11. A Pet’s Breakfast

Marcus

"Good night," I say quietly, softly before the door quietly hisses closed behind me. This time, as the lights go out, a tile on the wall in front of the sink and a tile in the ceiling above the loo stay half-lit, a very soft, warm, orangey-yellow kind of glow. The temperature doesn't drop. It remains just about pleasantly warm enough even for a naked little girl; not too hot, not stuffy, but cosily warm, perhaps enough to make you sweat a little bit. The conditions are just about perfect for sleeping, not that you need perfect, you looked about ready to fall asleep standing, kneeling, or in whatever other position.

Up above this cell and the adjacent dungeon, there's a house, my house. It's a lone-standing, detached country house, quite inconspicuous. Cosy, comfortable, but not overly pompous or luxurious. It looks like the house of an ageing, slightly nostalgic intellectual and betrays very little about my true hobbies. Yes, I have a cutting edge, powerful, Linux-operated computer in my study, but that proves nothing and hints at little. And the closest hint of my life down below this house is Nabokov's Lolita in my bookshelf. I hate that book, by the way.

The dungeon below, with all of its security and equipment, and having it all done without there being any paperwork trace was more expensive than the house and the eight acres of slightly sloping land that belong to it. This is a very private, very quiet area.

I pour myself a glass of Scotch. I'm normally a wine person; I mostly drink heavy reds, like Burgundy, Rioja, or even reinforced wines like Port or its less-known eastern cousin, Kagor. I only drink liquor when I have a serious reason to celebrate. Tonight's the night. The rich-golden, smoky scented liquid in the glass was already older than you are now when you were born, and it has travelled to me all the way from the Scottish highlands. I go to great lengths to get exactly what I want and what I like. Something you learned a good bit about today.

I drink, listen to old French chansons. Watch bits and patches of the starry, brilliant sky up above the raggedy mosaic of low clouds. I takes another hour, and three glasses of the Scotch for my excitement to wear of enough for my own tiredness to kick in. I go to my study. Put in a password, then another one, run a few commands in batch, and another password. This one is sensitive not just to what you put in, but also to the rhythm at which you input each one of the numbers, letters, special symbols. My own idea, developed by a friend, and as far as I know, impenetrable by current technology. And there I see you, on the webcams that monitor your cell round the clock, from all angles. Fast asleep. It makes me smile and think of tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow, when you'll want more food than just a fruity snack, you'll want a shower, you'll want to avoid more pain and my anger, which can be such a dangerous thing... Question is, what will *I* want?

All security systems are on, perimeter safe, and so I lock the computer and go to sleep. Even though I have got all I ever wanted, even though I came, I had a release, it's quite a restless sleep, light, patchy. Almost like I can't subconsciously believe my luck. Can't believe that months of planning and preparation -- months of minimizing risks, maximizing my chances to get away with all this, hundreds of hours of hard work, obsessive, strenuous, so careful they bordered on paranoia -- that it all actually paid off.

I wake up early, partially because of the novelty of owning you being still so surreal, partially it's just the joy, the extreme aliveness that comes with the idea of you as my pet, my slave, my... whatever the heck I want you to be at any given moment. I go for a jog. Do my workout routine. I shave. Trim. I have a long, thorough shower. Put on my expensive aftershave, my perfume, transparent lip balm, foot balm, hand cream, anti frizz hair tonic, brush and floss my teeth, use mouthwash, I go all out. When I come down to you, sticky, itchy, messy-haired and starting to smell bad, I want the contrast to be as stark as can be. I even put on less comfy clothes, a tighter cut and a brilliant, dazzling white colored pants, a casual smart shirt that veers very much more towards the smart side of that spectrum. A Rolex watch. I laugh at myself, it's too much already! I'm being way too anal with this, it's the overall impression that'll do the job, I doubt that this time round, the devil will be in details.

Now I have to wear an apron as I make breakfast. Full English, luxury upon luxury. Adding herbs, spices, preheating all plates and bowls, making them too hot to be touched just now as they are placed on the tray (I use an oven mitten), because I don't want the food to go cold. Then I take off the apron and carry the food down to the dungeon. It's almost 9:00 a.m. now, your cell has lit up, gradually, over the course of a few minutes, at 8:00 a..m sharp. I open the door. Place a folding table in. A chair. I spread the feast on it. Sit. The food smells tormentingly mouth watering. But there is no second chair. No second pair of cutlery, even though the portion is generous enough for two.

"Good morning, Sunshine," I say merrily, smiling, looking happy, friendly, like what happened last night was just an illusion, a bad dream. Only of course, it was not. All it takes is a quick glance at you, your clammy, sticky skin, hair glued together with droll and cum into matted strands... the smell of this cell. Still a bit... cummy. Sour. Musky.

"You have a permission to speak freely, and unless you are very rude, there'll be no pain. Did you sleep well, Dandy tart?" I ask, lightly, casually. I'm entering a whole another area. Breaking you into mindless obedience would be a waste of your intelligence, brightness, your character. You need to learn how to act submissively, carefully, without displeasing me, even when you don't have precise, step-by-step instructions. And you have to learn how to beg. Most kids, most people these day, pretty much have lost that lovely skill. You, my dear, will have to master it. And your first practice sessions starts just about now.

Laura

My eyes close as soons as the door swishes shut behind you. If eyelids had weights, mine would have shut with an audible thud. I do not move again, and within about 30 seconds, I am out cold.

Despite my fatigue, I sleep rather fitfully, tossing and turning on the futon as I move between sleep stages. Although I am tired, even exhausted, my subconscious brain remains disturbed about the turn of events over the past 24 hours. In truth, it has not even been a full day since I was taken -- a sudden rustling behind me, followed by a prick in my neck, a hand over my mouth, and a slow-motion collapse, falling, down, down, spiraling into a hole. I awoke in this room. Here. Where there is nothing but this, nowhere but here. I roll over in my sleep, on my tummy now, my bare, slender little form almost perpendicular on the futon, my feet and lower legs on the floor. I sleep restively, fitfully.

It is warm in the cell, not too warm to sleep, but coupled with my heightened anxiety, warm enough to cause me to perspire. My face is a bit flushed, and my body takes on a light, odorless sheen of little-girl perspiration. My bangs are glued wetly to my forehead and I turn my head, searching for cool even as I continue to sleep.

My sleep is encumbered by dreams -- scraps of images and thoughts and feelings that I will not remember when I awaken, but are very vivid and very real now, in REM stage. I am falling, spiraling, down, down, into a hole, a cavernous pit, screaming silently -- the toes on both feet spasm and clench in my sleep as I fall -- but the hole is not a hole, but a cell, a plastic cell, with glowing walls. I land in the cell, unharmed, not even landing but just appearing there, and beneath me the floor comes to life, glowing, presenting the image of a man, an unknown man, a composite man, looking up at me, as I lie there, on my tummy, face down. I try to move, to sit up, to stand, but I cannot, the man is talking, giving instructions, but I cannot hear him, I want to hear his words, but I can't, there are so many other voices competing with his. But I want to hear his words, I want to stop the other voices, but they drown him out -- his words grow softer, even, as if someone turned down the volume -- but his eyes are fierce, and I know that there will be consequences if I don't hear his words, I just know. I toss and turn in my sleep, my skin damp, trying to hear the man, trying to listen, but I can't hear, I'm missing everything he's saying. . .

I awake with a startle, sitting up, with a little moan, panting for air. My forehead is beaded with perspiration as I sit there, naked, collared, only half awake. My mind races. I touch my collar with my left hand as my surroundings slowly start to make sense. I see the faint glow of the tiles near the toilet and the sink. I sniffle, my heart racing, my back and chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath and remember what my dream was about. But it fades so fast. I don't remember -- was I falling? My head feels thick.

I have to pee, pretty bad, so I stand up, naked in the dim light, and pad on bare feet over to the toilet. It is bare porcelain, white, stark, merely functional. There is no privacy divider or screen. Still breathing heavily, my eyes heavy and tired, I sit down on the seat, leaning forward, closing my sleepy eyes. A few seconds later the sound of urine dribbling into the bowl is heard in my cell. When I am done, I dry myself with a corner of paper, and flush. I am fully awake now, but dull-witted with fatigue. I pad my way back to the futon, lie down, curl up, and fall back asleep.

I sleep the remainder of the night, without awakening, but I am restless. Tossing and turning, with an occasional moan, and a couple of mumbled words as I dream. I awaken with what seems to be the sun shining through my eyelids, as the lights gently come up at 8:00 a.m. I roll on my back and stretch, arms above my head with my fingers lazily laced together, legs stretching out, long and slender the opposite way, toes pointed. My naked little body is so lithe and slender, with the thin, angular waif-look of a preteen. My tummy is hollowed as I stretch, my little mound protruding fleshily from the vee where my legs meet. My ribs show as I stretch, moaning a morning exhale, my chest flat and boyish, save for the hint of development in my ever-so-slightly puffy, almost translucent little nipples.

My eyes open as I stretch, dark and doe-like, the redness from yesterday all gone now. I blink, and sit up on the futon. My eyes no longer are sunken, and I look rested. I rub my eyes, both of them together, with the flat of my hands, palms turned in. My long, beautiful hair is tousled, matted at my forehead, and stringy on my little shoulders from last night's exertions. I need to pee again, so I climb to my feet, and paddle over to the toilet. When I am finished I stand, and flush, and survey my little cell.

I can't smell the cummy mustiness myself -- having nothing to compare it to -- but I can see the chalky, dried streaks on the floor where the puddle once was. The futon rests on the floor. I proceed to the tiny sink, where rests the toothpaste and the tooth brush. As well as the water bottle. My mouth feels nasty and dry -- I'm usually a very fastidious little girl, who brushes without being told, and flosses assiduously. I take a bath every single night, even on weekends. I contemplate using the toothbrush for a moment -- it was placed there by the sex pervert person man who gets mad and I don't want to use it. But, I also don't want to get a cavity. Cavities lead to fillings which can involve dentists and needles and things I don't like. So I brush. The toothpaste is nasty old pepperminty adult toothpaste, which stings my tongue a little and I don't like it. And there's no floss anywhere. I rinse my mouth from the bottle.

When I'm done, I look around the cell once more. The bottle is available but I am not thirsty. My tummy, however, feels achingly empty, even though I ate some stuff from the bad man last night. I'm hungry again. But there is no food. I'm bored. I think the man said he would be back this morning. But he's not here. For a sudden, chilling second, I wonder what would happen if he died. Or had a coma, like on TV. Would I die? Would I starve to death? Here? Alone? In this cell? I rather suspect that I would -- who else know where I am?

I banish that unsavory thought from my mind, and go to the futon. Bored, I lie back down, my hands behind my head. I am lying there, still, wide awake, pondering the ceiling of my cell, when the door whoooshes open. I sit up, startled but quiet, then watch attentively, as you bring the items into the cell. I can smell the food -- absolutely heavenly. My tummy aches with emptiness as I smell it, the scents wafting through the cell air.

You look very clean, and proper, and well-dressed. Actually quite put together. I've seen men like you at my modeling gigs -- well-dressed, well-groomed, confident. I've even been in ads with them, almost always with a "Mom" model and a "sibling" model, usually a younger or older "brother." You would be the "Dad" character, in a sweater, or a polo, with me in a shorts suit, or whatever. You remind me of those men. Confident, rugged, nicely-smelling. Often I'm up on their shoulders. "Smile, Laura -- you're going on a family outing!" Glenn would say. I would smile, as the "Dad" model holds my ankles. Whatever. I hate ads anyway.

I sit on the futon as you finish, not responding to your greeting, just watching, sitting there, on my bottom, holding my legs, naked and collared, following your moves with my dark, soulful eyes. I blink as you give me permission to speak freely. "Yes," I reply, softly, as you ask me if I slept well, using Daddy's pet name for me. You seem to know everything about me. I sit, and stare, as you sit down to breakfast. Studying you.

Marcus

"Your mantra. Loud and clear. Three times," I say and while it's not a shouted, grunted command, not coming from the creepy, I-might-just-kill-you-otherwise space inside it's still a command. "Pay attention now. For now, your name is Pet. You will answer to it," I say though we both know that with just the two of us here you'll respond to whatever I call you, "and when asked what your name is, that's the answer you'll give. Tomorrow it might be different. It likely will," I muse as I introduce a new power of mine, a power to name you, to re-name you on my whim.

"You're hungry, Pet," I say. I don't ask, I don't have to. "Come here," I invite you, pointing to a spot just to my right, on the floor. As far as commands go, it's a soft one, spoken nearly without emphasis, but it's one that gets you closer to the tormentingly good-smelling food, of which there is so much it is clearly meant for sharing. I don't invite you to take something, I don't offer you anything. Funny, with consensual subs, when I still compromised on BDSM with adult women in the past, I always had to ask about allergies, medical issues, limits... You are more fragile and vulnerable than any of them, and yet; I don't have to ask anything. I know your medical record. No food allergies, though you would probably disagree and try to claim that you are in fact allergic to cheese and Brussels sprouts.. No lasting, serious health issues and nothing acute at the moment, either.

You kneel, and I stroke your hair, gently. Softly. It's a "good girl" kind of stroke, and my warm, big hands are good at those (as well as many other things).

"Here's the rules of the breakfast game. I'll feed you little morsels... the moment you refuse one, there will be no more after that. You don't get to pick, you take what I give you, and if you don't, then you are are done eating for now. No hands though. No hands at all, I'll feed you and you'll eat directly with your mouth. As simple as that." With that, I feed you a spoonful of baked beans in yummy, sweet, tomato sauce. A forkful of delicious scrambled eggs. Small, modest mouthfuls. Very careful not to prematurely sate you, very careful not to spoil this game. I give you a small taste of most of the bits and pieces that form my breakfast. I eat as well. Sometimes making you wait a good while between morsels. I'm messing with your mind, consciously and subconsciously as well. Whenever you show even a slight hesitation before accepting the morsel, I punish you with at least a minute's pause before the next morsel. I pay attention to what bits and pieces you like, and you seem quite keen on the well fried streaky bacon, which surprises me. I make note of it, and continue my own breakfast, another little bit of eggs, you don't seem to be too keen on them because I don't overcook mine and they are a little bit "slimy", therefore. I pick up a cut square of bacon, but this time not with the fork but with my fingers, holding it not by a corner but in the middle, making sure you'll have to make contact with your lips and tongue to claim it.

You've had a bit less than a kid your age’s worth of breakfast now, given you skipped two meals yesterday you must still be hungry. The fact that the morsels I feed you are small and with pauses in between likely makes you feel even hungrier than you are. I know how to play these games, a lot of thought and research went into them. I pick up a good, yummy piece of bacon, from the bottom of their pile so it's still nice and warm and yummy. A nice, meaty, large-ish square. But instead of venturing to your mouth, I bend down and my fingers wedge the piece between my big toe and the next toe. Our breakfast game has just turned interesting. Up until now I was confident that you would eat, maybe with hesitation, but I knew you would. Now? I have no idea. I kind of suspect that after the level of toughness and ability to grit your teeth and bear stuff, this will hardly be a challenge, but what do I really know? This is not something I could have observed in your previous life. You'll have to kiss my toes, and maybe even stick your tongue in between to free the square and get a good enough grip on it with your teeth.

Will you? I smile. I've by now eaten pretty much all I care to eat. There's a good bit left. You could eat at least twice as much as this. But the question in my eyes as they observe you closely, attentively, is: Will you?

Of course it's not a one-off tease, it's a game changer, and my sly smile warns you of it. If you play on, stuff will get more and more interesting, gradually. We're past the "boring" bit of the game.

Laura

Still seated on the futon, my arms around my knees, watching you, as you instruct me to repeat my mantra. For a moment -- a brief, sickening moment -- I can't remember it. My eyes widen and I look stricken ("Laur’, you HAVE to remember it, please!" I say to myself.) I let go of my knees, sitting up, now kneeling with my bottom on my heels once again. Shifting my position. Buying time. Delaying.

It's only a few second, but suddenly the words you made me repeat so many times yesterday pop into my head. "There is nothing but this. There is nowhere but here. There is no one but you," I say quickly, my voice soft yet confident, as a swell of relief washes over me. I did remember. Thank God. "There is nothing but this. There is nowhere but here. There is no one but you," I repeat. And again: "There is nothing but this. There is nowhere but here. There is no one but you." The words are a meaningless incantation to me. A chant. I reject the premise of the words, even as I remember them, recite them. My tone of voice is neutral but soft, the cute, lyrical voice of a just-turned 11-year-old girl reciting words from memory.

When I am finished reciting the mantra I look at you from the futon, and I can tell you are pleased. You tell me my name for the time being, "Pet," but I have no visible reaction. There is no purpose in fighting you about such things, just as it was silly to fight you yesterday about the mantra. It got me nowhere. There is no shame in complying. And calling me "Pet" and making me repeat it doesn't change anything. My name is Laura Vandahl and it doesn't matter what you say. So there. And my brief hesitation in reciting the mantra this morning was not resistance, but a brain cramp -- a momentary freeze.

I feel almost proud of myself -- certainly relieved, anyway -- as you look pleased and motion me to your side. I stand, lithe, naked, and collared, looking so beautiful so tiny, slender. I make no effort to cover either my bald, preteen mound or my flat, boyish chest. I walk to you, my tummy gurgling with emptiness, and seat myself there, kneeling once again, on the floor at your side. My little face is eager; I can't help myself -- I'm 11, and hungry. And the food arrayed on the table before you smells rich and delicious.

Your hand gently strokes the top of my head as you explain The Breakfast Game. I listen, quiet, a different little girl from yesterday. As you explain the rules, neither of us is aware of the passing of the 24-hour mark from our first encounter. Or at least my first encounter with you, since you had been studying, monitoring, and watching me for several weeks before my successful abduction. I continue to listen, kneeling naked at your side, as I begin the second day of my captivity. Naked, collared, and kneeling at your side in my dungeon cell, I've come a long way in just 24 hours.

I'm not overjoyed to hear the rules of The Breakfast Game, as it seems to me that you're only doing it to tease me, to be mean. But hunger has a way of clarifying what is important and what is not, and my tummy feels very empty right now and filling it with food seems very important, yes it does. And so when that spoonful of savory baked beans is presented -- even though it's the same spoon you are using -- I sit up a little straighter and open my mouth, like a baby bird, taking the beans inside and closing, using my lips to clean the spoon as you withdraw it. Hunger also has a way of accentuating the taste of food and one's enjoyment of it, and as I quickly chew and swallow your offering the thought occurs to me that I have never had better-tasting beans in my entire life.

I hesitate, but only briefly, as you hold the piece of bacon out to me in your fingers. My pride wants me to reject it and thus end the meal, but my tummy -- well, my tummy has a different view. Using only my mouth, I lean up a little, like an aquarium seal in training, and nibble it from your finger and thumb, grazing both of them with my wet little lips. I chew quickly and down the bacon even as my ears burn with shame. I immediately feel angry at myself. "Pride" and "dignity" are not in my 6h-grader vocabulary, but the concepts behind them are universal and I am acutely aware that I just undercut those concepts for a piece of fried meat. I look down, ashamed. Ashamed, but hungry. Still hungry. Very hungry.

I watch, still kneeling, as you pick up another piece of bacon, and fold it over. I blink, my eyes fixed on it, knowing that I will take it from your fingers once again. There is no sense fighting you on it now. I've already done it once. Better to pretend that I don't care, that I'm not ashamed. My mouth opens as your hand reaches out but then closes again in surprise, as I watch you bend over and press the bacon between your toes.

My expression changes quickly from hungry anticipation to sullen anger, as you smile at me. I know you are teasing me, testing me. I know it's on purpose. You're nothing but a mean, nasty sex pervert person. I hate you! I don't dare say these things, but I think them, yes I do. I turn away and lower my head so you won't see the shimmer of tears in my eyes. I feel humiliated, like I'm being laughed at on stage in front of the entire 6th grade. I don't care if I'm still hungry. I'm not eating any food that ever touched your big smelly man feet, no I'm not! It's not fair and you're mean, nasty person for doing that. I decide I'm not even going to look at you. I hang my head so you won't see my tears, as my little ears burn with shame.