14. Innocence lost

Laura

I like the tea. I've always liked tea, whether after a big meal, or not, and this certainly was a big meal. I feel fully sated. I kept eating and eating because I was so hungry, but now I feel more than a bit full. Very full, in fact, but in a contented kind of way. The tea is rich and flavorful and good. I hold the cup like my Mom taught me, looking perhaps just a bit older than my years. But I am nervous, in a sort of anticipatory dread kind of way. I flinched when you leaned over to wipe the toffee from my mouth, as if I thought you were going to hit me. You've been nothing but sweet and kind and gentlemanly on our “date,” so it is my mind working overtime that worries about a sudden smack. But flinch I do, before holding still as you daub the toffee away.

And then, suddenly, you are up out of your chair, beckoning me to dance. I look surprised as I stand. Your invitation (it was perhaps a bit more than a mere invitation) strikes me as spontaneous, even fun–loving. I like to dance, actually. I've been taking dance since I was five years old, but little–girl dancing is different from date-dancing. Still, I am not a bad dancer, and as we dance it is obvious that I understand a bit about rhythm and timing even if I don't know any of the steps.

I'm happy to dance with you, not only because I don't really mind dancing, but it has the effect of delaying what I am very afraid about and also taking my mind off of it. It's hard to concentrate on being worried and nervous and scared when you are trying desperately to keep your feet from going in the wrong place, and counting a four–step in your head.

You hands rest initially on my shoulders –– slender and tiny, angular, almost bony. My head rests against your midsection, even as my eyes are fixed down at my feet. I seem to be giving good effort. I really don't mind dancing, and in any event it is preferable to . . . that other thing. The thing that’s going to happen.

When the song ends you kneel down to kiss me, this time holding my face, and returning again and again with your mouth and tongue. The character of this kiss is different from earlier one. More passionate, deeper, wetter, fuller, more urgent. I can tell that kissing me is arousing you. Idly, I wonder if you have an erection in your chinos. The way you're kissing me so hungrily I'm pretty sure that you do. I just stand there, my mouth slightly open, as you kiss me again and again. My tongue flicks and plays with yours, actively but half–heartedly. I don't want to make you mad.

And then I am lifted aloft yet again. I'm getting used to that. You are so strong; the lift is effortless. Back through the dungeon we go, down a different hall, into yet another room. My heart is beating fast with worry. The room is a bedroom –– plain, not enormous, either. But featuring a big, old–fashioned bed with those high end parts that stick up in the air on each corner. I know what is supposed to happen on that bed. I am worried and scared. I'm mostly scared about bleeding. Bleeding and hurting. I am trembling a little as you set me down.

We are together on the bed. Man and child. Man and girl. You stroke my head and face as your hand rests gently on my bottom. Your strokes are soft and gentle. But my heart is racing. I'm scared. I can't relax. I just can't.

Marcus

You're one lucky girl to have been a good dancer. A good eater. A good girl, through and through. I'm horny, and you don't have to wonder, or think – the massive bulge in my chinos very clearly and obviously shows just how aroused I am. But I'm aroused in a way I have never experienced before. I want you, I want you badly, but . . . usually when I want it means hair in a fistful and a slap here, smack there, maybe even a punch over there. Right now, I'm too smitten by you to want to hurt you too badly, my wild, beastly instinct dormant, the roaring, furry creature inside me all but silenced, I'm happy to just be touching you gently, softly, lightly.

I lose my shirt, my chinos, socks, stripping right down to my boxers rather promptly, agilely, and now my cock is standing up and away from my body to actually make a gap between the top hem of my boxers and my belly. Seen from above, it shows. My trimmed pubes show. All that, in perhaps ten, fifteen seconds? I was brisk.

With you, it's a whole another story. I undo each and every button of your blouse. One by one. Parting it. Stroking. Tugging gently. Very, very slowly and carefully sliding it of off you. I kiss your arms. And shoulders. And neck, all now exposed. My fingers dance and toy at your waistline, gently toying with your top, my thumb sliding under, teasing, playing, exploring. When I start lifting the top, it's not inch by inch, not even centimetre by centimetre, it's by a hair's breadth by hair's breadth, so slow it hardly seems like motion at all. Sometimes I stop. Then tug half an inch one side. Stroke. Rub. Wait. Tug again, less, on the other side. Rub. Stroke. When the top is at around the level of your solar plexus, I lean in and softly, lightly kiss your belly. And then go on. Just as slowly, just as lightly. I pause an especially long time before exposing your nipples, and then expose the left one, kiss it, a wet, slow kiss, followed by a tease of the tongue. Then I tug on the right, the other nipple, another kiss, lips soft and warm against the tender flesh, a bit of suction, a lick, a graze of the teeth, but soft, light, ever so gentle. Only then I remove the top at a pace slightly faster than a snail's.

Your racing heart. Your breath. I can't but notice you're not far from panic.

"Watch me," I say, firmly, but kindly.

"Breathe with me," I say, and breathe. One, two, three, four in. One, two, three, four five, six out. Deep breaths. Slow breaths. Emphasis on the out–breath, and extending it. A simple but reliable technique to calm someone down, to reduce the CO2 level in their blood, stop their tendency to hyperventilate. I keep at it for a good while. Minutes, two, three, perhaps five altogether. Then I make you kneel up, and reach for the waistband of your skirt, and slowly, gently undo it. Unzip it. Slide it down over your sweet preteen bum. Give your buttocks a squeeze, a rub, a light smack, getting you to get up, removing the skirt completely, as you step out of it, a little step and then another.

I think I'll keep those gorgeous socks, black and blue, on you, so it's just your panties. And I take extra time and care with those. I run my fingers over the hems, each and every one of them, all around. Then along the hems. Then I slide my finger just under, and repeat the whole procedure. I tug at the hems. Here and there. I rub and stroke, over and through the panties. When I grab them on the sides and start tugging them down, perhaps some five minutes later, they have really been used to their fullest potential, when it comes to foreplay. They go a bit down, exposing your mound. Then low enough to show your pussy, down to your knees, and off. You in your socks, me in my boxers.

I kneel up and place your little hands on the sides of my boxers. You know what I want you to do.

Laura

I'm nervous and scared as we lie there together on the bed, one of your hands resting gently on my bottom through the skirt, the other hand touching and caressing and feeling my ears, hair, cheeks, and lips. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do at this point. You made it clear that I had to be nice, a good girl, a good date, or there would be . . . consequences. But I'm too scared to think about anything other than what I know is coming. Thoughts of blood and pain occupy my mind. I look very unhappy and scared. Every few seconds, I give a little tremble.

And then suddenly –– my heart skips a beat –– you stand, and in a series of quick, almost choreographed movements, your clothes come off, except for your boxers. I watch you, wide–eyed and very, very nervous. Your penis is standing up straight inside your boxers, bulging, tenting them out. It looks huge to me, absolutely huge. The tenting effect makes it look even bigger than last night. Big and hard. Too big. Way too big.

But you leave your boxers on, and in a flash you are back on the bed with me, in the same position as before. When you reach for my blouse and start to unbutton it, I know the time has come. I am so scared. I make a little whimpering sound. My expression is one of foreboding fear. But in contrast to your own clothes, you take your time with my blouse, working one button free, then moving to the next. It's well over a minute before it slides off my slender arms and you pull it free.

My upper arms break into goose pimples as you gently kiss my shoulders, my neck, the soft junction of my arms and upper chest. Whether it's from my Pet training earlier today or because of the tickling feel, I tilt my head slightly away from your kiss, giving you greater access to my slender neck, as your lips kiss above the collar. I lie still as you work. Not speaking. My chest rising and falling.

The removal of my top is so slow. My little body flinches and quivers as you touch and tug, caress and pull, tease and adjust. It's hard to concentrate on my fear when your fingers and hands are tantalizing my body so. But I am scared; my body is trembling as I lie there. I am motionless except for my quivers, my breathing, my little flinches as you tickle–touch and caress my soft skin. As your mouth goes to my soft, creamy white tummy, I can't stop myself and lean up, with a little grunt of tickle–induced distress, then lie back with an exhale, as you tickle and tantalize my sensitive skin. You can feel my tummy spasming underneath your mouth as you kiss and lick and nibble with your lips. I am a basket of nerves as you touch me, as my mind contemplates what lies ahead. The slow, patient removal of my top continues, teasingly, as you expose my young nipples, and I exhale a tiny, barely audible little sighing moan as you take the first one in your mouth and tease it with your tongue. My little nubs harden as you lick and run your teeth over them. My body is shaking. My expression is one of dread and fear even as you tease and explore my little body with your mouth.

After you say "watch me” and demonstrate, I breathe with you, listening carefully, emulating you. I am so scared. I'll do anything to be less scared. My breaths are quivering and shivery, but the deep, deep breaths help. My heart rate slows. It helps for a bit.

I kneel up as you direct, as my heart rate starts to climb once again. Your hands work the skirt down, off my slender hips. Your hand squeezes my beautiful, preteen bottom firmly, possessively. The light smack makes me gasp, and I stand up on my feet on the bed, my small hand bracing on your right shoulder as I lift one foot, then the other, and step free from the skirt.

I lie back down, trembling, filled with dread. My heart is racing as you start to work on my panties –– slow, so slow, drawing it out. No amount of deep breathing will help me now. I am filled with fear, my expression stricken. I am hyperventilating, my breath coming in little whimpered pants. My eyes glisten with tears as you tug the panties down, lower, lower, and then off.

And then, with me gulping, swallowing with fear, you sit me up and place my little hands on your hips. My hands are trembling as I look at the tented fabric, your erection already pulling the waistband away from your abdomen. I blink back tears and you hear a tiny, barely audible little whimper. Slowly, filled with trepidation and dread, I pull the waistband out further, freeing your penis. I look scared to death as I tug your boxers down, off your hips, exposing your throbbing, jutting member. I stare at it, my entire body shaking now, and lower the boxers from your hairy balls, to your knees. I cannot help myself now, and burst into tears.

Marcus

I pull my boxers the rest of the way and draw you into a hug. My cock is hot and hard against your legs, perhaps even crotch, but you'll just have to get over that, I'm holding you, steady, tight, warm, firm. I hold you. And hold you. And hold you. There is no rush.

"Shh, shh, my love. It's totally okay to be anxious, a bit afraid. It's your first time. I know. It's intimidating. But it is beautiful. And you are already picking up on the feelings that people do it for, the good sensations, the fun stuff. When we kissed. When I kissed your nipples. You already sense that the touch can bring you pleasure. Why not relax? You can cry if you wanna," I say and stroke your hair, "but I don't want you to think that this is something you have to cry about. In fact, if you laughed a bit, or at least tried to smile, you'll make it more likely enjoyable for yourself. Smiles take an edge of off pain, did you know that? But I'll be slow, I'll be nice. You are my special girl, there is no hurry, and we're getting along just peachy, hmm?"

We are now both naked, save for your socks, and I kiss the tears off your cheeks. The mixed scents of our perfumes, our skins, mine taut over my muscles, and a good bit darker than yours, though you are far from a pallid ethereal fairy yourself, a healthy kid who clearly had enough fresh and sunlight. Up until now, anyway.

This is not quite going as I imagined. In my fantasies, this was happening either roughly, brutally, with you fighting, struggling, screaming your lungs out, bashing your fists and kicking into the bed with your feet, toes curled in agonising pain, face purple, snotty as I force myself on you. Or it was sweet and sensual and you were actually into it, excited and curious and aroused and coping with the pain well. Real kids are a lot harder to deal with than wet–dream, wanking–fantasy kids, I have to say. The combination of me being more gentle than I even thought I could be, and you still ending up, or rather starting, to be precise, in tears, is confusing and not that easy to handle, but I don't let my inner struggle show. If it shows, it will be when you trigger me too much, my confusion turns into annoyance, and my gentleness will flip into violence. So far . . . this is a learning process. A fascinating experience. Non-trivial, fluid, unpredictable, ha! Yes! That's why I feel so thrown; the fact that I can't tell how your mercurial emotions will develop from here on brings in an important element that isn't under my control. And I'm a control freak. I spent a vast majority of my savings on creating this super–controlled environment, this dungeon in which I am a Master, a God, where I rule. I rule over you. Your body and partially, bit by little bit, your mind, too. But I can't rule over your emotions, and you are a girl, a sensitive, eleven-year-old girl. Emotional.

The realisation liberates me, and relieves me of some of the stress and then I surprise myself as I pin you down, gently, part your legs, and approach your pussy, not with my big hard cock, but with my mouth.

"Navigate," I tell you and then explain what I mean. "Tongue is softer than finger. It should not burn. But if it's too much anyway, tell me. If slower is better, tell me. If you want more, faster, tell me. Talk to me. For a little bit just now, you're in charge. I'm only making this to make you feel good. To show you what we're both ultimately after. To help you get over your fear," I say and kiss your pussy and give it a slow, wet lick with my tongue pressed flat against it, licking your from just above your puckered hole over your virginal opening, up your slit, and to the mound. And then again. And again. Then I repeat it, but this time with just the tip of my tongue, a narrower, more aimed sensation. I tease your opening, circling there. I flick my tongue up and down between your folds. Flick it left and right over your clit. Kiss your outer nether lips firmly. And your mound. I breath over your pussy. Lap over it like a dog, this time under an angle. Giving you a sample of a variety of sensations that should all feel good and letting you pick the best ones, and ask for them, and guide me . . . in pleasing you.

And somewhere deep inside it's like being out of my body as I stare surprised at myself, as if from outside, from above. I like this. I'm into it, and more curious about it than I am lusting for being inside you already. It seems like there are parts of me I seriously didn't even know about!

Laura

I am crying, trembling, quivering like a baby bird as you draw my bare, nearly–naked body to you, against you, our skin touching, soft and warm. Your cock is a hard column of stiffness against my leg, my cunny, and my lower belly as we embrace. It is a fleshy reminder of what is to come. I continue to whimper and sob, shaking, as you hug me, whispering soothing words, trying to calm me down. It is a difficult task. I am very upset, very scared. I know what you intend to do. I have dreaded it since the words "I'll be Laura" left my impetuous, 11–year–old lips. At the time it seemed so far off, and proper food seemed so tantalizing. But now I'm not hungry anymore. And ever since I finished the last spoonful of toffee my fear has been growing. Fear of bleeding, fear of pain, fear of that rigid, veiny member that is touching me right now. I continue to sob, my little body heaving as I contemplate the worst.

I do manage to calm down a little, as you hold me close, warmth to warmth, embracing me, soothing me. I close my little eyes –– my face a rictus of little–girl "boo boo" –– as you kiss the salty tears from my cheeks. I look so tiny and vulnerable and real as you hold my nearly–naked, collared, 11–year–old body in your arms. My trembles are real. My tears are real. This is no act. There is no faking here. I am simply what I am: A terrified middle–schooler about to be deflowered, penetrated, fucked.

My sobs turn to sniffles, however, as your efforts calm me some. I can smell your cologne. Somehow, oddly, it seems familiar. Reassuring. And then it dawns on me. It is the same cologne that Glenn wears, or at least passably close. Glenn. My photographer/producer/agent. Glenn –– almost surely gay, a snappy dresser, a big–city metrosexual with a range of aspiring model clients, many of them male, most of them children. It is a random coincidence. But it occupies my mind for a brief moment. My tears subside.

And then you lower me down, preparing me for the event. My legs are spread, my little face fear–filled, apprehensive. But you don't mount me like in the sex–education movie. Instead you scooch lower on the bed, speaking to me from between my legs, just over my pussy. I stare at you, wide–eyed, as you explain what you intend to do. With your tongue.

I am incredulous as you lean in to kiss my bald sex, and even more astonished as you lick –– soooo close to my butt hole, ewwww!! –– all the way up my pee hole, to the slit, and my mound. My mouth gapes open in amazement and my hips wriggle to the right as it tickles. And then you do it again, differently, starting right near my poo hole again, up, to my opening, to my special spot. My hips angle a fraction of an inch as the intense feeling is too much. I grunt with sensation. But I don't fight or struggle. It is clear that your tongue is having a reaction.

I am simply too young, too scared, too astonished, too intimidated by you, to guide you or navigate you. At least not with words. But my facial contortions, my little wiggles, my exhales, my little moans, do the task for me. Your tongue and lips tease and pleasure my preteen sex, "tickling" me in a way that I have never felt before. In fact, my own exploratory masturbation sessions –– little fingers touching and roaming under the sheets –– never felt anything like this.

I feel so strange. I never knew a girl's pussy could be tongued and kissed and pleasured in this way. My delicate child folds are wet and slick. I am scared and yet aroused by the "tickling" sensations I feel down there. My tummy and chest rise and fall as I breathe deeply. I lie there, scared, confused, and 11, as you tongue my tender pussy.

Marcus

No words come, but they don't have to. Your body speaks novels. I know exactly when it's too much. When it's really ticklish, and when I "tickle" you just the right way. I eliminate whatever gets no response, or bad response, and stick to stuff that seems to work. I already know I have to be soft and careful with your clit. Over–stimulating right there = bad. Simple little girl math. Though you seem to respond somewhat less intensively to my tongue than to my fingers earlier, so hopefully, the chances of making it burn, making it hurt are slimmer. After all, we both seem to be adding lots of natural lubrication; me my drool, even though I try and not be overly messy, knowing of your dislike of all things slimy by now, and you your natural lubrication, which I don't have to wonder about or guess at just now. I can taste it. It's real. You've gotten wet for me. Damn!

I lick, kiss, suck, and on the outer, less sensitive areas, I even dare gently, softly graze my teeth against your skin. Not over your clit. No. I go on. Alternate paces. Could I make you cum? Can you cum? Who knows. I'm sure as hell gonna give it a go, though. You are delicious, your responses and reactions are priceless and I'm having the time of my life doing something that always felt a bit gross and forced and not quite right when I did it to grown up women. This is fun. This is yummy. I want more. Unlike with previous, adult lovers, I don't have to force myself to continue, pretend that it is good, hide my ever so slightly off–put grimace for the first time ever. Darn! I lap and lick and suck and go on and on and on, and eventually sort of lose patience, or perhaps just get carried away, and the slow motion is gone, the lighter, less direct stimulation gives way to fast, strong licks from your cunny's opening up over your clit and back fast and up and down and up and down and I ignore the fact that my tongue hurts a bit and I forget about swallowing drool now, fuck it, I flick my tongue twice a second, twice up, twice down, at what must seem like a frantic pace, and I manage to keep it up and I hold your thighs from the sides, keep your legs open, and I go on and on and on.

You are excited. Panting. Not that hard to read now. Yay for that, I seemed to have found a communication shortcut. Who'd have guessed going down on a girl could feel so delicious, so fun, so powerful and controlling. And I always thought that nothing quite beats having MY cock sucked. This doesn't exactly give me orgasm level pleasure, but damn, I want it anyway, more of it, lots, each moan, whimper, twitch of pleasure makes me a day younger, an inch taller, more alive and radiant. I'm not a stormy grim god of oppression right now. I am feeling divine, but I am god of joy, of pleasure, of love. And I lick and I lick and I lick, ready to slightly force you if you get near and orgasm and try to avoid it, unsure exactly what is coming.

Laura

My legs are wide apart, like a little gymnast (except I am not a gymnast; I'm a model and a dancer and a soccer player –– or I was, anyway), so flexible, my legs coltish and slender, longish on my pre–teen body. My mouth is open, my face a mask of concentration and intensity, as I writhe and urge my hips this way and that, shying away –– or is it toward –– your tickling, teasing, flicking adult tongue. My hairless preteen quim is delicate, so small, as you lick and tease and pleasure me. Little moans and desperate exhales leave my mouth as you lick and pleasure me.

I've never felt anything like this. In tickles in a kind of deep–seated, inside me kind of way. Not like a Daddy tickle on my sides or tummy. It's a tickle inside my cunny, a tingle, especially every time you lick at my special spot.

My breathing is heavy now, panting. I emit little moans of pleasure. Reluctant moans, involuntary, gasping moans. I've never felt anything like this before. I try holding my breath, my face red, as I move my hips an inch this way, and inch that way. And then I exhale suddenly, rapidly, remembering to breathe, my face red, my expression intense.

My little sex is definitely lubricating. You can taste me as I writhe beneath you. My arms move, my fingers clutch the bed sheets and I gasp as you flick over my vaginal opening to my clit and back. I moan, writhing, red–faced. My breathing is panting now. It doesn't hurt. Not at all. It tickles. Tickles in a deep, inside way. It keeps building. I can't t–t–take anymore. "P–please . . . please stop," I gasp.

Marcus

"Please stop..."

I hear you. I know you want me to stop just then, just there. But I don't. You didn't use your right to navigate up until now, and now is too late, especially when I know what is coming better than you. I sense it, taste it, feel it, smell it in you, and I no longer have to wonder or guess what is going to happen, if IT is going to happen. I know. I know I can bring you beyond the edge now, and I do. More tongue–flipping, keeping up the fast pace, more drool, more mess, more hot breath, I know exactly precisely what I'm after and I want it now, I want it BAD. And there is no stopping me.

And all I need to do is to keep at it a few more seconds, which I do. I'm ready to stop as soon as your body makes it happen, lets it happen, the tension exploding in a release, and I will not over–stimulate you or anything like that afterwards, ready to go gentle and to stop.

You stand at the cliff of the figurative abyss of bliss and try to cling on, but me, I'm just... being me, and I boot your butt, pushing you straight off into the void below. And watch you fall. It's odd. There will be moments further along when you will be just here, begging for a release and I will deny it, but just now, you are afraid to make the leap, and I won't let your fear crush the potential of this situation and take you there, anyway. Not sure quite what will happen after. Will you be less shaky about my cock, or more, because of my not stopping, because of all the intensity? Who knows. Who cares. This special moment right here, your first orgasm ever, is what really matters now.

Laura

You don't stop –– you keep going, tickling and licking, flicking and worming your tongue. I moan, my hips arching, fear gripping me. I feel like I'm going to explode, or wet myself, or something. I've never felt this way before. The tickle –– The Tickle –– builds inside me and I'm fearful. Panting, fearful, uncertain. My breaths come in little gasping moans and yips.

I writhe and buck. My right hand comes up and pushes at your head as I try to crawl back and away on the bed. Neither motion is at full effort –– it's as if my hand needs to be somewhere, and my body needs to move, my muscles need to tense.

And then it happens. A crescendo. I hum a moan of fearful climax and my little body shudders. My hand pushes frantically at your hand as my mouth contorts, fully open and twisted, as a shattering, overwhelming, explosive sensation courses through me, originating deep inside me, down there, but inside there.

The sensation is powerful. Hammering. "Staaaahhhpp!" I sob, tears in my eyes, my face a mask of shocked intensity, as I push at your head with both hands now, trying to get away, whimpering, scared. I've never felt anything this intense before. I'm scared of it. Scared of the sheer power of it. Like something is broken inside me.

This must be what He meant, I think, as I manage to put together a couple of coherent thoughts. "Oh God!" I gasp, overcome with the power of it all.

Marcus

I get on top of you, careful not to crush you with my weight, but covering you well with my warmth, the bulky, muscular mass of my torso. I'm face to face, and I'm smiling.

"That, my dear," I half–whisper, "is called an orgasm. That's how I feel when my cum shoots out of my penis, when I 'cum'. That's why people like sex and all things related, although, it'll become a lot less scary once you get used to it. It's a nice feeling that leaves behind tingly warmth, it's harmless, quite healthy, actually. Does a lot of good to you, brain, body and all," I wink. I stay on top of you for a good bit.

Now you need a time to recompose yourself, and I don't want to deny it to you. I don't want to spoil that first experience. Even when I slide off, to the side, I caress you gently and offer my arm in a sort of hug, if you want to lean in, you can. I lie next to you, and relax. I certainly got my point across, but it doesn't seem to have quite as relaxing an effect on you as expected. I guess an orgasm really is scarily powerful feeling, especially when it's forced on you by a man thrice your age under circumstances that are make–believe consensual at best, and outright forceful to any scrutinising eye out there. Not that any eyes are watching. It's just you and me. Nothing but this. Nowhere but here. No one but me.

I watch you, my expression curious. Will you settle down and at least stop shaking now?

I'm thinking about my options and slowly realise that if you don't, things will get nasty. It's not that I lack patience, but unless this resembles one of my fantasies, it's simply not gonna work for me, and if you can't go with my nice guy fantasy... my eyes fix on you and I look at you with my whole depth and power in them. The breaking point finally came. This is where you start playing nice... or I stop playing nice.

Should I perhaps say it? But no, you're not stupid, my change in expression, the edge of my losing patience must be quite obvious. Enough of babying you for now. Play your role, or pay the price.

Laura

I am still shaking from the throes of my first–ever climax, grappling with the intensity of it, when you mount me, enshrouding me with your toned adult body. For a brief moment I am sure you are going to stick your penis inside me right then, right there. Make me bleed, make me hurt. My tummy clenches in terror. And my expression goes from surprise and fear from the intensity of what just happened to unadulterated terror. But then, once again, all you do is speak. Softly. Friendly. Explaining.

An organism? Inside me? They never talked about that in 5th–grade Health last year when we did Human Reproduction. Those are life forms. That's what I remember from Science. Life forms. I look confused. Why do I got a life form inside my privates? And you got them inside you, too, and they shoot out of your penis when we do sex stuff? It's all very confusing to me and a bit scary. But you're not scared. You're explaining that it feels good and makes you feel all tingly. I'd say it makes somebody feel kinda tickly –– like in a deep down, inside–of–you sort of way. Your words reassure me a little, even if they make very little sense. ("Babies are life forms . . . people are life forms . . . maybe the organisms that come out of his penis are, too . . .")

And then, to my surprise, you roll of me to my right side, facing me, your right arm slung across my chest, gently squeezing and then caressing my upper left arm. This surprises me. I thought for sure you were going to do sex with me. Put your big penis inside my pussy. Make me bleed and hurt. But you're not. I close my sock–clad legs about halfway from their wide–open position, which was starting to hurt in my upper thighs. My hairless, preteen sex feels wet and strange –– a little gross from your licking –– but different. Like it just gave up a bunch of secrets.

My breathing slowly approaches normal as we lie there, me still flush on my back, my legs still spread still, over a foot apart at my ankles. I contemplate my first–ever organism. It was so intense. It felt almost like I was going to explode. I ponder what you said about people liking it when they do sex stuff. There was part of it that felt really good. And there were parts that tickled soooo bad I didn't think I could take it. The whole thing was incredibly intense. And kinda scary. Maybe it was only scary 'cause I didn't expect it to happen and wasn't sure what was happening? I'm not sure. It's kind of a blur now. Wow.

After a time I sense you staring at me, and I turn my head toward you, my little face so beautiful, my expression pensive, perhaps nervous, but not scared. But your face looks mean. Surpisingly mean. Like you're mad at me. My own expression goes from mostly neutral to fearful as I can tell you're not happy. Is it because of my organism? Was I not 'sposed to do it? You can tell that I can tell you are not happy. But I look confused, too. Confused and on the edge of becoming emotional once again. It's so hard to predict when you go from nice to mean. I never know what will set you off. Now you're mad 'cause of the organism. Maybe you're gonna stick your penis inside me and make me bleed after all. The familiar feeling of fear and dread starts to wash over my body yet again as I struggle to read your thoughts.

Marcus

I quickly realise you're NOT reading my expression right at all and I just laugh, poking your nose. When I speak, I sound amused, and surprisingly normal, perhaps like your photographer. Slightly disapproving, but amusingly so, a Simon Cowell sort of expression. "Okay, Lau. Enough of that. Stop freaking out. I'm not sure what you are imagining, but I'm willing to make a bet that it's not half as bad as you are conjuring it up in your fantasies just now. So stop it. You are freaking yourself out over something that EVERY girl eventually does, and most women do often, and eagerly. I know it's new, and confusing and I can imagine how it could be a bit scary, but seriously. Drop it. I've been slow, I've been nice. And I want to see a smile on your face, now, even if you have to fake it to start with," I say, not angrily, not overly loudly, but . . . quite firmly.

"This will be okay as long as I remain nice about it. And I will, if you stop being SUCH a crybaby pushover. I just showed you it can feel super, extra nice, like nothing ever before in your life, it hasn't hurt one bit yet, and you're acting like I'm sawing your toes off or something. You're being silly. Now. Look at me. Smile. Smile properly, show me your teeth some. There!" I grin back at you. "Now. It's your first time and I did my best to make it special and nice. Trust me, girls younger than you do it, in Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand and places. And make less of a fuss about it. Are you eleven, or five?" I ask, challenging you, trying to re–stir what's left of your pride, trying to play the "big girl card," knowing how kids your age hate being made feel littler, smaller, stupider than they are.

"Make my cock wet with your mouth. Just lick it and suck it a little bit and leave some drool on. No slapping, no gagging today. All is good. All is fine. Trust me, if you start sobbing for no good reason again, I'll show you there's worse stuff you should be worrying about than sex. You've seen the dungeon, right?" I ask, adding a threat to the whole manipulative mixture. I'm out of patience, and this is a clear sign of it. And I'm also telling the truth. There are tools next door, that when you have both the experiences to compare, would make you wanna lose your virginity a hundred times over rather than being put through a punishment with them. I cock my head, and guide you to go and moisten my cock, but it's just that this time. I let you slobber in it some, and then pull you up, pin you face up on the bed, and slide my wet cock–tip against your equally wet pussy.

"Does it hurt yet?" I ask, teasing a bit, knowing full well it doesn't, it cannot at this phase. Dead serious didn't work for you, perhaps a bit of humour will do the trick.

Laura

Just when I think you're mad at me 'cause you look so mean . . . you laugh and poke my nose. I blink in surprise. Now I just have no idea what makes you tick. None. I listen as you speak, feeling a bit chagrinned as you chastize me. When you tell me you want to see a smile, I do smile. Most of it is faked, but a part of it is real. I have this inside joke with Glenn –– when he tells me to smile it often reduces me to giggles. The reason for that is when I was little, like nine or something, I was in a bad mood for some reason –– I can't remember what or why –– and he kept telling me to smile. He was getting frustrated because the shoot wasn't going well. Anyway, he eventually started being all goofy and doing hilarious things to get me to smile. I was just a little kid but I still remember how funny he was. By the time he was finished I was giggling and laughing so hysterically that I guess he couldn't shoot for a long time. But every time after that he would say "Smile, Laura" it would make me giggle thinking about that long–ago photo shoot. It almost makes me giggle now ("Don't lose it, Laur’ –– He wouldn't understand at all," I tell myself).

So when you tell me to smile, it just reminds me of Glenn, and I do smile, mostly fake, but partially real. It shows in my eyes more than anything. You don't know the background, of course, or the inside story that makes my smile partially real, but you can sense that it is. Strange, strange little girl, you must be thinking. When you ask me to show my teeth, well . . . something about the way you ask that DOES strike me as funny, so I smile –– a big, toothy grin actually –– and giggle. ("Darn it, Laur’!") That isn't fake. You actually made me giggle. Made me laugh. Not only that, but I listen to your words. Not just hear them, but actually listen. Maybe my defenses are down. You HAVE been nice. You DID show me that it could be –– well, remembering my organism, it wasn't exactly nice, or maybe it was; it was intense. Intense. And ticklish feeling. I try to remember it. It's hard to describe. It was inside me. Down there. My mind wanders. ("Laur’, stop it –– just listen to what He is saying.")

One thing that strikes me is when you say that girls in other, faraway places, do it even younger. I did not know that. ("They do? Why?" I wonder. "How much younger? Aren't they really small?" I think, as my mind wanders off again. "That quiet girl, Louisa Phu, or Poo, or something, the really tiny brown–skinned girl from school –– she's from Vietnam, " I remember. "I wonder if she did sex stuff when she lived there? Could she have? She's so quiet") My eyes refocus on yours as you ask if I am 11 or five. "Eleven," I answer, before I can catch myself and put up my guarded, neutral personality. ("I'm not a little baby if that's what you're saying," I think to myself.)

And then the instruction comes. To make your cock wet. Yesterday I licked it and sucked it before you had an organism in my mouth. Bleccch! I shudder a little at the memory of the sliminess, and what happened after. But I kneel up on the bed as you roll over. I was gonna do it even before you said anything about the dungeon. I'm a little mad that you mentioned it, just to be mean, I think. My ears burn a little. But with only the briefest of hesitations, I wipe my hair behind my head and lean down to your penis, and begin to lick the shaft and the bulbous, pinkish–red head. I lick and mouth your penis, my tiny tongue wetting it as I lick in long, almost 9" trails up your shaft. I conjure up some frothy saliva in my mouth and let it dribble out. I am not crying. I've done this before. And I'm not five, either. So there, Mr. Fancy–Smelling Sex Pervert Person.

Suddenly –– my heart skips a beat –– I am on my back, with you on top of me. My legs are spread and I feel your penis pressing against my bald little preteen quim. My eyes are wide, but dry. I shake my head no at your question, trying NOT to think about ("Stop it, Laur’ –– don't think about it, don't think about bleeding, don't think about bleeding, don't think about bleeding"). I look so tiny as you hold my little wrists down to either side of my face. So tiny.

Marcus

I grab both your wrists and pin them above your head, holding them with just one hand, easily. My other hand, now free, positions your legs just right. I slide my shaft over your pussy. Seems like I'm about to go in, but I delay it. And then, suddenly, my fingers find your exposed, stretched sides, and they start tickling. Tickling your waist and belly and even armpits, helplessly exposed to my soft, swift touch. Cock pressed against your pussy pinning you down so as you squirm you rub yourself on me, and I tickle on, and on and on. I alternate, and pause here and there to allow you to catch a breath. I also make faces. Grins. Grimaces. I make you laugh. Now that I know that I can, it's easy. And there's always a little bit more of tickling I can do when and if I fancy to.

Now I have you genuinely giggling and laughing, squirming as I hold you down playfully. And then after a longer with of tickling that leaves you almost breathless my fingers leave your belly, grab my cock and aim it into the best possible angle as I push the tip of my cock in, against the resistance of your virginity. I linger there. I'm entering your pussy, stretching it, but not far and deep to be hurting, not yet deep enough to break the hymen. I stick my tongue out.

"Silly girl," I wink. "Still so terrified?" I pout boyishly. "Still a baaaby?" I sprawl and smile, but then turn a bit more serious. "You're doing well. This is the bit that has to hurt a little, but I promise it will be over quick," I say as I press against your hymen and through it, and enter you about three inches deep, stopping. "I know, I know,” I say sympathetically. “Breathe. Breathe deeply. Smile. Be brave. It's okay. It's okay. That was the worst of it, promise. That's it. That had to hurt. Now that's gone for ever and from now on, it will only be getting better,” I speak hypnotically, soothingly, without moving even the littlest bit inside you, barely a third of my cock inside you, but I seem to be okay with that for now. I wait for your response. Whatever it is. I watch you handle this, for better or worse.

My cock now holds inside by itself so I let go of it and give your face a stroke. "There. Is it as horrible as you thought? Worse? Or maybe, just maybe, a little bit less bad?" I ask, winking.

Laura

My heart starts to pound in fear as you pin my little wrists and spread my legs. A shivery whimper escapes my lips as you position me, and slide your thick, veiny erection over my child sex. And then . . .

. . . . all hell breaks loose as you begin to tickle me. Not the soft, caressing, goose–pimple–inducing tickles from before, or the deep–seated, crescending Tickle of my organism, but a squirm– and wriggle– and giggle–inducing all–out assault on my stretched, defenseless, smooth, soft, preteen body. Your hand is seemingly everywhere as I thrash about, breathless, laughing, squirming to and fro, wincing and flinching and reacting as your hand tickles and jabs and fingers my very ticklish, very sensitive, very soft middle–schooler skin.

Your penis is completely forgotten as I thrash about, red–faced, breathless, unable to speak, yet trying to. "St–st–st–st–" I gasp, unable to complete the word. When I laugh, my voice is bright and high–pitched and little–child giggly, little gaspy giggles pealing out of me like a waterfall as I try to protect my vulnerable, soft flesh from your assault. My eyes are wide and bright and shimmering with laughing tears. "St–st–staahh–st–st–" I gasp, red–faced, as you make ridiculous faces at me and little tickling noises. I can tell you are trying to make me laugh, cheer me up even, but frankly, the tickling alone is doing that all by itself. 'St–st–he he he he he!" my giggles ripple from me.

And then, suddenly, your big, thick, mancock is at the doorstep, pressed against the thin sheath of membrane that identifies me as a child. I gasp for air as my eyes look up at yours, scared now, aware, my expression filled with worry.

Your next words are delivered with a smile and a baby voice, but my mirth is gone. My mind is refocused on . . . the event. The happening. The about–to–come. I listen as you speak; I'm familiar, now, with your style, your pauses followed by words of encouragement and chastisement –– but this time your words end quickly, and you push through, unexpectedly, abruptly, unhesitatingly. It does hurt. A sharp, deep–seated tearing feeling, a burning just–cut–myself burn, down there, inside me, made worse by the knowledge that it would hurt. Hurt and bleed. I cry out –– an agonized little–girl squeal of pain and fear. My dark, sumptuous eyes instantly brim over with child tears –– thick, very wet, copious tears. "Waaah haaa haaa haaaaaaaaaaa!" I squeal, very upset now. "Waaaa haaaa haaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" I gasp in a–sad raspy breath, as my legs try to thrash on the bed.

"It huuuuuuurts!" I cry, my lower lip curled into a sobbing frown, my chin dimpled with dismay. My exhale breaks into little whimpers of fear. "Am I bleeding? Am I bleeding?" I gasp, weeping, so sad, just a scared little girl. A collared little 11–year–old. I try to breathe. Deep, trembling, hyperventilating breaths. My cunny feels so stretched, so full, with your warm, thick, fleshy penis embedded inside. I alternate breathing with sobbing as tears stream down from the sides of my sad little eyes and onto the sheets below.

It helps that you don't move your manhood inside me. I'm afraid that when you do, the knife–like pain will return. With it just seated there, 3" deep in my preteen pussy, all I feel is its thickness, a sensation of being very full, stretched wide.

I flinch as your hand comes up to stroke my teary–eyed little face. I turn away sullenly from your caress as I continue to whimper and sob. I don't answer your question directly, not with words, anyway. In fact, my words repeat (a bit angrily) "It huurts!!" But I don't say it with the same conviction. And my terrified weeping has abated somewhat.

Marcus

"There's no blood that I can see," I state, still not sounding too serious about it. "Did you imagine buckets of blood pouring out like someone pulled a plug from there?" I ask, realising why you'd probably be so worried about the whole idea of bleeding. "It's more like pricking your finger on a rose thorn. A drop of blood. You'll probably never even get to see it, my cock will just be a bit pink when we are done. And next time, not even that. So? I know it hurts," I sigh pragmatically, "but does it hurt terribly? Something a big girl could not deal with for a little while, knowing it's gonna pass quickly, and then be gone, and feel better and better each time we do it again, hmm?"

"Also, missie," I poke your nose–tip, "I thought we'd agreed to play nice. What's with that angry tone? Would you like to be tickled till there is no anger left in you?" I ask, but anyone could tell from my tone that that's a joke–threat, not one I'm about to make good on. "Wee yourself like a toddler during your first time?" I add, the teasing voice maybe leaving you a bit more uncertain just how serious I really am about that.

I let go of your hands now. "Reach up and grab onto my arms. Breathe. I'll move. It might hurt a bit more, but not as bad anymore. And if you keep trying, keep breathing, keep smiling, I'll not go too deep, too fast, too rough. Deal?" I ask with a smile and pull back so my cock almost slides out of your pussy, and then back in, drool on drool and girlie juice, at least there's not too much friction, we're wet enough against each other as I push back, some four inches deep this time before pausing.

I don't speak anymore. I just give you some time to adjust again. Time to handle it. Time to remember what I said earlier, and then I repeat it. Pulling out almost far enough to slip out, back in, four inches deep. And out, and in. My cock isn't even half way in, but you're penetrated just as deeply as the girl in the Danish school video, and with thrice the girth. So I cut you some slack, and go real slow. Out and in again. Only as deep as I went before. And pause for a long time.

"How is it? Honestly. No whining, but also no overt heroism. Can you take a bit more of this?" I ask, perhaps making you wonder what would happen if you said no, but then... you also better wonder what would happen if you say no and I call your bluff... and then God help you, from the bed straight into the dungeon. But still, I wait for your feedback four inches deep inside you, not moving. I can see blood now, at the root of my cock, but it's just the usual small amount from a ruptured hymen, doesn't seem to me a dangerous amount, and I don't mention it and keep your eyes busy with my eyes, my face. You don't worry about blood. You worry about the nearly seven-foot hulk atop you and what he'll do if you disappoint him or piss him off.

Laura

I feel a little childish as you explain about the blood. As a matter of fact, I DID think that there would be a lot of blood. Maybe she never said it exactly but Caroline made it sound like it was a lot, or at least that's what I heard, anyway, as I listened to her intently, all wide–eyed, feeling a bit faint and queasy in my tummy. ("Darn it, Caroline –– was that just another one of your stories? Why do you always have to pretend you know everything?" I think to myself.) I make a mental note to give Caroline a piece of my mind when I get out of here.

I turn my attention back to you. You're teasing me. Making me feel like I'm five. I try to shrug, awkwardly moving my shoulders even as you keep my little hands pinioned above my head. My shrug is noncomittal. Even if I DID think it would be like pulling a plug, that was only 'cause nobody ever told me it wouldn't be. And I'm certainly not going to admit that to you. It's not my fault, anyway. So there.

I shrug again as you ask me if it hurts terribly, my little shoulders somehow managing to flex up and back despite my position. No, it doesn't hurt terribly. And maybe most of the pain already is gone. And maybe it was more like getting a shot at the doctor's office. I tend to carry on about those, too, I admit to myself. But that's because I hate needles. It's never quite as bad as I imagine it. Maybe I just imagine things hurting more than they actually do. I feel a little embarrassed. A little childish. But I don't want to admit that to you, not out loud anyway. I stare up at you, and shrug again, noncomittally.

I flinch when you poke my nose –– dang it I HATE it when you do that. I always think you're gonna smack me. But you just do it to tease. And I know that I was a bit sullen a few seconds ago. I looked away. I was being defiant. You know it and I know it. "Sorry," I say, in a soft, contrite, worried, but still teary–eyed voice.

I do as you instruct and grasp your arms, awkwardly, on the outer part, between your elbow and armpits. I hold my hands there, like a brand–new, nervous, ballroom–dance student. As instructed, I take a very deep breath, my inhale shivery, slightly whimpered. I exhale and do it again. Breathing in deeply. Exhaling. It seemed to work before, calming me down. At least a little bit. I want it to work now.

I gasp and my eyes bulge wide as your cock withdraws from my 5th–grader snatch, leaving an incredible feeling of emptiness and, well, withdrawal. My tight vaginal opening grips your bulbous cockhead, at its thickest part –– any further and you would slide out of me completely. My breathing is erratic, and whimpery, as I try to prepare for your re–entry, and as you push back in I lift my shoulders partly off the mattress, curling inward, my face reddened, my expression a mask of concentration. You press deeper than before, and I gasp, my eyes widening in panic just as you stop there, 4" of thick man meat inside my child–sized vagina.

You can tell how hard I am concentrating as you slowly press in, then out, of my bald, preteen pussy. In some ways it helps that you go slow, giving me time to prepare, and to adjust. In other ways it enhances my fear with the knowledge that I am being ever–so–slowly man–fucked; I feel every thick inch of it, it seems. In my mind, and perhaps in my little pussy as well, it seems like I can feel the individual veins and ridges of your penis as it slides in, pausing. Then out.

My face is red. My expression one of intense concentration and fear mixed into one. What you do not see is pain. You see my childish fear of pain –– which is very real to me –– but nothing to confirm much more than discomfort at the actual insertion. Discomfort, alas, could not be avoided even if you wished it to. Your adult penis is so thick, it stretches my tiny opening to a thin, taut, tight, nearly translucent ring of skin with every insertion, and, more visibly, with every withdrawal. Your cock fills me with a feeling of size and girth as child sex stretches to accommodate you. But the pain of friction has not yet set in. Right now it is just your size –– the massive thickness of your adult penis versus my tiny child opening –– that is causing my eyes to water with discomfort.

My eyes flit from yours to your abdomen as you hold your erection 4" inside my little–girl snatch. I can't see you entering me. Not without looking up and I don't WANT to see. I don't want to see the blood, however much there actually is ("Laur’, you'd prolly faint, girlfriend," I tease myself). Vaguely I wonder if you're lying to me about the quantity of blood. Am I dying? Will I bleed to death? But I know that can't be true. You're not lying. I'm just being silly.

The answer to your question is yes. It hurts some and it feels so full in my tiny sex, but it's not agonizing. Just full. Really, really full inside me. That's what it feels like. My expression is worried and full of concentration. Tiny beads of perspiration begin to wet my forehead. I bite my lower lip. And give a tiny nod.

Marcus

Going slowly makes me enjoy the intensity of it, the friction, tightness, heat, your responses to the utmost. I'm loving this. It's a million times better than normal sex. I've even had lovers who barely changed their facial expression when I entered them. Bad lovers, those, they rarely even got a second chance, but even the good ones, who responded... were nothing like you, nothing like this. You and I, we can both feel each and every bit of the area where our bodies meet. We can very intensively feel me sliding in, and out, even when I rest, inside, immobile, you're so taut over me it's like... I can't even describe it. I've been up some tight assess before, but that was not even close to this experience. This really is a something.

For a while, I'm content moving in and out slowly, consciously, just paying attention to the sensation of slightly less than half penetrating you. I'm glad you are taking it okay. I realise that since I don't want you dead, this is likely a lot safer, much preferable to an agonising struggle, a full on rape, during which I could tear and rip you and what then? I have basic medical training, but I'm not a damn surgeon. And it's not like I can exactly take you to hospital, is it? Eventually, seeing that you are coping well, I push a little bit further each time I go in, perhaps a quarter inch deeper each soft, slow... can I even call them "thrusts"? They are more like glides, slick and smooth and languid, strokes, rather than spear–like motion.

I add only a bit each time I add a bit, and then do at least two more goes of the same depth and intensity before progressing further. I can see the worry and fear in your eyes and I don't want to give you a foundation for them, I don't want them to become justified. Fear the whips, canes, belts, needles, stuff like that. Sex is something I want you to have a positive attitude to. To be willing to do again, perhaps even wanting to do again. So I go slow. And I discover just how far your virginal pussy will let me go. I have absolutely no intention to fit in whole, or to push past your cervix, none of such messy, painful stuff will be done today. I'll find your limit, and respect it without even pushing against it.

"You're doing so well. I'm impressed now," I praise you. You've been teased and taunted enough, now you are trying hard and deserve some positive reinforcement. "You're doing good. This feels real, real good and special to me. I've never had better sex in my life," I say, and mean it. "You are beautiful. You are special. I know I'm big, and it's tight and not easy for you, but that's all a part of it feeling so amazing or special. I support myself on one arm only and reach down to my cock to check I'm still slick enough for smooth going; there's lube at hand if needed. "You're doing good. Real good. I have a special treat for you, for after. Nothing scary or new, something you know from before already," I wink.

I keep moving. Slowly. Gently. However deep we've established possible without sending you into agony. Heck. There's magic and fun in treating a girl decently, too. Who would have guessed? I find myself satisfied. I do have your full attention. We're well past your comfort zone, you are exploring new stuff. This is new and intense and special for you. You have to sacrifice yourself a bit to take it. And all that together makes it hot, arousing, profoundly rewarding to me, feeling as good, if not better than blood sweat and screams of the darker approach.

"You're the best. I've never only had one girl, always had lovers, here and there, but I think that's done and over with. You are too special. Too perfect. I don't want anyone else. Ever," I whisper. It might sound lovingly, but it also sounds a little maniacally, and it means you're the only one who'll have to take care of my cock. And that's no easy feat, that.

Laura

I lie there, my hands on your arms, clutching there, as if for moral support, as your manhood gently glides in and out of my preteen pussy. My very first fucking continues with slow, deliberate strokes. You can tell from my expression and my little facial tics that I am fully experiencing each and every movment of your cock inside my slender body. My brow is furrowed with concentration and beaded with fear–induced little–girl perspiration. Little semi–gasps and partial breaths –– accompanied by occasional moans and tiny whimpers –– emanate from my face as we fuck, man and little girl. I am on a knife's edge, on the cusp of pain, as your penis pleasures itself inside me. My 5th–grader pussy is so warm, moist, and gripping as you gently undulate your strong, muscled hips against me, thrusting, slowly, savoring the feel. Each thrust stretches my opening, threatening to fold it over inside me as you enter, the skin stretching thin and taut as you withdraw. It is uncomfortable, but tolerable. Yet there is the constant worry that you will proceed faster, or deeper, or harder –– any of which would cross the threshold instantly into actual pain. I am acutely aware that I am right at the very threshold between mere discomfort and pain. Any given thrust of your penis could tip the scales.

I exhale a shivery, trembled little breath as your erectiion works its way deeper into my child sex. It feels so big, so huge, as it slides into my body. At five inches of depth your cock reaches my cervix, touching there, not exactly painfully, but with a dull, deep–seated sensation that serves as a warning. Just as you feel the tip of your cock touch me deep inside, I clutch at your arms and moan, my face worried now, my head back a little bit now, my eyes focused on the ceiling as I concentrate fully on the feel of your penis inside me. This is your cue that my threshold has been reached. My cervix feels you. I feel you, deep inside a little body that I don't fully understand.

My breathing, my little grunts and gasps and groans, all form a symphony of sound below you. Noises of discomfort, distress, and worry. It goes on –– sighs, litle moans, exhales. A wide panoply of little–girl sounds as you gently fuck my hairless, middle–schooler snatch.

As you begin to speak again, my body is tense, my muscles taut, my expression worried and on the tipping point of pain. My dark, wide eyes foucs on yours as you tell me how special I am, how I'm the only one for you. I can concentrate only so much on your words, as most of my attention is, and needs ot be, focused on the hard, ridged penis gliding in and out of my body. I hear your words, the word "ever" resonating in my developing brain even as you continue to fuck me. Ever is a long time. I don't even know how long you mean. A week? Two? A whole month? My hands clutch you as I ponder the unthinkable. I can't stay here a whole month. I . . . I have to go to school. My parents and brothers will miss me . . .

Marcus

I don't mention or explain that I could go further. I found your boundary, and I respect it, this time. It's a gift, from you to me, a gift of your first time not ending up in tears and screams of agony after all. Next time, or the time after. But not now, not with your pussy just deflowered, cherry just popped, my cock pink with blood and you clutching me like you're holding on for your dear life. Not now. I move in, I like this. It's not easy for you, you have to cope, have to push yourself a bit, but you can take it. I wonder if perhaps the sensation has a nice side to it, too, but I don't ask. We can chat afterwards. Right now, I can feel a very familiar sensation building in me quickly.

It takes a lot of willpower to not go rougher and faster, and you can perhaps see the strain of the delayed orgasm, the prolonged pleasure, the sweet agony in my face as I take care not to hurt you too much. I keep going slow, and damn, it's not easy, and double damn, I cannot jam myself all the way in, balls deep, arching my back, pressing hard as I am used to. That will take a lot of self control, but you've earned it, lucky little girl. And then, I suddenly feel my climax hitting me, all the more intense and all the more powerful for being reached slowly, and I push as deep inside you as your body willingly lets me, but no further, even in the highest moment I maintain enough self control not to hurt you, and lots and lots of my cum fill you. That probably goes through your cervix and in and further, as well as squirting out around the shaft, I fill you too snugly for the cum to have anywhere else to go, and there's lots of it. I grunt, and gasp and just like in my dreams, I cry out loud, your name.

"Lauraaa!" the orgasm is long and intense, and I shudder when I'm finally spent. I pull out, slowly, gently. lots of cum pouring out after. "My sweet little Dandy tart," I say and move so I can kiss you softly.

"Thank you," I whisper afterwards. "That was lovely. That really, really was special," I tell you. I'm feeling a lot of things, and not least proud of myself for having handled this so well. Damn. I never felt quite so on top of things before. This is a divine experience. I'm sated, and happy and proud. I'm tingly all over. This was an exceptionally epic orgasm, and gods, seeing you, seeing that sex with a little girl your age is possible without it ending as butchery is worth every effort, every moment of holding back, every moment of making myself go on consciously, gently, with full attention, and staying mindfully present, rather than letting go and letting the beast inside me take over. I'll take him for a ride another day. Today, this, here, was the best way it could have turned out. I drop onto the bed next to you and ruffle your hair playfully.

"Will you tremble and shudder and cry next time I suggest we do this?" I ask, smiling. I deliberately use the word suggest, I don't wanna rub in your lack of control your... position just now. No. I've played the good guy and I should stick to it for at least another bit.

"Can you sit up?" I ask after we've both rested for a while. I reach under the bed, and there's a box with red ribbon. I pass it to you. It took me a lot of digging to make sure I found out your favourite kind of sweet treat, especially since this one is only made abroad. But I found it, and there it is in the box. Your rare, favourite treat. You probably never got it from anyone but your daddy returning from European business trips, and yet, there it is – Torrone.

"Happy becoming a Big Girl day," I say, merrily.

Laura

I am glad that you don't push further, harder, against whatever that thing is inside me, that thing that issues a dull, pain–like warning to my brain that you are as deep inside me as you should go. Is it my backbone? My ribs? My young mind has no idea what the tip of your penis hit at the end of your stroke. Anatomy is not the strong suit fo the preteen set, and I am no exception. Maybe you're hitting the back of my butt. I just don't know.

My little hands are clutching your upper arms, my fingers pressing into your muscled flesh. If I had any fingernails, I'd certainly be leaving marks. But much to my Mom's regret I chew my nails, often down to the quick. I've been doing a lot of chewing these past couple of days. My fingernails are short and little–girlish; only the blue nail polish speaks of a femininity there. A new problem develops as you rock your hips and drive your penis inside me. Despite some lubrication from your cock and my little cunny, things are getting drier down there, and I'm starting to feel a friction. It is very gradual, but each inaward thrust starts to bite a bit more, a little less than that on the withdrawal. The freqeuncy of my gasping little grunts and moans increases. I swallow, and try to reposition underneath you, but it's starting to hurt.

Perhaps it is the added friction, or my increasingly obvious distress, but it is soon after the friction pain increases that you climax, pushing 5" of your manhood deep inside my child cunny and spewing sperm all over my cervix, into my womb. The space inside me is too confined, so small, only child–sized, and as a consequence some of your super–sized load sloshes out beteen your shaft and my fleshy opening, oozing down over my anus to the sheets below.

I can feel most of your spurts inside me as my vagina and womb fill with cum, warm and wet, as your organism happens. I look up, eyes wide, as you grunt and grasp and call my name –– the first two happening much the same as last night, but you saying my name being new. I can tell you have enjoyed climaxing inside me. Intense pleasure is etched on your face as you finish inside my 5th–grader vagina. I moan as your cock pulls free, soft and spent. My cunny feels vacant and empty as you lean down and kiss my tired–looking face.

I am surprised when you thank me. As if I had done this as a favor. It confuses me. I ponder, for a moment anyway, whether for you to enjoy your organisms with me, you need me to let you fuck me. That must be why you thanked me, right? Because you need me? But I am sharp enough to know that you could force me, so then why did you thank me? It's so confusing to me, barely 11 years old. Just one more eccentricity that I place right up there with the pet play and putting a finger in my poo hole and making me lick the floor. All things that don't make sense to me.

I am too spent even to flinch as you muss my hair. I continue to lie there on my back with my coltish legs spread wide apart in their colorful, high socks, cum oozing from my hairless young sex. "I dunno," I reply, both truthfully and a little sullenly as you ask how I will react when you "suggest" that we do it again. I am being truthful. I don't know. I wonder how many times you're going to make me do it. It could be a lot –– five, ten, even 20 times. The thought makes me feel sad and homesick. It's been a long two days for me so far, And you haven't said anything about when I can go home.

I sit up, my pussy feeling squishy, wet, and "loose" as I do. My eyes look confused, then surprised, then curious as you hand me the box with the red ribbon around it. I'm 11. I like receiving gifts. Especially surprise gifts. Even surprise gifts from a sex pervert person like you. "What is it?" I ask, unable to wait, as I take the box from your hand.

As you watch, I draw the box between my legs, my face eager with concentration as I undo the ribbon. Slender little fingers pull the tape from the flap at the end of the box. It opens, and out pops six bars of my favorite candy, milk chocolate and hazelnut nougat Torrone from Italy. I am stunned. Shocked. Instantly emotional. It is like being reunited with a favorite toy or stuffed animal.

I look up at you quickly, oblivious to the heavy metal collar encircling my slender neck. To your surprise, I look like I am about to cry. "It's my favorite kind," I say, my voice incredulous, tired, and teetering on the edge of tears. I'm only 11, a magical age between young childhood and early teens, too young to believe, at least at first, that your gift is anything other than the Most. Amazing. Coincidence. Ever.