17. Commands

Marcus

“Thank you” to a slap, “yes, sir” to a command . . .

You got them both right; as I smile and nod, I look reassuringly pleased.

"Good girl," I say finally. "You got both correct. And you've done well, after all," I say and keep toying with your little ear and the sensitive area behind it, and the loose strand of hair there. I don't like your hair tucked into your collar so I release it. "When I take you into the bathroom for a wash later, remind me to give you some hair bands and a hair clip," I side-note as I continue to touch you. "I liked your apology, sweetie. It's easy to blurt out an 'I am sorry' when you are at risk or earning more zebra stripes, but you meant it, and it showed. I liked that. You're a good girl. You are learning fast. You know that when I have to punish you like that, it's not really fun for either one of us," I lie. Of course it is fun for me, I get off on it just as much, well, actually, more than any play spanking in which I'll stir pleasure in with the pain. But you don't need to know that just yet. You best not think of me as a pathological sadist, for now, I want you to have some hope and some faith in me and my humanity.

"I like when you lick and kiss my feet. It feels good, real nice. Tingly and warm. Kind of like when I used my big toe on your slit," I mention casually, revealing I know damn well about the sort of sensations I'm giving you when I stroke your magic spot, or however you think of your clit. "I liked when you pushed your tongue into the gaps between my toes best, I think," I share. Your purpose in being alive is pleasing and pleasuring me, after all, so teaching you what I like and what I appreciate is quite essential for your future, and so I do. "I didn't like when you tried to skip the hairy bits," I say bluntly, voicing what you suspected all along.

"Don't do that, next time. It's just hair . . . it's as much a part of me as anything else, and the skin underneath likes being touched and kissed and licked just like anywhere else," I explain, and give your hair another stroke.

"Let's practice the correct answer to a command; you remember it already, now you just need to learn to actually say it, when I command you to do something," I say, smiling. You forgot before and I mercifully overlooked it, but I want to get you into the habit. And so we practice.

"Sit. Stand up. Turn around. Bend over. Spread your butt cheeks for me. Good, stand up, face me again. Turn around, like you're modelling. Show me a few more modelling poses." I give command after command. I wait for a “yes, sir,” and an obedient reaction. They just keep coming. I smile. I like this. It's going well. Pointless, not really that much fun for me, but you have to walk before you run. It's teaching you. It's establishing patterns I'll reinforce later. It really is recreating you in my image.

I nod and smile a lot, occasionally good-girl you, occasionally stroke your hair. It all goes lightly. I'm actually enjoying myself a bit; it's all silly little "game," but your obedience is impressive and it's pleasing me. It gives the brutal (if brief) caning an extra-special meaning; it shows that it worked. It proves that my methods, my approach, works. It may not be directly pleasurable, but it gives me joy nonetheless.

But after a while of it, I do get a little bored. After all, I want to be pushing you. I want to be forcing you further than you're already willing and ready to go. I want to go further, deeper. And so I pick up a needle, a big one, some four inches long, unwrap it, and toy with it in a pause before the next command just to remind you that this is not really a game, this is . . . serious training, and failing me is a serious offence, punishable by serious pain.

I stand, towering above you, toying with the big, scary needle, just pulled out of its sterile wrapping, and finally say.

"Go behind me. Part my butt-cheeks with your hands, and make out with my ass-hole, like you made out with my feet before," I finally command. My asshole is clean. Even de-haired, at the moment, smooth actually, but it is a butthole, and I'm quite sure that's a whole different level for you, compared to feet. The needle glows and glimmers in my fingers. You don't really have a choice; and we both know it. But if you show resistance, there will be pain before you are forced to do it. Best to do it even though you really, really don't want to. I look at you, firmly. I'm not backing out on this one; as if I ever backed out on any demand or request. I watch you. And wait. For a “yes, sir.” And for your little tongue on my pucker.

Laura

I stand there, 11, petite, and so much smaller than you, as you play with my hair, my ear, touching me everywhere and anywhere you care to, like an object. Your carefree, possessive touches affect me, at least subconsciously. Just as you casually dried my little slit after I peed, and reassuringly pat my head from time to time, your tactile nature objectifies and reduces me, somewhere above an animal perhaps, but certainly below the status of a human child. Somewhere in between. Like a little girl pet. Your touches are constant, whether gentle or harsh. They run the full panoply from gentle pats, rubs, and caresses, to violent shakes, slaps, and even beatings. Nobody has ever touched me so much, not in these ways, and especially not in the places that you touch me. I am not consciously aware of it, but I am changing, slowly, growing more accustomed to your touch. I prefer the gentle caresses, like the ones you are giving me now, as I stand there, naked, and collared, listening to you. I much prefer them to being beaten.

It's reassuring to hear that you don't like to punish me. I could tell you were super angry when I didn't do what you said. I know I messed up when I complained about my knees. They didn't hurt that bad. I should have obeyed. It was my fault. I still don't think you needed to whip my bottom that hard. I can tell you're really strict, though. I feel bad that I did it. And I feel bad that you didn't want to have to punish me. I put it out of my mind because it's not going to happen again. I don't ever want to be whipped like that again, even if you make me play games and do sex stuff every day. That really, really hurt.

I don't know how you know so many things about me, but you do. You know my favorite candy. My nickname. My passwords. You seem to know my thoughts, too, my secrets, things I try to keep from you –– not everything, for sure. But you know enough things that I haven't told you and you simply couldn't know from any other source. I'm glad you know my apology was real. For some reason, I want you to know that, OK, because it was my fault. But how did you? My thank you wasn't real –– I didn't want to thank you for caning me, and I only did it 'cause you made me. You made me thank you AND apologize. I did both, but only one was sincere. How did you know which one? You didn't say you liked my thank you; only my apology. You knew I didn't like to lick the hairs on the top of your feet. You knew I tried to avoid doing it. You knew your toe was tickling my special spot, even though I didn't react at all. Maybe you're just a good guesser. But maybe it's more than that. Maybe you can actually get inside my head and read my mind. Is that possible? It can't be . . . can it? Do you have super powers? This place is like a super villain's secret place. But I know you're not really a super villain. You're a sex pervert person. But it's like you have super powers, or something. ("Jeez, Laur’, would you just listen to him? Pay attention!")

It's a good thing I bring my wandering mind back to focus on you, as we next begin working on "commands." I don't like working on commands. It's humiliating, not only having to do whatever you say, but having to say "Yes, sir" every time. And the stuff you make me do is demeaning and humiliating and mean. But I do it anyway. My "yes, sirs" are promptly given. My obedience is immediate. Like everything else we do, it seems to go on and on, forever. Command after command after command. Some repeated. Many new. Stand. "Yes, sir." Sit. "Yes (gasp in pain from my cane stripes), sir." Spread your butt cheeks. "Yes, sir (gasp in pain)." I pose, I bend, I model. On and on and on, until I've said "Yes, sir" 50, 75, 100 times? I've lost count. But I do well. You stroke my hair. You're pleased. I like that –– well, not like it but it's certainly way better than you being displeased and angry. I can tell 'cause you're smiling, nodding, and sometimes saying "good girl." I don't like it when you say that, mostly because my Uncle Alois had a Yorkshire Terrier named Bessie and he always used to say "good girl" whenever she did something right. It makes me feel like a dog myself when you say it, but I know you don't mean it that way, not exactly. (“Maybe he does mean it that way, Laur’. Ever think of that?”)

Finally, it seems like we're done. I stand there, waiting for the next command, not even really tired, but mostly just bored. I kinda get why we do the games now. It's to train me to do things you want me to do. I don't like it but at least I get it now.

My heart almost skips a beat and my blood runs a little cold as you approach the table. The bad table. The hurting table. My eyes are wide. I thought I was doing well. I thought you were pleased. You smiled. You said "good girl." You patted my head and caressed my ear. What did I do? What did I do wrong? I watch, terrified, my tiny, naked body giving a little shiver of fear as you take something off the table. It's . . . oh no! Oh no! Oh no! oh no! It's one of the needles. A big one. I see it now.

I stare at it wide-eyed as you approach. My face is pale. I hate needles. I'm terrified of needles. I feel faint. I swallow. I feel small. A tiny, fear-induced whimpering sigh escapes my lips. I stare at it. What did I doooooooooooo? I think to myself.

The command comes. I blink in disbelief. Between my fixation on the needle, and the disbelief of what you just commanded me to do, the expected "yes, sir" does not come. My eyes leave the needle, and look up into yours as you loom over me. My dark, almost enchanting eyes are wide with disbelief. You can tell I am still processing the information. My eyes plead with you. I look desperate and distraught. Make out with your asshole? Lick it? I flush crimson and the tips of my ears burn and tingle. You can't mean it . . . you're going to tell me it's just a cruel joke. Nobody could be that . . . that . . . mean.

But your eyes are not joking. Your gaze is firm. My eyes flit to the needle –– thin and glimmering in the dungeon light. I look back at you. My eyes glisten. I want to beg. I want to explain. I want to bargain and negotiate. But I know what will happen if I do. Punishment will happen. Pain will happen. The presence of the needle makes it clear what kind of pain, and how it will be administered. I feel faint. There is no choice, no hope, no way out. "Yes, sir," I whisper, in a tiny, reluctant, child voice. I lower my eyes in shame. Blushing with indignity, I slowly walk by you and my eyes flit up to yours one more time, with a mixed expression of last-hope optimism, fatalism, and pouting-child reproach. There is no change in your expression. There is no hope. There will be no reprieve. I pad dejectedly on bare little feet, behind you, taking in the sight of your muscled, strong back, your firm butt cheeks, your fit thighs and calves. With a tiny sob I kneel behind you, the top of my head only an inch or so below the level of your hips, my face right at your crack. My hands are shaking as I reach out for your lightly-haired, firm-looking, muscled globes. Tears wet my eyes as I part them. I blink them back to see the dark, wrinkled pucker of your anus. ("Oh thank God, thank God it's not all hairy." I think to myself). I hesitate. My tummy clenches in disgust. I am too far from it, so I knee-walk even closer on my sore knees. Your butt is right there. Inches away. I hesitate. I have never not wanted to do something in my entire life more than this. Never. Not anything. But there it is. Your asshole. Right there. Right in front of me. Inches away.

I close my eyes as the first tears role down my cheeks. I don't want to see. I take a deep breath –– you can hear it. I don't want to breathe while I'm . . . while I'm doing it. Licking it. I open my eyes one more time to get my bearings. I stick my little pink 5th-grader tongue out. Pulling your cheeks a bit further apart, I tilt my head back just a bit, and lean my little child face up into your ass crack. As I do, I close my eyes, press my soft, preteen tongue against your asshole, and begin to lick.

Marcus

I love the way you're so easy to read, how when you try to not show anything, you show just as much as you would if you relaxed, just differently. I adore your body language betraying you. But then . . . sometimes you are beyond hiding things.

The way you respond to me picking up the needle makes my cock twitch. As in . . . visibly this time. I see your face go pale. I see you cower. I can almost see the wheels turning inside your head, I can taste and feel your panic. You are afraid that you've messed up, in utter horror that my sticking that horrible, big needle through your flesh is inevitable. And then I give the command.

And I can see, again, the turmoil of emotion that just storms inside you, and you are stuck for a while, and I let you be for the moment, hopeful, if not confident, that this dilemma will crystallize in favour of obedience. And then . . . it does. You timidly, quietly give your "Yes, sir," and move behind me. I'm rather surprised that you can reach my ass while on your knees, but it seems that straightened up and with your head tilted upwards, you just about can. Even though you are on your knees and that's what I told you to avoid. I'm about to mention it, but then . . . your tongue glides over my pucker for the first time.

I sigh, or rather . . . moan. My pucker is unusually sensitive, and I love gentle, soft stimulation like this. And this is the softest, most gentle that the tight, dark-pinkish brown ring has ever experienced. My cock twitches. I utter a prolonged, pleasured groan with my upper teeth biting into my lower lip, eyes closed, head tilted back. It's lucky that we're still so near to the punishment bench over which I marked your ass with the gorgeously darkening stripes; I need it to steady myself now, not far from losing my footing.

A shiver runs up my spine, and then another, like a frosty draught running over my skin, almost like when you put a backpack back on your sweaty back on a hot summer day, and it's suddenly oh so cold, but this is not unpleasant, at all, it's pure bliss.

"That's my good girl," I praise you. "You have no idea how amazing this feels. You're making me very happy," I state explicitly to emphasize that this is not just a test, you're actually serving me in a way that I like and appreciate a lot. My anus occasionally contracts, twitches under your licks, the stimulation really being quite intense, despite its softness and gentleness. It actually works better for me this way, by a long shot, than harder rubbing, such as with a finger. I shudder and slightly squirm in pleasure, lean into the bench, bending forward slightly to give you better access.

"Now press your lips against it, firmly, as if it were a mouth you are kissing, and press harder with your tongue. I want a proper making out going on," I specify, and just in case you did not get that, I confirm. "I want you to push the tip of your tongue inside. Slip out. And then go in again. Over and over again, while your lips are firmly pressed against the skin around," I instruct, leaving absolutely no doubt or space for a different interpretation. There's no way you will get away with doing anything less than exactly what you are told to do.

I'm so aroused now . . . I can't even believe it. Could I cum from this alone? If I do, I'd just have to make you go on till I get hard again, because I need to fuck you, if ever I needed something, I need to stick my cock up one of your holes and use you after this, I'm painfully, incredibly horny. I wonder if you could put up with me fucking your pussy a bit roughly, or if you'd prefer that I fuck your already well-abused mouth. The thing is, I've hacked the usual dilemma; I can eat the cake and keep it for later, too. I can do both. And more, and other stuff, too, if and when I fancy. I own you and your body, and I can pleasure myself whenever and however I want.

I'm on a roller-coaster of sensation and emotion, so little of it, and yet, so much!!! This is probably the best sensation I've experienced in my life. Is that good news or bad news for you? Who knows. You might be pleased and relieved that you're doing well, but judging from your initial reaction, knowing that you will be doing this a lot, often and sometimes for extended periods of time, probably would not be thrillingly good news for you. Not exactly. I groan. I sigh. Bite my lip some more. My toes curl, I can no longer stand relaxed. It seems . . . it really seems like I could cum from this. Damn it!

"Stick. Your. Tongue. In. Properly." I growl darkly, a bit short of breath. I want more of this. I am loving this in an addictive, lustful way and I am gonna get it. I suspect the hint of anger in my voice is enough of a motivation after what you've been put through less than an hour ago to get you to try hard and try eagerly, but if it's not . . . .The tension, the hunger and desire for me is hot and boiling. I'm not being nice and patient, and if I need to give you an extra push now, it will be far from subtle. I radiate that message. I glow with the heat of it. And I push my ass backwards a bit, literally shoving it into your face now.

All the exertion and intensity of this makes my skin damp with sweat, tiny beads of it arising in places. The heat of this is intense. And I want more, and more and more.

Laura

My eyes are closed, and my cheeks are wet with tears of injustice as I crane my neck, pull apart your firm ass cheeks with my little fingers, and press my uplifted face and mouth into your crack and ass. I don't want to do this. More than anything in my whole life, I don't want to do this. But the image of that needle, the memory of my caning, remove even the possibility of defiance from my menu of responses. With obedience the only real option, I have no choice but to press my cute little 11-year-old face deep into your butt crack and lick your asshole.

My little tongue is delicate, and kitten–like, as it flicks and licks at your sunken, wrinkled brown opening. I am careful not to press too hard, so my initial licks are light and soft, tickling and tantalizing. Your buttocks are so muscular and taut that it is difficult for my child hands to keep them pulled apart, but you rectify this situation, and aid my access to your hole, by leaning across the punishment bench and spreading your legs. This has the effect of lowering your hips, allowing me to lick your anus without craning and straining to reach it. I remain on my knees, my hands on your cheeks, as I bury my 11–year–old face in your crack and lick your hole.

I can taste your essence as I lick and prod. Your anus has a light, earthy musk to it. And soon it is wet with little-girl saliva as my tongue lightly flicks at the wrinkled brown ring. Your buttocks touch my soft little cheeks as I press them against your ass, knowing that I must in order to allow my tiny, preteen tongue the proximity needed to reach your hole.

I make no sounds. All that can be heard in the near-silence of the dungeon is the ever-so-soft wet, smacking sounds of a little girl licking her first adult asshole. My face is wet with sweat as I work, a combination of my light, prepubescent little girl perspiration, and your adult-man ass sweat. My tongue pulls back every few seconds as I grab a quick breath, quickly resuming my work with my tiring little tongue. Lick and flick, press and dance, swirl and repeat. I try to make love to your asshole as you instructed, while every fiber of my being cries out in disgust and humiliation at what I am being forced to do. With my eyes closed, it is the mental image of the needle that motivates my performance.

And then the specific instructions come. As you spread your legs even further apart, you instruct me to press my lips to it, like we are kissing. I lean back, wet-faced, and pull my tongue into my mouth. It tastes funny. Acidic. Yucky. With a horrified look of pained disgust on my face, I press my little mouth back to your ass, my soft, tender lips opening to latch on to your sunken hole. Mustering all of my courage, my eyes closed, I press my little pink tongue against the very center of your sunken orifice, and push . . . and push. Your sphincter is tight but my tongue is the strongest muscle in my entire body. Strong, wet, and spear-shaped, I push it past your barrier, and ("OMG, OMG, I'm going to faint") inside your ass. Your anal ring grips my tongue as I begin to press it in and out, as you commanded. ("Am I gonna taste poop? Please don't poop on me, please don't poop on my tongue!") I feel like rolling into a ball and crying, but I muster the energy to persist.

For what seems like an eternity, I press my little tongue in and out of your asshole, parting your anal ring, retreating, pressing in again. My face is wet and sweaty and I feel awful and yucky as I ream out your adult asshole with my 5th-grader tongue. I pull back every 10 seconds or so, to steal a quick breath, and then replace my sweet lips against your anus, poking back in with my tongue. My tongue is exhausted now, and I have trouble forming it into the necessary spear to penetrate your tight anus, but I somehow find the energy to do so. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. Breathe. In, out. In, out. In out. In out. Breathe. I press my little preteen tongue into your hole over and over and over and over again.

But then, fairly abruptly, I just can't. My tongue is exhausted, and a paralysis grips it. Try as I might I cannot even make it form a point, much less press it inside you. I try. I truly do. I press my lips deeper against your rectum, trying to use them to push my tongue inside, but my little muscle is overworked and all used up –– it simply refuses. My blood runs cold with panic. I hear your instruction –– "Stick. Your. Tongue. In. Properly" –– and I try to obey. God how I try ("Needle, Laur’, needle! . . .") but my tiny pink tongue is dead. It will not respond. It lies languidly against your slick hole, unable to penetrate. Unable, even, to lick.

I try again, and again, and as you back your ass against my face, shoving it there, I beg my tongue to respond. ("Oh please . . .. he's getting angry . . . please work. Please!") I don't know what's wrong with it. Overuse has rendered it slack and unresponsive. My heart rate climbs as desparation sets in. I breathe quickly and then cram my mouth against your puckered orifice, trying to will myself inside, trying to lick, trying to force my tongue to function. Nothing works. My hands on your buttocks start to shake. I've never wanted to do anything more in my entire life than lick your asshole right now. Never. But my paralyzed, exhausted little tongue will not respond. It won't do as I ask. Only 11 years old and unaccustomed to this kind of work, it simply lacks the strength and stamina needed for an extended rim job. I am gripped with terror as I cannot comply with your instruction. My naked little body shakes with fear as I quickly breathe, and press my child face deep in your ass crack to try once again. But my tongue will not respond. It lies limply against your slick, brown puckered orifice as I try to cram it inside with my lips and head.

Marcus

I'm elated, I'm flying, I'm enjoying myself. Nothing is better than a preteen tongue inside my ass. Sliding, gliding, working . . . Giving me Best. Pleasure. Ever. Just the knowledge that is your cute -- no, adorable -- face buried between my ass cheeks is enough to make my cock quiver with lust.

AAaahh . . . Ooohhh . . .Yeahhh . . . More . . .Yeahhh . . . Therrrre . . .

I don't really feel you getting exhausted; it's only at the point when you actually fail to stick the tongue in, when you already are too exhausted to continue that I suddenly realise something is wrong. And I move, and turn to you, my face an expression of fury. It's not your fault you're young and little and weak and easily exhausted, but I'm mad. I'm very clearly and obviously mad. You failed me. I really, really wanted more, totally absorbed in my own pleasure and the want, the lust for more. God I'm furious.

On some level I know, in fact on just about all levels I know that you did not fail me deliberately, willingly, that this is a matter of physical limits; you tried so hard at the end it felt almost like you are trying to force your whole head up my arse, face first. No one should have expected more from you, or even as much as you did. But I did. I do. I want more. And I'm tense and furious now that the gorgeous act ended with rather an anticlimax. I force myself to sit down, fists clenched, and breathe, blowing out slowly, gradually, like I'm teaching you. Because I swear to God, I feel like hitting you, like just going fucking wild, unleashing my fury on you in punches and kicks and blows, and let's be realistic here, if I do it, you likely will not live to see the messy result of that.

I lift my finger in a warning, the hand facing you, in a non-compromising, silencing gesture. Once again, you are in a position when you MUST keep your mouth shut, no apologies or excuses will be accepted. Finally I calm myself enough to speak. If you felt like I was about to shred you into pieces, you weren't far from the truth, but that moment has passed. Or at least so it seems now. I look at you, starting to nod as if in agreement with something as a solution crystallizes in my head.

"Look me in the eyes, don't even THINK about saying a single word – especially if I hear a “but” I'm gonna rip that damn tongue out, and listen carefully, Laura," I say in a grave-deep voice, sounding like an echo coming out of an ancient tomb. I'm not playing, I'm not kidding, but also, I'm not screaming or yelling. I just dead fucking serious now. "What I am going to do now, right now when I'm done talking, is I'm going to use your mouth to give myself pleasure. It will not be pleasant or nice at all, you will not be in any way in control. I will not let you do it, I'm gonna be in control and it's gonna get unpleasant and messy, with you gagging and coughing. I'll keep at it until I cum. We're gonna do it like in the video. You'll keep your hands behind your back the whole time. Thank me and ask for more cock should I choose to pull out and slap you. Then, I will take a piss into your mouth, directly into your mouth, and you will swallow everything, and lick whatever mess gets spilled of off the floor. Then I will believe that this was not intentional, and that you really, really want to please me even when it is not nice. It is your last chance of this day continuing blood free, and without further serious pain. If you fail me -- and listen very, very carefully now --" I raise my voice and tone and make sure my expression is adequately dramatic. "If you fail me I'll put needles through your nipples and your lips and your damn tongue, and I will fuck your rear entrance, causing you so much pain that you will FORGET about the needles. I'm not joking, and I'm not exaggerating. This is it. No debate."

With that, I stand up. I beckon you closer, I grab your head, one hand on either side, thumbs pulling your jaw downwards to open wide, WIDE, and then I ram my cock as deep into your mouth and throat as it will physically go, totally disregarding your gag reflex, any limits, perceived or real, that you might have. I go as far as I fit, and I use a good bit of force to get there. And that's just to start with.

I'm not far from cumming, luckily for you, because as I start to move in and out of your throat, I take absolutely no regard of your breathing, or any other reactions of your body, conscious or unconscious.

Laura

I can tell you are livid. The way you turn, and glare down at me, towering over me, lifting your muscled, sweating, aroused body up from the punishment rack. In fact, I don't think you've ever been this mad, even right before you caned me. My blood runs cold with fear. I know that I have failed you. My dread of the needle, of the pain to come, leaves me light-headed and partly out-of-body. I tried so hard. I did. But I couldn't get my tongue to work. It wouldn't respond. I want to tell you. I want to try again. If I can just have a minute to rest. Just a minute. I want another chance. Just one more chance to press my tongue inside your ass. I would beg to do it. Beg to be allowed the privilege of a second chance to lick and rim your anus.

But I can tell you're beyond that, now. I watch, wide-eyed, cowering, sitting back (my momentarily forgotten welted cane stripes singing in pain) on my bottom, cheeks to heels, as I watch your anger grow to a boiling point. You tower over me, red-faced, grimacing, your hands clenched into fists. If I so much as open my mouth I know that your fists will descend on me like battering rams. I stay still. And quiet. Watching in terrified awe as your volcanic temper builds, and builds, and builds. I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve never seen anybody get this mad.

Just when I think the veins in your neck are going to pop free like over-stretched guitar strings, you crouch down, breathing deeply, inhaling and exhaling through your nose, trying to calm yourself. I watch, astonished, shocked, every fiber of my body hoping that your deep breaths will calm you, much as they calmed me after my caning. I can't look away. Your fury is like a howling animal, barely controlled and barely contained within your body. But the breathing seems to work and your fists unclench, and you raise a single finger in warning, as you look right at me. I swallow. I wasn't going to say a word. And now I'm doubly not. The meaning of your gesture is clear: You don't want to hear so much as a word from me. So I remain quiet. I try to look attentive but not defiant. My naked little body trembles as you start to nod. ("Why is he nodding? Why?")

When you begin to talk, and command me to look into your eyes, I almost –– almost –– utter a reflexive and supplicating "Yes, sir," but stop myself as I process the very next words out of your mouth, which essentially threaten me with death if I dare to speak. I strangle the nascent "Yes, sir," in my throat, literally swallowing the words, wondering (as I stare at you in terror) how I could possibly have come that close to speaking when you told me not to –– unaware, of course, of the pattern response partially ingrained in my mind from our earlier training.

I listen in abject horror as you explain what will happen next, and feel faint as you describe what will happen to me if I fail you. My mind spins and echoes with your words. "Unpleasant," "messy," "gagging," "cum," "slap," "piss in mouth," "swallow," "lick floor," followed by "needles" and "nipples," "lips," "tongue," and "fuck" and "rear" and "pain." I am shaking in fear before you even finish, wondering how I can survive this, how I can do anything you just said without dying. I already feel like dying. Death would be preferable to what you plan to do to me. I whimper in fear as I stare into your cold, furious eyes. I want to explain. I want to tell you that I tried to tongue your asshole more, but I couldn't. But to speak will bring the needles. I know this to the core of my being. So I stay silent staring at you with wide, doe-like eyes as you rise, your erected penis sticking out horizontally from your body, long, thick, and veiny. Even it looks angry. Every part of you looks angry and mean.

As you beckon me closer I rise from my heels, to my knees, like the little girl in the video. My trembling little hands go behind my back as you grasp my head in your hands. My jaw opens wide and I wince in pain as your thumbs pull down on my lower jaw. My eyes lower to your phallus as you line it up with my mouth and then, suddenly, it crams inside, quickly, forcefully, unrelentingly, almost immediately pressing past the deepest point I took you on my own when I sucked your penis before. My eyes wet with tears as your cock crashes into the top and back of my mouth, not stopping, cramming my tongue down and ramming into my throat. My little hands almost –– almost –– leave the small of my back, to help, to push you away, to protect myself. But once again, I manage to avoid the consequences of such an unfortunate mistake. I clench my hands together, interlacing the fingers, almost wishing they were tied there, or cuffed, as they were on the punishment rack. I could never have held them in place myself while you caned me. It takes every ounce of effort in my nude little body to keep them there now.

Your cock is so large, so thick, so insistent, and very painful as it spreads my little jaws and crams and worms and forces itself against the sensitive tissue lining my throat. I will bruise there. But that is not my worry now, as your phallus crushes its way down my throat, forcing me to wince and swallow, swallowing you past my gag reflex, beyond my ability to gag, so deep inside me. As you begin to fuck my little face, I cannot breathe. I feel your immense erection gliding back and forth as my tight little throat massages you with its ridges. But I can't breathe, and your pumping hips knock me partially off my knees, my body off balance, falling, but held upright by your powerful hands, impaled through the mouth by your even more-powerful mancock as I receive my first-ever mouthfuck.

Marcus

I hold your face firmly, and I fuck it like a fleshlight, like a horny, dripping wet, good-to-go pussy, like it's been made to take my cock and all other purposes it had ever been employed for are secondary. It's here now to give me pleasure. How you manage to breathe in between thrusts, in the brief moments when I'm only mouth deep, when I pull out to what just yesterday was as deep as you could take me, is none of my business. I probably would not go on if you passed out on me, but you better not put that probability to test, to be honest.

I notice, and on some level appreciate your serious struggle to obey, to keep your hands firmly behind your back, to not try and push me away, not that the way I'm gripping you and using you that would make any difference whatsoever. A mere futile attempt that would end in punishment, totally not worth it. I ram my cock in again and again and again and I realise I like this, I like this even better than the sweet, gentle blowjob you gave me before; fucking your throat is fun, and it's a gorgeous sensation.

As a reward for your effort I pull out briefly and stroke my cock with my left hand while I slap you with the right, not even waiting for your "thank you, sir," because odds are your throat is in no shape to produce human voice now, and it will not be for a good, long while. Moments later, I pry open your mouth with my fingers again and resume fucking it.

I'm so horny, so on edge from your rimming attempt -- even though it "failed" towards the end -- that I don't last long. At this pace, in this situation, totally giving in to my wild evil nature, without holding back, shying away, limiting myself, caring about your state, your needs, your well-being, I grunt and cry as I force the whole of my cock in suddenly, balls pressed against your chin, trim pubes pressed against your nose, and shoot my cum straight into your stomach. There's no point discussing swallowing, I'm so far deep down your throat it threatens to dislodge your collar bones, way past any gagging or swallowing reflex now. My cum goes straight from my balls into your stomach, and has nowhere else at all to go. It's when I pull out, still holding my cock in your mouth, but leaving your throat unobstructed, that you are at risk of losing your freshly gained stomach contents.

"Don't vomit," I command coldly as if you had any control over such things now, as if you probably weren't trying hard as it is, knowing it will have to go all back in if you do. I wait a little while, and then, with the tip of my cock in your mouth. I mutter in a relaxed, dizzy manner. This is one of the things I ALWAYS wanted to do, a fantasy that's been haunting me and getting me off while jacking off since I was a teenager, and I here and now, I actually get to do it.

"Drink. Drink up," and with that, without any guilt or self conscience or delay or anything – which says a lot about me I guess – I relax and let my piss, not a full bladder, but a good few gulps of hot, salty, yellow, acrid and nutty, musky-smelling piss stream in a strong, tingling, tickling jet into your mouth. I hold you in place, you cannot move back and not take it; if you fight and don't swallow it just means you'll have to get it later, cold, from the floor, but I hold you in place until the last drop has left my cock and tinkled into your mouth, and only then release you.

I think of taboos and limits and all that as I pull back and look at the messy, beaten, heavily abused little you in front of me, and a wave of pleasure, almost like another orgasm washes over me when I realise there really are none down here. And in my head, an evil, utterly evil plan of how to train you further with the use of your tongue, fast and efficient, already hatches.

Laura

There is very little that I can control as you ram your erection into my mouth, into my throat, battering against the sensitive, easily-bruised tissue lining my passageway. But I can control my hands, and they remain tightly clasped together in the small of my back, even as your thrusting pelvis jars me off my knees, leaving me leaning there at an awkward angle, as you bend your knees and essentially mount my face, towering above me, holding my skull tight as your penis penetrates deep inside my 5th-grader mouth. Your assault is dizzying and disorienting to me. All If see is glimpses of your flesh –– your taut stomach, looming chest, wet and red phallus, blurring as it thrusts –– and odd-angled viesw of the ceiling as you mouth fuck me hard and deep. I would fall over instantly if you were not holding me upright by my cheeks and jaw, with your cock impaling me into my throat.

It is all I can do to snatch a breath on your out strokes, and even that is not more than a 50-50 proposition. I am not getting enough air, and my eyes roll back three separate times as I nearly lose consciousness, only to revive as you withdraw completely and slap me, and then twice more when you withdraw enough to allow me to steal a furtive breath. With each inward thrust, my doe-like eyes seem to bulge like expanding balloons, only to reset as you retract. In, out. In, out. You fuck my tight little throat, pushing way past my choke point, which is a blessing, since if you were slowly cramming your penis down my throat I no doubt would cough and choke and vomit, but you take me so fast, so hard, so deep, and so painfully that all I can do to defend myself and ease the pain is to swallow your cock to help ease it into my throat. It's going down there, anyway. By forcing me to swallow it you save me the torture of learning to do it on my own.

But that is small consolation to me as you fuck my middle-schooler mouth with an animalistic frenzy that will leave my throat bruised and sore for days to come. In fact, my voice will be nothing more than a hollow whisper as I recover from my first mouthfucking. I can do nothing about those things, nor can you, as you lose yourself in lust and ecstasy and eagerly penetrate my little face with thrust after thrust from your powerful hips.

And suddenly you tense, and pull my face to your groin, my nose in your pubic bush. I cannot breathe for several seconds as you orgasm deep down my throat and fill my tummy with the thick, milky contents of your load. As if in slow motion, as you clutch my head against you, I can feel your cock expanding and pulsing in my throat, which grips your shaft like a tight, velvet sheath. When you pull out, I can taste your discharge in my mouth and on my tongue, as the final spurts of your spunk continue to ooze from your cock slit. Breathing desperately through my nose I manage to swallow the last of your cum, wincing, my eyes watering, as the act of swallowing causes a dull, achy pain in my battered and bruised little throat. You mistake my wince of pain as a sign that I may vomit, but my throat hurts too much to vomit. And I am too tired to vomit –– the events of this morning, including my command training, my caning, and the extended ass-licking session, coupled with a rough and disorienting, oxygen-deprived mouthfucking -- have left me drained of energy, completely spent.

Somehow, having regained my balance on my knees (the same knees that so long ago this very morning caused me to disobey and suffer the consequence of my first real session on the punishment bench) I manage to keep my little hands clasped behind my back and hold my gaping mouth open around your cockhead, looking up at you with tired, glistening eyes as your orgasm ends and your cock begins to soften. I am so tired and disoriented that I have forgotten what you said you would do next. And even as you command me to "Drink. Drink up," It does not register with me what you mean until I feel the first spurt of acrid urine spray-spritzing into my 11-year-old mouth.

My eyes widen in astonishment as your hands grip my head and hold me in place. The way your piss streams into my mouth is different from your cum –– hotter, continuous, and thinner, more watery –– and I know, I can instantly TASTE –– that it is not cum, but pee, man pee, disgusting, yellow, acrid, acidic, pungent, horrible, awful pee. In my mouth. Man piss inside my mouth, like a toilet, just to be mean, just because you can. And yet, as horrified as I am and as awful as I feel, as disgusting as the taste and the concept of what you are doing are to me, as the pungent jet splashes against the back of the roof of my mouth, I have no choice. I begin to swallow. Wincing in pain as my abused throat is forced to flex and work, wincing again as the vile, acidic liquid burns its way down my passageway to join the ounces of cum that preceded it into my tummy. I swallow, and swallow, and swallow, wincing, my expression one of shock and disgust, until the last of your urine dribbles from your piss slit. Not a drop falls to the floor, but as soon as you release me I collapse to the dungeon floor at your feet and somehow muster the energy to cry, my abused and defiled mouth emitting the tiny, hoarse, body-shaking sobs of a very, very, very unhappy, naked little girl.

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