15. Rewards

Marcus

I nod, knowingly, perhaps enough of a hint for your to realise I knew. I had this figured out, just like brussel sprouts and cheese, and other stuff, too. Perhaps you see it just as my being pleased with your being happy, me "getting lucky," who knows. You are tired, and have every right to be.

"They are yours," I emphasise. "You can have them now, or later, or whenever. Now, let's get you cleaned up, big girl." I give you a chance to eat some, should you need a sugar fix, which I would not hold against you. Then I lead you to the bathroom. "Now, can I rely on you keeping up the good behavior and having a nice bath all by yourself, while I take care of stuff in your room?" I even call your cell a room. No coincidence, that. I think briefly. If you were fresh, quick thinking, and extremely determined, there are things in this bathroom with which you could probably commit a suicide, if you looked in all the cupboards and drawers and found all the medical stuff, with even syringes and needles and stuff. But you don't strike me as quick, determined, OR suicidal, for that matter, so I just leave start the bath, open the cupboard which you are supposed to go through, the one with your cosmetics, and leave you to it.

"I'll be back in about twenty. You can relax and have a bath, okay?"

I get stuff in a utility room. Mop up your cell, ridding it of the sticky stains, of cum and remnants of puke and drool. Polish it clean. I bring in a bed, a proper bed, with a soft, quality mattress. With a blanket, pillow. Clean sheets. A little bedside table. A plastic drinking cup. A box of tissues. And, most importantly, a TV remote-control. It controls the screen that is opposite the bed, so you can lie comfortably and watch. Normal channels are locked. There are pre–selected groups of programs. Educational stuff, mainly about sex, anatomy, that kind of movies. There's porn. In categories. Hundreds of hours of porn of all sorts. Kiddie porn mixed in it where it was available, adult-on-adult stuff when alternatives could not be dug out online. All sorts. Anal. Rimming. Lots of bondage and kink and such. Mostly its rough stuff, with women being used and in a position of a slave, servant, degraded fuckmeat.

I look around the cell. It's starting to look almost like a room. Not worse than a cell any more.

I prepare the room like this, and go get you in the bathroom. I have stuck a sticky hook onto one of the walls for a towel, another one for a bathrobe, and I bring the bathrobe, white and clean and fluffy with me, when I come into the bathroom some twenty minutes later.

"This one's yours, too. It comes with a pair of warm woollen socks, but it's only for after bath. Bare bottom is still your usual daily dress. Understood?" I check as I place it near the bathtub. "Are you almost done?" I ask kind of kindly but you likely already read me well enough to get the hint, you should be.

Laura

I'm not going to eat any of the Torrone right now. I'm not even hungry from my big dinner, and after two days of being deprived of everything, including my clothes, having an actual possession of my own makes me feel very possessive towards it. I'll horde the candy. I'll eat it only when I'm hungry. I might be here for several more days, or even a week, or longer –– you haven't even said when I can go home. I'll use the candy to get me through.

I nod, and respond "Yes," as you ask me if I can be a good girl and take a bath on my own. Oh, a bath would be heavenly. My privates are all sticky and wet with your cum, and I just generally feel sticky and nasty and like I need a bath. I used to take a bath every single night at home before bed, so an evening bath here and now is quite welcome, especially after the body–to–body contact that I just endured. "OK," I say, softly, when you indicate you will be back in 20 minutes. The thought of having 20 minutes of privacy to take a nice warm bath is a very happy one to my tired little mind. As you leave I slide into the warm water and luxuriate in the tub. I close my eyes for a moment, only my collared neck and head above the water. My slight, 11–year–old body looks so small under the water. After a few moments I sit up and begin to bathe, just as I always did. I pay particular attention to my privates, gently scrubbing there. My pussy feels different –– used, sensitive, with seemingly endless cum leaking from it –– but doesn't hurt or sting. I clean my underside carefully, down to my butt hole. Coltish legs and soft little feet are next, then slender arms. Chest and flanks and hips and back follow. I have to work to clean between my neck and collar. Then it is time for my hair, and when I rinse, I butt–crawl over to the middle of the tub so I can lean back and rinse my hair behind me in the warm water as I always do.

I am luxuriating in the bath when you return, and when you ask if I am almost done, I nod, and rise –– sleek and wet and clean and hairless and beautiful in my diminutive preteen form –– before stepping out of the tub and draping my chilled figure in the bathrobe. I look fresh and clean and adorable as we head back through the dungeon to my cell.

Marcus

I help dry you off. Especially your hair. It's nice that you are clean, but I don't want you in your bath–robe and in your cell wet. It's not like there's not a whole mountain of clean, warm, soft, dry towels that you can use.

"Don't ever leave the bathroom with your hair still dripping wet," I say. I don't add why, the reason that I simply dislike people running about with wet hair, wet patches on pillows and so on should be enough in a small world that I happen to rule. Once that's done and over with, I lead you into your room, that has gone from the empty, surreal cubicle it started as to pretty much a normal room, as long as you forgive it the lack of windows, it's cubical–ness and the fact that all the walls are in fact made of durable, shatter-proof plastic "glass" with flat screens behind. I tap the bed, duvet, pillow and all, a sign that you will no longer be sleeping uncovered on the floor. And I join you in there, and take the switch from the bedside table, and unlock the contents you will not have access to, the reversed parental switch.

The movie I choose is “Leon,” aka “The Professional,” with Natalie Portman when she was about your age; actually, there's a good resemblance between her there and then and you, here and now. In appearance, that is. I'm not a hitman and we're not exactly in love. Although, who knows, there are many levels of the human experience and mysteries hidden in between them. I put my arm around you, gently cuddle you, and we watch the movie. When it's finished, it's still early for bedtime, but you are bound to be exhausted, so I decide not to demand more of you on the day. We've done hours of petplay today. Dinner. Date. We've had sex. We've both had orgasms, you your first even, me probably my best ever. There's not much left to do, I don't wanna over–exhaust you, I need you to regenerate, to be fit to play on tomorrow.

I give you the remote. "Channel one is education stuff. Two is sex videos, porn. Three is kinky videos. With some of them, quite a few, actually, you can display subtitles, commentary that I made for you to explain what's happening." I show you how to do it, how to turn the TV on and off. You can even control the light in your cell, though for safety, minimal lighting always stays on. "You're free to use it as you please, for now, but it's a privilege. If you misbehave, I'll just take the remote away with me. Is that all clear?"

Laura

I stand still as you dry me off, the big, fluffy towels absorbing moisture from my slender, naked little body until there is nothing more to give. My long hair is mostly dry, although not as dry as if I had used a hair–dryer.

We walk back to my cell, and as soon as we arrive I can see that it looks entirely different. Strange, even, with furnishings and other additions. I'm particularly surprised to see the futon gone, replaced by a bed, with pillow and bed sheets and a blanket. Part of me is thrilled to see it –– no more sleeping on the floor, naked, like a dog, shivering. The other part of me is worried, thinking that the addition of furniture speaks of a permanence, suggesting that I am going to be here for a while. Perhaps a long while.

I have repeated the mantra several times since you taught it to me. Most of the time I deliberately think the opposite of the words I am reciting. When I'm tired, or distraught, I repeat the words but don't even consider their meaning. But seeing the furniture in my cell, and the permanence that it sems to imply, causes me to think about the mantra. The actual words and their meaning. And how the existence of the furniture, somehow, makes them seem more ominous. Like you really mean it. Like there might never be anywhere but here.

At that moment I am close to asking you how long you plan to keep me here. But I am afraid that asking will anger you. It would be best just to play along. Eventually you'll get tired of playing games with me, right? I mean, why would anyone your age want to play games with a girl my age? I know you're a sex pervert person and all, but you prolly want to do sex stuff with somebody older, right? It occurs to me that you might decide to kill me rather than let me go. But I don't think so, not after your bought me candy and stuff. I'll just bide my time until it is the right time to ask you when I can go home.

I climb into bed and we watch the movie together. At first I think it's going to be boring but it's actually pretty good. I've never seen it before. Mostly I still watch kids movies and cartoons. I know why you chose it. I know that the girl and I are kind of alike. Even though the movie was good, I'm feeling tired. It's been a very long day, once again. I'm looking forward to sleeping. Maybe I'll even have some Torrone. Just a bite.

And then you give me the remote and explain what is on the channels. It sounds like a lot of sex stuff. I'm surprised I get to watch anything. I wonder what's on the education channel. I'm a bit intrigued by the sex videos. Especially now that I did sex stuff. I don't have any idea what kinky stuff is. It sounds mysterious.

You tell me I'm free to use it unless I'm bad. "Yes," I respond, nodding. I want you to go. I want to watch the TV. Alone.

Marcus

It's weird, spending time with you like you were my daughter, or little sister or something, just chilling and watching a nice movie, both relaxed and unworried. I should do stuff, too. Even though I am rich and don't have regular job, there are still emails to be answered, phone calls to be made, perhaps an appearance in the town, just stuff, to keep up an impression that my life goes on as normal, not to raise suspicion. So I'm not even offended to see you glad to see the back of me for the day.

Whatever you will watch is stuff that I want you to watch. Very carefully selected. Nothing is random. Each video shows something I like, or might like to do at some point. Even the educational stuff is all focused on sex, reproduction, sexual anatomy, there's a documentary from Kink.com, about the Upper Floor project, about people who play similar games to ours willingly, consensually. There's nothing in there which would be an undesirable influence on you, as far as I'm concerned.

"Don't stay up too late, Laura," I say and kiss your brow. "I'll be here at eight in the morning again, and if you are sleepy and cranky then, you’re gonna be in trouble!" I say, but it a mirthful, well–meant, playful "threat," at least by the sound of it. You managed to get me into a good mood, and keep me there. I guess it's the growing sense of security. You really are here. There are no cops knocking on my door, you are mine to do with as I please, for as long as I like to. For ever. And you are just as beautiful as you were on the pictures, and you are smart, and you are just scared enough to behave yourself and not be annoying. Things could not possibly be going better.

And so I leave you to it, the door of the cell hisses closed after me. The door of the dungeon complex closes behind me with a metallic chime which you can't hear in the cell. Up at the top of the stairs, the sturdy, soundproofed wooden door closes behind me silently. It's eight o'clock, what a day that was! Passed in a flash. But it's not too late to make a few phone calls. Drive into town and do a bit of a shopping. Show my face in the pub, even if it's just for a few minutes. And later, in the evening, emails. Messages. Message boards. Automated updates on stocks. Stuff. Routine. Unimportant and of little relevance to down below where you dwell, other than all these reports and transactions and numbers and such are exactly what enabled me to have down below, and to keep you down below without it being a dingy, stinky one–room cellar, Fritzl style.

Before I go to sleep, I check on you, just through the cameras, on two screens at a time, one showing what are you up to real time, one speeding time up 15 times, so if you went to the toilet or something, your motion will be just a momentous blur, but it's enough for me to get an idea what you have been up to. It's about midnight. Your lights are still on, the porn channel running, but you are still and not really watching. I quickly realize that you have fallen asleep, and turn the TV off, dimming and quieting it gradually, and I dim the lights, whispering a quiet “Good night” under my breath.

...

I sleep well, very well this night. Get up at seven. It's too cold for a swim outside in the pool, but I go anyway. It's bracing, but it wakes me up as much as anything. Then a quick hot shower. Shampoo, shower gel, a shave, dry off, after-shave and cologne, clean clothes. Spanish style breakfast, an omelette-like thing, and while that bakes, I go clean up the bed on which you lost virginity last night, as well as the bathroom you use. Eventually, you'll take over such duties, but you're not yet in the routine, so I cut you a bit of a slack. It would feel weird to let you do the sheets with your blood on them, even though there's just little and you can barely see it anyway, a few black spots on dark blue sheet.

I come in just past eight, with breakfast for both of us on a tray, bringing the table and the chair with me, thinking they should just stay from now on, even if they make the cell a bit squashed. You can always fold them both and slide them under the bed if you need more space.

"Morning, hun. How's it going?" I ask like I would a wife or a live–in girlfriend, like I just came down into a house's kitchen, a normal family affair. Nothing in my tone suggests that this is a cell, in a dungeon, and that you are slave, powerless and dependent on my whims. You'll be reminded, sooner or later, but I don't project anything harsh, for now.

Laura

It has been a long and busy day for me, and I'm tired. Tired and a little sore down there, but not as bad as I thought it would be, not as bad as I had feared. As with my first blow job, my first intercourse went OK. I never even really saw any blood. And there certainly wasn't a lot of it. I check, pulling the robe apart and studying my hairless pussy. I don't see any blood there. My opening looks a little red, a little different maybe –– perhaps larger, more "open." I touch it. It's a little sensitive, a little abraded. But not much. I flex my hips, and can feel a mild achiness deep inside me. I can't even describe it, exactly. It doesn't hurt, so much as it's simply there. There, deep inside me, where your penis was.

You told me not to stay up late, but I have no idea what time it is. I haven't seen natural daylight in almost two days, and while it seems like it's early evening, I'm judging only from the timing of the meals I ate today and the fact that you are treating it as if it is night time. It occurs to me that you could tell me it's 4:00 o'clock in the afternoon, or 4:00 o'clock in the morning, and I wouldn't have any way to know which it was. There are no clocks down here. No way to tell time at all.

A thought occurs to me and I switch the TV on, wondering if maybe one of the stations will show the time down in the corner of the screen. There are only three stations, as you told me and as I confirm when I flip through them. As I flip through I see a lot of naked skin on the second channel before going to the third, and then back to the first. The first channel is talking about the female reproductive system, with that same diagram that I remember from 5th grade –– the one that looks like a ram's head, with ovaries and stuff. I flip to the second channel. The second channel is showing a threesome –– two girls and one guy –– all of them late teens or twenties. The guy is on his back, holding the hips of one of the women as she raises and lowers herself on his erection. I watch his cock sliding in and out of her pussy, realizing that this was exactly what I did with you about three hours ago. As I watch, the man smacks her bottom sharply, and she rolls off, to be replaced by the second girl, who assumes the same position and lowers her pussy down the man's glistening erection and starts fucking him anew. All accompanied by lots of squishy wet fucking sounds, closeups, and moans and groans and yelps from the participants set to cheesy background music.

I watch for a few minutes, and then switch to the third channel. The third channel shows a twenty–something girl, bound and gagged suspended from a combination of chains and ropes from the ceiling of what looks like a basement. She's got a big red ball in her mouth. Her arms and legs are separated by equal lengths of metal bars –– her wrists and ankles in leather cuffs at the ends. The bars are connected by chains, about three feet in length, that leave her hanging upside down in a V shape. A man, bare chested, with leather pants, is standing there, circling her slowly, with what looks like a leather fly swatter or a leather spatula. Every few seconds he uses it so smack some part of her body, and each time he does, she flinches, makes a muffled squeal, and looks at the man fearfully with teary eyes.

I cannot draw my eyes away from the video. I am scared, yet I can't turn away or turn it off. The man is not speaking. He just circles, and swats, on and on, seemingly endlessly, as the girl hangs there, naked and exposed. She is hairless on her pussy and he hits her there, too. She has red and pink marks all over her naked body. Even her pussy is red. She must shave down there, I conclude, since she is bald and bare as I am. She has a tattoo of some sort on her thigh, but I can't make out what it is.

I watch for at least 15 minutes, and then turn back to the education channel. The man is talking about penises, the names of the different parts, where they are sensitive, etc. "Bo–ring," I think to myself, as I cycle to the porn channel again. This time there is a little girl, close to my age, sucking a man's cock. The girl looks even younger than I, maybe eight years old. Once again the man is on his back on the bed. The little girl is licking and sucking his cock, as he moans and mutters "Yesssss," and "Mmmmmm." Her little face moves down to lick at his scrotum, while she uses her hand to caress and jerk his shaft. I make a "yuck" face as she licks and nibbles at his balls.

I am absolutely enthralled by the channels. I know that I shouldn't be watching them. But somehow, down here, in my cell –– or room, or whatever it is –– it doesn't sem quite so naughty. And in any event, I've already done sex stuff with you, whether I wanted to or not, so watching porn just doesn't seem so bad. Almost like I've earned it. And anyway, I'm curious. I'm 11, and up until yesterday all I knew about sex stuff was what I learned in Human Reproduction, and from Caroline (not that I believe everything she says because she likes to lie about stuff and pretend she knows more than she really does), or happened across on the internet if the Net Nanny filter didn't keep it out or I was over at a friend's house.

As you watch me through the surveillance cameras, on the bed, wrapped in my robe, you see some of the other videos that show on the channels. You're familiar with all of them, since you selected the ones to show me. You note the ones I stop on, linger, and watch. Flipping a switch, you can also hear the sounds that I hear.

I actually fall asleep watching porn, over three full hours after you left the cell. As a 15–year–old girl in Catholic school attire experiences anal sex for what is (allegedly) the first time, my eyes start to droop, and I slouch down further in the bed. I struggle to keep my eyes open as I watch. And eventually, with the TV still on, I fall asleep, the remote dribbling from my hand to the bed. Remotely, from your surveillance monitoring station, you turn the TV off and dim the lights. I don't even notice.

I am still in bed as you come in the next morning. But I'm awake, or mostly, and I stretch out on the bed with a tired little moan. I watch as you bring the table and chair in, and whatever food you have smells really, really good. I'm still in my bathrobe as I sit up. "Good," I answer to your greeting, my hair mussed, and my face and expression looking like I just woke up. I didn't go to bed until almost midnight, and I'm only 11. Eight hours of sleep isn't enough for me no matter how soundly I sleep. I yawn, and blink at you, awaiting the start of day.

Marcus

"You went to sleep late last night, without even turning the TV off as you dozed off. I'll let you get away with it, because you didn't have one of these," I say and toss you a simple, small alarm clock that doesn't tick audibly and doesn't show seconds, with only two little hands, snailing their way forth silently, minute by minute. "But I don't wanna hear you complaining about being tired," I say quite resolutely.

"Now if you lose the robe and come over here for a smack on the bottom for still having it on now and then get on my lap, I'll feed you some breakfast," I say. Yes, that's how I want you. Naked, on my lap, and letting me feed you, like a little bird. But first . . . I wait for you to shed the robe and come over, and give you a single, but sharp, stinging smack over both your butt–cheeks. "Okay, wee lassie," I say, faking a Scottish accent (not too well). "We both know what that was for. Next time I catch you long after a bath without you bottom bare already, I'll paint some serious zebra stripes over it with a cane. What's your mantra?" I ask when that's done and acknowledged.

With that, I let you slip onto my lap. No cutlery today. I'm eating with my hands, and you have no choice but to let me feed you with my fingers. The omelette is crumbly, and it's kind of a messy job. It actually works better when I just scoop a bit onto my palm and let you kiss and lick it of off it, which is what I mostly settle on. I give you a drink of orange juice, a sip here, sip there, letting you drink normally, from a glass, but I insist that you let me do it, that you keep your hands behind your back the whole time, making this whole thing a bit of an exercise in obedience, in you getting used to me having my way even if I'm acting on a mere whim. When we are done, both quite full, I present you with my greasy hand.

"Lick me clean," I tell you, and present you with the hand raised palm up, and this time I don't settle for anything less than a perfection, insisting that you lick it all over, suck on each of the fingers, all that.

"How's your pussy?" I ask casually, like it's a normal thing to ask. Down here, it is. Down here, it's not an outrage but a simple fact that last night, you, aged barely eleven, lost your virginity to me, aged thirty four, going on thirty five soon. We have a world of our own, with its own conventions and norms, down here.

"And which of the videos you watched last night was your favorite?" I ask, and watch you carefully. I already have a pretty good idea; I watched your responses, after all. If you lie, you will get into trouble. I don't say that, but I guess that's assumed. I also realize that since I caught you in the bed, still, you probably haven't had a chance to pee yet. Which is sweet, because you're gonna need to go soon. And we'll break another norm; or rather establish a new one – as I intend to watch you, very directly, from up close, as you do it.

Laura

I sit up on the edge of the bed, looking bedraggled, my hair mussed and unkempt. I look a little tired, not with big bags under my eyes or anything like that, but I have the sleepy eyed look of a child who has been woken up an hour or two earlier than usual. I yawn as you speak, a big, long, mouth–wide–open, little-kid yawn.

I flinch in surprise but manage to make a fumbling catch of the alarm clock, looking down and staring at it as you finish this topic. It's one of those old–fashioned kinds, with the big hand and the little hand. The kind that I have to stare at for a while to figure out what the time is from where the hands are between the numbers. I hate those kinds. I don't know why anybody uses them anymore when one of those electric clocks like the one on a microwave oven tells you what time it is without having to figure it out. I hate these kinds 'cause they take extra work.

I look up again as you mention the robe, and the fact that I still have it on. My tummy sinks as I remember ("Dang it, Laur’!" I chastise myself) that you told me I couldn't wear it except only after my bath. I completely forgot that. I was watching the TV, and just sitting there, and I never even remembered it was on. Plus it was big and warm and comfy and reassuring, like a teddy bear. And it was at least close to pajamas, close to CLOTHING –– which I wore all the time only three days ago.

I stand up, my cheeks flushing a little with embarrassment as I slide the robe off my slender, preteen form. Even though I was kept mostly naked for the past two days it seems weird to disrobe for an adult man on command. Not only tht but I feel a little chagrinned for forgetting the bathrobe rule, and a little pouty for the fact that it's going to earn me a smack on my bottom. But I dutifully remove the robe and lie it on the bed, exposing my succulent, unblemished, naked, collared, 11–year–old body to you. Perhaps it's my slightly tired, slightly disheveled look, but I appear particularly young, vulnerable, and sumptuous this morning.

I come to you, my eyes looking nervous. I make no effort to fight you or avoid your spanking hand as you grasp me by the upper arm, turn me partially around, and deliver the stinging smack to my little bottom. I don't make a sound as your hand hits home, but I flinch, and my cheeks clutch together in pain as they turn pink where your hand struck. It may have been only one smack, but it hurts, and stings, and my eyes immediately glisten with tears. They are tears of shame, surprise, and indignity as much as pain. Surprise because I didn't expect one little smack to sting that bad. I haven't been spanked on the bottom like a little kid in years. It's humiliating if nothing else.

I turn back to you, eyes down, lower lip thrust out in a pout, and recite my mantra. The words are delivered unenthusiastically, but articulately. I don't bother with my defiant routine of thinking the opposite as I say them. I've tired of that. What's the point, anyway? You just make me keep saying it. But I make it clear that I'm not happy to be asked to do so with the robotic way I say the words, as if they're meaningless to me.

I climb up into your lap without fuss, and it's then when I see that you have no cutlery for breakfast. I would be a bit more concerned about this if it weren't for the fact that you're eating with your hands, as well. I watch as you use your fingers to break a corner of omelette off to feed to yourself. It looks and smells good to me, so when you instruct me to place my arms behind my back I do, watching, then opening my mouth and tilting my head as you feed me from your fingers.

The omelette is crumbly –– not slimy or undercooked, however; thank God, as I positively hate runny, slimy, gooey, undercooked eggs! I'm not keen on licking my food from your palm, but given the fact that you forgot cutlery, and given the crumbly nature of the omelette, it would take about a month for you to feed me each morsel fby hand one at a time. So I lick and nibble and feed from your palm, my little lips soft and kitten–like, my tongue wet, and pink, almost tickling you as I work.

Of course I don't want to lick your hand clean afterwards, not at all. And I know it's unnecessary, and you're just doing it to be mean, just because you can. But I can tell that you're clean and bathed and showered. And I did just feed from the very same hand. So, tilting my head, and using my wet little tongue, I lick and clean the palm of your hand, working my tongue over and across, bathing you with it, my own hands still obediently clasped behind my back. We work together, you positioning your hand and me positioning my mouth so that I can clean it well. And when you present your fingers, I obediently suck them into my mouth one at a time, forming my lips into a small O and dragging them from your second knuckle to the tip. I do this several times for each finger and your thumb, continuing until you are satisfied with each digit and present the next for similar treatment.

"It's OK," I say, in response to the pussy question. I look down at it, realizing that I haven't checked it this morning. I can't use my hands to pull the it up or apart, but it looks normal from above. Somehow, looking down at it makes me feel like I need to pee. My bladder suddenly feels full.

I'm about the tell you that I need to use the toilet when you ask me about the videos. I don't answer right away, as I ponder your question and try to remember all of the videos I actually saw last night. My mind conjures up a series of mental images, a veritable montage of porn in my mind –– BDSM, kink, kiddie, etc. Recollection of the all of the videos i saw is hard. There were so many, and I was flipping.

Plus, I honestly don't know if I had a favorite. I was watching them with a sense of naughty morbid curiosity, not lust–filled eagerness. and despite that fact that, as a curious 11–year–old, I found some of them quite intriguing and eye–opening, it would be hard for me to pick a "favorite" in the same sense that it would be difficult to pick my favorite math problem from my homework assignment earlier this week.

As I ponder your question the time to answer it grows long, and I shrug. Nothing is really coming to mind. There was the little girl who . . . and the woman hanging from the ceiling . . . and the three women in "horsey" costumes . . . and the girl who licked . . . and the Catholic school girl . . . and the man with the candle wax . . . and the woman stretched out with clips on her boobs. So many snippets of videos parade through my brain. I remember the ones I lingered on, fascinated, appalled, shocked. They weren't my "favorites" just because I watched them longer, right? It occurs to me that maybe they were, but I reject the thought as soon as it enters my mind. ("No, you were watching them because they were the only thing you could watch, and they were . . . you know, interesting.")

I swallow. "Um, there was um . . . when the . . . when the girl um, . . . when she um . . . she was like . . ." My voice trails off. I shrug again. "Like, I didn't have an actual favorite favorite?" I say, more like a question, my child voice filled with uncertainty, knowing that I should answer properly but not knowing what to say, not willing to identify any particular video as a favorite for fear of what you might think if I do.

Marcus

I watch you as you think, try to recall stuff, hesitate, and in the end, don't really come up with an answer. I could be mad, but I'm not, on some level, I understand. It is what it is. They are all curious and interesting, some alluring in a confusing, twisted sort of way, but unlike me, you don't have them linked to your fantasies, needs, expectations of physical feelings just yet.

"I see," I say, sounding a bit amused. "Well we're gonna do it all, eventually, anyway. I just wondered if you had something that particularly piqued your curiosity, that you would like to start with today." I observe your face as I drop the "A" word, ALL of it. Oral, normal, anal, ball-licking, asshole-licking, tying up, suspension, wax and whips and paddles and toys in your holes and – I think you flicked over that one quite quickly – even the peeing stuff. I pause, letting the realization sink in. I suspect that because I've been holding back, not wanting you in a state of constant pain, tears and shuddering and half–in shock, you likely underestimate your purpose in the dungeon. Perhaps you even still think that this will be over in a couple days or weeks or something. But . . . no. I'm attracted to girls from around ten up, and even to adult women. And I can keep you slim. Underdeveloped. Hairless. For a long, long time. You can still look very, very youthful, under–age sort of looks in fifteen, twenty years if I keep feeding you the estrogen and the growth hormone inhibitors. And who knows, you may still be attractive, even further down the line than that. By that time you will be so well trained that it will be sheer level of depravity of what we do that will get my cock up, even if you no longer look like a believable preteen. That reminds me . . .

I present you with the two pills. Give you a glass of water. Your daily dose of eternal youth. Drinking up a glass of water doesn't make your situation any easier, talking of your needs. I notice how you squirm and lift you up, and carry you to the toilet. Sit you on it, like a little baby. And squat down, so we are face to face. I wanna see you blush. And I'm about as sure as I am of the sun is high up above us, even though we can't see it here, that the blush already in there, only waiting to emerge.

I love when you blush. It's a bit of a paradox. I wanna turn you into a slut and a slave who will do the most depraved of things on command without making a fuss, without even a heartbeat's hesitation. And yet, I love when you blush. Squirm shyly. Lower your eyes, unable to bear my intense, steely gaze. Oh I fucking love it so much. Perhaps I should re–introduce clothes, in some way, just to make sure you don't get too used to nudity, just to see that resentful, uncomfortable look on your face more often, the one I saw when you had to slip out of your bathrobe.

"Look me in the eyes," I say. “When I look down, to have a look, keep your eyes on me for when I look back," I say. I'm squatting really near you. And I put my hands on your knees and spread them. This is how you will have to go. Naked and spread and exposed in front of me. Keeping eye contact. My hands touching your legs while you are at it. Not even a shred of privacy or dignity left. "Go on. After that, we'll go into the dungeon and play, and if you wet yourself in the dungeon . . . you'll always have to clean it up after yourself, in a way that I'm sure you don't wanna have to do," I smile and make a slurping sound, pursing my lips. It might sound extreme, but then I made you lick cum and pretty much vomit of off the floor, so why would you doubt that I'd make you do the same with piss? And I'm quite serious about it. After all, the toilet is lockable. All I need to do to change this nice room back into a horrid cell is lock the lid on it back into place, and it will only take a little while for this cell to turn awfully filthy and stinky.

And I can tell you need to go badly, anyway; this is not a battle you could win. One small victory that I can already be sure of, and the day hasn't even started. You have no idea yet how far, how much farther, I intend to take our little games today. Oh yeah. Something of all the mischief I have planned shows in my eyes, they sort of twinkle, sparkle with energy, with neediness, playfulness, with desire . . . for you, for dirty little games, and for sex, in its many forms we are only just starting to discover. I'm hungry, for breaking boundaries. For teaching you to obediently do something come nightfall that you will be unwilling to do just now. Mhmm . . . loli–breaking. What better plans for the day could I possibly have?

Laura

For a moment, just a brief moment, I am relieved that you seem unfazed by my failure to answer the question about the movies I watched last night. It was a hard question to answer because I didn't even think of them in terms of most– or least–favorite. Mostly I was watching in wide–eyed disbelief at the many scenes of depraved sexuality on display. Scenes involving men, women, girls, even the occasional young boy. Doing things I didn't even think were possible. Things beyond my wildest imagination. Sex things. Hurting things. Disgusting things. I couldn't look away, but not because I really wanted to watch. It simply was impossible not to.

But my relief is over in an instant, as you rather matter–of–factly say we're going to do it "all." All. i stare at you blankly, wondering what you mean. Surely you don't really mean all, not in the sense of "everything." I stare at you, my eyes on yours, seeking a better understanding of what you do mean. "All" would literally mean that I would have your penis in my poo hole. That I would be tied and whipped. Zapped with electricity. Scalded with hot wax. Made to lick your hairy things down there. Peed on. Paddled. Plugged. Suspended. Dunked upside down in water. Poked with needles. My skin clipped and clamped. Plastic and rubber items inserted in my openings. Made to lick and tongue your poo hole and armpits. Not to mention being penetrated by your penis in my mouth and pussy and being decorated on my face and mouth by your cum.

My blood runs cold as I contemplate this. I mean, surely you can't mean all of that. You must mean, like, all of . . . all of . . . well, what do you mean? I'm not sure. Obviously you wouldn't do those things to me, or make me do them myself, right? I'm only 11, and most of the stuff that was really like, wow, was all done by grown ups. I mean, there was that one little girl hanging upside down crying in that cocoon–like pouch thing, but nobody was . . . oh wait. That OTHER little girl was in the tub getting peed on. My eyes flick up to you nervously. What if you want to pee on me? How would I stop you? What if you wanted to pee right inside my mouth and in my eyes like that man did. I look quite nervous and afraid, and a little pale as I stare at you, listening. What do you mean by all? What can you possibly mean?

I take the two pills, hesitantly, and put them in my mouth reluctantly one at a time, swallowing each one with big gulps of water, then pausing with an anticipatory "yuck" look on my face as I test my mouth to see if any of that bitter pill taste is there. I hate that taste. I've been taking pills for a couple of years now, mostly aspirin and the occasional antibiotic when i get sick, but occasionally they don't go down when I swallow and then I get that awful, horrible, nasty bitter taste in my mouth. Yuck! You already explained that the pills are for not getting pregnant, so I'm OK with taking them –– I don't want to get pregnant for sure 'cause then I'd have an enormous belly and all my friends would know what I did with you. That would be bad, bad, bad. So taking the pills is OK; I just don't like that taste. Fortunately, this time, they go down without an issue.

You're right –– the water doesn't help my need to pee, and suddenly I am in the air, carried, and plopped down on the toilet. I'm about to release the hardest stream of pee ever when you squat down, right in front of me –– weird! –– just as I'm about to go. Even though I've been naked in front of you for the better part of two days now, having you there in front of me when I need to pee is like totally embarrassing and I blush crimson with shame, the tips of my ears tingling. I hold it in but I gotta go so bad now, I actually look pained.

I'm hoping you'll stand up and give me just a tiny bit of privacy but you don't; you spread my legs instead. I moan with need and then . . . I can't help it and I start to go, my stream squirting from me with a hiss and spraying into the bowl. I sigh with relief, embarrassed, but my bladder feels like it is holding an incredible quantity of liquid as it deflates. I stare at you, my heart beating as you mention the dungeon. Coupled with your earlier use of the word "all" I am very worried to hear that we're apparently going to "play" in the dungeon. That is not where I want to play, not at all. And why do you think I would wet myself in the dungeon? Why would you think that unless . . . unless . . . I mean, you wouldn't . . . what do you mean? I swallow nervously, my face still red with shame. I don't know what you mean. And it concerns me.

As you instructed me to I look into your eyes. They look different from yesterday. Like you have something planned. Like you're up to something. I don't like that look, not at all. My Mom uses a word to describe me sometimes: mischievous. Your eyes look mischievous to me, and I feel very disconcerted. Your eyes looked different yesterday. Friendlier. Paternal. Nothing has gone well this morning, starting with the smack on my bottom and eating from your hand. Now you're watching me pee with a glint in your eye, and we're about to "play" in the dungeon. Suddenly, as my stream starts to slow, then dribble, then comes to an end, I feel very cold. I shiver. I look a little pale, and I shiver again.