12. Bathtime

Marcus

Poor thing . . . I meant to tease you, to test you, but you surprise me by not being game. I can easily imagine how hungry you must be and your pride getting the best out of you isn't what I expected, even though I knew it was an option. I just leave that slither of bacon between my toes, not really thinking that you will reconsider, more just to rub it in, to extend the time in which you still have a chance to eat, and you are refusing yourself the opportunity. Yes. You're mad at me now, but what I eventually want you to be is mad at yourself, for not playing on. In the end, I was here with all the food that you needed. And I warned you yesterday that resistance was . . . futile. And unwise.

I eat a few more mouthfuls before I lean down to pull the bacon from in between my toes and wipe them with a tissue. Game over.

Whatever. There's always lunch. And supper. Just you wait, prideful little Pet. Time, your tummy, everything plays in my favor. No matter what, in the end, the odds are always against you. As long as I make up the rules of the games, I don't ever lose. Not really. Not in the long run.

I take the food, the table, the chair, all of it away. Its delicious smell lingers, though, reminding you that you've eaten less than your due. Less than you should have. I'm not sure what you expect, but if you had any idea what you are in for for lunch you'd probably gobble up even potatoes mashed with my feet and toes. But . . . have it your way. For now.

There's a price for everything in this place.. Nothing is given freely, you have to work towards it, bend or kneel for it, do *something*. Usually something not nice, unusual, a bit mad perhaps, something you would not do otherwise. Like now. I come back, sit down cross- legged and pat the floor in front of me, encouraging you to do the same.

"Here's the rules of the next game," I say, smiling. Games upon games. It's all great fun, in the end. For some of us, anyway. "You noticed that there's no shower or bathtub in the cell. Well it just so happens that next door to it, there's a luxury bathroom," I tell you. "Jacuzzi bath, warmed, tiled floor, and lots of little girly cosmetics I bought for you." I pause, I let that all soak in. "We can go there and you can have a good wash. Shower, bath, a rinse at the end. Hair washed and all of that. But . . ." of course there is a *BUT* in there.

"I'll be the one washing you. I'll touch you everywhere, no exceptions, and you'll let me, you'll part your legs for me, lift your arms up for me, you will let me rub your butthole, your pussy . . ." I pause, letting your imagination take care of the rest of the details. "Knowing that. Do you want a wash? If you do, you can ask for it nicely. If you don't . . .well then pass, but maybe when you decide you need it, I will not be in the mood . . .and you might have to beg. Or wait. Or beg and wait and beg again. Staying stinky for *days* . . ."

I look at you. I know you will not *like* this game. But . . . will you play it?

Laura

I am pouting, my head down, feeling sorry for myself. No way am I going to eat stuff if it touches your foot. Yuck! It's gross to put food between your toes, and I know you only did it to be mean. Just 'cause you think you can be. Yes I'm still hungry but not for yucky, gross food stuck between your toes. As I contemplate the bacon I make a kind of a grimacing "yuck" look, which you can't really see because I'm still looking down at the floor.

I notice that you leave the bacon there for a while, but I'm not gonna eat it. You said I didn't have to. I don't even care if I starve to death. You can leave it between your toes forever. I don't care.

Good. You took it away. There. Now I can't even eat it. I'm glad you took it away. I wasn't ever gonna eat it anyways. My tummy, however, rumbles a little as you finish up.

I watch as you take the food away -- my eyes lingering on it longingly -- and then the chair. As you take the table away I stand, unbidden, and walk back over the futon and sit down. But then you come back and pat the floor in front of you. I remember the last time you wanted me to come to you. It was when I put your penis in my mouth. But before that, you picked me up, hugged and rocked me, and were actually nice to me.

I rise, and come to you, naked, collared, slender, 11. I sit, cross-legged, across from you. My expression is neutral. Maybe a hint of curiosity. You can tell that I am thinking, taking everything in, my young brain processing information as I make eye contact with you.

I listen, as you explain that there is another game. I'm not sure why you like these games. I gaze intently at you as you speak, trying to figure it out. I know you are a sex pervert person but some of the games don't make sense. Like, why would you tease me by putting bacon between your toes? I understand that when I put your penis in my mouth it feels good to you. I knew that already from girl talk at school and once I watched X-rated videos for an hour in this place and heard men moaning with pleasure, it was clear that it felt good. Plus *YOU* moaned and made sounds when you squirted the stuff in my mouth. So I know you liked it.

But bacon in your toes? Pouring water on the floor for me to drink? That's not sex stuff. It doesn't make sense to me. It's weird, actually.

I look mildly interested as you mention the bathroom next door. I really want a bath. I want one bad. Really bad. For a second I think you really mean it about the bathroom but then I realize you're just teasing me again, taunting me with your smile, telling me whatever you want, whatever you feel like saying. I know you don't have a luxury bathroom with all that stuff. You're just teasing me. I ponder whether the game is that the game itself is a game. You're just pretending about the luxury bathroom to see what I'll say.

I listen to the catch. Oh, so now I get it. If I say yes I want a bath you're gonna touch me in all of my private places. But if I say no, you're gonna get all mad and stuff and be mean and won't let me take a bath. But it doesn't matter 'cause you don't even have a big old "luxury bathroom" with all that stuff in it anyway. I only got here yesterday and I know you didn't even go out to buy a bunch of girlie stuff for me, so you're just a big fat liar.

I debate my response as you pose the question. I want a bath. I feel sticky and gross. But I know this is a game and I know you don't have some super duper bathroom full of stuff for me.

Suddenly, I decide. I nod. I want to. Oh, I forgot I'm supposed to ask nicely. "Please," I start to say, my voice trailing off as I just as suddenly reconsider. I'm not sure what I should do. "Please may I . . . please may I take a bath?" I ask. ("You're so impetuous, Laura!" I chide myself. "What if he does have a big fancy bathroom after all?")

Marcus

For once, I cannot read you, cannot read you at all. What goes on in your head passes unnoticed by me. Your disbelief in what I don't even realise must sound like a too-good-to-be-true bathroom, the confusion I planted into your head by calling the dilemma a game. Even though I watch your face intently, none of thiscomes across at all. What does come across is your "please," your polite, softly spoken request for a bath and a shower, even though it will be me washing you, and your nod.

Just then, your thoughts are more complex and non-linear than I would have anticipated, if I suspected just what you are thinking and feeling, I would try and use it, I would mess you about a bit more. But for me, the fact that there is a bathroom in the dungeon is a known fact, and for once I don't show enough empathy and ability to put myself in your shoes to guess what sort of thoughts I triggered by the offer. Luckily for you. Luckily for both of us, perhaps, because I take your compliance as a good, promising sign. And I react accordingly. Good, promising behaviour needs to be reinforced. And so I ruffle your hair playfully, with a smile on my lips, and then pick you up, and carry you to the door, which opens for us, and for the first time since you've been locked up here, you are shown more than just your 3x3x3 metres of cell.

I should probably have told you to close your eyes, but then... I kind of want you to see what is beyond. I want you to know. Because behind the door, there is a large space with a vaulted ceiling, a spacious softly lit dungeon, and even to the most innocent of eyes, even in the eyes of a barely-eleven year old, this is clearly a place made to cause pain. There are chains, rings in the wall, hooks in the ceiling, there is a pillory, an X-shaped cross, all sorts of benches and similar pieces of furniture, all clearly made to tie people up to in weird and rather exposed positions. And there are stands of tools of my craft along the walls. Canes. Long whips. Floggers. Paddles. Riding crops. A few specimens of a full-on, huge cat'o'nine tails. There are other, more disturbing and to you, perhaps a bit more obscure objects. Butt-plugs of varying types, each type in a full range of sizes from tiny, about an adult's finger size, to huge, overly huge, aubergine-sized ones. And dildos. And vibrators. Lots and lots and lots.

Luckily, I don't stop here, don't even pause. I turn left, and left again, and through another door carry you into a bathroom just as I promised. Amber coloured tiles. The theme is honey, amber and gold. It really is a luxury bathroom. And I did buy stuff for you. Not what you use, mostly, but stuff made for little girls. I want you to smell like a little girl, of vanilla and strawberries and citrus fruits and fresh girly stuff like that. I stand you directly into the bathtub. "A rinse, a scrub down and then a bath," I outline the plan. "Remember the deal. I touch you. You let me. You make it easy for me. No fighting back. That's the deal." And perhaps in the light of what just flicked through your vision briefly, displeasing me, breaking your word might seem like a worse idea than even before.

I run the tepid water, rinse you off first, patiently, slowly, thoroughly, and then very slowly, mindfully apply a pink strawberry scented shower gel to my hands, frothing them up - no sponge or anything - and I touch you. I touch your shoulders, and neck, and arms... and I rub and massage and scrub, and I am very, very thorough, and very, very sensual, and conscious, and I enjoy exploring every little bit of your skin, rushing nowhere, going slow. I’m relaxed. This is going to take a while, little one. Whether you expected it or not, whether you like it or not.

Laura

I know that I miscalculated from the second you smiled and playfully ruffled the top of my head. As you scoop me up -- so light in your arms, naked, all smooth and hairless, angular and lithe, not an ounce of fat anywhere on my body, yet coltish, and for a connoisseur of the preteen form, erotic, shapely, and exciting -- I realize instantly that there must, in fact, BE a luxury bathroom. There was no pause, no hesitation, in your reaction. You simply smiled, ruffled my head, plucked me off the floor, perched me on your hip, and headed out the door.

My dark, soulful eyes survey the room outside, my head turning from side to side as we enter. I am curious. I have not seen the room -- or hallway, or whatever it is -- outside my cell, and I've wondered what was there. Whenever the door to me cell was open the outside space seemed dark to me, the low lighting contrasting with the ambient lighting of my cell. Almost instantly as we enter the room, however, my tummy clenches with fear and my little hands -- which were resting absently-mindedly against your shoulder as you carried me on your hip -- suddenly clutch at the fabric of your sleeve, as if for protection, or to prevent you from setting me down, here, in this nightmarish place.

You can tell instantly from my reaction that I know what this place is, and what it is for. It's not a luxury bathroom, not even a bathroom at all. It's . . . it's a . . . bad place, a scary place, a dungeon. One of those places where the king takes people to torture and kill them and make them scream and cry. I've seen snippets of movies on TV. I saw The Princess Bride with my friend Charlotte where the man was tortured until he died, at least kinda died. My class watched a school movie about Henry the VIII not two months ago, and I remember when the king ordered this man he didn't like taken away, and the man was dragged into a castle dungeon by two guards, and they showed some of the stuff there, with torches on the walls, and dark, dank, scary machines, and then the last thing you hear as the camera went back up the stairs was him screaming . . .

A surge of adrenaline courses through my 11-year-old veins as my eyes survey the horrible accoutrements of the room. I don't understand all of the apparatus and equipment, but that makes the room all the more terrifying to me. That and the low lighting. Everything looks dark, mysterious, dangerous. My head turns as I stare at a wall seemingly covered with flogging devices. I know what they are. I know what they are for. I know what they do. The blood drains from my face and I lean my upper body a bit closer to you, as if ducking behind you for protection. I am suddenly very, very cold.

But if you sense my terror you give no sign of it, and within just a few seconds, we no longer are in that room, but in a hallway, and then another. This place is huge. It's bigger than my house. Bigger than Daddy's house. I look around as we pass by, seeing doors that lead to other rooms. And then . . . my mouth hangs open in wide-eyed amazement as we enter a gorgeous, clean, enormous, luxury bathroom.

Now I don't know what to think. As you place my now-trembling body in the tub, I am stunned. You really do have a luxury bathroom. You have a cell. A dungeon place. And there were other doors that I don't even know what was behind them. In the cell, even though I've only been there for a day, I felt more grounded, more confident, more . . . important? The cell is small, more my size. I know everything that is in it. But now, knowing that the cell is just a tiny piece of this whole place -- wherever this place is -- makes me feel very small, very unsettled, and very nervous.

I'm pretty sure we're in a basement. Not only because dungeons are like, underground with dripping walls and stuff, but because I haven't seen a single window. Not in my cell, of course, but I didn't notice one in the dark dungeon place, either, and there's no windows visible here, in the bathroom. The bathroom is light and bright like a bathroom should be, but it's artificial light. There are no windows. No way out. Yes, I'm pretty sure I'm in a basement.

Another thought crosses my clever, 5th-grader mind. You're rich. Very rich. You can't have stuff and big rooms with fancy doors that go "whhoooosh" and open on command without having a lot of money. And TVs in floors and lights that come on in different places and 'lectodes you put inside people’s teeth. And you dress really nice in fancy clothes and smell good with cologne like rich people do, or at least the way I think a rich person probably would.

I survey the bathroom as you set me down, and I see that there are all sorts of products everywhere. I recognize soaps and shampoos made for tweens and children. I've seen them all before. I know all the brands. I see TIGI Colour Goddess Shampoo & Conditioner. Teen Spirit Pink Crush Body Wash. Even cotton candy shampoo -- I recognize the bottle because I used to use it when I was like, nine. Nobody uses that stuff anymore at my school -- it's for little kids. I feel a little superior knowing this. You do have a luxury bathroom. You do have stuff for kids in it. But you have no idea what's popular these days with my friends and me. So there.

I stand there, my head spinning, as you start to rinse me. The water is only lukewarm and I shiver, partly from the water but mostly from what I saw in the large room with the vaulted ceiling. I feel really, truly unsettled. I stand there, still, and quiet, as your large, soapy hands begin to touch my naked, preteen body. My skin is sensuously soft, silky smooth from the shower gel. Your hands glide over me, touching, rubbing, and massaging me everywhere. My fit, slender young body is soft and girlish. The feel of my skin is different, somehow, from that of a woman. Smoother. Softer. More delicate. I have no blemishes, scars, or disfigurements anywhere that you can see or feel.

I make no effort to resist as you touch and rub, explore and scrub. I'm too stunned. And I made a deal. I gambled, and lost. I called your bluff, but you weren't bluffing. You weren't bluffing at all. I have a faraway look in my doe-like eyes as you touch me everywhere with your large, soapy hands.

Marcus

The fact that you notice the dungeon, and get it, at least to an extent, is great. I feel a shiver of joy when you tense against my shoulder, clutch on my sleeve. Oh yes, baby. Be afraid. Yes. *Good!* Let your fantasy, your imagination work in my favour. It gives me a twisted, dark surge of intense joy, the effect I can feel the dungeon had on you.

It's good that you realise that I'm rich and powerful, too. It should make the mantra a bit more believable, the chances of escape, of me being caught a lot less imaginable a lot less probable in the little, clever head of yours. You are right, the dungeon area is large, there's lots to it. And there are no windows, only one exit, with two doors, both sound-proof and sturdy and both very securely locked each one by two independent mechanisms.

But now, you are in a bathtub, all is well, and I go on washing you. As I get to your chest, I'm reminded of just how stark, staggering our size difference is. My hand, from wrist to fingertips, is longer than your chest is wide. With one hand on your chest and one on your back, my long fingers could almost, almost meet, I could wrap my hands over the whole of your chest. I can't, you're small and skinny, but in a two-digit age, not a baby anymore. But it's a surprisingly close call. You feel so small, so tender, so delicate under my strong, shovel-sized hands. I toy with your nipples, glide over them multiple times, circle them, press on them, explore the tender flesh extra thoroughly before moving on.

I wash your belly, yours sides, armpits. I glide over flatly and smoothly enough not to tickle you. I position you a little more than necessary. It's a little bit of a training, I'm getting you used to being physically handled, manipulated by me. And I make it clear, albeit non-verbally, that when I put you in a position, you are to stay in it; when I put your arms up above your head, they stay there, until I take your wrists and allow you to lower them again. Any attempts to move out of your own volition are discouraged by light smacks, over your hands, bum, and by my guttural growls. A quick, direct feedback that makes the learning easy.

When I have washed your legs down to your ankles, we're both very aware that there are only three areas of you left that have not been scrubbed, pussy, butt and your feet. I step half a step back and shed my shirt quickly, and crouch back down. I make you squat. Facing away from me. Knees very wide apart. A very, very exposed position. And then I speak.

"Good girls get to play games. Weird games and maybe games that they don't like, but they are all just game to make master happy," I say as my left arm slides to your front to hold onto, running from under your left armpit across your chest to the right, so you can hold steadily. My right arms starts washing your lower belly, your mound, the fine, sweet lines where your legs and torso meet, they rub your inner thighs, from knee towards crotch, stopping at just where the panty line would be, if you had any panties on. "Good girls suck cock, obey master, behave. Remember their lessons..." I pause. "Bad girls... disobey. Are rude. Fight back. Don't keep promises. Bad girls don't get to play games. Bad girls are punished, in the dungeon. Bad girls scream and cry a lot, when they are being punished," I whisper into your ear. "Bad girls who don't keep promises. Bad girls who cannot keep their knees nice and wide apart, as promised," I say, and under the faint pretence of washing, my hand slippery with the shower gel, I start to masturbate your pussy.

I was slow, thorough and a bit repetitive up until now, too, but it only would take a moment for anyone to realise that this is a whole another ballgame. I explore the opening of your vagina and go as far in as I can without breaking your hymen, actually pushing against its resistance a little bit. And then I glide between your preteen folds. Once, twice, a dozen times and more. And then my index finger reaches further and glides over the little pink rose of your pucker, several times lightly, than with more pressure, then it circles round, and then it uses the slickness of the shower gel to slip in. Just the very tip, not even to the first knuckle, barely, barely in, teasing. And the soft pad of my thumb between your nether lips starts rubbing against and over your tiny clit.

The reason why these cosmetics are not what you really use but "dated" is because these are all non-stinging, eye safe formulas, baby-friendly, hypo-allergenic. I could use this shower gel as lube and fuck your rear if it came to it. Also I prefer the more child-like girlie smells. Fruits and fresh stuff. Spicier scents are for teenagers and grown up women, and I don't want you to smell like a grown up, nothing even remotely like it. Right now, with your anus slickly, slightly penetrated I bet you'd appreciate the fact that it doesn't sting if you knew that it's a conscious choice on my part and if you knew how badly normal soap itches and stings.

"What is your name right now? What is your mantra? What do you do when I slap you, always? And what do good girls do with their knees for master?" I ask, question after question as I work your insofar intact, gorgeous, tempting, oh-so-desirable pussy and pucker.

I'm curious now, very, very curious. Even though it was a first, I kind of I knew how it would be to have my cock sucked by a little girl; just like by a woman, perhaps more intense, and better for the fact that I'm actually fully, properly attracted to you, without faking it and imagining being with someone else, someone half your age or younger. But your response to stimulation? I have a few clues from kiddie porn, but then, in it, the girls are either treated quite roughly and not given any pleasure, or they are not quite in your position and they fuss and fret and make daddy stop when it becomes even slightly too much in the rest of the cases. We're in quite the unique position here, you and I. And I'm really eager to find out what sounds you make when you get rubbed just the right way. What faces you make. How your body feels under an assault of intense, yet painless sensation.

Laura

I stand, quiet and nervous, as your large hands wash me -- rubbing, massaging, positioning, repeating. I swallow a couple of times as I try to stand still while your adult fingers roam all over my naked, glistening skin. You touch my chest, soaping me there, lingering, fingering. It feels so strange to have someone touch me there, like that, right on my nipplss. They break out in goosepimples as your slickery fingers accordion over the nubs. Nobody but me has touched my nipples for as long back as I can remember. I know my Mom and maybe even Daddy used to give me baths, but I have no recollection of them now. It's been me and me alone for years, taking my daily bath. I am the only one who ever touches my naked body. But now, you are touching me there, and everywhere, with your soft, gentle, slippery hands and probing fingers.

I try to move a couple of times when you position me, but a light smack or a growl is enough to have me hold the position. Like when you were doing my legs, you had me spread them, and thought I was going to slip and brought my feet closer. You smacked the inside thigh of my left leg a couple of times until I moved it back -- not hard enough to hurt much, but hard enough for the message to be heard loud and clear. I know that you expect me to stay in any position you place me in. I get it.

I can tell that you are not touching my private parts on purpose. It's like you are saving them. I wonder, with worry creasing my brow, if you are planning to put your penis inside my pussy, in my vagina. My worry grows as you seem to clean and prepare me all around it -- but you never touch it. The cleaning is long and ritualistic. I feel like I'm being prepared. I already know that you are a sex pervert person, a bad person. I know what sex is. I know that a man puts his thing in her thing. I know how babies are made. I even know about that thing inside me that breaks and bleeds the first time I do it. I don't like blood and I don't want to bleed. When Caroline told me about that, I felt a little sick to my stomach, a little faint. I don't want to do sex if it hurts and makes you bleed. I'm only 11.

My fear grows as you step back and remove your shirt. I am sure you are gonna take off your pants and stick your penis in my pussy. I shake as I look over my shoulder at you, fear in my wide eyes. But then you return, and have me squat down in the tub. Your arm crosses over my chest, as your other hand -- gasp -- descends to my belly, my lower belly, my mound. I groan audibly a couple of times in fearful anticipation as your right hand touches and feels all over down there, everywhere but on my privates themselves, but so close. Each time your fingers dance toward my pussy I am sure it will be the time you touch it, but then they skitter away . . .

And then, suddenly, you begin to speak. Until now you have been quiet, save for the occasional grunt or growl when I moved. We've been here for a while -- a long while -- but neither of us has spoken. Most of the time we've been here together all that could be heard were my little gasps and occasional squeaks, and a couple of fearful moans, distraught, shivery moans.

I startle as you speak -- your mouth so close to my ear -- and make another little squeak. You feel a body-shaking tremble wash over my naked, wet little frame as I squat. I listen, silent and still, as you whisper in my ear. I hear all the words but my mind lingers on only some of them "Good girls . . . suck . . . obey . . . behave . . . remember." "Bad girls . . . punished . . .dungeon . . . scream . . . cry . . . ."

I am listening so attentively, terrified and still, that it takes a half second for me to process the part about keeping my knees and legs wide apart. As the meaning of the words reveal themselves I quickly jerk my knees wider apart, super wide, as wide as they can go, just as your hand slips down to my bare, bald little cunny and begins to touch me there. I gasp aloud, my body shaking, as I draw in a shivery breath. Nobody has ever touched my privates before, not in my memory. But you’re touching them right now.

I tremble, totally silent, totally still, as your fingers caress my sex, rubbing and touching, feeling, inserting. My mouth drops open in worry as I feel your fingers touch my hymen, the membrane sensitive to touch as you press on it. I forget to breathe, catching up all at once with shivery, gasping inhales. And then your finger glides over my butt hole, causing me to flinch my hips, and gasp. I have no idea why anyone would want to touch somebody else's butt hole. It seems so nasty, so yucky and strange and weird. But it is no accident, as your finger lingers there, circling, returning, rubbing, touching my little opening on purpose.

My thighs and little feet are burning now, as I remain crouched down in the tub, my knees spread wide. I do not even know it but as you were fingering my preteen cunny my right hand placed itself over your left hand as it rests, steadying me, just off my right hip. I am trembling, nervous, as your finger presses, presses, presses against my pink puckered slit. I wince, and gasp, a shiver, series of scared little panting inhales and exhales as your finger goes inside my butt hole. ("OMG his finger's inside my butt . . . ow ow ow . . gross . . . no!") I think to myself, my entire body tense, on a knife's edge, at this unexpected intrusion).

I answer in a terrified, nervous, tiny, wavering little child voice as you ask your questions. My responses are stammered and shivered, delivered in a gaspy little voice with inflection that rises suddenly as you continue to finger my sex in new ways, in new places. "P-P-Pet," I gasp. "Th-there is n-nothing (gasp) . . . b-but this. Th- (gasp) th-there is no place . . . no place (gasp) . . . but here. There is (squeak, inhale sharply) . . . no (gasp) . . . no one b-but you." "I have to s- (gasp) say th-thank you. I . . . th-they keep (gasp) . . . keep th-them (squeak) . . . s-spread."

I am trembling, squatting, my heart racing, as I gasp out shivered little distressed answers to your questions. All the while you rub and touch and fondle and finger my private parts, touching me in ways that nobody has ever touched me before. In my pussy, on my "special spot" (that's what I think of my clit as, since I am sure I am the only girl in the world who feels good when I touch it), I swallow, and gasp again as your finger drifts to my butt hole again. It hurts when your finger tip goes inside -- stretching my little ring, abrading it -- and I exhale and gasp each time. But on my pussy, my child sex, my reaction is different -- a tensed, breath-holding anticipation, bordering on eagerness -- eagerness tempered with fear and shame -- as you explore me there and touch my special spot.

With all the water and the gel, you can't tell -- not for sure, anyway -- but it seems like I'm providing some of the lubrication down there naturally, the way women and girls and even little girls do. Yes, it seems possible, perhaps even likely, that my 5th-grader snatch is reacting as you fondle me.

Marcus

My penis might yet end up in your vagina today... a lot can happen in one day down here where time is measured by my comings and goings, my games, my whims. This is very deliberate, very intentional, planned, even. I want you to get a good idea of exactly how sex feels good, why I'll want to do all those things involving my cock. I want you to understand first, before we go on and get to more stuff, to other stuff. You're eleven. Sex will hurt. But I want you to know that sex can stir up very good sensations and feelings, too. I want you to experience it first hand.

Plans, ideas, your journey of sex-discovery had been very thoroughly thought through and yet, if I decide to change direction at any point, that's what will happen. It's all my choices and decisions, plain and simple, no one else to answer to and you, of course, will have no say in it.

Because, of course, there are already a number of things that I can use to push you, manipulate you, motivate you. Hunger, thirst, warmth, sleep, but they are all quite crude, they will, ideally, become a plan B in the near future, no longer essential in your training. Once you taste pleasure, as well as proper, serious pain, my control of your behaviour should become a lot smoother and more . . . fluid.

"Good girl," I say as you give me your answers. "Good girl, good girl, good girl." All the while my finger slides very directly over your indeed special, but clearly not-so-secret a spot, at a growing pace. Faster. Faster. It's now very much a continual blur of motion, up and down, up and down, over the sweet little spot, again and again and again. And I purr into your ear, smiling, I make deep, but satisfied sounds as you keep your legs very wide apart, allowing me to continue.

I can't be sure how much you know about your nether anatomy and to what extent have you tested it, practically. Have you had an orgasm yet? I suspect not, but I haven't spied on you quite long enough to make sure. I wanted you here, like this, in my hands, exposed and completely helpless, taking whatever I have to give. Humiliation, pain . . . and just now, a whole different sort of a sensation.

I hold you, support you with my left hand, make you lean into my chest and let your bum sink so your legs don't carry much of your weight at all, you can relax, don't have to worry about staying in the position, making sure it doesn't become a painful ordeal. All you need to do is to keep your knees apart. "Keep your knees apart," I say out loud as my finger slips from your pucker and starts rubbing the ring on the outside only again, the fingers now working in sync, my hand slightly closing and opening as I rub both those sensitive spots. I'd expect to need to reach for water or even more shower gel now, but they are still sliding easily, the one over your pussy especially. Could it really be that your body produced some lubrication of its own? Well that would be something!

For a brief while, I slow down, just figuring what angles feel best and how hard I can rub before you wince in discomfort and pain. I mess around to tune into your feelings and then, I redouble my effort. My hand actually aches now, and my brow pearls up with sweat, I'm rubbing you good and hard and very, very fast. "Good girl. Good girl. Knees apart," I huff and puff into your ear as I go on. How much more can you take? Can I actually make you cum like this, or will it just feel too intense before you reach a release, ending up with your legs clamping tight over my hand? Either is cool with me, both ways will give me a good bit of leverage, good ammunition into the net round.

My lips find your little ear and I nibble on it gently, playfully, even though the position, so hunched over, is quite challenging. But I have you, naked and gasping under my fingers, firmly in my arm, being worked up towards a whole new experience. I take a deep, deep breath and speed up for the last time, whatever happens will happen now, soon. I feel that this pace, this intensity just cannot go on and on.

"Hold your breath," I instruct, giving you the simplest trick to help build the pressure up and make things happen that there is.

Laura

I am trembling, quiet, and tense, my thighs shaking with effort as I try to hold my position. I sigh with relief as you encourage me to lie back, and sink down on my bottom in the tub. All the while your right hand continues to work my little clit, rubbing me there, over and over my special spot where i touch myself sometimes -- often, in fact -- late at night. I do it because it feels good. I do it slowly, languidly, my fingers lightly touching, then pushing down, pushing, pressing that special spot.

But your hand rubs me there differently. Your hand is quicker, more insistent. Meanwhile, your index finger continues to probe and press at my butt hole, entering it, causing my tight, anal ring to grip your finger like a big red rubber band that has been doubled around and around and around again, until it is nothing but a thick rubber sheath around your finger. That is how tight my little hole is as your finger presses inside my rectum. I don't like the sensation. It is very disconcerting to have the tip of an index finger inside my bottom. Disconcerting, painful, and gross. Your finger is just wide enough to stretch my ring to the point of pain. Plus, despite the lubrication of the gel, the sensitive tissue of my anus is unused to being touched, much less abraded, and it is starting to feel uncomfortable, a growing burn.

The combination of you working my clit and anus at the same time is unexpected pleasure mixed with disconcerting semi-pain. Mentally, too, I struggle to keep up with what is happening. I know that you are a sex pervert person, a bad person, and that you are touching my pussy because of that. But why would anyone want to stick their finger inside someone's where poo comes out? Won't your get poo on your finger? Ewwwwwww! That is totally super gross! I understand why you want to touch my privates but not my butt. It just doesn't make sense at all to me. It's so weird. I would never, ever touch anybody's butt hole. Yuck!!

My mouth is open to breathe, my naked little child body trembling as you finger my hairless snatch. Even with a fingertip inserted in my rectum it is hard to concentrate on anything other than you rubbing my special spot. You rub it fast, very fast. Way faster and different from when I touch it. My inhales are quivery as I sit, on edge, legs still bent at the knees, calves and ankles still underneath me, but my bottom now resting on the floor of the tub.

My right hand continues to rest atop your left hand. I placed it there, unaware, several minutes ago and it's rested there ever since. The fingers of my left hand are outstretched, pads-down on the floor of the tub, between the tub wall and my upper thigh, providing additional support, holding me up. Every muscle in my lithe, tender body is taut, as you work my preteen clitoris.

And then your fingertip slips from my bum and all I feel now is what you are doing to my clitty. The intensity of the sensation causes my legs to start to close without my conscious knowledge, but I slam them wide open again at your instruction. My expression, if you could see it, is one of flushed concentration, worry, and intensity as I take in these sensations.

And then, within a short span of 10-15 seconds, the pleasurable sensation your are inducing starts to shift, from pleasure, to faintly uncomfortable, to hurting a little bit, to burning. Pleasure goes to discomfort so quickly. Yet your touch doesn't slow. I wriggle a little bit as my legs start to close, but I manage to force them open once more at your second instruction. As your lips find my ear I wince, my expression one of growing unhappiness, as your rubbing continues unabated, but the burning sensation at my special spot continues to grow. I jiggle my hips involuntarily, hurting now. I take a deep breath as you instruct me, and hold it, but it doesn't help the pain - it only recedes when your hand suddenly stops moving.

Still holding my breath, I whimper now, exhaling slowly through my nose as my clitty starts to burn bad. I wince and wriggle as my legs start to close. My right hand clutches at yours as my left hand reaches around to try to interfere with your right hand. I try to slide down, get away. I exhale my held breath with a little cry -- not the orgasmic whimper you perhaps expected, but the pain-filled whimper of an 11-year-old girl whose clitty is on fire. "It huuuuurtts!" I sob, my child voice desperate.