16. The Meaning of All

Marcus

The pills are shiny, small, round, sugar-coated, in comparison to most antibiotics, the amount of stuff these need to carry into your system to work is minute, and yet the effect . . . I smile as you flush them down without a question. They are fast-dissolving, absorbent kind; I want to be sure that they work even if you puke relatively shortly after you've taken them. Not that I want to make you puke, but with a cock half way down your throat, accidents happen, and the idea is that stuffing my cock down your mouth like that will not be an uncommon occurrence in the future.

I watch you pee, or rather, pee yourself – even though it's while you are seated on the toilet, I can tell that this was in no way a controlled action, you just lost the battle with time and pressure, and just like that, your bladder emptied regardless of your will. You go very, very red in the face, oh and the way your ears flush, too, is lovely, adorable, ever so cute. It makes my cock twitch.

I can see how my words, or rather, the one word, “all,” made you nervous. Your face stays red. Your heart beats faster. You're breathing slightly too quickly and shallowly for your own good. And I smile. I stroke your face. I tear a piece of toilet paper and wipe your pussy. Not because I'd be that interested in your toilet actions and fluids, but just to show you that I can, that there really are no boundaries. Just as when you had to look into my eyes while you peed, I loved it for the shame that showed on your face and in your eyes, but the action itself had a little appeal in it to me. I more like the idea of pulling my cock and pissing all over you; though even that would mostly be just an extreme display of possessiveness, control, of shaming you and putting you in your place. Symbols like that are powerful though, and time for them will come. We'll start slightly more subtly, though.

I stand up and nod at you to follow. I wash my hands, let the dungeon door slide open, and usher you out. The dungeon is already prepared for us; now I prepare, too, by removing all my clothes, almost as swiftly and efficiently as I did yesterday in the bedroom only this time, I don't have to go slow in turn with you, and I don't ask you to help me with what's left. I just undress and stand before you naked, totally unphased and no less in control. I need to have my clothes off for the next game and unlike yours, my nudity is freely chosen and temporary. I take your hands and lead you to a silver table, much like a surgeon's in an operating theater.

Tools for hurting people are laid out on it. Not a single light, play-toy, no soft floggers or light paddles. No. These are not tools of pain play, these are punishment tools. There are a couple canes, there's a whip. Thin flexible wire-things with duct-tape handles, so called misery sticks. There are needles. Sterile needles much like those that you'd find in hospital, of all sizes, but big ones prevail. There are several little bottles; antiseptic, both for safety and for causing extra pain if I so choose. There are some things that I don't actually intend to use; they are there to instil fear, the extra little drop of respect. Pincers and scalpels and a blowtorch and a small branding iron; something I intend to use, actually, but not just yet. You need to be ready; you need to understand that you are indeed staying indefinitely and for a long, long time, before I do something that absolute and lasting.

My fingers stroke the stainless steel edge of the table full of freaky, creepy tools of torture almost lovingly and I turn to you.

"We will not play today," I say gravely. "Not really. We will train. Practice. It's really easy, in essence. I'll tell you to do things. Things that might seem futile, weird, disgusting, and so on and so forth. Some will be useful in the future, some are really just a practice, like yesterday, with the ball, and the doggy tricks. What you really are learning is obedience. There's only one correct answer to a command, and that is 'yes, sir,' and then doing your very best to obey, to please me. You either please me, or . . . I hurt you. And most of the time, you will not avoid anything; after I hurt you, I simply let you try again. 'No' is not an acceptable answer. A direct 'no' is actually considered rude, and would get you into quite serious trouble," I say and my hand strokes over the plastic-wrapped needles.

You can tell from my tone, posture, the glow in my eyes and maybe even the way my cock is half-hard already even though it is yet to be touched that I'm gonna be what you think of “mean,” because you are unfamiliar with the concept of “sadistic.” Well, you are getting rather intensively acquainted with it, actually, you just lack the knowledge of the proper term. I sit on one of the wooden benches and stretch my feet out, toes up. This is going to be a major exercise in understanding, or rather putting up with sheer, undiluted sadism and harsh, dominant tendencies.

"Give me your mantra. Three times. Clear and loud. Then get down on the floor, crawl forward with your butt raised, and kiss my feet. My soles, and then each of my toes," I instruct. No biggie in the grand scheme of things, but I can imagine for you it must seem like rather a steep leap into obedience practice. Or it will be, pretty soon.

Laura

It just feels really weird when you clean me after I pee; your motion so casual, so matter-of-fact. If it weren't for the fact that you seem different today, more intense, more focused, even meaner, I probably wouldn't think so much about it. But you tear off the piece of tissue, and dry my hairless little slit, as I sit there, feeling awkward and weird, blushing, and nervous. Very nervous. My heart is beating faster than usual, and I feel like I have an upset tummy coming on. The words "all" and "play" and "dungeon" coupled with your mood this morning all serve to leave me feeling disconcerted.

I climb off the toilet, naked and collared, slender and girlish, an 11-year-old 5th-grader. I don't want to leave my cell –– it's more comfortable now, and starting to feel a little like a safe place, a haven –– but I have no choice. I follow you into the dungeon and even walk past you as you direct. My eyes scan the dungeon with a sense of dread. I don't like this room. I don't like the things in it. I don't like the equipment and the tools and the chains and the implements. I feel a chill wash across me and I shiver, even though the temperature in the dungeon is fine. I look back to see why you have paused, and do a double-take, as you have shed your clothing and are now completely, starkly naked. I swallow nervously. Your man-thing ("It's a penis, Laura, or as Caroline would say, a cock. It's not his 'man–thing.' Stop being a baby!") is at half staff –– not fully erect, not fully engorged, but clearly aroused. My eyes go a little wide even as a look of concern crosses my face.

We go to the table, hand in hand, but I am starting to feel panicky and faint even before we get there. I see it as if in slow motion as we approach. A cold-looking stainless-steel table. High off the ground. With things on it. Lots of things. As we approach it becomes clearer what they are. Some of them, anyway. I don't know what all of them are, and this adds to my panic because it's obvious that they're all for hurting, for causing pain. My face goes pale. For a brief moment I do feel faint; my legs even start to wobble. ("Don't faint, Laura –– close your eyes, quick!") I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. When I open them I try to look through the table, not at it, not at what's on it. I focus my eyes beyond the table, as I concentrate on breathing. ("Oh my God! Oh my God! He's gonna hurt me! He's gonna hurt me and cut me up and make me scream!") I feel faint or a second time, but manage to get control of myself.

As terrified as I am it is almost a relief when you speak, and I can turn to you, and look away from the table. I look pale and drawn as my wide, nervous eyes meet yours, and you explain that we will not play today, but rather train. I hear you but your words sound almost echoey in my head ("Get a grip, Laur'. He's telling you stuff –– you gotta remember.") I flick my head to the right, as if trying to clear my head, and look up at you, trying to concentrate. I know I need to listen. I know that you don't like to repeat yourself. I swallow again, my tummy clenching in fear. I feel like I might throw up.

I watch as you lie down on the bench, just a very unhappy, very concerned, very worried naked and little 11-year-old. My eyes go to your cock, which is now upright and twitching as you sit there. I stand, nervous, pale, and very worried. It is so strange to be a naked little girl standing just a few feet from a large, naked adult man with an erection. Our bodies could not be more different. Yours powerful, muscled, darker skinned, hairy, older, more coarse-looking. My body softer, smoother, hairless, lighter, feminine, my muscle tone barely evident, all little-girlish and petite. I hesitate for only a second ("You gotta say it, Laura! Before he gets mad."), staring at your phallus ("Did that really go inside me? –– You gotta say the mantra thing!"). I open my mouth, but I can't keep my lower lip from quivering. I manage to recite the mantra three times in a careful, memorized, child-voice –– my eyes focusing on the wall behind you as I say the words. "Th-there is nothing but this. There is nowhere but here. There is no one but you," I say, then repeat. I don't bother to think the opposite anymore. It doesn't do any good. As I speak, it occurs to me –– what if there is nothing but this? What if you never let me go? What if I have to stay here, in this place, for the rest of my life?

The thought brings a glimmer of sadness to each of my eyes as I finish the mantra, and then lower myself to my knees on the floor. As my second knee goes to the floor and I place my hands in front in the crawling position, a jolt of sharp pain races up each leg –– my knees are bruised and achey from all of the doggy play yesterday and kneeling on them is like kneeling on glass. This is the last straw. It's too much. The tears come. My expression goes from pale and unhappy to sobbing, the tears suddenly washing down both cheeks. I look up at you, still on my hands but trying to lift my knees off the floor by hitching myself up on the balls of my feet. "M-my knees huuuurt!" I sob, as I look up at you from my awkward, crab-like position.

Marcus

My voice drops an octave as I growl at you, clearly very displeased. A bit of running on all fours yesterday, some bruises . . . Big deal! Can't you take that, after what I've just told you? I'm not at all pleased, and I sound angry.

"Did I *ask* you about your knees? I told you to get on all fours, and kiss my feet. Let me make that clear," I say, stand up from the bench, grab the back of your neck and bend you over the nearest upholstered punishment bench. This one has a triangular profile, so you're doubled over it, feet barely on the ground, hands not even reaching the grips on the other end. I fix it, promptly, by re-setting the grips, positioning them higher, and by shifting you further forward, your buttocks now the highest point of your body, totally exposed, even if it means you're imbalanced and have to hold on to prevent yourself from falling over toward the front. I fix that, soon, too. I clamp heavy, solid cuffs with padding around each of your ankles and fix them in position, buttocks spread. Your legs are now wide apart and held firmly in place, while your buttocks poke upwards, up and high and wide apart enough to expose your pussy and the little rose of your pucker. I take another pair of cuffs, and quickly handcuff you to the grip-bar you're holding on out of sheer instinct (it still feels like you'll fall over if you let go, even if that’s no longer the case), securing you in place. I grab a long, narrow cane. Pale yellow. Young teak. Polished, and it had been soaked, too, for the little extra weight and a deeper, more satisfying sting.

"Don't say a word," I warn you. "There's nothing you can say that could make this better. No amount of begging will help just now," I warn you. That's rare, I'm normally a sucker for begging. And a big one at that, but just now, even a cute smart girl like you whom, I suspect, could beg on a Begging Big League level, if there ever was such a thing, is out of luck. There will be no negotiation. The whole purpose of this exercise is to teach you that that's generally the deal with me.

"And stop fucking crying," I shout, "I need you to listen carefully." I actually give you a good, long while to compose yourself, most of my anger is just acting on my part, not all of it, but I'm blowing the little that I can actually feel out of proportion, using it as an educational tool.

"I told you to get on your knees, and to bend low and kiss my feet and toes," I state a lot more calmly when I seem to have enough of your attention again. "Instead, you hovered on your feet and whined before you even tried to carry the command out. Did you really think that will count as your very best to try and please me?" I ask sternly, but also just rhetorically, not giving you even a heartbeat's worth of time to sneak in a response.

"I'll give you ten cane strokes. Each one hard enough to leave a mark. Once that is done, you have ten, nice, even, dark-red stripes over your bottom, you will *thank me* for the punishment, *apologize* for failing to obey me, and hope that I like the sound of the apology enough not to continue. Then I will untie you. You will get on your knees, and get busy kissing my feet. Or you can try and whine again, I'll tie you right back up, and repeat the process. I have the whole day, if that's what it'll take. As long as there's some skin on your butt left, this can go on. And on. And on. I'm not making you count this time, because there's no way you'll manage to do anything but scream and wail and cry, but eventually, we'll train you in that area, too," I say cynically and then step back.

And I hit you with the cane, and it's like no pain you've ever experienced in your life before. It's like a knife splits open your skin, deep and wide, and then fire runs through the wound, and yet, not; because your skin just about stays whole (I know exactly how hard I can hit with this cane without breaking skin, and after allowing for your skin being smoother and softer than any I punished before, I'm aiming to hit just under that threshold). A bright pink line, darker along the edges than it is in the middle stays in the wake of the lash, and darkens quickly into red, crimson, purplish. It will bruise. Not seriously, but it will. This one is near your coccyx, across your upper buttocks. Perfectly horizontal. As is the next one, less than half an inch below. And the next one, and the next one, and the next one. Harsh, stinging, punishing, fiery smacks with a cane, delivered with expert, lethal accuracy. Maximized pain while the damage is kept in check. I'm glad you literally just went to the toilet, because there's no way you'd hold onto the contents of your bladder during this.

Six, seven, eight. Your buttocks color beautifully, and the way you strain and buck and thrash under the unprecedented onslaught of pain is priceless. Pure gold. Nine. Ten. I put the cane aside and gently stroke your gorgeous buttocks, heated up and marked. Damn. The marks are so perfect that if I took a picture, people would claim they have been photoshopped. No two of them overlap. Not a single one broke your skin, there's not even a hint of blood. And yet, not a single one of them is pale, pink, or light, either. They are all stark and dark, they will all stay that way for a good while, and color further.

I stroke them, trace each and every one of the ten "lessons" I have just delivered. I don't give a fuck about your knees. I don't wanna hear you whine. I want you to listen, and obey, and perform. Discomfort is but a small price to pay to please me, something very, very worth doing, as you know taste the very bitter fruits of displeasing me.

This ass that I'm looking at now is like canvass, and damn, am I a good artist or what?! I can cane in a lot of ways, I could make a nice, grill-gird, a mess of strokes. I could do a lot of things, but this methodical system of laying a stroke under a stroke from your upper butt to roughly half way down your thighs is the best way of delivering this punishment without causing too much damage. It should be more than enough. I saw you react to the single hand-smack earlier, and this . . . this is not a single level up, but several levels, a completely different league of punishment.

I stand, and wait for your thanks and apology. My cock fully hard now. I could fuck you, as you are, I realise, and briefly think about it. But it would be a distraction from the training. Let's first get you to do what I want you to do, to the letter. I'm not uncuffing you until you have sated my thirst for your humiliation and degradation, till I've rubbed the situation in. It seems like this will be a long, long day.

Laura

I was going to kiss your feet, really. And my knees really do hurt –– all of that pounding yesterday must have settled into deep bruises overnight. But none of that matters now. What matters is that you are mad. Really mad. Your hand clamps around my neck before I can even react, and I am on my feet being force-walked to this thing that looks like a big, leather-covered wedge. I am crying, very upset, and very scared now. I don't want to go with you. I try NOT to walk, but it is as if I am attached to your hand, which encircles my neck and easily propels me forward. I try to reach out for some strange wooden thing, and I manage to grasp it, but only for a fleeting second as you direct me to the wedge thing.

The wedge thing looks like a big triangle, covered with a leather-like material, and as soon as we arrive at it you bend me over it, suddenly, the edge of the triangle part digging into my tummy. I gasp, held in place by my neck, as you adjust things, and pull me even more forward, so the triangle thing is digging into my hips on either side. "Eeeeeee!" I squeal, in terror more than pain, as I reach my hands out and hold myself up by the bar at the bottom, to prevent myself from flipping over and landing on my head.

"Noooooo! Stoppppp!" I cry, in a terrified, high-pitched, piercing child's voice, my fear raising my voice several octaves, to the high end of the little-girl-in-fear range. "Waaah haaaa haaa haaaaaaaa!' I sob, petrified, as you strap my ankles, and then my wrists into the cuffs. My little body is perfectly bisected by the triangle ridge, my bare little bottom forming a ceiling-facing apex while my torso and limbs form the sides of the triangle down to the base.

I try to look behind me and up, straining, my face turning red from my squealing and my upside-down position. I grasp the bar at the bottom for dear life, feeling very precarious. I cannot see as you go around behind to fix my ankles. My face is right there, sobbing, wet with tears, as you come around to afix my slender wrists. "I'm sorreeeeeeeeeeee!" I squeal, my voice high-pitched and hysterical. "I'm sorrreeeeeeeeeeee! I'm sorrrrreeeeeeeeeeeee!" I whimper, trying to move my hands away as you cuff them one at a time.

Finally I am affixed to the punishment bench, my bottom exposed, my slit visible underneath and my puckered opening above, in the hollow of my cleft. I shift and wriggle on the bench, unable to move much but moving as much as I can. my head lifted and looking back, trying to see. A symphony of gasps and cries and whimpers and squeals fill the dungeon –– the terrified mewings of a little girl about to undergo severe behavioral correction.

I think I catch a glimpse of you picking up something, something thin and ugly looking, but I can't see much from my position and you move behind me, the triangle blocking my view. You emerge on the other side, your right arm now on the same side of the triangle as my feet. I look back at you, gasping, over my left shoulder, my face red and straining and teary-eyed. "Pl-" I start to say, as you tell me not to say a word. I was gonna tell you how sorry I am, how my knees hurt but I can do it, I can do it, I WANT to do it, please, please, please. But I clamp my mouth shut instead, sniffling, sobbing, and trembling non-stop now, as I try to calm down. ("Think Laura, think . . . stop crying. Stop talking. Listen to Him. Listen!!")

Hyperventilating, trying to get my breathing under control, terrified, I try to listen. My little body trembles, as my exposed bottom clenches and flexes, well aware of how vulnerable it is. "Listen good, Laura, really listen –– maybe he'll let you try again!") I want to say I'm sorry. You're right. You're 100% right. I should have done what you said. My knees couldn't have hurt that bad –– I was just feeling, like, worried. And emotional. I want to say I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, and make it right. But you told me not to talk . . .

. . . and then you tell me what you're going to do. I don't know exactly what a cane stroke is. But I fear I do. I fear I've figured it out. And what I think it is terrifies me. The boys in school used to get "caned." I heard about that. They don't do it anymore but they used to. On their bottoms. I feel a little faint, and I gasp for air. You can't be going to to that to me. You just can't. ("I'll die –– I won't be able to take it. Not a single one! Oh noooooooo!")

I am too panicked to hear anything that you say by way of instructions. I feel faint, and panicked, my heart going a mile a minute, my body trembling like a leaf in a windstorm. But I am not cold. I am perspiring –– little-girl perspiration, fear-induced perspiration, making my forehead clammy, moistening my skin most everywhere. I am about to muster my energy, my courage, my capacity to find just the right words of apology, when . . .

. . . my childhood comes to a sudden, jarring, unimaginable end, with a white-hot flash of pain. But not at first. First what I see is motion from you –– a lifting up, a flopping of your erection as if in slow-motion. And then I hear. I hear two things –– a thin, slicing, whistling "Thwiiiiiiiiiiiiith" sound, and then a report, like a fire-cracker, or a gunshot, or the sound of a hardcover book dropping flat on its side on a school floor. I feel a nudging pressure on my bottom, just above where my crack starts. And it doesn't hurt. Not at first. Not for 2.8 seconds. Just the dull feeling that something has occurred back there, something that I can't see. But I know what it is. You told me, I partially saw it coming, and I heard it as it happened. So I know. And knowledge leads to dread. But I don't have long to dread.

At the 2.8 second mark, a fiery, incredible, unbelievable, immense and enormous pain washes over my entire body, starting at the impact site, then reverberating with electricity to my toes and down to my head. I scream. "Aiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" My scream lasts and lasts, until my air gives out. It is the high-pitched, piercing, keening, high-volume, ringing scream of a little girl in pain. Not just any pain. Mortal, agonizing, impossible pain.

My young body flexes and strains on the punishment bench, every muscle taut, every ligament a cord of steel, my head back, my mouth and eyes open in disbelief. And then . . . the next lash hits, the fiery, impossibly painful blow falls on the top of my buttocks. just below the first. There is another pause, over a second, perhaps two, of absolute silence, as my little body squirms and wriggles on the bench. "Aiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" I shriek, my voice hysterical, hoarse on the edges. I continue to exhale my scream even as the air no longer makes a sound, my voice trailing off to nothing before I gasp in another huge breath, for the sole purpose of screaming yet again.

It goes on and on. I cannot time my shrieks to the blows, and my next agonized, high-octave squeal is is cut off in mid-stream by yet another paralyzing, debilitating wave of pain that takes my breath away. "Aiyeeeeeeeee -uh:" I shriek, in truncated fashion.

Each lashing stripe of the cane cuts the air in warning, but my bottom never is prepared, simply CAN'T be prepared, for the horrifying, slicing pain that cleaves my 11-year-old buttocks over and over, leaving them in white-hot pain. My cries are full throated shrieks of little-girl agony, my voice growing more and more hoarse as I wail and writhe in my binds.

And finally, it is over, at least the fresh strokes of the cane are. The pain is not over. Not by a long shot. The pain continues to throb, as all 10 raised welted weals of discolored little-girl flesh sing in agony simultaneously, assaulting the neurons in the pain center of my brain with fresh signals of distress. Unprecedented distress. I want to grasp my bottom and squeeze the pain away. I want to douse it in water, in ice, anything. It is burning –– a fact that you can verify as you touch it, the raised welts forming ridges in my smooth, young flesh. The weals, the skin, giving off heat detected in your fingers. My little bottom is so rounded yet slender, girlish yet on the cusp of becoming something more, something approachingly womanly. But in a word, my upraised bottom is a perfect preteen posterior, made even more so now by the addition of deep, dark, raised stripes of pain that will take weeks to fade. The stripes extend down my thighs midway –– sitting will be most uncomfortable for a while.

As you trace my upraised middle-schooler bottom you see the familiar whiteness at the edges of the weals, whiteness that will change to yellow, as the kaleidoscope of bruising plays itself out over the next few days. It will be interesting to monitor the progress of the bruises. Each body bruises differently. Generations of schoolboys have presented their own backsides as blank canvases to the cane, contributing their own milky-white orbs to the fiery pain and the lingering artwork of bruising stripes.

As you stand, my crying, continues unabated. I cannot stop. My world has been turned upside down –– literally and figuratively. Never have I felt such pain. Never have I felt anything even approaching such pain. I continue to hyperventilate, to squeal, to yelp, to whimper and sob and carry on. It is quite a symphony of noises, a cacophony of sound to go with the kaleidoscope of colors on my upraised derriere. I pull at my binds, just an hysterical, overwrought, very, VERY unhappy preteen girl, whose childhood and innocence has just come to an emphatic, painful end.

Marcus

You freak out, attempt to beg before I shut you up by my sharp command, and then, you scream. Bloody hell. I never believed in cumming on command, stimulation-free, always considered that pure fiction, comic-strip kind of stuff, oglaf.com kind of level of realism. But I swear as you buck and scream, and absolutely unrestrained, high pitch explosion of pain, your Aiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! very nearly brings me over the edge. It makes my cock twitch, and it sends a chilling shiver up my spine and into my feet, making me shudder in pleasure. It's like hearing an angel-girl scream as I rip her wings off, it's almost surreal, and yet, so very, very real. So wrong and at the same time so un–fucking-believably right. I was born to do this. If there is God and if he really has a plan, he must be one fucked up God, because I've never felt in tune with myself, being more who I am, more like I'm in tune with the Universe and its purpose. The last strokes that land on your upper legs, below your arched, exposed buttocks marked by the perfectly crafted stripes, so perfectly laid over your so utterly exposed bottom that you have one just above your pucker, the red line reaching so deep into your butt-crack it almost touches your anus, and a very similar one just below. Ten blows, and I feel ecstatic. High. The deal is done, but my trip begins. I'm almost as drugged as a man can be on his body's own natural stuff.

And there it goes. The innocence of childhood. Your childhood, that is. Your ignorance of the true dimensions of serious pain. The idea that stubbing your toe on a threshold when you go to the bathroom at night is the Worst. Pain. Ever. No it's not. You've just been through worse. And clearly, it's been a bit much. If I want it to have any other benefit than the gorgeous visual, I need to bring you down to Earth, down to your body, down from hyperventilating and losing it. I undo the straps. Hands, left ankle, right. I grab your neck and pull you back up onto your feet. I slap you, but not harshly, not in a bruising, teeth chattering (let alone shattering) kind of way, just a warning slap, to snap you out of it.

I gaze into your eyes. I have to kneel to do it, but fuck that, it's just a way to bringing myself low enough to actually see your face from up close. Funny; bringing you to your knees is so important that I just beat you fifty shades of blue to make you do it, but when I do it, I barely spare it a second thought.

"BREATHE! WITH! ME!" I command powerfully, in an earthshaking voice and actually shake you a bit, as I hold you by your upper arms. And I take a long, slow, mighty deep breath. Hold ever so slightly. And blow directly into your face so you can feel the air-stream. I make the out-breath as long as the in-breath and the pause together, and quite powerful, emptying my lungs. And then repeat, and repeat. My hands slide from your arms to your chest and work with me, to guide your breathing. Loosening when I'm breathing in, squeezing, pretty much literally, air out of your lungs as I breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. I force some calmness onto you this way. And it also helps with the pain some. I do it for longer than necessary, counting to perhaps a hundred breaths in my head, spending several good minutes on this exercise.

I am unusually in control of my own emotions, and even manage to push back the urge to use my still erect cock, right there and then, to just rape the living shit out of you, mouth, ass, cunt, till you're a slobbering, drooling, whimpering brainless mess. But you probably would not survive it and I don't really want you brainless today. No. On the contrary. I want you aware, awake, mindful. I want you to learn the importance of obedience. I want to break you; but only to put you back together in my own image. You're no good to me in pieces.

"Now. You've just had your first ever ten serious cane strokes," I say calmly, smoothly, almost in a soft, kind voice. Teacher-like once more. "Unless you want ten more to go across, five sideways from right up to left down and five more the other way, completing the painting, you will thank me now. You will apologise very, very thoroughly for having been so silly, and then, without further ado, you'll drop to your knees and get busy kissing my feet. Are we on the same page here, Dandy tart?" I ask calmly and softly and yet, with underlying sternness, hands still on your chest to help guide your breath, stopping it from becoming erratic again. I'm not too keen on subs and slaves freaking out on me to this point; it's the level just below this, on the verge of losing it, but NOT losing it, that is so alluring, tempting and desirable for me. But then, can I be surprised, after what I've just put you through? I can just hope I did manage to snap you out of it. I pass you a tissue for you to wipe your eyes and face on, blow your nose . . . tidy yourself up.

"And I don't want to see any more tears," I add, to clarify the deal. "Get your act together; you can cry all night when we're done here, but I don't want you puffy eyed and snotty while we're at this. Next up, if you fail me, are needles," I state matter-of-factly. Probably not making it at all easy for you to stop crying, but then . . . I am a fucked up bastard, let's face it, and I did not spend half my fortune (and risk of all of it) to pamper you and treat you like a god damn nurse.

I sit back onto the bench, outstretch my feet and let you do what you would have done anyway, likely, minutes ago, if I didn't decide that even that slight bit of defiance, the hint of protest was something worth un-learning. Worth a lesson that will stay visibly etched into your skin for days on.

"And remember how I kissed you," I say when you finally bend down to catch up on my earlier command. "Nice and slow. Long. Wet. With tongue. That kind of kiss," I specify, just in case you thought this would be over in a few pecks.

Laura

I am wailing and shrieking hysterically, hoarsely, my voice a shadow of what it was before my punishment began. "Waaarrrrrrhhhhhh! Waarrrhhhhhhhh!" I gasp robotically, hyperventilating, my eyes dilated with pain, my buttocks, fingers, and toes clenching and flexing spasmodically as white-hot pain continues to surge across my body in sheets of throbbing agony. "Waaarrrrrrrhhhhhhhh! Waaarrrrrhhhhhh!" I continue to croak even as you free my wrists and ankles, the sounds stopping –– for a brief moment –– only as you grasp me by my slender, collared neck and pull me to my feet. I stand –– or try to –– unsteadily, my eyes unfocused and distant, as my hoarse, unearthly wailing begins anew. "Waaaaaaaarrrrrhhh! Waa––" My shrieks suddenly cut off, replaced by silence, as you slap me. My eyes round back into focus, as you kneel before me, but I stare uncomprehendingly –– as if I have been pulled from my bed from a nightmare but have not yet fully awakened. I start to tremble. Not fear-filled little shivers, but full-on, nervous breakdown-type quakes like those of an end-stage Parkinson's patient. My knees give way and you are holding my trembling, near–catatonic body upright by my arms.

It is the command "BREATH! WITH! ME!" coupled with the shaking of my already quivering body that penetrates the darkness and snaps my eyes into a semi–comprehending focus on yours as you kneel before me. I breathe in, intending to draw in enough breath to wail in pain, but just then you blow a long, deep exhale directly into my face and mouth. This interrupts my plan, interferes with my intake of breath, and also helps to bring me back from the abyss. I manage to gasp in a hoarse, warbling inhale, and then exhale, almost absent-mindedly following your order now, to breathe with you. I want to breathe with you. I want the pain to go away.

The pain doesn't go away, not really, but the deep, slow, rhythmic breathing restores me, allowing my brain to begin functioning again. Bits and pieces of rational thought start to permeate the dark blanket that had descended over my consciousness. Your exhales continue to blow right in my face, and my brain tells me to time my inhales with yours, and exhale at the same time. My knees stabilize, and I begin to do a shuffling-in-place pain dance as we breathe, my little feet alternating tiny up and down motions, lifting an inch or so off the ground, then back, alternating, as I stand there, breathing, gasping, grunting, while you hold first my arms and then my bare little chest, helping me to breathe, helping me to come back from wherever I went.

I breathe with you for several minutes, my feet still tapping out a little pain dance, almost in slow motion, like a toy soldier whose battery has worn down to the point where he can no longer march but his feet still rise and fall as he steps slowly in place. I whimper and groan and grunt as I breathe, my bottom still burning hot, stinging and throbbing from the stripes of the cane. The breathing DOES help, and well before we finish the exercise, lucidity and understanding has returned to my eyes and my face. I am Laura again. I wasn't Laura there for a spell, but that's in the past. Even my step-marching has abated somewhat –– it still happens, but my motions are more erratic, less metronomic, like a check-out clerk shuffling her feet at the end of eight hours standing, trying to find a comfortable position. I try to find comfort but my bottom throbs and sings with pain as I listen to you, tiny whimpers and moans emanating from me as I continue to breathe deeply on my own.

I take the tissue, and use it to blow my nose, as I compose myself and prepare to speak my apology. The memory of exactly how all of this happened is a blur to me –– but I remember thinking, just before the caning began, that I had been silly. Silly and defiant. Oh yes –– my knees hurt. Or I thought they did, back when I did not understand what pain was. Now I understand. Now I know. My knees did not hurt. Not in the way that things can hurt. I was being silly. I need to apologize. It barely affects me when you mention the needles. I know you will use them. I know you mean it. I know what pain is, now. Real pain.

I haven't cried in several minutes, but I try to regain myself now. I'm actually afraid I'll cry as I apologize and thank you. I don't know why, but I feel like I OWE you an apology. For being silly. For being bad. And I'm afraid that I'll cry when I do ("No Laura, you can't . . . needles . . .") and I'll be punished for THAT. I begin to speak. My voice low and hoarse, a husky whisper. "I'm r–really sorry (swallow) . . . f-for what I d-did." My eyes glaze with tears. "I'm sorry," I squeak. "I'm really s-sorry." ("Oh God Laur’, DON'T cry . . . please don't cry please don't cry please don't cry!")

I don't know why the act of apologizing is causing an emotional reaction in me, but it does. I look at you, my eyes red-rimmed, filled with tears. I'm so sorry. I really am. I want you to know. But there are no adequate words. "Th-thank you," I croak. ("Please hold it together, Laura! Please! Needles!") I force myself to take a deep breath, just like you showed me. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. I watch as you resume your position on the bench. I wince as I walk the two steps I need to approach you, the stripes on my bottom burning just from the motion. Like a senior citizen, I lower myself slowly, one leg at a time, one hand at a time, gingerly to the floor, moaning softly, my once-sore knees forgotten now, every fiber of my body concentrating on keeping the stripes from flaring with pain. Gently, with a tiny whimper, I lean forward, head down, and begin to lick your feet with my little pink tongue. Just an exhausted little girl.

Marcus

And for a moment there, I have exactly what I always wanted. And obedient little loli working on making me feel good, regardless of her own discomfort, of her own likes and preferences, just obeying. "Good girl," I whisper encouragingly, but make sure not to imply with my tone of voice that this is done. No. This is good, but far from over. It feels great. It tickles a little, but I'm not very ticklish and the way your tongue is small and soft and touches my somewhat hard, rough skin lightly is an acute reminder of just how little you are. I'm loving this. The view from above, the dark stripes on your buttocks and legs, the way you are bend down, arched, back and head low, buttocks high as you kneel and leaned forward to access my feet, you look gorgeous.

It's brutal, but efficient, to simply beat you into obedience. And actually, it's perfectly in tune with all the psychology books on conditioning and behavioural change that I have read, though if Skinner, Watson and the others had any idea how their books and discoveries are being put into practise, they would likely have volunteered to burn every last copy of their own work. It's funny how people, in all their complexity, diversity and depth are, at the end of the day such simple creatures. Negative and positive feedback. Pattern creation and reinforcement. Gee, if I wanted to, I could probably force just about any response to a random stimuli into your reactions that it would take most of the rest of your lifetime to unlearn it, even if I eventually, at some point, actually decided to let you go. But we're not at that complexity level here; now, I have beaten you, and you learned an important lesson: Your discomfort doesn't matter to me. It's something you have to put up with, something that's understood, normal, and not wise to bother me with. Especially should it get in the way of obeying me, obeying me promptly and thoroughly.

I lean back and relax. Breathing deeply. Enjoying the sensations you provide occasionally adding a small instruction here and there.

"Tongue between toes. Push it through a few times. Wiggle it. Try and make a screwing motion, turning it sideways, as best as you can. Now give the sole of my foot a long wet lick, heel to toes. Now again, but press your tongue against it more firmly. Get closer. Let the tip of your nose also slide over my skin. Thatta girl."

I shift my foot forward, sole towards the floor. The top side of my feet has some hair on, not much though, my legs only get hairy from my ankles up, but rather thoroughly so when they do. "Now the upper side. Toes. Ankles. Trace the lines, ridges, the veins with your tongue. Press your lips somewhere and suck on the spot, until it's nice and pink."

I turn and shift my foot to give you access. I'm not settling for any less than I want, and I want a lot of this. Plus it's a necessary preliminary phase to what is coming in a little bit. We're gonna go step by step today, but we're going far and deep into the extremes of depravity. When you seem to have kissed and licked and sucked on just about every nook and cranny of my foot, I ask, and make it sound like an important question.

"Are you sure you did not miss a single spot? Absolutely sure?" my voice goes deeper, darker, an unspoken threat that something horrible will happen if you did implied, urging you to go on for yet another bit. And then I present my other foot, and the whole process repeats itself, though you seem to slowly be getting the knack of this so there are a few less instructions and those that come are briefer, snappier.

At one point, I lift my foot so you can kneel up, pop my big toe into your mouth and tell you to suck on it like you did on my cock. Sucking, sliding your lips over it, licking the underside. It's not as big, certainly not long enough to ever get deep enough to your mouth to make you gag, but I make you go on and pretend that it is a cock that you are trying to get to cum for many, many minutes. When you are done, I tell you to part your legs for me, hands behind your back, and I tease your slit and especially your little special-spot with my moist, slick big toe, teasing around, exploring, watching your reactions as I toy with you, eventually slipping my big toe into your pussy, wiggling, teasing, collecting whatever flavour your body provides, this time, luckily, without any added blood, and then I make you suck the big toe clean again for me.

Finally, I place my feet back firmly on the floor and reach into your hair to stroke it, contemplating how well you've done, how much praise you deserve, or if perhaps I should punish you a bit just to make sure you're super eager next time. I stroke you and in my bliss, space out for a bit. Just enjoying the moment, the warmth and deep, satisfying, gradually build arousal that I'm basking in now, like in bright, warm sunlight. I sigh. This was good, great in fact, but there is more to come.

"Stand up," I command. "And for the rest of the session, avoid kneeling. Sit, squat, stand or lie but keep off your knees." I grab your chin with three fingers and make you look up into my firm, steel colored eyes. "Clear?"

"What is the correct answer to a slap?" I ask. Ready to slap you and remind if you get that one wrong.

"And what is the *only* correct response to a direct command?" I ask again, firmly, demanding an answer, testing you, clearly.

Laura

Much like my first night, when you forced me to clean the mess of cum and vomit on my cell floor, my mind partially shuts down as I bend to the task of kissing your feet. And, actually, although you initially told me that I would be kissing your feet, what I am required to do instead is to give you a full tongue-bath, licking and wetting every inch of both feet, top to bottom, heel to toe, front to back. But as I kneel to my the task and lower my head, I do not know this; I know only that I have been instructed to lick your feet, and that is what I will do. There is not even a thought of defiance. I wasn't even intending to be defiant when I complained earlier about my knees –– it's just that the sharp, bruised and achy pain surprised me as I knelt down. All of that chasing the ball yesterday, all of the pounding on my little knees –– it made them throb painfully. But that was before I knew what real pain felt like.

Now I know. Now I understand pain. Real pain. I understand punishment. The connection is quite simple: I complained, and you beat me. You beat me without hesitation and without mercy, deliberately inflicting on me the most horrific pain I have ever experienced, the most horrific pain that I've ever imagined. And afterwards, oddly, when I came back around and rejoined this world from the catatonic place my mind had gone for a bit, I felt like it was my fault. Like I had brought the caning on myself with my behavior and that I deserved to be caned. Yet, I know that's not true –– you had not right to beat me. You had no right to take me here, no right to make me play doggy games, no right to do sex stuff with me, no right to tie me down and whip me, and no right to make me lick your feet. So WHY did I feel like it was my fault? I can't answer but I definitely felt that way. My stammering, stumbling, teary-eyed apology was sincere. As my tongue wets and tastes your foot, I feel conflicted and strange. Like I don't know who I am anymore.

My bottom throbs with pain as I lean to the ground and lick your feet. I reach up to brush my dangling hair back behind my collared neck. But it keeps falling back down, and I keep replacing it. Such is the trade-off of long hair: it is a must-have for any girl aspiring to be a model –– long, sensuous, flowing locks –– but it gets in the way. And it's a pain to wash and dry it, and to keep it brushed and under control. I've always loved having long, soft hair. I would be different without it. But now it seems to be teasing me, falling in the way as I lick your feet and run my tongue between your toes. Frustrated, I reach back and tuck the hair from the right side into my collar, holding it there as my little tongue and mouth bathe your foot.

I don't want to lick your big man feet. They’re gross and disgusting, even if they don't seem to taste yucky and sweaty and smelly. Actually, if I'm being honest, they don't have much taste at all, except on the bottom, where the skin is thicker, darker, and there is a definitely flavor of something –– sweat? floor? foot? –– I try not to think of it as I lick from heel to toes, stopping at the toes to run my tongue between them. Licking between your toes is even more gross, and I blush as you instruct me to, even as I obey. All I can think of is toe cheese; my tummy clenches and for a brief second I fear I might throw up ("Don't throw up, please don't throw up, oh please –– he'll make you lick it up!"). But I don't taste any toe cheese. I don't even know exactly what it is, but the expression just popped into my mind from somebody. Probably Caroline, or Mary Ann, I think, as my mind wanders. What would they think if they saw me now, on the floor, on hands and knees, licking a naked man's feet? My cheeks blush and my ears tingle as I think of how embarrassing that would be. They're probably in school right now, where I should be. Would be, if I weren't here. Or would I be? It occurs to me that I don't know what day it is. Could it be Saturday? I continue to lick and suck your feet as I think random thoughts. It helps to keep the focus off my pain.

My mind wanders all over the place as I work, methodically licking, tonguing, mouthing, even nosing your feet, following your instructions without hesitation. I suck and tongue your big toe, not liking that hardness of the toenail, but thankful that you have trimmed it close and kept it clean. I'd probably throw up again if your feet were dirty or smelly or something. They aren't, fortunately, but your big toe just feels weird in my mouth –– the rest of your toe is fleshy, but that part is hard and kinda yucky. I suck and tongue it seemingly forever, bathing it in my wet little mouth, swirling my tongue over it, sucking it like it's a small, stubby penis. On and on and on, sucking it, as you jab it in my mouth and give me little instructions. I wonder if it will ever end.

And then on your command I am kneeling again, back straight, my striped buttocks resting ever-so-gently on my heels with a wince, as you toe my slit, my pussy, my special spot. I try not to react. It tickles and feels weird, but I don't want you to know that. I force myself to remain still, my expression impassive. You may have the power to do these things to me, to hurt me, but you can't make me like them. And I never will. Never, ever. It is humiliating to have to kneel there, legs spread, as you play with my hairless private parts with your toe. And it is all I can do not to squirm as you tickle me on my special spot –– as it is, my expressions reveal just how hard I am trying NOT to react. I don't know this, of course, as I am trying to be the picture of complacency, even as my mind follows the movement of your toe, and my little quim quivers as you pleasure it.

It is gross when you make me clean it off again, and my eyes glimmer at the injustice. It's all wet from my own private parts. But I lower myself once again, and take your toe in my mouth, cleaning it, bathing it, tasting my own scent, my own wetness. It wouldn't be so bad but I still have the entirety of your other foot to go. I suspect, and I'm soon proven right, that you will expect the same, thorough tonguing of that foot as you did the first one. And when you give the command and extend your other foot, I swipe my hair back and begin the slow, laborious process of licking, sucking, and tongue bathing your other foot. Thank God you don’t have two penises.

The worst part isn't the toes, or the bottom –– it's the top of your foot where you have some icky nasty man hairs there –– long, dark, and growing from a couple of sparse tufts. I can't help but sport a "yuck" grimace as I force myself to lick over those spots, as quickly as I can. I much prefer the softer, smooth parts of the top where no hair grows. I concentrate on those, hoping you won't notice or care if I try to avoid the icky hairs. But when you ask me if I got every spot, if I'm sure, I know –– I just KNOW –– that you mean the top part, with the hairs. Reluctantly, unhappily, I redo those parts, licking over the hairs, closing my eyes, and trying to keep my tummy under control as I do.

And then, finally, after an eternity of licking and sucking and tonguing and mouthing your feet, I am done. Your feet are withdrawn, and you sit up, stroking my head. You don't speak, and I am still. Am I done? Did I do OK? Can I go back to my cell? It's odd that you won't speak. Your fingers trace lightly in my hair for several minutes as I kneel before you. My back hurts. My tongue and mouth are tired. My jaw aches. My bottom gives off a dull, achy, burning pain.

When you command me to stand, I do so, slowly, with a grimace, as I lift my tortured bottom from my heels –– causing a burning, gasp-inducing rush of blood to flow into my bruised, welted backside –– and stand, legs spread, my scarred little bottom flaring, my raised, bruising welts burning once again. I look into your eyes as you speak to me, telling me to stay off my knees. I wonder if you are trying to trick me. I can't read you today. I know the answers to your questions, however. At least I hope I do. Asked about being slapped, the mental image of the little girl in the video immediately pops into my mind. "To say th–thank you," I say, in a still-hoarse, whispered little voice. My voice sounds strange even to me. Asked about a direct command, I am a little less certain. "Yes, sir?" I say, the lilted interrogative at the end revealing my uncertainty. I think I got it right. I hope I got it right. I'll find out soon enough if I did, or not.

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