13. Hard Call

Laura

I stand there, glad to be upright for the first time in three hours. My kneecaps are red from crawling. I'm tired, sweaty, and disheveled. I'm dying of thirst and I want to lie down. It's been a long day. I'm really tired, both mentally and physically. It seems way past lunch time. If I were in school I'd probably already be in art with Mrs. Van Dueselfdorf. With Marissa. And Robbie Waskowicz. And Beverly Cain and T.J. Taylor. All my friends. Instead of here, in this place.

I watch as you retrieve the bowls and the can of dog food from the shelf. It is real, honest–to–God dog food. It is all I can do to keep from crying right then and there. I am tired, sore, thirsty, and mentally exhausted from playing the pet game. I thought it was over. And now this. You expect me to eat dog food. For a moment I think you are insane. I've been kidnapped by a crazy person. But then you offer me the choice.

I don't like either choice. And I'm dying to ask you questions. Like, if I choose the dog food, do I have to eat it or can I skip that meal? I'm starving already –– and super thirsty, too –– but there is no way I'm actually going to eat dog food. I couldn't keep it down, anyway. I surely would throw up if I tried. In fact, my tummy is clenching queasily just looking at the can. And my expression already reveals my revulsion.

But do I have to eat it? You didn't say I had to. You just said "dog food and water from a dog bowl." You never said I had to eat it. But then you mentioned that if I displeased you I might get a spanking, which I probably will if I don't eat. But I'm not sure.

Then there's the other option. The sex option with your penis. I'm not sure what you mean, what you intend. You said it might get messy –– and my tummy clenches again at the memory of lapping up the puddle of cum and saliva. And it might involve another part of my body. I want to ask you about that, too.

In the end, you have given me too much credit. I may be clever, but I am just a little girl, a child, barely 11. The choice you have given me is between the known –– a bowl of dog food, more of the "pet game" and probably a spanking, plus being "walked" and made to pee in front of you –– versus the unknown. You have spelled all of the Pet rules out. I know the details –– 'cept for that part about whether you'll make me eat the dog food. But even if you don't, I won't get any other food.

On the other side of the coin, I have the promise of getting my name back, real food, and a real drink. Exactly what I have to do with your penis is unspecified, but it the lack of specificity that makes the pet option seem so much worse. I survived putting your penis in my mouth. I'm not sure what you want me to do with your penis this time, but my mind persuades me that it can't be that bad. I'm pretty sure that you wouldn't be putting it in my vagina. It wouldn't fit anyways. And you said it wouldn't be the same as yesterday when I put it in my mouth. Those are the only two ways to "do it" anyway. So when I compare the two, based on what I know so far, the decision isn't as difficult for me as you think. Of course, you did say that my Laura punishment would be worse than my Pet punishment, but I don't think I'll be punished if I choose Laura because I don't think the sex thing with your penis will be that bad.

I'm close to making my choice. But I want more information. I want to make the best choice possible. I don't want to choose until I know more. I look up at you, my eyes deep, pensive, brown, and beautiful. "Can I ask a question?" I ask, hoping to have the opportunity to ask several . . .

Marcus

I lift a finger up, as if in warning.

"Stay put. Don't go anywhere." As if you really could go places . . . and not just around the room where you just spent hours fetching a ball with your mouth, making it painfully familiar, every nook, corner, and cranny of it.

I walk off into the bathroom and come back. I unfold two folding chairs, simple, but sturdy enough to support even my weight. I sit on one and point at the other. Your knees are clearly beyond well-used for the day, I don't want you kneeling in front of me as we speak. Not now. The agony of it would be distracting and cloud your thinking. Not what I want. Not what I need. I pass you a large glass of water. Ruffle your hair.

"Drink up. Then ask whatever you like. There's no hurry. You're allowed to keep asking until told otherwise. I can see you're unsure and confused," I say calmly, slowly. Patiently. Confused is not what I want you at, no, my needs and wants should always be clear, while it should not always be easy to please me, it *should* always be reasonably straightforward. Before you speak, I add, a bit more gravely, with emphasis: "When you are not sure what the rules are, what I want, always ask. Asking politely, like you just did, is a good thing, I'm glad that you did it."

Once again, I have all the time in the world. I let you drink. Unphased even if you take a while to manage the glass. I sit, open and ready for your questions. What will you want to know? Somehow, having seen your expression at seeing the Pedigree Pal I can pretty much guess at least one of them. But the rest . . . I love the fact that you are inquisitive and curious and right now I'm curious about exactly what you want and need to know, what you require clarified.

I want this straightforward and clear between us. So . . . go.

Laura

I am a little surprised as you bring in the chairs, but I sit, naked, facing you. I take the glass of water eagerly, holding it carefully in both hands –– it's real glass, after all –– and drinking deeply.

My bare little feet sway back and forth just a little, unable to reach the floor.

When I've finished three quarters of the glass, I look across to you, studying, making sure that there is no catch, no game in being given permission to ask questions. I see no trickery; you seem sincere.

"Do I gotta eat the dog food if um, . . . if I pick that?" I ask, looking at you intently.

"What kinda sex stuff are we gonna do if I pick that?"

"How come I can't have real food?" I ask, with a tell-tale glisten forming in my eyes.

"Will the sex stuff hurt?" I try again.

"What do I get to eat if I pick the sex one?"

And then, surprisingly: "How come you wear cologne all the time?"

Marcus

I listen intently and memorise your questions, making a mental list. It's unusual to speak in bursts rather than in the usual, Q&A, Q&A style, but I'm getting used to you being like that, slightly hyper, compensating for the slightly forced silence by communicating in bursts, in explosive little bits, shooting question after question without waiting for an answer for each. So childlike. Well, not really -like, you are a kid after all. It makes me smile. I nod. They are good questions. The last one, about cologne, makes me laugh.

"If you pick the Pet role, the only thing you'll get for the whole of the rest of the day will be dog food. Can for lunch, kibble for supper, actual dog treats for snacks. I won't force you to eat, but you only had half a breakfast and you'll feel ill and possibly sick by tomorrow, if you don't force yourself to eat at least something. It's harmless, just on a side note. I checked with a friend who's a doctor. I would not give it to you if it was dangerous.

"If we do sex . . . we'll kiss, mouth-on-mouth, properly. I'll have you suck me, lick me, and kiss me a bit more. And then I'll pop your cherry," I say, and seeing confusion on your face, I go on. "That's kind of a crude way of describing taking a girl's virginity, putting a cock into her pussy. That's probably what you imagine when I say sex, even though sex can be a million other things too, and even things that are not normally considered sex can be fun and pleasurable. You'll learn, over time, a lot more about all this. Keeping me happy and satisfied will be your main job down here.

"You can have real food if you chose to be a girl; you asked what, too, well, I'm thinking pasta with tomatoes and roast peppers and bits of chicken. No cheese," I grin. "Doggy food if you are a doggy-girl is here so that you don't take anything for granted. So that you remember that all you eat comes from me, that you depend on me, and that unless I give you a choice, there's no choice and you just have to grit your teeth and bear with it. If I don't fancy feeding you, like if you ever make me real angry, you'll just be hungry, there's no plan B, no hidden stash of food down here in the dungeon. Oh and one more thing, if you chose to be Laura, there'll also be pills, that you'll be taking daily then, two small pills, one to prevent you from getting pregnant, getting a baby, and one to keep you pretty and healthy." In other words, you'll be eating enough estrogen not to ever get a period and mature sexually, and you'll be popping growth-inhibiting hormones, too. You'll be my little "Petra Pan"; forever a little girl, small, lithe and little-girly even years from now on.

"Sex . . . putting a cock in a vagina for the first time hurts some, because of a little barrier that breaks the first time round you do it, it gets better, gradually, and obviously it also feels nice, and after some time, it will only, or mostly feel nice, if it didn't then girls and women would not do it, obviously.

"As for the theme of my cologne, I happen to have taken a couple days completely off work, so I have plenty time to pamper myself and take good care of myself. I like to look and smell good. And since I'm touching you and since were are doing, or going to do anyway, sex, being nice and clean makes it easier for you, too. Would you prefer me to be icky and sweaty and stinky when I tell you to suck my cock, for example?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "We both know I could, I just won't have a shower tonight and come a bit smelly tomorrow, or very smelly a couple days later. Nothing you could do. I'm just being nice for now, because so far, you've been trying. If you sulk and act overly stubborn, you might yet meet a lot less nice side of me. Look around. I know how to use all these things and if you give me a reason . . ." I don't finish the sentence; once again, I don't have to.

"Any more questions? And what do you choose, hmmm?" I ask and it still sounds like I actually don't know and like I'm waiting for your answer to find out.

Laura

I listen intently to your answers, my eager young brain processing the information as you provide it. It does seem that you are completely honest on those few occasions when I am allowed to ask questions freely. It's almost like, at those times, we take a brief break from the games that you make me play –– almost as if the rest of the time we are actors in a play, but then we go on break, you drop your role and speak to me openly about whatever I care to ask.

I am relieved to hear that I won't be forced to eat the dog food. Relieved, but it actually makes my decision more difficult. If you had told me that I would be forced to eat the greasy looking substance in the can, or that I wouldn't get anything else to eat until I finished it (a favorite tactic of my Mom), I would almost have to choose the sex part because I don't think I could eat it –– no, I'm sure I couldn't eat it –– without vomiting. And then you'd probably make me eat that, too, from the floor, like last night. But I wouldn't be able to, and I'd throw up again. And then you'd take me to the dungeon and hurt me. So the dog food wasn't really an option, but now with your answer it is back in play.

But now the sex part is clarified for me, too. You will put your huge man penis in my pussy. Past my membrane that Caroline said "hurts like a bitch" when you do it for the first time. And bleeds. I felt sick to my stomach and a little faint just hearing Caroline talk about it. Now, not only have you confirmed everything Caroline said, but I know how big your penis is. I had it in my mouth. it seemed enormous to my middle–schooler self. Hard, thick, and long. i could only get the part at the end inside my mouth. I can't even imagine how it would fit in my pussy. And if I cry and scream and am "Bad Laura" then you'll punish me super meanly in the dungeon. Probably on one of these machines. The thought makes me shiver –– just once, but you see it.

My questions and your answers haven't really helped. They've only made the decision more difficult. I don't know what to do. Any playful curiosity I had when I asked you about the cologne is gone now. Replaced by worry and fear.

As much as I despise being Pet, I'm leaning in favor of that option. I am terrified of the sex part. I know I can kiss you and suck your penis again, but actually being being penetrated by it fills me with dread. You even said it would make me pop. I don't want to pop. Not at all. And I have no idea how it will fit. Mentally, I compare the length of your erection –– firmly in my memory from last night –– to the space it would take up in my tummy if it went up in there. It doesn't seem to fit under any scenario. Can a girl die if a man's penis goes inside her and it's too big? The thought terrifies me. Maybe you'll just put the top part in, like you did in my mouth. That possibility is hardly reassuring, though. The head part is super thick.

One question I didn't ask is whether, even if I choose the dog role, you will just want to put your penis inside me anyway, later on. In fact, I conclude that you probably will. Maybe even later today. Then I would be a dog and you would still pop me inside anyway. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. I consider asking. I really do. But sometimes it's better not to know. Besides, I'm pretty sure I already know the answer. I'm a clever little girl.

All this while, as you answered questions, my eyes were kind of far away, staring into space as you spoke. I was listening so intently. Now I look up, my dark, revealing eyes meeting yours –– for a brief second before I look away. ("At least he's not ugly," I think to myself. "If I HAD to kiss him it wouldn't be, you know, that bad. At least he smells nice. At least my sex pervert person isn't like, 100 years old and all fat and smelly") My thoughts are small consolation to me, however.

My little feet kick as I sit there, nude and collared, in the chair. My hands are clutching the outside edge of the chair near my thighs. My head is slightly down, as I ponder. Ponder, think, decide. In the end, while you might have expected my decision to come from some detailed cogitation on my part, that's not how I arrived at it. My choice, after a time, was motivated by something fairly basic, fairly primal. I'm hungry. Really, really super hungry. Not that my state of hunger was an accident, or its effects unknown to you. You knew all along that hunger is a motivator in young and old alike. You were right.

Now that I'm no longer thirsty, my hunger rises to the fore. My tummy aches with emptiness. The thought of going the rest of the day without eating –– which is the only real option 'cause I'm NOT eating dog food –– gets me halfway to my decision. Your description of the sumptuous dinner I'll get instead gets me the other half. Pasta and chicken and roast peppers –– well, I prolly won't have to eat the peppers, I hope –– the thought of it makes my tummy growl.

I look up, ready to give my answer –– then lose my nerve and look down, as my feet kick especially hard, and swing. My mind starts to review the available data again, but before I am able to get even partially through it, the empty feeling in my tummy answers for me. I look up. "I'll be Laura," I say, in a soft, meek little voice.

Marcus

I try for my smile not to look too maliciously. You just *whored yourself out* for a warm supper. *Sold* your virginity, rather cheaply. Not that I do not understand. Empty stomach makes many dilemmas rather irrelevant, it bypasses them. It's Maslow's hierarchy of needs, plain and simple, a pyramid. Dignity and self respect are all good and dandy, but first, all the levels below must be sated, and having something at least half decent in your tummy is right at the base.

I make a "come here" gesture with my finger and grab you, placing you on my lap once again, one leg on either side, legs spread.

"Okay, Laura, honey. Here's what's going to happen. A quick shower so you're fresh for the big moment. I'll bring you clothes to wear. We'll have a nice meal. Go to bed. Cuddle. Undress. Kiss.

Have sex. I'll guide you the whole time, but gently. You're doing this by choice, so you'll act like it. Basically, and now pay very good attention!" I say, looking you straight in the eye.

"We both know that if you could walk out of here, you would, if you didn't have to do any of this, you would not. We're both too smart to think otherwise. But! When we have the meal, and after, we'll pretend it's a date. You'll act like a girl-friend, and like you really wanna do it. You don't have to go all overboard pretending that you are in love and eager, but you'll be nice. You'll smile, talk, and act nice. In turn, I will also play the part and I will take it slow, and nice, and gentle. It's your first time, and of course I could just bend you over a table and ram it in and leave you in tears, but just now, I don't really like the idea. We'll get rough, in the future. I'll show you rough, teach you rough. But first time and rough don't mix very well. I want you there, with me, present, awake. The better you play your part, the nicer I'll play mine. If you start resisting . . . things will turn less nice. Less gentle. Less slow. And trust me, you'd be the one regretting it, not me. I'm Marcus. Friends call me Em. During the supper and after, you'll call me Em. I don't mind it, because M also stands for *Master*, and that's how you'll end up calling me in the long run. But, let's not think far into the future just now, okay?" As I speak, I occasionally stroke your ear, your hair, your shoulder or arm.

"Now. When it came to cock-sucking, I played you some rather pornographic videos, stuff only adults are supposed to watch, normally. I'll show you videos of other kinds of sex, too, but not today. I want your experience not to be affected by porn. Let's get you rinsed, then I'll play you a short video, just for education, bring you clothes to wear, and then I'll come and get you. There's a room down here, behind the bathroom, opposite side of the hall, that has a nice table and chairs. We'll eat there. Do you have any wishes regarding the pasta? I want you to enjoy it, and I don't want you to pick at it," I say in a firm, but parental, rather than sadistic, maniac sort of firm way.

"You can still ask questions," I say, even as I lift you up and carry you, in my arms, leaning against my shoulder, back into the bathroom. "Have a quick rinse," I tell you and pass you the shower head, this time clearly not meaning to do it myself and prolong it. I actually seem quite keen not to linger, and while I don't rush you, I'm also not wasting any time once you are done, leading you, walking, but upright, like a human, back to your cell. I leave, letting you know I'll be just a couple minutes, and in the middle of the back wall, a video starts.

It's a Danish video with English subtitles, a tasteful, unpretentious sex–ed video about lovemaking, which unlike most American videos of the sort isn't afraid to show cock, pussy, mentioning and showing the penis getting hard, the pussy getting wet, the physiology and anatomy of it all. It mentions foreplay, and only touches on risks of pregnancy and STDs, recommending and showing the use of a condom. It's all rather open and blunt in essence, but done tastefully and the teenagers who are used as "models" are of realistic proportions and behave like normal, real life teenagers would if they were having sex sober, in a loving, gentle way that might not quite be the standard anymore, but hey . . . I can show you the messy, rough stuff another day. All in all the video is like . . . fifteen minutes, at the end of which I come with clothes that you will wear for me.

The theme is dark blue and black. Tiny dark blue panties with black hems. Black-and-blue striped above-knee socks. Black-and-blue checked mini–skirt, short enough to reveal some thigh despite how high the socks reach. A sleeveless under-top that's a match for the panties, and a shirt, more black than blue, a goth-lolita take on a school uniform's top. A hairband and a blue bow for your hair. VANS sneakers, black and blue, too. Blue nail polish, matching make-up. A small bottle of *Carven Le Parfum*.

"Will half an hour be enough for you to get ready?" I check. The water for the pasta is salted and ready for me to start cooking any minute, up above in my house, so making the meal will be real quick.

Laura

I regret my words almost as soon as I say them. But that's to be expected, as neither choice was a particularly good one, at least not for me. You designed the game that way. Pros and cons to each. Yet, I can tell from your not-too-malicious smile that you are pleased with my selection. This makes me wonder if I made the right choice. I start to review the pros and cons in my mind once again, but you beckon me to you. I go.

And then I am once again seated on your lap, my legs spread across your thighs, my preteen sex stretched taut, exposed. And you begin to talk. Your description of the evening is so matter–of–fact, so straight–forward. First we eat, and then . . . we have sex.

But you never said I had to pretend we were on a date. That was never part of the "Laura" side of the ledger. I feel a little tricked, and look at you sullenly. I continue to listen, however, as you occasionally stroke and touch me. Your touches aren't mean or painful. I can smell your man cologne as I sit, naked except for my collar, in your lap.

I ponder everything you want me to do. Be nice. Talk. Pretend I'm on a date. Smile. Act nice. Or else you'll be mean and rough to me. I know you can be if you want. Part of me thinks you want to be. But you've promised that if I'm nice, you'll be nice, too. I think I want to be nice. I'm worried enough as it is. You want me to call you Em? For master? Like the letter M? You are really weird in the head sometimes. But I don't say anything.

My mind wanders. You're really gonna do sex with me. Put your penis inside my pussy. I knew I would do that someday –– but not now, not at age 11, not with you. I look up, looking into your eyes. So you are my Prince Charming, the person who's going to do sex with me for the first time. You're way older than me, but at least you're not fat. Plus you're really clean –– I like clean. I don't like being dirty or smelly myself and I certainly don't want someone I'm doing sex with to be smelly. I smell your cologne again. I have to admit it kinda smells nice.

When you ask about the pasta, I ask if I have to eat the peppers or can I leave them? I'm satisfied with your answer. I'm just not a big fan of peppers.

I feel like a little girl as you pick me up and carry me to the bathroom. I'm not three years old, you know. But I don't say anything. When you stand me in the shower I can tell you want me to clean myself. I always take baths at home. It feels weird to use the shower-head thing. Even weirder to do it while you're standing there, watching. Bathing is supposed to be private, not like this. I clean myself pretty quickly, soaping my slick, lithe little body, then rinsing. I don't bother with my hair. It's still clean from this morning, even to me. You don't tell me I have to wash it. In fact, it seems like you're in a hurry. ("Duh. He wants to do sex to you, Laur’," I say to myself.)

You lead me back to my cell, where I watch the sex video. I stare, enthralled, reading most of the sub–titles unless there are words I don't understand. It doesn't look THAT bad. At least there's no blood. It's a little reassuring. Not much, but a little.

I look at the clothing when you bring it in and place it on the futon. I know that you mentioned I would have clothes, but I'm still a little surprised. I was getting used to being naked. The clothes look . . . almost foreign to me. How could that be in such a short time. ("Laur’, you're starting to lose it, girl," I say to myself). They look like nice clothes though, actually. "Huh?" I respond to your question whether 30 minutes is enough time. "Um . . . I . . . yes," I reply, looking up from the clothing to you. I watch as you smile, and leave my cell. The door closes behind you with the tell–tale "whooooosh."

I start to dress. Pulling the panties up my coltish legs. Then the socks, the under–top, the skirt, the blouse. I put the band on my hair, creating a raised sort of ponytail, and manage to place the bow. My tummy growls with hunger.

I sit down on the futon to tie on the sneakers. Still seated, I apply the nail polish like a pro. Actually it's a nice color and I like it. I have no mirror aside from the little tiny one in the cosmetic case for the make–up. I do get the lipstick on, and a light dusting of blush. I wish I could see if I did it good.

Last, I apply some of the perfume. Probably a little too much. It's strong –– vaguely fruity, vaguely flowery.

I stand. I wish I had a mirror. I hate to admit it but I kinda like the skirt and blouse. I look down at the stylish canvas sneakers, and the long, striped socks. I have to admit that you do good with clothes. Not just yours, but what you got for me. I feel very nervous and have butterflies in my tummy. Those and hunger pains. I am standing there, facing the door, as you re–enter my cell.

Marcus

I walk in – changed into a casual–smart kind of outfit, chinos, a shirt, Italian leather shoes . . . and I pause. Almost . . . startled by your appearance. I can't help but stare in fascination. "You look beautiful, Laura. Seriously very beautiful. Special," I say, and I mean it. You may be my slave, my pet, and if you displease me you'll end up a red–bottomed, snotty, tearful mess, a bundle of humiliation and hurt, but you are still *special*. There's no one else in the whole world, in the whole big universe that I'd rather be doing these things with. The good and the bad.

You did a good job with the make up, even though I forgot to give you a proper mirror and all you had to go by was instinct and the very tiny one on the inside of the make–up pouch. You are a dream come true, looking much like you do in your photo shoots, just as I hoped for, better than I really expected, photographically, almost unbelievably pretty. You really are something, girl!

And I love the perfume I chose for you, so I don't mind that you overdid it a little. I take your hand, and then drop on my knees to reduce our height difference. This way, with me kneeling, if you reach up a bit, or perhaps get on your tiptoes, we're of height, and we can kiss easily.

And I do just that. I'm clean, shaved. With another dab of the expensive cologne on. My lips meet yours. One hand on your bum, one at the back of your head, I press you in closer to myself and decide to put the "non–smear" quality of the rather expensive lipstick I gave you to test. Your lips feel almost unbelievably soft on mine. So smooth. For a while, I kiss you just like that, lips on lips, chastely, even when I tilt my head to the side a bit. But then, I want more. My mouth opens slightly and my tongue finds its way into your mouth. I don't wanna make it gross or freaky though, so I mostly just tease your lips with the tip of it, and when I invade your mouth, I go barely past your teeth, only to meet your own tongue. I don't want the kiss to turn too invasive, sloppy, messy and yucky. Not this time round, anyway; I could probably make you gag with my long, big tongue and maybe in the future I will.

But now... this is a different fantasy, a different dream, and you dressed up real nice, played along, and you deserve gentleness. So I only kiss gently, and lightly, and not for too long, retreating soon, releasing you from my grip and taking your hand gently instead, leading you out, into the dungeon, left, further down the hall and there, on the right, is a nice square room with a vaulted ceiling. There's a nice wooden table, two chairs, it's all candle–lit, warm and cosy. And it smells nice. And it's laid out beautifully, like a nice restaurant, almost. There's a bottle of pink bubbly, it's just an expensive lemonade, alcohol free, but it looks almost like champagne, and I pop the "cork" and pour us a glass each, and raise my glass in a toast. "*Au santé*, sweetheart," I smile.

Soft Italian music plays on the background, love hits of 70's and 80's, mostly; a more lively pop song *Sera porque te amo* just as we enter the room. Bit tacky, but less likely to grate against you than the heavy classics that I'd normally opt for like Wagner or Rachmaninov. The irony of the lyrics (“Because I love you”) doesn't even register, I'm too busy focusing on making this happen, making this work.

There's a starter. Ham on sesame crackers, yummy chicken pate, a little bit of green salad with balsamic dressing. I avoided anything slimy, and stayed on the safe side, nothing that would gross you out or upset you; I even passed up the opportunity to serve caviare just so I could stick to these "rules".

The second course is a soup, good strong stock with some vegetables, too finely chopped to be bothersome, minestrone style. And then there is the pasta, as promised. No peppers. Chicken, tomatoes, a little bit of caramelised pink shallots on top. Plainer than I would have it, but there. Enjoy.

"Do you like it? I think the clothes really suit you. Blue really flatters you. And the perfume. Isn't the food too spicy? More lemonade? Ever been to Italy? I like Tuscany the best, Luca and around there. Venice is great, too." I scatter bits and pieces of conversation like that in between mouthfuls and sips of lemonade, just to make sure we don't eat in an awkward silence. And I'm attentive, and more than ready to listen and pick up whatever thread of conversation you chose to bring up.

In this nice, restaurant-like room, warm and candle-lit, cosy, with happy music and good food, and me, in the well-fitted chinos, the smart albeit tie–less shirt, with a warm smile on my face, it's possible, easy even, to briefly forget your grim predicament. It doesn't feel like a dungeon, like there is only this, only here, and only me in the world, the world seems a bright and colourful place, and even just the food on the table, including the sticky toffee pudding with the most awesomest ice–cream to go with it has the best of ingredients in it from all over the globe, making your mantra, at least in this moment, seem all the more absurd.

Laura

I am nervous as you enter the room. Nervous, but for a connoisseur of preteen girls, also stunning, beautiful, almost edible. The outfit perfectly accentuates my diminutive, slender little body. It is at the same time girlish –– almost little–girlish, like a six–year–old going to a birthday party –– and sexy, made to reveal and sexualize its wearer. It is a costume. Not far off but not quite the way some of my modeling outfits looked.

I didn't mind changing into the outfit. It was nice to wear something after a full day of nudity. The make–up was something I don't do myself, but I tried. You can tell that I tried. And did a passable job.

I can't help but be flattered by your compliment, even if I maintain my neutral expression and demeanor ("Remember Laur’, you gotta be nice. If you're not nice . . ."). Suddenly you are on your knees in front of me, your hand on my shoulder. I can smell your now–familiar scent of cologne –– a smell that I can conjure up in my mind when I am alone in my cell. The smell of you. The man. The bad sex pervert person. Our eyes meet.

I don't shy away as bring your head to mine. I know you are going to kiss me, and you do. Right on my lips. Your lips feel soft. And then I feel your tongue, flicking, and probing, and I know you want to French kiss. I know what French kissing is. Caroline told me all about it, and we actually did it together once –– well, kind of, pretending, breaking apart in laughter and expressions of "Ewwwww!" a soon as our tongues touched.

Your tongue probes at my lips and and it isn't yucky or nasty. In fact, there's something tender, and sweet, and almost reassuring about the gentle way it flits there as you tilt your head. My heart starts to race and I feel slightly chilled. My lips part and your tongue enters my mouth. But it's not yucky. It's feels weird to have a big, adult tongue in my mouth. But somehow when our tongues touch it's not gross or yucky like when that happened with Caroline.

When you break the kiss I am actually slightly disappointed. I didn't mind it. It was so gentle, so . . . loving? I feel a bit confused. More than a bit confused. I was dreading your return. But it hasn't gone the way I thought it would. It hasn't been bad. Not at all.

And then we're on our way, through the dungeon –– familiar to me now, it doesn't cause the visceral reaction in me that it did the first time. Plus, I know that the dungeon is not our final destination. My tummy aches at the thought of food.

I once again am amazed when we enter yet another windowless room, this one set up with a table and food and chairs, like a one–table restaurant. It looks nice. Strange, with no windows and no wall decorations or other people, but still nice. The music is weird old–sounding disco–like stuff in a foreign language. It's not horrible, just different. But everything here is different. Different doesn't begin to describe my last two days.

I am surprised when you pull my chair out for me and push it in when I am seated. More than anything so far that makes me feel a little special, maybe just a little bit valued, like maybe you do care for me. I can't figure you out. You're my abductor, my captor, and a sex-pervert person. You play totally weird games –– for hours –– and make me do gross stuff. You talk about hurting and punishing me and taking me to the dungeon. But sometimes you're really nice. You'll pick me up and hug, cuddle, and caress me. You'll even help me with some things, like learning the mantra. Sometimes you're so nice to me it's confusing. You pulled out the chair like I was the Queen of England or something.

I can't help but wonder if the contents of the bottle is real alcohol. After all, it's not like you follow age–appropriate rules here. "Is that like, wine?" I ask, spontaneously, impetuously. And so begins our sometimes awkward dinner conversation. I ask questions about the food, and answer yours. We don't have a background together so there is no natural, causal chat. Just questions and answers. Ones you ask to keep the conversation going. Ones I ask about the food. And a few spontaneous outliers, like "What kind music is that?" and "Do you always eat in this room?" At the end of the day, I am 11, and actual, natural conversation with a man in his thirties is not really possible. My attention span is short and my young mind seems to work in strange ways, my questions almost random.

The sophistication of the food is lost on me. I eat a lot of crackers but won't touch the chicken pate. The shallots get carefully pushed in a pile to the side of my plate. I'm not a fan of the soup. My table manners could be more refined, but they are age–appropriate. I'm 11. I eat like I'm 11. And like I'm hungry.

I have seconds on the yummy desert, leaving some remnants of the toffee at the corners of my mouth. It looks cute on me. Real. I'm a child. A just–turned 11–year–old. Fancy, formal dinners –– dinner–dates –– are still years in my future. I did a passable job at this one. A little toffee ringing my mouth at the end is a testament to how much I liked the dinner. My tummy is full. It no longer aches with hunger.

The meal is good. I was nervous in the cell but seem relaxed at dinner. If not relaxed, at least focused on eating. I do manage to put out of my mind what is coming next. When I finish the second helping of toffee, however, and the meal is at an end, I start to feel nervous again. Nervous with a sense of foreboding. I know it is time. We both know.

Marcus

I note and memorize what you liked and what not; I've never had a child of my own, or much experience taking care of any, so while I did intuitively tone down the complexity and spiciness of the food, I clearly still didn't hit it quite spot on. But you seem satisfied and sated. And you clearly loved the dessert.

The conversation is bitty and a bit random, but I still find it amusing. It makes you real. It proves this is not another ageplay session with an adult woman pretending to be younger for the kicks of it, you really are eleven. I like that. I'm willing to give up deep, thoughtful, continually flowing conversation for the privilege of a proper date with a real-life preteen hottie, flesh and bones and shy smiles and random questions and all. I assure you that the drink is just a posh sort of lemonade. I want you sober for later. I answer your questions about the meal. Most of it I've cooked from the scratch, though the soup has been cooked before and now only re–heated.

At the end of the meal, I reach over the table; for a man my size, the distance isn't large at all, and gently wipe your mouth. I pour us some tea; we need a bit of a break between eating and sex. I've eaten lightly, but the same cannot be said for you, your portion almost as large as mine and you defeated it, having been tortured with hunger and near–hunger ever since you arrived, more than 24 hours ago now, well into your second day of your new life.

You did well on your first-ever fancy date, and I feel like it wasn't far off my fantasy, either. It's a bit make believe, of course, because you're not enamoured, you do not blush and flush each time you look at me, but you seem to be having a good time, and at the end of the meal, you turn nervous, but don't shut me off completely. It's an anticipatory sort of nervous. Something I can handle, deal with.

As we drink the tea, the nervousness is obvious, and prevails, the bitty, random conversation finally drying up. A slow–remix of Gigi D'Agostino's starts playing and I smile, an unplanned idea suddenly flashing through my mind. "Let's dance."

I take your hand and step into the empty space between the table and the back wall. I lower my hands to your shoulder blades. God you are little. You face reaches to the middle of my torso, chin at belly–button level, eyes on my solar, the top of your head still below my nipples level. It reminds me, when I was much, much younger and worked as a instructor at children summer camps, mostly with boy scouts, but I got lucky and ran a mixed camp, too, a co–ed group, and we did have a summer night disco, and it was all very relaxed, before the paedophile hysteria made such things impossible, and I danced with a number of girls your age, and even younger, already as tall as I am now, perhaps a bit less bulky, I only started to work out properly in my twenties. I loved those nights, even though they just stirred my need and created tension that I had to serve with wanking off later, in the deep of the night, alone, in the camp's shower cubicle.

I guide you in the simple slow–motion dance, shuffling my right foot back to make space for yours, my left foot forward, but keeping it on the floor to make sure I don't step on your toes. I encourage you to lean your head against my belly and chest, and dance the whole, long, slow song with you.

At the end, I drop down to my knees for another kiss, and this time, I take my time, and I'm a bit more bold, bit more . . . insistent. You taste of sticky toffee and tea, all sweet and yummy, and I hold you close and kiss you, and kiss you, and kiss you. I still restrain myself, doing it with as much lightness and gentleness as I can conjure up in my state, which right now is rather eager and horny and wanting, lustful. Makes me feel a lot younger than I am, almost like a teenager again. But instead of rushing and going deep and messy, I use the wisdom of my age to take my time, and relax, and enjoy myself and savour it.

When I finally break the kiss, it's only to lift you up in my arms. I blow out the candles, not that they are a major fire risk in a room where the only flammable thing is the sturdy old table they are placed on, and carry you to the dungeon, and through it, and to the right of the entrance of it, into a relatively normal looking bedroom, with a large four-poster bed, with satin sheets, dark blue and black. With incense similar to your perfume. All thought through. All ready. For you. I lower you onto the edge of the bed and reach down, undo your laces and slip your shoes off, but that's all the stripping that I do just then. I take my own shoes off and pull you back, and lie next to you, and start very gently stroking you, face, ears, neck . . . one hand on your bum, but over your skirt and panties, quite chastely. Cuddling you very gently and not restraining you in any way, so if you wanna touch back, you have a good chance now. But I don't command you to or anything; I'm letting the situation flow.

So far, I've done so well with remaining gentle, and gentlemanly, and patient and nice that I even surprise myself. And I like you in your clothes, next to me, pretty as can be, things going slowly. I vaguely notice that my usual instinct to rip your clothes of off you and throw myself at you and take you roughly, brutally even, didn't kick in. I like the way this flows. I'm enjoying it. Enjoying you.