until now, so you could not lift the top and drink from it. I leave a roll of basic, simple loo paper on the top of the toilet. Elementary, simple things. But they bring this space from a surreal void of nothingness at least to the level of a prison cell.

Well, there are still a few things missing, for one, I don't give you blanket. I'll keep the cell warm over the night, but I know you will miss that comfort. There's also no pillow. No towel, no soap... Etcetera, I could go on, but the fact is, it's a major improvement. I let you finish your food. I take the plate. I'm done with you for the day. I realise I should not just think that, and say it.

"I'm done with you for the day. You've done well, it was... a last minute save, but you did. The cell will stay warm. There will be a small light left by the sink and loo. In the morning, the lights will go on and soon after, I will come." I pause.

"Any questions?" I ask and I remember your earlier question, your flair of pride and vanity, which prompted you to ask if you really are prettier than the girl in the video. I doubt you'll remember now. I doubt you would still care, frankly.

Clearly about to leave, I don't mention a shower, which you need, and which you will surely want badly in the morning, but right now, you need to sleep. And needing, wanting, easily manipulated into obedience through simply toying with your basic needs is exactly where I want you at. I meant, originally, to give you some instructions regarding morning, but it's shut-eye time and I don't waste my breath. I would forget whatever would be told to me in a state like this, let alone you, poor little thing. This has stretched on mainly because your stubbornness to give up your clothes. Maybe you'll not see it that way, but on some level in your mind, that connection with resisting and then being pushed a lot will remain, and that in itself is a precious part of what I have achieved today. I know you will resist, a bit here and there, and a lot with certain other things, but I want you to unlearn resistance as s strategy. To give up on it eventually. To make submission you instinctual, natural, preferred response to just about anything.

Laura

I bend to my task, sucking, slurping, like a human mop, slowly consuming the puddle of gooey, glistening fluids that has accumulated on the floor. I feel so tired, on the verge of collapse. Every bone in my body aches, especially my jaw and mouth, but also my neck and back and shoulders, my knees and ankles. They all hurt. A deep, achey, tired little-girl hurt.

It actually helps that I'm so tired. My mind can concentrate on only so many things, and right now it is concentrating on cleaning, not taste, not texture. Bend, lower, suck, slurp, taste, swallow, move, repeat. Methodically, almost rhythmically, I work the floor. At first it seems that the task is insurmountable -- there is too much, it is too gross, I will throw up, and fail, and you will beat me, and I will die. And I don't even care all that much, so tired am I. So I start, not expecting success, barely fighting back the rising clutch in my tummy. And then I do it again. And a bit more. The contents of the puddle are cool, with a large water content, and that helps. The taste is more neutral than bad. Worst is some thicker, gelatinous goo that most likely once was tummy bile -- viscous, undissipated, gross in my mouth. But I manage that, too. I swallow it down. Your cum has thinned, dissipated, merged with the water and spit. It's not as bad as I thought. Not quite as bad. Not quite as awful.

I continue to work, not caring that you are watching, unaware that you are rooting for me. I'm beyond caring. I bend, lower, suck, slurp, taste, and swallow mechanically, not even fully aware of the progress I have made, until you command me to kneel up. I do, but in a hunched, exhausted sag, as if the weight of my body is too much to keep upright, and I am becoming the very puddle that I just consumed. My eyes are dull and listless, sunken and exhausted, as you praise me. My face is wet, and my hair bedraggled from trailing in the mess. My expression is blank and emotionless. Listlessly I trail my hands through the drying, white-caked streaks on my knees and thighs, licking my fingers dully, as if in a trance. I'm beyond caring.

I inhale a sharp gasp and cringe as you reach to stroke my soft hair, at the top of my head, where it is still dry and clean from last night's bath. Last night -- my last night as a little girl -- so long ago now. I sit there, sagging a bit to the right, as you stroke my hair and compliment me. I don't seem to react, or care, that you have returned to nice mode. Mean, nice, none of it matters to me right now. I just want to curl up and fall asleep. I don't care if I ever wake up.

Yet I hear the words -- "Good girl, good girl" -- and your praise. It doesn't register exactly how, or why I have been a good girl. Or why you're proud of me. Only that you are. That you are pleased. Your gentle strokes and the words "good girl" go together. They go together, complimenting each other, reinforcing each other. They're non-threatening. Non-scary. I like "good girl" better than just about everything else I hear from you. When you're saying "good girl" and stroking my head I know I'm not going to be hit. Right now, that's pretty much all I care about. Not being hit. Not being yelled at. That and sleep. I want to sleep so bad. "Good girl" means sleep. "Good girl" means I'm done.

And then, suddenly, the food tray appears before me, and I look up, not realizing that it's for me, not at first. But "good girl" also means food. My memory of the price has long since been forgotten. But there it is. A tray of foods -- sweet, normal foods. Sugary foods. And as you encourage me to eat and tell me again that I'm a good girl, I realize just how hungry I am. I look up again, still not sure, confused even. "This is my food?" I ask silently, with my eyes. But it is my food. Good-girl food. And I begin to eat, little nibbles at first.

I wasn't going to eat the bad sex pervert person's food, no I wasn't. But I'm hungry. And it looks . . . so good. And he's being nice now. So I do eat, after all. A good girl. And when the first food I've had in almost an entire day hits my little lips, it tastes good. Really good. It revives me a little, and I start to eat with a little more gusto, a little more energy, like a fluorescent bulb slowly glowing to life. I take a sip from the bottle, and eat some more. My eyes are a bit sharper now -- still wide, always so wide and doe-like. But not dull and filmy like they were before. Dry and tear-less now, clear. Seeing. Aside from the fatigued redness that taints the white, they look much like the eyes in my modeling photographs -- dark eyes, full eyes, the expressive, revealing, almost haunting eyes of an adult in the head of an 11-year-old. I don't know this, of course, but it is probably my eyes that have brought me here, to this place, where there is nothing but this, nowhere but here.

I eat, probably half of the plate, before fatigue sets in once again. I have the urge to pee, but the futon looks so soft, so inviting. I couldn't less about the lack of a pillow or blanket. I'm totally oblivious now to my nakedness. Even the collar no longer seems heavy and strange on my slender neck.

I watch, for a moment, as you arrange the loo and the sink. I shake my head no when you ask if I have any questions -- I am too tired to think, much less speak, so I have none. On hands and knees, naked and tiny, I crawl the short distance to the futon, and climb atop it, my entire body aching. It is soft, so soft, as I lie down on my side and curl my body inward, my hands between my little thighs, my big, dark eyes still open, watching you. You know that I will be asleep within seconds of closing them. Already my eyelids look heavy as my face starts to relax. I blink, my eyes unfocused, but still open, as you prepare to leave the room. Somehow, naked, tiny, exhausted, and balled up on the futon in a semi-fetal position, I manage to keep my eyes open until after you leave the room.