18. Flavors of Man

Marcus

I watch as you collapse down by my feet, but can't keep my eyes on you continuously; I look up, my eyes rolling back into my skull, as I take a deep, victorious breath. I knew I was a bad person all my life, and I lived in fear because of it. In fear that my needs and desires would forever remain unfulfilled, or that after the smallest of tastes of what I truly desire, I would be cut off and deprived, perhaps imprisoned, cast out of society into its darkest fringes, deprived of all luxuries and freedoms, a situation only made more bitter and harder to bear by the the briefest of glimpses of What Could Be. And yet, against all odds . . . here we are.

My eyes turn to you again, crying, curled into a ball by my feet. I've really used you hard just now, haven't I? I watch with a strange sense of disconnect. I can see the now darkened, purple and bluish stripes on your ass and legs. Ten of them; even now when they have lost their super-sharp contours, they are so distinct, so perfectly placed and spaced that anyone could count them at a glance. Your red face, drool and froth of what I assume is precum or perhaps cum on your chin; you swallowed everything, I realise, even every last drop of my piss. This is just mess that spilled while I was still ramming my cock into your mouth, hundreds of times, savagely, mess that made your mouth sticky and messy when there was nothing you could do but let it happen. I'm impressed. I feel a strange kind of pride. I've never done that to anyone, ever, even though I have a good bit of experience, I never did anything this drastic and wild in consensual interactions. I made you do it. You took it. You didn't bite, didn't use your hands to stop me, you didn't even vomit, though I suspect that wasn't something you were entirely in control off.

I watch you for a good while. A beaten, abused eleven-year-old with tummy full of my cum and piss. With a tired little tongue on which the taste of my ass lingered until I flushed it down with my urine, using your mouth as a toilet. For a moment I just feel . . . royal, glorious, high as a kite. I relish in the sensation. If there were no tomorrow, I'd get my cock up again, fuck your ass, go on abusing you till you passed out and then I'd force you awake and go on for another bit. But there is tomorrow, and many tomorrows after that, and even though I might eventually train you to think otherwise, you're more than just a convenient collection of fuckable holes, you are Laura V, my Dandy Tart, you are amazing and special and more beautiful than any other girl I know of, in real life or online. I would not give you up for anything, not even for a whole harem of other girls; not one of them would be quite like you. As this realisation dawns on me, I become suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that that's what you are, special, and you are eleven, and you've just been put through abuse that a strong adult woman would have serious trouble handling.

I scoop you of off the floor and carry you into the bathroom. I run a warm, only just-warm-enough-to-be-nice bath because I know hot water would hurt your cane marks, and I lower you in, and get in with you, and wash you, gently, but thoroughly. I am momentarily spent, I will want more, soon, even as I wash and touch you, my cock starts slowly growing again. It's like I'm insatiable, but you deserve, if nothing else, a break. My earlier anger is gone tracelessly; I'm giving you the good me, the nice me, the caring, treating-you-good me now.

"You'll have to practise with your tongue. We'll train it. Bit by bit, every day, so you don't disappoint me again," I say, and we both know what implications "disappoint" has in this context. You just experienced it first-hand, full-on. "I'll give you a good amount of time to practice and train, bit by bit, before a full session again," I say, basically announcing that not a single day will pass from now on which will not involve you sticking your tongue up my asshole.

I stand you up, rinse you off, and gently, almost . . . reverently dry you off, making sure to dab super lightly on your buttocks and over the rest of the marks, and on your knees, too. After I've dried you, I get the soothing, calming lotion and use it on you, from your collar down, all over you, every inch of your body, right down to your feet, your toes. I gently massage it into your skin, rubbing your pussy, softly but generously applying it over the welts I've given you. My cock is fully, raging hard again. Touching you everywhere, having you naked in my hands, collared . . . it's just too much for my body not to respond. But it's barely noon yet and I've already done tons to you.

I remind myself of the benefits of delayed gratification and lead you to your cell, ushering you towards the bed.

"Rest, but don't fall asleep just yet. I'll be back in a couple minutes with a fruit smoothie for lunch," I explain, knowing that your mouth and throat are in no shape for solid food. "Then you can nap." I don't mention what will happen later, partially because I'm still figuring it out myself, partly because you look so exhausted I don't want you to have to focus on any more information than necessary.

I go up and blend non-acidic, easy-to-digest fruits. Bananas, a very ripe pear, a few sweet strawberries. Add cream. It's kind of a random concoction, not really the best possible smoothie, but I think that even if you don't like it (the result is a bit slimy) your throat will appreciate not having to cope with pineapple, grapefruit, kiwi and other sharp flavors. I also boil the kettle and make a mug of chamomile tea. I bring the large plastic cup – never any glass, ever, just in case – with a straw in down immediately and give it to you to drink. I leave you to it. Giving no further instructions or commands. I don't even command you to eat or rather drink your lunch; it's up to you. I assume you are hungry and in need of some sugar, but won't force it on you. As I do the chamomile tea, in its thermal cup with a lid on, it still will be warm in a long time, if you fancy a soothing sip. With that, I leave you. Session number one of the day is over.

Up above, world goes on and me with it. E-mails, phone calls -- I even manage to go shopping, have a jog, the usual showing of my face in town to reassure people that everything is fine, all is well, there's no need to visit, poke and prod, invade my privacy. The usual shit. It's a lot more entertaining, almost satisfying, to be faking normality now that my dirty little secret has a manifested, physical form down below my house. Now that I have you.

Oh, you; by the way – of course you have no idea. But you are on the news! In the paper! A few posters of you hang in the town, even though we're far away from where I grabbed you. Your parents have been fast and efficient, you're even already on the local milk boxes! Not that that's gonna be any good. These are only useful if someone actually sees you. And apart from me, nobody will, not for a very, very long time. No one knows anything. There's not a single lead. Nothing. It's like you vanished into thin air. I've done my job well. I almost feel sorry I'll never be able to brag about it to anyone for a moment there.

I find some bonbons that supposedly sooth sore throats and toss them into the basket of my shopping, and bring them with me when I come back into the dungeon, some five and a half hours later, with them and another smoothie.

Laura

It is an exhausted, unhappy, abused little girl who lies at your feet on the dungeon floor, sobbing hoarsely, almost silently, her slender, naked little body wracked with tremors as she curls into a ball and tries to make the world go away. The acrid, salty taste of urine is in my mouth as I cry, wet tears forming in my tired-looking eyes and rolling down my cheeks to the floor. I am aware of your presence, but my mind is unfocused, uncaring. If you were to give me another command I would probably be able to muster the energy and fortitude to obey it; but you cannot be certain. There is an aura of surrender about me. My eyes are are semi-closed and distant. The will to continue, to live, to care about and preserve my future, no longer surges through my veins. If it still exists at all, it is counterbalanced almost entirely, if not more than entirely, by the desire to end this Hell into which I have been transported. To end my time here, with you, in this place, where there is nothing but this. I am exhausted and traumatized and degraded to the point where living versus dying hardly makes much difference, and given the choice right now, right this second, you could not be certain which way I would choose.

Yet that decision is not up to me. To the extent that it ever was, it isn't now. There will be no easy escape from the reality of this place, and for me, there is nowhere but here. Despite the fact that I am only 11 and probably not particularly well-versed in the different ways that I could harm myself, you have left nothing to chance should I actually attempt to go that route. There are no cutting edges in my cell. No free chains, ropes, whips, or other ligatures that I could use around my slender, collared neck. No pills or drugs that I could ingest. The dungeon contains many items that could be used to cut and tear, bind and smother, shock and drown, pierce and burn, but I am not left in the dungeon unattended. When the dungeon is in use, you are there using it with me, and the same is true of the other rooms of your underground complex. Only in my cell am I left alone, but even there I am not truly alone, as you have numerous means of surveillance, and no doubt sensors and alarms to alert you to anything amiss.

Not that I am contemplating my own demise as I lie there at your feet on the dungeon floor. I am not yet to that point. I am not old enough, and have not endured long enough, for that thought to germinate and take root in my young mind. I am awake, and despite my exhaustion and the trauma that I have gone through today, my brain is still functioning as I lie there, shaking, sobbing silently, my eyes far-away and wet with tears. My current thoughts are not focused on anything as sophisticated or long-term as harming myself. Instead, my mind wanders among more-immediate stimuli and concerns, unfocused, but coherent.

Mostly my thoughts are occupied by the pain I feel in my throat, and to a lesser extent, my lower jaw. The ache in my knees and the slow burn across my bottom and thighs are nothing but afterthoughts now. The mouthfucking that I endured after failing to complete my assigned instructions was fierce, brutal, and unrelenting. Prior to the actual event, an objective and unbiased observer in the dungeon (to the extent it were possible, there would be many, many volunteers queuing to observe this morning's activities from among the ranks of the most-depraved denizens of the Internet, as well as pedophiles, connoisseurs of the alluringly soft, smooth, hairless preteen female form, and aficionados of BDSM and other, even darker, indulgences) would not have concluded that the odds were very good of my mouth and throat being physically large enough to accommodate the full length or your erect penis without tearing or rupturing. And yet, after considerable effort, you were able to hilt yourself against my cute little nose, hairy balls to little chin, and hold me there, as the head of your cock rested deep down inside my gullet, almost to the bottom of my rib cage.

While I mercifully did not rupture or tear from your assault, my mouth and throat were brutally battered, bruised, and abraded as you mouthfucked me with hard, plunging strokes. And right now, my throat especially aches and burns with an unrelenting cacophony of pain, a medley of hurt that won't go away, or even diminish. I am not sure that I will ever be able to use my throat again, given the way it feels right now. Despite the fact that your phallus mercifullly has been removed, my throat feels thick, and full, and swollen as bruising sets in. Against the backdrop of deep-seated, achey bruising is the sharp burn of several abrasions that were etched into the sensitive tissue by your energetic thrusts. For the moment, the burn I feel from those red and raw patches deep inside me is exacerbated by the fiery acidity of your urine, which I gulped down, unwillingly, as you emptied your bladder for the first time in my ever-so-soft, wet, alluring little 5th-grader mouth. I'm not sure that I will ever be able to speak, or swallow, or even open my mouth again. My mouth is mostly closed as I lie there, my lips slightly parted, a dribble of saliva running from my mouth to my cheeks to the floor, as I contemplate and endure the agony of my aching, burning, throat and jaw. The roof of my mouth hurts and aches from the force of your cockhead ramming and cramming itself into the back of my mouth. I know that if I so much as open my mouth, my throbbing lower jaw will fill me with a jolting pain. I dare not move it, neither opening nor closing it, even to contain my drool. The lower part of my face is beginning to swell, my chin taking on the puffy look of a heavier-set little girl -- contrasting with the lithe, slender appearance of my coltish, naked young body.

As I contemplate the pain emanating from my ravaged mouth, jaw, and throat, I can still taste the bitter, horrible, pungent flavor of your urine in my mouth. Your yucky man pee. You peed in my mouth. You made me drink and swallow it. It's down there, in my tummy, right now inside me. The stuff that goes into a toilet instead went into my mouth. Deposited there by you, from your penis. Just to be mean. Just because you can. I'm too tired and hurt to do anything but lie there in my shame, contemplating the humiliation, the horror, of having drunk and swallowed nasty yellow smelly dirty awful–tasting yucky man pee. I'm not sure which was worse: licking and tonguing on and (I shudder with the horrible memory) inside your butt hole, or drinking –– consuming –– your pee. As awful and terrible as it was to have to lick your ugly puckered hole, there was very little taste, and (thank God, ohhhhh thank you God) I didn't even encounter, much less consume, any poo. Even you could not be THAT depraved, that awful to me, but you did make me drink your piss. Fresh tears of shame and humiliation and injustice form and roll down my cheeks as I lie there, trembling.

And then you scoop me up, carrying me, and I don't care. I don't care what you do to me now. I don't care where we go. I lie listlessly in your arms, not even looking around as I usually do as you carry me to the bathroom. I am passive during my bath, following your instructions and commands ("Lift up"; "spread your legs"; "turn over"), but when I do not respond "yes, sir" there is no punishment. I simply cannot speak. I can't even try, as moving my swollen jaw right now would be pure agony. I probably could hiss a silent affirmation through my slightly parted lips, but I am too tired to try or care. Even the threat of punishment is insufficient motivation for me to try to speak. I listen to your words about practicing with my tongue, strengthening it day by day. But you might as well be talking about something far off, far away, at a spatial and temporal distance from where I am right now, lying naked, in the bath with you.

I am glad to be back in my cell. I am beginning to consider it my haven, my only safe place. Even there, of course, I am not safe. I have licked the floor, suffered the mind-numbing agony of electrical shocks administered through my baby teeth, and other indignities. But mostly those were days ago ("How many was it? Have I been here three days, or is it four? What day is it, anyway?" I think to myself.) It bothers me not to know the day of the week. On weekdays I am –– was –– a busy little girl, with school and dance and other activities. Saturdays I almost always have a shoot with Glenn. But I don't know what day it is. I can't remember how many days I've been here. They're starting to merge together, here, in this place, where there is nothing but ths, nowhere but here, and no one, no one at all, but you.

I am not so much hungry, or even thirsty, as I want to try to put something cool and smooth down my burning, swollen, abraded throat. Holding the smoothie I manage to insert the straw in the gap between my preteen lips. Even they are tired, having been used against your puckered anus to kiss you there, having tried to help to coax my unresponsive tongue to re-enter your rectum, and having been distended in a wide-mouthed "O" around your adult phallus as you mouthfucked me over and over and over. I can't close my lips or my jaw. I try to suck through it and wince. It hurts. Finally, after several minutes of trying, I manage to get some of the cool sweetness into my mouth. It helps to rid me of the lingering taste of your urine. But when I go to swallow it down it is pure agony –– my jaw and throat ache and sing with pain, causing fresh tears to well in my eyes. Now I am thirsty, and even though my tummy feels unsettled from the cum and piss that I have ingested, I want something down there, I want the smoothie. It tastes good.

But I can't. It hurts too much to suck, and swallow. Especially to swallow. After 20 minutes of trying I have eaten no more than an ounce of smoothie. The tea goes untouched. Swallowing is worse than the time I had strep throat –– little white spots all over my throat that made it nearly impossible to swallow. Nearly impossible. But this is truly impossible The pain is too great. I put the smoothie down. Utterly exhausted, thirsty, and even hungry now, I pull the cover up over my slender, naked little body, and lie my head down. My eyes remain open for a minute or so as I contemplate my new existence. Then they slowly close, and I mercifully fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Marcus

I sit on the bed on which you are still sleeping in a deep, exhausted sleep. I stroke your hair gently to wake you up. You look pretty. Pretty in different way to your model, perfect pretty. "My slave" kind of pretty. Well used. Your lips seem a bit swollen, your chin, too. I wait for you to sit up and with one hand softly at the back of your head, I make you open your mouth, expecting it. Damn, it's swollen. Really badly swollen, I'm almost surprised you don't have trouble breathing, and not at all surprised that you barely touched your smoothie.

I pull the silver tab of honey flavoured, soothing lozenges, glad now for what was almost an afterthought, break one out of it's plastic little prison and slide it into your mouth. "They have pain killer in them," I offer neutrally, careful to not show any guilt or remorse regarding this damage, "have one to soothe your throat enough to drink up the smoothie, then have another one. And drink the chamomile tea in between sips of the smoothie, it's cool now and will be quite soothing, too."

It's almost like I'm a parent and your sore throat is from running about in the cold air or eating too much ice cream or something. I never apologize, never mention what got it sore in the first place, I don't go back to our morning session at all. I give you time, but this time, I stay there with you, as you suck on the pain-numbing sweet and as you get started on the new, fresh smoothie. I'm ready to be quite firm. If you are gonna cry, try to protest, even if you don't want to eat and drink, I'll make you. It's your third day here, and you had exactly that many decent meals, having skipped more than you have eaten. I want you slim, I want you to not grow much, but I don't want your teeth and hair to fall out and your cheeks to turn hollow and all that shit, I don't want you to starve. And so with as much determination as I put into teaching you to serve me sexually, I now make you drink up the sugary, creamy, nutritious drink and drink up the chamomile tea. After, I offer you another lozenge.

I make you stand up and examine you more thoroughly. The marks on your bottom have lost their redness now, and while some purple and violet still remains where the impacts hit less, most of them, there where they met the arches of your buttocks especially, where the impacts were hardest, they are blue and blackening. I trace them lightly with my fingertips. Admiring my work. Bad news, girl -- I like you with your buttocks bruised. It doesn't scare or put me off. My cock stiffens in my pants again. Your knees have much paler, more sort of yellow bruises on them, healing already. You do look like exactly what you are, a helluva abused little girl.

And perhaps this is a good opportunity to show you that that's not something that will necessarily stop me. I make you lie back on the bed. Spread your legs. Pull down my pants, not even bothering to loosen them. I conjure up a small bottle of lube from my pocket and I lube my cock and your pussy, too. I put a finger on your lips. Your input is, yet again, not welcome.

I'm gentle; not quite as gentle as I was the first time, but between the lube, and my going slow and only as slow as your vagina will naturally let me, leaving the surprise of just how deep I can really get for another day, this should not be something overly traumatizing. I just fuck you, because I wanna, because that's what you are here for.

Your pussy is hot and tight around me. You hiss and squirm, no surprise there, with the shape of your bottom really and with us putting some pressure on it this way even though I'm super careful this time to stay propped up on my arms and to not put even a pound of weight on you, other than the pushing of my cock inside you. Even my pubes and your bare mound barely meet. Less of a chance that you'll get excited about this, but this is what it is, I'm horny, you're in a bad shape, and I'm just taking my pleasure easily, in a straightforward, undemanding way, which also means I can't be much bothered to think about your pleasure just now.

I gradually develop a steady pace, almost mechanical. I have self control now, and I'm not at all mad, and that's good – for you, anyway. I rock in and out of your no-longer-virginal hole, which seems to be taking it relatively fine, all things considered, for minutes on. Not saying or doing much on the side, not expecting anything more than to lie and take it from you this time. In a sense, it's much like porn. There was no foreplay to speak of, there is no cuddling, kissing, hugging, or stroking involved; I just vulgarly, selfishly fuck you, in an odd, sterile sort of way. Though the detached “sterility” is actually for your benefit; I know just about any other way would be more painful, demanding and exhausting just now.

Somehow, even this, even having to be careful with you makes me more aroused as your little, eleven-year-old lithe frame below me serves as a mere means to my pleasure. Towards the end, I speed up. With a dispassionate grunt and only very little expression or emotion, I cum inside you, though most of it squirts out around and most of the rest spills out when I pull out, briefly leaving you pussy slightly gaping, like I did last time.

I don't offer you a bath or even a shower, a rinse. I leave the lozenges behind, take the dishes and other mess with me, and there's that. I'm done with you for the day, leaving you, bruised and battered from earlier, and now also a clammy, cum-oozing mess. It sounds almost like an insult when I bid you good night as I step out of the door.

Laura

I sleep soundly, my features soft, relaxed, innocent-looking, and young, as you sit on the side of the bed and begin gently stroking my hair. in my sleep, my mother is brushing my soft, long, shiny hair, over and over, brushing the snags out, brushing and brushing until it glows, soft and shiny and dark, ready for my next photo shoot with Glenn. My eyes blink open slowly, as I awaken. But it is not Mom brushing my hair. Mom is not here. I am in that place. My cell. With you. There is no one but you. I am in my bed in my cell. The last remnants of my dream fade away as I look up at your face. I sit up, opening my mouth as you command, wincing because it hurts, and being careful not to open too far. In truth, I open it only an inch or so, and even that causes my sore jaw to ache like I just took a roundhouse to the face from the heavyweight champion. I take the lozenge inside, closing my mouth and gingerly sucking on it, caring far less about its alleged pain-killing properties than on about the pangs of hunger and dry-mouthed thirst that I am feeling. My hunger is especially acute, my tummy tight and empty and achy with want.

It takes a while, but I am able to drink the smoothie. My jaw is killing me, but my throat feels a little better and I am able to suck the refreshing, cool, sweet elixir into my mouth, and send it down. Swallowing is by far the worst part, and you see me concentrate, build up my nerves, then wince in pain each time I send a sip of smoothie on its way. But the cooling liquid helps to soothe my swollen throat –– either that or the lozenge does, or both –– and my swallowing gets a bit easier. I work on the tea, too, and it helps to slake my thirst. It takes a while, but eventually I finish both of them. I'm still hungry and thirsty, but my throat feels a fair bit better, even if my jaw remains swollen and achy.

I stand now, near the bed, collared, obedient, and passive, as you inspect my slender little body as if you own it. As your fingers run softly over the discolored stripes from my caning, it probably occurs to you that tens of thousands –– possibly millions –– of men would kill to trade places with you. They would love to be running their fingers over my slender ass cheeks, touching and inspecting my naked little form, slowly, carefully, savoring every moment. Thousands upon thousands of them would pay for the opportunity to add to the marks on my skin, add to the discomfort in my jaw, take me and use me right there, on the bed. But only one man actually has that opportunity, that ability. You. Only you. Whenever, whrever, and however you desire. As many times as you desire, with infinite variations and indulgent repetition. No one but you.

You direct me by my soft shoulders, turning me, and have me lie down on my back on the bed and spread my legs. When you lower your pants and expose your man penis, I know that you intend to fuck me again. I lie there trepidatiously, awaiting the inevitable, as you slick your erection, and then finger my hairless little snatch with more of the slippery lube. The finger across my lips is unnecessary; I was not planning to speak, or protest, or fight. I know better now. I know what happens. I have learned about pain.

My heart rate rises as you position your phallus at my 5th-grader opening, and I grasp the sheets on either side of my hips in preparation for your entry. My coltish young legs are spread in an open Y position as you remove your lube-slicked hand from your shaft, leaving the thick head seated at my opening, place both of your hands on the bed adjacent to my little shoulders, propping yourself up, and slowly slide your mancock inside my tight and warm little child pussy.

I wince and gasp, squirming in discomfort as your thick member spreads my folds, stretches my opening, and sinks inside my preteen vagina. There is no sharp, kniving pain this time, only thickness, fullness, and tightness –– that sensation of having something large and thick and warm and hard deep inside my little body. I gasp as you begin to fuck me, more because your rocking hips grind my cane-striped buttocks against the sheet than because of any particular discomfort from the penetration itself, other than the tight, painful stretching of my hole. My skin is stretched tight and taut around your thrusting shaft as you fuck my little child cunt.

I lie there, passively, as you fuck me, your thick, lubed phallus pleasuring itself against my tightly stretched, gripping little-girl snatch. As you speed up, I begin to emit little grunts and squeaks, timed to your inward thrusts, like a living metronome. "Unnh . . . unh . . .unh . . .uh . . . ahh . . . unh . . unh . . unh . . unh . . ah . . .unh . . ." I gasp, my face etched with discomfort as you piston inside my delicate, slender little body. Your cock is simply too big for me to take without pain. It stretches my little snatch with every thrust. The lube makes it somewhat tolerable, but not comfortable. I pray for it to end soon.

It does end. With an animalistic grunt, you finish in my little pussy, sending your thick spunk into my middle-school snatch. After milking the last of your sperm into my tight vagina, you stand, clear the dishes and other items away, and leave me there for the night.

Marcus

The following day, I come very late; the lights in the cell automatically come on at eight – you can tell now that you have an alarm clock, but there is no sign of me. The remote is there, in case you get so bored that yet more porn seems better than nothing at all, there's the plastic cup, the water. All the things you were given so far. There's no way to really wash yourself, and the only thing you have to eat is a box of chocolates and whatever lozenges you have left. Not much, really.

Time crawls incredibly slowly; even hungry and generally quite tired, you can only sleep for so long, and I left you, oozing cum and used, before it was even seven o'clock yesterday. That's a lot of time to sleep, and a lot of time to deal with, with almost no distraction, after your body has had more than enough sleep and just will not succumb to more.

I don't come till after two in the afternoon, clearly dismayed and in a bad mood and disinclined to provide an explanation, let alone apologize. This will likely remind you just how inescapable the cell is, and how utterly your survival in it depends on my regular returns. There is nothing but this, nowhere but here, and no one else but me to appear carrying some food.

Not that I am carrying any food when I enter. I only have the pills for you, which I present to you quietly. There's a bulge in my pocket, but that doesn't seem to be food. Something is different about me, quite radically different to all the previous days. Visually, the change is subtle. But the realisation will come sooner rather than later; you cannot smell my "obligatory" cologne. in fact, I smell a bit sweaty, the only pleasant smell emanating from me is coffee, of which I likely have drank a lot. I have the same clothes as yesterday, and it is clear that I haven't showered or washed since.

I have taken a shit; obviously wiping myself clean with toilet paper, but not washing since. My ass now actually stinks like one would expect an ass to smell. It's not the just-washed, soaped and well-rinsed pucker from yesterday. You don't know any of this just yet, but you are about to find out – the hard way.

Reaching into my pocket, I provide a ten-minute hourglass. Ten minutes. Less than the amount of time you spend tonguing my ass yesterday, but a good, solid amount of time.

"If you want food, and a drink, and a shower, if you want me to come back sooner than tomorrow, undo my pants, get behind me, part my ass and stick your tongue in. And keep doing that for ten minutes; that's what the hourglass is for. If you give up before that, I'll leave, and that's that for today," I say cynically, curtly, without any introduction, niceties, anything of that sort. I don't even ask for your mantra. We have a day ahead of us, day with food, with some more training, with a warm nice shower waiting for you somewhere down the line. But that day isn't happening unless you get my pants down and get busy servicing my ass, even after you find the kind of state it is in. The kind of state I am in: Salty with dried sweat, musky, manly smelling. I'm not the polished, well-washed person you've been encountering so far. I haven't bothered with a shower last night – on purpose obviously – and since then, apart from lots of other things, some fairly stressful, I had a good, long jog. Guessing I'm significantly more flavourful and aromatic for you now than ever before is no rocket science.

"And keep off your damn knees this time," I mutter as you get off the bed, I'm assuming to undo my pants and begin. "You're not that tall, and I'm very tall, so just bend over a bit and do it standing." That much is true, with your fifty two or so inches and my eighty three, I'm taller by so much that this command actually makes sense and is doable. I look at you, wondering if the lack of food is actually showing on you already or if that's just my paranoia.

Something held me back today, it made me tense and not very happy, and whatever it was, it's not making your existence here, your effort to keep me happy and satisfied at all easier. At all. For you, there's only this, here and me. Me? I have a whole damn world out there, up above, to piss me off.

Laura

I don't fall asleep when you depart after depositing your load in my preteen vagina. I've had a long and stressful day, but I napped for over four hours earlier and first eating and then being fucked by you has me wide awake for the time being. As I watch you depart with a curt, almost teasing "Good night," I am not even sure what time it is. I have an alarm clock, but I am not even sure how to set it, yet, and I have nothing to set it to –– I have no idea what time it is and you haven't told me. There are no windows to allow natural light.

I actually have to pee, so I climb off the bed and stand, leaving a large wet spot about a foot in diameter on the mattress. Cum immediately begins to run down the insides of my slender thighs from my slightly gaping, oozing opening. I clutch a hand to my pussy and penguin-walk to the toilet, sitting down and emptying my bladder, and then having my first bowel movement in three days. When I am finished I use the toilet paper to daub at my hairless slit, trying to remove the cum. I walk to the sink and wet some more paper, cleaning the cum from my legs and throwing the tissue in the toilet before flushing again. The cell smells like sex and cum and now shit, but I can't really tell, since I have nothing to compare it to.

I am still starving, and a bit thirsty, so I grab one of the Torrone bars and open it. It is immediately apparent, however, that I can't really eat it –– far too much chewing would be involved, and chewing, at this point, is utterly impossible. My jaw hurts too much to chew. I pull off a small corner of the hazelnut candy and put it in my mouth, and then try to suck and loosen it. It takes forever, and it's just a tiny piece. At this rate I might have half the bar consumed in about 10 days. So I recognize the futility of trying to eat it, and wrap it up for consumption at a later date. I fill my water bottle from the sink and return to the bed –– careful to avoid the wet spot that is rather inconveniently located pretty much dead center.

I'm bored, so I flip on the in–wall TV, and for the next 40 minutes or so, I watch the three channels –– mostly, as before, the porn and kink channels. The porn channel shows a lot of fucking and sucking of all kinds, from many different angles. Twosomes, threesomes, vaginal, anal, oral –– it's all there. I watch it, almost bored. The kink channel is a bit more intriguing; heavily into BDSM, puppy and pony training, flogging, whipping, wax, golden showers, rimming and face-sitting. I watch, with a combination of fascination, disgust, and eventually fear, as a piercing vignette is shown, piercing with needles. It makes me cringe, and hide my eyes. Then the needles are electrified, and activated –– I quickly turn the TV off, and put the remote on the floor by the "door" –– as if I don't plan to use it again and you can take it the next time you come.

It is boring in my cell. I take a few sips of water. I use the toilet again to pee. I brush my teeth. I look at the antique-looking back of the Torrone bars. I can't read the words because it's in Italian. Sitting on the bed I stack the five unopened and one partially-opened bars like triangular Legos, playing, making little sounds as an imaginary tidal wave sweeps the structure away. But I'm bored. There is nothing to do. Another hour goes by, and I'm hungry. My tummy gnaws at me. I break off a larger piece of the Torrone and, despite my pain, manage to force myself to eat it. It's probably a fifth on an ounce. Not enough to make a dent in my hunger, and my jaw hurts like Hell just to get that down. My throat, however, feels a bit better and the swelling is going down there and is mostly gone from the lower half of my face. In fact, despite the fact that it hurts like crazy, my face has returned pretty much to normal. I take another lozenge. Eventually, at approximately 10:23 p.m. (not that I have any way of knowing that) I fall asleep.

I sleep until about 6:00 a.m., and get up to pee. I spend the next almost two hours in bed, awake, then drifting off, then awake again, until the lights come on at 8:00 a.m. I climb out of bed, awaiting your arrival. I brush my teeth. I use the toilet again to pee. I sip some water. I feel a little sticky and yucky, and my pussy still has that recently-fucked feeling. I want to freshen up. I want to take a shower. I test my jaw –– slowly opening, and closing. It is much better today. "At least that's good," I say aloud, spontaneously, but I am surprised at how empty and hoarse and raspy I sound. My voice is barely more than a whisper, yet I spoke at what I intended to be full volume. "Wow," I say, testing it. "Wow. Wow. Wow," I repeat, each one a near-silent heaving of air. My throat is unable to make real sounds. It sounds weird, and feels even weirder not to be able to speak.

I am bored out of my mind. And hungry. My hunger is gnawing now, my tummy empty, achy, and complaining. I wonder where You are. I walk around the cell. I stop and do some naked, child pirouettes in the middle of it. I finger my collar. I take a sip of water. I pee again.

"Where is he?" I wonder, feeling put-upon and sorry for myself. I whimper in frustration, hunger, and boredom. I sit on the bed. I lie back down and try to sleep. But I'm not tired, I'm hungry. "Where is he?" I think to myself again, getting angry and frustrated.

The hours roll by. 10:00 a.m., 11:00 a.m., 12:00 noon. There is no sign of you. Starving now, I manage to eat half of a Torrone bar, both my jaw and my throat hurting as I mouth it into a semi-dissolved state and swallow it down, one painful gulp at a time. This helps to slake my hunger a little bit, but not a lot.

I use the toilet to pee. I fill my water bottle, playing idly with the water in the sink, running my hands through it, using the bottle as a boat, making little sounds as I play with the only toy that I have available beyond the stackable, triangular Torrone bars. I'm hungry again, and now my hunger is on my mind, constant, gnawing, unpleasant. I have a headache, no doubt hunger-induced. I sit on the bed. Lie on the bed. I sit up. I stand. Attempting to entertain myself, I stand with my back against the "door" wall, close my eyes, and try to walk to and touch the sink without opening them. "Yess!" I intone, voicelessly, as my hands touch the sink just from memory alone. But the game is not fun. It does not alleviate my boredom for more than a minute or two and I tire of it. I try to sleep again, but can't. "What if he never comes?" I think to myself. "What if he dies and nobody knows I'm here?" I sit up on the bed, naked and bored, wishing for a shower, longing for food. That is where you find me when the door swishes open and you enter the cell. I stand up, startled, and turn to face you, collared and naked.

You look a bit disheveled, and I notice that you are in the same clothes as you had on yesterday. I remember your pants as you pulled them down to expose your penis before you fucked me. I take the pills, with a voiceless "Thank you," and then (one at a time, and extra careful with the swallowing, since it hurts my throat) use the water bottle to help send them down to my tummy. ("At least

I won't get pregnant with a little baby if I take these," I think to myself.)

You seem to be in a very bad mood. Not mad at me, per se, but just mad. Distracted. Unhappy. Angry. Your hair looks a little matted to your forehead. I don't smell your usual cologne scent. I stand there, naked, trying to look obedient, as I am hopeful you have brought food and I want to eat some. But when you extract the hourglass and tell me what my task is, it is my turn to look unhappy. Unhappy and trapped and feeling sorry for myself at the incredible unfairness of what you want me to do. I HATE licking your ass and sticking my tongue in it even more than when you fuck me. OK, maybe not more than when you mouthfuck me, since licking your ass doesn't make my jaw and throat hurt for two days afterwards. But it is so disgusting, so humiliating and demeaning, to be forced to do something as vile and gross and horrifying. And I don't want to do it now. Not at all. Not in the least little way.

But hunger does have a way of motivating appropriate behavior, and with a very unhappy look, I walk to you, reach down, and begin to tug your pants down your hips. I can smell your musky, slightly sweaty man odor as I expose your sem-flaccid phallus, which dangles there, partially erected, as if girding for battle. It is a very unhappy little girl who walk around behind you to your ass. I bend over, and part it. The first thing I notice is that your cheeks are not as smooth as yesterday –– something doesn't feel right. Your ass skin is tacky, almost a little sticky ("From his sweat?" I wonder), as I part it with my hands.

I peer at your brown pucker, and a pungent whiff of man ass assaults my senses, and I look away, grimacing with a "yuck" expression on my face. I look back. You anus is clean –– sort of –– or is it? It looks clean, but it doesn't smell nice. Or rather, whereas yesterday it didn't smell at all, today it does smell –– a combination of sweat, skin, and . . . something even worse. Something like poo. Like you made a poo from your hole and wiped it, but not like you took a shower or a bath or used soap and cleaned it. It just looks –– not fresh.

Your words reverberate in my head. 10 minutes. I have to do it for 10 minutes. Despite its emptiness, my tummy clenches. I look away, breathing to the side. My blood starts to run cold. I can't do it. I am paralyzed by fear. I am afraid, but I just can't lick your poo hole. Not today. I just can't. Not like that. I'd rather die. You wait for me to begin, but nothing happens. My hands remain in your buttocks, but my lips and tongue do not join them this time. I can't. I just can't.

Marcus

We've done so much yesterday. You bent low and far to tend to my twisted, deprived wants and needs. So much time has passed since. Time of utter boredom, and of quite serious hunger. I was expecting you to cry as you obey, to perhaps whine a little, but . . .

There's a pause. For a moment, it's nice, it's filled with anticipation as I lean forward and spread my ass and wait, recalling how gorgeous it felt yesterday, looking forward to more of the same. Then it get slightly too long, awkward, and then at one point it finally dawns on me that you are not about to do it. Fuck! And there I was worrying about you getting too skinny. Starve, bitch. Starve into obedience. I let go off my ass, pull my pants back up. Turn. Look at you coldly.

For a while I just stare at you. Frankly, the anger fades away quickly, and it doesn't really show this time, it's an inward annoyance. I'm looking at you with the eyes of a trained "nurse," spinning stuff I learned in my army years working as a surgeon's assistant, years ago. They taught me a lot, I have barely used anything of it since, the drilling and putting in electrodes into your teeth is something I've googled and done following an instruction manual, to be honest. Now, I'm guessing if another day with no food can put you in a serious risk and if I need to reduce this risk by giving you at least sugary water; to keep you hungry and unsatisfied but to prevent you from deteriorating, or if I can get away with just not feeding you for the rest of the day and a night, if I come early tomorrow.

I stare at you silently and in the end decide that, fuck you, if you are stubborn enough to pull a stunt like that, you must have plenty of strength somewhere, somehow in you. I tie up my pants, shrug and step towards the door.

"Fine. See you tomorrow. Just in case you were hoping to make things easier for you till then, bad news; I have absolutely no plans to wash between now and then. In fact, until we've done a session, I'm not washing at all."

That's not true of course, obviously I'll wash my hands, brush my teeth, wash my face, I'll even do my hair if does get itchy, but I'll make sure my ass is an unpleasant experience for you tomorrow. I step towards the door, it swooshes open, and instead of a good bye or good night of any sort, I press the remote in my pocket and zap your teeth with pain. Keeping it on the lower setting, which is still awful and agonising, in case you forgot, and I keep it on for a good while, even for a while after the door closes behind me, perhaps fifteen seconds of nasty, awful, bone-deep agony before it's over.

Minutes later the cell goes totally, pitch black dark, the screens off so your remote is useless, and it goes noticeably colder, not dangerously so, but it's unpleasant unless you are under the blanket in your bed. And that's it; utter darkness, utter silence, utter nothingness, slightly chilly, for the rest of the day and the following night. Enjoy!

I'm surprised to find myself gleefully satisfied, maliciously happy at this new form of sadism. Even non-doing can be a serious torture tool down here. And I do nothing, not until seven o'clock of the following morning, at which point I return, with a half a liter bottle of weak but very sugary tea, tepid, with some re-hydrating sachet diluted in it, too. Something that should give you a brief boost, without taking an edge off your hunger, in fact re-stirring it if you got to the point when it feels less acute.

I come into the cell naked, shove you of off the bed, give you the bottle. "Drink up."

Then I lie down, legs spread wide, so my so that my feet dangle off each of the sides of the bed, and I don't even say a word. There's no need for explanation or instruction, so I just save my breath. My ass is smellier by another day's worth, by another bowel movement after which it had been paper wiped but not washed, and my old unwashed sweat is starting to smell sharp, almost sort of rancid on me.

The implication is clear; this situation will repeat itself until you satisfy me, or die. There's no way out.

Laura

I stand upright as you turn, cowering, anticipating your volcanic anger. Yet you simply stare at me, disapprovingly, coldly, without any sign of the uncontrollable rage that led to so many unfortunate consequences for me yesterday. Your stare makes me feel very small, and very nervous. I can't look you in the eyes, so I look away. I feel unworthy, inadequate, and contrite, like I have let you down, disappointed you. It is ridiculous for me to feel this way, but I do. You are an adult, and I have not done as you asked. As a child, this gives rise to natural feeling of shame. I never get in trouble; or, I should say, I never used to. My bare right foot shuffles forward on the floor, then back, as if I suddenly found something interesting on the ground. I feel chagrinned, but I'm not giving in. I'm not doing it. I know there will be consequences –– of that I am sure. But I don't want to lick your smelly butt, no I don't.

I hadn't really given any thought to whether I would make things easier for me by refusing to perform. In fact, I am expecting your wrath. As I stood there, bent over at the waist, contemplating my fate, I was pretty sure that punishment was in my future –– but there was simply no way, no possibility, that I could willingly press my mouth to your less-than-clean butt hole. Now it appears that you won't punish me, at least not physically. But you're gonna leave. Without feeding me. And your words make it very clear to me not only that you are well aware why I refused to "perform," but that you have no intention of letting me off the hook when you return tomorrow. You will make sure that it is even worse, then. Just to be mean. Just because you can.

I've always been a fastidious, clean little girl. I take a bath every night and I have since I was nine years old. My Mom doesn't even have to remind me, much less cajole me into doing it. I just don't like to be dirty or sweaty or messy. I like it when my hair is clean, full, lustrous and shiny. My prepubescent body doesn't smell, even when I need a bath, but I don't like sweat or BO or other yucky smells on anyone else, either. The thought of your body, smelly and unwashed, full of man smells and all sticky, fills me with revulsion and dread. The knowledge of what you mean by a "session" –– you seem to have a special love of me licking and tonguing your ass –– makes me shudder. For a brief moment I consider relenting, and doing it. But even if you would allow it now, I can't. I just can't. Plus, to a child, tomorrow is always a long way off. It's far better to postpone bad things till tomorrow than undertake to do them today.

But I do not have long to contemplate my fate. As you depart my cell, my jaw suddenly explodes with pain –– deep, ferocious, unrelenting pain; pain that I have not experienced since my first day in captivity. But I remember it. I remember it well. My hands fly to my jaw as my legs give way and I fall to my knees, oblivious to the sharp pain that emanates from my still-bruised and sore kneecaps. I whimper in agony my head nodding up and down, willing the pain to stop, as it did that first day. But to my horror the pain doesn't stop. It persists, deep in my jaw, the back of my mouth, unrelenting. With an agonized whimper, I fall forward, pressing my jaw against the floor, clutching at my chin desperately with my little hands. Simultaneously my knees begin to propel me forward, head down, butt up in the air, quickly, toward the wall, whimpering in agony, mouth open and drooling, my long hair trailing on the floor behind me I hit the wall, mewing hoarsely in pain, and jam my forehead against it, trying to mash my jaw hard into the floor to gain some relief.

Finally, after what seems an eternity, it is over. I roll over on my side, still clutching my jaw, sobbing hysterically, my little voice hollowed and hoarse, barely more than a whisper. It hurt so bad. So bad. I cry and cry at the lingering ache and the powerful memory of how bad it hurt. I had forgotten how agonizing the 'lectodes in my teeth could be. They hurt even worse than the caning. Way worse. I didn't even think that was possible. But it is. It just was. I whimper and cry and shudder at the memory, my jaw throbbing and aching. After a few minutes of sobbing, the lights go down, even the small night light near the sink and toilet, and my tears abate. After a few seconds in the darkness, I stand, walking gingerly, and manage to find my way to my bed and climb into it. I spend the next 17 hours starving, bored, and cold in the darkness. My mind is filled with dread at the thought of our next "session." My slender little body has no fat on it, no insulation, and I am shivering in cold and dread and fear within about 10 minutes of your departure. Only the blanket keeps me warm, and not fully. I curl up under it, trying to ward off the cold. I sleep off and on, but my body does not need sleep. My sleep is forced. Dream-filled. Not restful, but fitful. I wake up frequently, and each time I do my mind turns instantly to dread, anticipating what is to come tomorrow, whenever tomorrow happens.

The night goes on and on. I find the Torrone bars in the dark and finish the first one, and then a second. It takes the edge off my hunger. At least my jaw feels better, and I can swallow without wincing in pain now. I work my jaw up and down. "How is my voice? Can I talk? Can I talk now?" I say aloud. My voice is better, but not much. It still sounds hollow, hoarse, and soft even though I think I'm speaking at what should be full volume. "Argggghhh!" I say into the darkness, my voice croaking, gaspy, and hollow. I sing a few lines of my favorite Justin Beiber song –– "Boyfriend," off of the Believe album. I know every word by heart. It's almost funny to hear myself try to sing the words, hoarsely, like a frog or something. But after a few bars I grow bored of that, too. I super, totally, utterly bored. And cold. You've left the lights off on purpose. You've turned the temperature down on purpose. You won't give me anything to eat. My tummy aches with hunger. I feel very sorry for myself. You're just a big, mean, jerk of a sex-pervert person. You make me do games and "commands" and stupid stuff just to be mean. You touch me all over my body and on my private parts and do sex stuff with me and make me lick your feet and your poo hole. Just because you can. Just because you brought me here and won't let me leave. My self-pity grow and grows and I start to cry. My mind races with thoughts. You're a big fat jerk! I'm never saying the mantra again! Ever! Ever ever ever! There is way, way, WAY more than this! And you're not the only one! And this isn't the only place! I hate you hate you hate you!

I'm feeling very, very sorry for myself. For the first time since I've been here, four long days, I have a full-blown, sobbing, body-trembling cry. A weeping, runny-nosed, teary-eyed feeling-sorry-for-myself cry. My body shakes as I let it all out. It's so unfair! I wanna go home. I miss my Mom, my Daddy, and my brothers, my stuffed animals, and my friends Mary Beth, Marissa, and Caroline. I even miss school, especially my art teacher, Mrs. Granger. I miss Glenn, and how he makes me laugh. I miss my own bedroom, and my own bed. I want to play on my iPod and my Wii, watch a real movie, some cartoons on TV, and maybe even read a book. And I want macaroni and cheese, and chicken nuggets, and a hamburger. Two hamburgers, with no cheese. With a pastry for dessert. I wanna go outside, in my yard, in the street. I wanna go to dance, and to a restaurant for dinner. I wanna ride my bike. I want my Mom to braid my hair.

I cry and cry and cry in the cold and darkness. It's all because of you! You brought me here and it's not fair! And you're mean, and disgusting. And a big, fat jerk! You shouldn't take little kids and bring them places and lock them up and do sex stuff to them –– my crying is interrupted for a second as I wonder: Kids? As in plural? Has He ever brought other kids to this place? What other kids? What happened to them? Did he let them go, or . . .? –– I give a little shudder in the cold cell and resume crying. I'm not nearly done crying, yet, not by a long shot. I have a whole list of grievances and injustices yet to go, as I sob and sob and sniffle in the dark, curled up under my blanket. I hate you hate you hate you and I'm never saying the mantra again, ever! EVER! Ughhhhhh! I hate you with every fiber of my 11-year-old being, yet . . . I want you to come back. I'm dreading what will happen when you do come back, but at least when you return the lights will come up and I'll be able to see. At least you'll bring me food, right? You will bring me food ("What if he doesn't, Laur'? Huh? What if he doesn't? How many Torrone bars do you still have? How long will they last?") I swallow, feeling a bit nervous. It occurs to me that you don't HAVE to feed me. Ever, actually. The thought scares me. My self-pity starts to ebb. My sobbing subsides, and finally stops, as I drift off into a listless, dream-filled, over-rested sleep, waking several times, not really tired. I get up to pee, finding the toilet blindly, in the dark. I am soooo hungry that I walk slightly stooped over, favoring my aching tummy, as I return to bed, shivering, and curl up under the blanket.

I am still there, at 7:00 a.m., half awake, as you enter the cell, the lights coming up quickly. As I open my eyes wide as you stride to the bed, completely naked, your face intent, and shove me unceremoniously to the floor. My heart starts to race. I know you are mad from yesterday. I've been dreading your return. Mostly dreading. Part of me, however, wanted you to return. Especially my tummy, which has never felt more empty as it does right now.

I take the bottle, not having the slightest idea what it contains, and put it to my lips and begin to drink. I am hungry, not thirsty, but at this point, anything will do. Maybe it's a smoothie. But it is tea –– barely warm, sweet, with a funny taste. I don't care. I drink it anyway. A big, gulping drink, finishing half of it before I tip the bottle down. I watch as you climb atop the bed –– my bed –– and spread out, on your stomach, nestling down and getting comfortable, your legs splayed wide, your crack exposed. You can feel the residual heat on the mattress from where my body was lying curled up under the blanket. You don't say anything. No instructions are given. There is absolutely no mistaking what you expect, what you want me to do. We both know it. I stand up from the floor, and take another sip of the tea. And another. I want to finish it. But I feel a sense of dread, of urgency, as you lie there. Instinctively I know that keeping you waiting would be a bad idea. During my tantrum I had resolved not to obey, not to perform, not to do what you instruct me to do. I was so confident, then, there, alone in the darkness, wallowing in misery and self-pity. Oh, the vows I made then. But they are forgotten now. This is different. You are here. Ready. Waiting. Expectant. You are not a patient man. And I am a hungry, needy, dependent little girl, with even fewer options than I may think I possess.

With a pained look of self-pity on my face, I stand and walk on bare little feet to the end of the bed. You can feel the mattress sink down a bit as I climb up, on my knees, between your feet and knees I look down at your ass. I can see your brown puckered hole. It doesn't look dirty, not exactly. I can smell a kind of bitter, unclean, borderline BO scent from your body. I don't want to touch you. More than anything I don't want to taste you. And more than anything, anything, ANYTHING, I don't want to taste you there, on your poo hole, the part of you that is so yucky and awful and gross. I stare at your ass for a long moment. My mind racing with random thoughts, images and memories flipping through like pages turning quickly in a book. Jumbled, almost-random thoughts of hunger, cold, canes, soup, 'lectodes, fruit, needles, food, smoothies, porn, cocks, dinner, suede-covered punishment benches, juice, darkness, omelettes, bacon, chicken. Then I decide. But I never really had a choice.

I take a deep breath, and place my child hands on your ass cheeks. They feel cool, small, and delicate on your skin. I pull my knees up underneath me, and sweep my long hair back over my shoulders. Your cheeks are wide open, but I spread them a bit more, as take a deep breath, and lower my face to your ass. I close my eyes, hesitating another second, before pressing my soft, preteen mouth to your anus.

I hold my breath, eyes closed, as my kitten-like tongue licks and flicks at your sunken, puckered star. It has a different taste than the first time. Pungent. Musky. Sharp. My empty tummy clenches as I try to think of something else, anything else. I keep my eyes closed, flicking and licking and tonging for 20 seconds, before I pull back, turn my head, and exhale, then draw in a deep, raspy inhale. I can taste your ass in my mouth as I do. The flavor of ass is on my tongue, on my taste buds, pungent and acid and disgusting. But I lower my little face to your crack once against, and latch on to your pucker with my soft little lips. Forming my tongue into a little spear, I press, presssss, pressssssss at your sphincter, as my child tongue gently worms inside, your thick anal ring gripping it tightly as it enters you.

I repeat the process, breathing, then plunging my tongue into your rectum: In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. Pull back. Turn to the side. Exhale . . . inhale . . . in, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. Pull back. Turn to the side. Exhale . . . inhale . . . in, out. In, out. In, out. In, out. My tongue feels like a tiny, wet, warm, probing worm inside your ass.

I work my child tongue into your hole over and over, and over. I am slow, methodical, robot-like as I repeat the process over, and over, and over again. Your hole is wet with my saliva as I tongue your ass. Over and over I return my little face to your ass crack, and insert my wormy little pink tongue in your rectum. Several minutes pass. My tongue starts to tire, feeling a bit like it did the day before yesterday when it suddenly cut out on me. It occurs to me, with a startle, that neither you nor I ever set the hourglass, and I have no idea how long I'm supposed to do this. The thought of failing, my tongue languid and unresponsive, invades my thoughts. But I have a bit more stamina today and continue my labors, spearing my little pink 5th-grader tongue in and out of your anus, my naked little body folded over behind you, kneeling obediently between your outstretched legs.

Marcus

I lie down and relax and wait. For a brief moment I think you'll somehow NOT do it again, and I think of the kind of hell I'd unleash in that case. And then, after a time so long I almost turn around and get busy punishing you, you lower your face in between my ass cheeks, part them with your hands, and start licking. And very soon, you push in. Slide out. Push in. Good. Good. You have learned your lesson. And this feels as good as it did the first time with the added satisfaction of being filthy and knowing full well just how hard you are finding this, how much you hate doing it. For a while, this keeps me happy. Not for long, though. After a few cycles, I realise what kind of approach you went for, and cut your style short by reaching into your hair and pressing your face into my ass, hard. Pressing, and holding.

"Breathe in. Breathe in through your nose. Shut your lips tight and press them against my ass so I know you're not cheating, and take a couple good, deep, long breaths through your nose and out through your nose, too. Don't put up a fight now, unless you want shit for breakfast, as in me literally taking a shit into your mouth, making you eat it," I growl. I've had enough of insolence and resistance, damn it. You have a submissive streak in you, and sometimes, the way I manage to guilt trip you into blushing and squirming uncomfortably when you displease me, it shows, but over all, you're one bold and stubborn eleven-year-old. I would never have expecting anyone that age to give me so much silent, but repeated, seemingly inexhaustible resistance. Damn. Seriously. How do you even do it?

But now, I just use my sheer physical advantage to prevent you from not obeying. I hold your face pressed into my ass till you have to breath, and breathe again and again, and I'm ready to beat you into submission of you try to pry your lips of off my flesh and not use your nose, to avoid properly smelling the strong scent. Or let's be fair here, the stench of the hole I'm forcing you to stick your tongue in.

When I speak again, I drop my words like droplets of deep, puss-green poison. "You will now continue to tongue my hole, and your face will not leave my ass until you are told so, no more breaks for breathing, just use your nose. I'm still displeased and dissatisfied from yesterday. I'm ready to force-feed you shit and use the pain in your teeth to keep your mouth shut until you've swallowed it," I utter cynically, darkly, sadistically.

I want my ass licked, and I want it done properly, without constant interruptions. And my ass is not washed and clean precisely for the reason that I want to torture you with the smell and taste, so you will simply not get away with avoiding it. It's not an accident that I haven't washed in the past 17 hours, it's a punishment, just as your solitary confinement in a cold and dark cell between then and now was.

I mentioned shitting into your mouth twice, and the agony of torturing your teeth and I hope that you are freaked out enough not to push your luck. I want to wash you, and I want to feed you, and I want to get off, one way or the other, and I'm not gonna be in the mood for that, or rather, you in the shape for it, if you make me actually do it. It will be so disgusting even I might be a bit disgusted and not really wanting to fuck you after that. You better perform. My tone makes it clear that I'm not kidding. No, no, no. I'm dead serious. Cold. Dead. Serious.

I shift and wiggle on the bed a bit to better relax, and finally let go off your head. It's not comfy to have my arm there under that angle and to be holding you for so long. Now, staying there, tonguing my ass and breathing through your nose as you continue to do it, is down to your obedience, or perhaps rather . . . your level of fear now.

I know – of course I know – about how you cried through a lot of the time. How you wailed and sobbed and bawled and cried and yelled hoarsely, futilely. I know what a state you are in. I know the last of the chocolate is gone, that you now really, really need to eat. Very very badly. You now don't think you are hungry, you actually know what real, serious hunger is and you are experiencing it just now, while I'm forcing you to perform the most disgusting of all the things I asked of you yet.

Laura

Your smelly ass is a horror, and if I had any contents in my tummy to expel, I surely would lose it all. I do everything in my power to avoid breathing in the stench, but it is everywhere, pervading me. My forehead is hot and sweaty as it rests in your crack. I can taste your odor in my mouth, and on my tongue.

And then it gets worse. Your hand reaches around –– your huge, powerful, adult hand –– grasps the back of my head, and crushes my face even deeper into your ass. For a brief moment, I panic. I can't breathe. My instinct is to pull back, scramble from my knees, and get away. I'm sure I can, too. I could evade your hand, and almost certainly scramble off the bed. But then what? And when I hear what "what" is, I am glad that I stayed put.

I hold my breath for as long as long as I can, which is not long, just long enough for you to explain what I am to do. And your threat is enough to force compliance. Instant obedience. With my lips closed and pushed against your puckered hole, I breathe in through my nose, smelling your essence. My nasally inhale is hot, stifled, steamy, and pungent. So pungent. The smell of ass. Man ass. Unwashed ass. I exhale through my nose, warm and steamy against the skin of your crack. I breathe in again.

The smell is horrifying, dizzying. I can't see. Even if I opened my eyes I would be unable to see, as my little face is buried deep between your ass cheeks. My world is dark, hot, steamy, sweaty, and smelly. I breathe in again as you hold me there. It is hard to breathe. My little hands remain on your cheeks, poised there, but no longer useful or needed. I intake barely enough oxygen to sustain myself, as my nose is jammed in your crack just above your hole.

You speak again, and I understand the threat. It is loud and clear. My ears are not obstructed. I know that you are serious. I begin to work you with my tongue again, in and out of your hole, breathing through my nose. My world is your ass, hot and smelly, as I tongue your hole, in and out, in and out, in and out, my 11-year-old tongue pointy and rigid as I repeatedly press past your sphincter. I do not move my face. I breathe through my nose, and keep my mouth plastered to your anus. My heart races with fear. Your words terrify me.

I want badly to perform. To please you. I press my wormy little tongue in and out of your ass, then lick in a circle around the outer edge of your hole, then press back in and out several more times, then take my tongue and paint your sunken hole with up and down strokes. I resume penetrating and withdrawing. Trying to please you. Trying to demonstrate my fealty and devotion, while your words resonate in my consciousness. Hoping you will notice my effort, my oral apology for yesterday, for not performing to your liking today.

If this were a porn movie, the camera at this point would pan up and shoot down from above. The shot would reveal a little girl, tiny, on her knees, bent over like a beetle, her hands resting on your ass cheeks, her little face buried deep between your cheeks as she reams you. She is working, giving pleasure, irrespective of her own comfort or lack thereof. A good girl. An obedient girl. The minutes go by, and my face has not moved. I lick and tongue your asshole, without pause, breathing obediently through my nose. If you desire it, I will continue until my strength gives out and my little tongue no longer follows my commands.

Marcus

This time, I stop you after a couple more minutes, before your tongue stops working, before you collapse or pass out on me, because are are in an awful state, and I know it, and I want you alive, functioning.

"That's enough for now. Good girl," I say, turn, sit up, and give your hair a brief stroke. "Now you know the routine, you know how to behave, and there will be no more trying to mess with me on this, ever again," I say resolutely. We’re done for the moment.

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