19. A Glimpse of Sunshine

Marcus

With the morning session over, I take your hand, muttering “let's go,” and lead you out of the cell, left, down the hall, to the right. To where we had our mock-romantic dinner date before I popped your cherry.

There's a feast laid on the table: Fruit, cereal, bread, jams, marmalade, peanut butter, yogurt, baby food, squished and blended apples -- in case your throat is still too sore for solids -- sweet cinnamon-and-honey-flavored porridge in a heated pot to stay warm till now. Cocoa, tea, milk, fruit juices, crumpets. You name it. It's more than you could eat in an entire day, let alone for breakfast.

I sit down on a chair, sit you up on my lap and look you directly in the eyes, from up close, moving a strand of your hair from your face. "You know I could be mean and cruel, and make a game of this, tossing you bits to fetch, making it hard and messy and not nice. I could throw it all on the floor, stomp on it and make you lick the mushy mess up," I say, and let it hang in the air as an option. "But you've just done well, and this is a reward for doing well. You can eat all you like, as much as you like. There's only one rule: Don't make yourself sick, OK?" I ask, before letting you go. "Eat slowly, chew carefully. Don't choke on it. Don't mix too much, just pick stuff you like that doesn't clash. Drink a good bit. There is no time limit. Neither one of us wants the food to end up on the floor as puke, and your tummy is now quite shrunk," I tell you. "Now tell me your mantra, and go eat," I say, wait for the words before releasing you and pointing to a chair. There's cutlery, a proper ceramic mug and proper plate and all that. No candles, and you are naked and collared, but other than that, it's almost as good as the dinner date.

I watch you. Firstly to make sure you took my advice to heart and didn't just start stuffing yourself blind by huge hurried mouthfuls, which would almost certainly give you cramps and delay your food intake by another while. I also watch to note what you like, what you prefer. There's something satisfying and pleasing in watching a very, very, thoroughly hungry girl eat food I've given her. I could have just given you a bowl of boring plain porridge and you would have taken it and loved it, slimy or not, but I'm a sucker for effects and contrasts.

This is sending a message, a very clear message. When you don't get fed, it's because I'm not happy with you, and it's a punishment. It's just that I don't bring you any food. I want for nothing. The house above is full of deliciousness -- abundant and overflowing. It's not that there isn't food for you, it's just that when you don't earn it, don't deserve it, I throw it out instead of feeding it to you. If you consistently obey and please, if you do your very best, you don't have skip a meal, ever again.

I sit back and relax; occasionally I nibble on a small piece of fruit, a grape here, a blueberry there. I ate already, I mostly do it to pass time as I wait for you to sate yourself. It's early in the morning. You spent the last two days mostly sleeping, once you have something to run on, my guess is you'll prefer even training and slight abuse to more boredom, more of the unending solitary confinement. If I were you, by now, I'd be eager for the distraction, for the attention. Anything but this stimuli–free sterile environment. I'm mulling over the kind of things we could do, and what order would be best for them. But for now, you eat.

We have a day ahead of us, and something tells me it will be good and long. More broken boundaries. More behavioural patterns ingrained in you. Stuff that we already did reinforced. Affirmed. Less than a week, and you already have instincts and responses drilled into you that you wouldn't even have dreamed of before we met. At least, guessing from how the food disappears down your hungry gullet, two days were enough for your throat almost entirely to recover. You get hurt easily, being small and fragile, but youth is also an advantage. You heal fast, heal well. For a "dessert" after breakfast are two sugar-coated pills. It's earlier than I usually give them too you, but they are such a high dose in comparison to the usual modern contraception that the few hours make almost no difference.

I lead you back into the cell.

"Let's chat for a bit so you have time to digest. Then we'll have a bath. I think we both need one now," I wink. I pour myself a coffee from a double-sided cafetiere that kept it warm till now.

"We'll train later. And I want you to train really, really hard for me. You'll need a second wash after, but that's cool, if you do at least half good, I'll happily let you bathe again. I don't have to ask how you are. You're sad, angry, lonely, homesick. You miss your old life, and we could go on for a long time about what was, but now you're here. In this, with me. What I want to know is what would make staying here better? What do you miss the most, other than your friends and family, that you would like as a reward if you do well? Do you have any questions now, a couple days into living here, that you'd like answered? Anything you'd like to share? Anything you'd like to ask, to beg of me?" I start, and then pause, take a sip of coffee and look at you quietly – the conversation is over to you now.

Laura

It seems like I lick and tongue your anus forever, but finally it is over. You turn, as I look up, my face red and wet. My tongue was getting so tired. I can still smell and taste your ass. It is on me, on my face, and in my mouth. Yucky, gross, and awful.

I feel spent. I'm not tired physically, except for my tongue and mouth, but I am worn out mentally. Nothing can be more degrading, more defeating, than being forced to lick your butt hole, kiss it, put my tongue inside it. We both know you can make me do it whenever you want. The separation of power between us never has been greater. I know this now. There is no point in delay. There is no value in saying no. All it leads to is pain. This knowledge, this realization, depletes me. I look tired, resigned, and weary, even if I cannot possibly be lacking in sleep.

I take your hand as we walk through the dungeon, by the punishment bench where I was introduced to the cane, down the hall, and into the "dining room." When I see the bountiful feast on the table, I am almost overcome with emotion. I am so hungry, and that table piled high with food is the answer to all of my prayers, my needs, my pangs of hunger. But I know that with you there always is a catch, always a game. And sure enough, you don't let me eat, but instead pick me up, naked, and place me in your lap. (I don't even realize that in my mind, most of the time anyway, you have become You, with a capital Y -- the most important person in my life, the most powerful person I know, kind of like a God.)

I listen to your words. I am so hungry that I am on the verge of tears. You ARE going to turn it into a game. No, no, wait: You're not going to turn it into a game. There is only one rule: I can't get sick. ("Is he really going to let me eat? Is he? Is he?" I ask myself, on the edge of tears of joy, as I listen). My little tummy aches with hunger, and my mouth starts to water. I want the food so bad. Please, please, just let me eat!

I had vowed not to say the mantra. I promised myself. No matter what. But my silly vows are forgotten now, as I nearly shake with desire for that food. "There is nothing but this. There is no place but here. There is nothing but you," I recite, quickly, my voice still raspy and hollow, but improving.

And then, it happens. You release me from your lap and direct me to the chair. I walk to it, sitting, and feel the silly urge to cry with happiness. I get to sit in a chair! Silverware, plates, and a mug! And real food! Lots of food. Good food. Grand food. I feel so very odd, almost grateful for your generosity. I know I shouldn't be grateful to you for anything. Of course not. But sometimes you can be so normal, even nice. There's a lot of food here. It's presented well. You went to a lot of trouble, all for me. I feel grateful. I can't help it, but I do.

I try to heed your words. To go slow. But I want to eat everything. I am like a child at Christmas, too old to tear into my presents and rip the wrapping off, instead trying to open her presents slowly and carefully like the adults,. But inside, I want to rip all the wrapping off as quickly as I can. I want to stuff my face with food until I can't eat any more.

I eat a strawberry, then open the peanut butter to spread it on some bread. I eat another strawberry after I get the jar open. And another as I spread the peanut butter. I eat two grapes, and take a bite of a crumpet, before biting into the peanut butter and bread. I eat and eat and eat, my eyes flitting from one item to the next, both hands working. ("Slow down, Laur'. He's gonna get mad and take it away. Slow down!")

You only have to caution me once –– "Slow down," you say, mimicking my own mental admonitions –– and I obey. Forcing myself to slow down. I eat the entire pot of porridge, more slowly, and drink fruit juice, some of the cocoa. My throat hurts, but not too bad, not enough to stop me, or even slow me down. My jaw doesn't hurt at all. Finally I start to slow, and then, almost suddenly, I can't eat any more. It is time for my pregnancy-stopping pills, and I take them one at a time, no longer as concerned about the taste, which is rather nice, actually. I don't want to get pregnant, and have a baby and stuff. Marissa said it hurts when the baby comes out. And there's lots and lots of blood. I'm never having a baby if it comes out bloody and yucky!

We go back to the cell. The first, digested calories of food are starting to hit my blood supply and I feel more energetic than I have in days. More alive. If it were not for this place, and the knowledge of what it is, I might even be in a good mood. My mind re-activates and starts to process non-reactive thoughts again.

When you offer me the opportunity to ask you questions, to chat, at first I'm not sure what I want to do. But I feel awake, energetic, and about as close to normal as I've felt in a while. Plus, it's been a long time since I had a conversation with anyone. You almost never let me speak. And there's no one else to talk to. If I have a final motivation to chat it's that you have told me that we're going to "train." I don't think I'll like that. And you said it would be hard and I'd need a bath afterwards. I'd like to put that off, if only for a little while.

And so I begin. I ask you question after question after question. Some of them sage beyond my years, others childish, and some apparently random. It's just the way my mind works. After all, I'm only 11. A child. A little girl. My brain doesn't operate like that of an adult. I ask the questions that are important to me. Since you seem to be answering them truthfully, I continue to ask them for a while.

I ask you why you took me, chose me to bring here. You tell me I am exceptionally pretty, and you saw my model photos on-line, and decided you had to have me, and I was the only one worth the risk. It doesn't make me happier but at least now I know. At least you think I'm pretty.

I ask if you will ever let me go, and you say probably not for at least 10 years. I had already figured out on my own that you weren't going to let me go. But 10 years is so long. I'll be 21. My eyes start to glisten as I ask if you're going to kill me. But you say no. And I believe you, 'cept if I hurt you real bad or try to run away. I don't think either of those things are going to happen. So at least you're not gonna kill me. ("Yeah, 'cause he wants to do sex stuff with you, stupid.")

I kinda know already but I ask if I am, like, a slave, since I have to wear a collar and I'm always naked and you make me do stuff and hit me. Your answer is a little confusing, but you basically say I am a slave. I thought so.

If I want to write a note to my family will you let me? You don't say no but say I'll have to "earn" it. I don't know what you mean but I prolly won't like it. But I really want to write to my little brothers and tell them I'm not dead. They gotta be worried. And Mom and Daddy, too.

I ask where we are, and how I got here. And you say you built it for me. I look up, confused. "You built everything for me?" When you say yes and nod, I feel strange. Special. I mean, not lucky special, more like unlucky special. But it's weird that you would like my picture enough to build this whole big place for me and bring me here.

I ask if you have a lot of money, and you say that you have enough to be comfortable and to have some fun. I kinda knew that already.

I was hoping I could go outside or see somebody other than You, but you make it sound like I won't for a long time. Maybe I can go outside if I "earn the privilege." Yeah, right. I don't think you're ever gonna let me go outside 'cause then I could run away and yell for help. I know you're lying to me. It makes me kinda mad, but I hide it from you ("He prolly read your mind, Laur'. Remember how he knows, like, everything?")

You said I can get a stuffed animal. I miss my stuffed animals more than just about anything. Well, not ANYTHING, but you won't let me go home and I used to snuggle with them at night. I ask you for a stuffed elephant, like Alphonso, and describe it to you. A grey, stuffed, plushie elephant with white tusks. My favorite. I hope you'll get it for me. It won't really be Alphonso but I can pretend it is. Or maybe I'll give it a different name and make it Alphonso's brother. You'll prolly get the wrong one, though, 'cause Alphonso is like five years old.

I ask if you like gerbils. I used to have a gerbil. I'm glad you like them. I give you a little smile when you say you do. People either like gerbils or they don't. I don't know why I asked you but I just wanted to know. Mr. Carriati at school hates gerbils. But I think they're cute and soft.

It scares me when you tell me if you die, I will die, too. I asked what happens if you die 'cause I was wondering who would feed me if you did. You confirm my fears. Your answer worries me. "What if you have a heart attack or something?" I ask, 'cause you're old and stuff and that happens to old people. And you confirm again that I will die down here. ("All alone, Laura. From starving all the way to death.") I ask if you can leave me lots and lots of food if I totally promise not to eat it unless you don't come back. You laugh a little when you tell me no but it's not funny. I'm worried that you might die. Especially when you get so mad your face gets red and the veins in your neck stand out.

When I'm done asking questions, I shrug. I can't think of anything else. But I've learned a lot. You don't have a family. I'm the only person you have. So it's like there's no one but you, but there's no one but me, either. That's kinda weird. I wonder why you don't have a girlfriend but I don't want to hurt your feelings in case she dumped you or something. I know you won't like Justin Bieber so there's no point in asking you if you do.

I really want to take a bath. I can still smell your ass scent in my nose. "Can I take a bath now?" I ask, at the end.

Marcus

OK. You like strawberries. You don't mind porridge. Cool. Grapes. Well I don't really learn much, you really stuff yourself, and you taste a little bit of almost everything. I'm glad that I took a while preparing it, setting it up, making sure it was all nice and good and fresh and neatly laid out. The happiness on your face makes me happy, too. Cheers me up. Sexually, I'm a sadist, and in that context can get off on you being upset and miserable, but in the average moment, I'm quite in tune with your moods and they sort of reflect on me. I feel your happiness, almost as my own. You picked up on something very important there, actually, not that I know, because you didn't comment. But you finally got a very important bit of this whole equation. It's essentially one plus one. You only have me here, but yeah, I only have you. Other than that, especially when it comes to relationships, I'm lonely. I just hope that the locals with be satisfied with the currently popular rumour that I am gay, and that this will not somehow backfire by a guy becoming actually enamored and trying to seduce me. I like grown up guys even less than I like grown up women, mostly, not that gender is that big a deal for me; ages matters a lot more, certain features, qualities: features and qualities that you have in abundance.

And then we move, and sit and I give you permission and you start asking questions.

And . . .wow. We're . . . actually having a conversation, of sorts, I realise after a while. While during our mock date, the flow of speech was choppy, the whole thing quite arbitrary, me having to be the one to come up with questions, now, we're talking. Naturally. You show a lot of curiosity, and I answer, honestly. A few times you actually make me think. Sort of . . . reflect upon myself and the state of affairs as they are. Some of your questions amuse me. Some are grim, and I'm happy about admitting the truth. I have friends, a good few. Some quite far, foreign, whom I'm not seeing all that much, even though they mean a lot to me, some here, in the States, a very few locally. I'm relatively new here, and I don't want the house to be too busy, randomly visited, for obvious reasons. I don't want any interruptions when I'm down here, with you. Even though I have alarms and alerts set up, blinds down, ways of pretending I've just been in the bath or my little sauna, someone just randomly stopping here would be super inconvenient. I use a post office box and don't really give the address anyway, to avoid any deliveries, visits from the postman and such. And among the people who know me, or relatively know me, or think that they do, not a single one can be trusted with my secret. I assure you I'm in very good health. But the way things are, if I die, you die. I don't mention the fact that I've done this gruesome option a lot of thought, and there's a system, build in, which if the door is not opened for more than three days, will flood the cell with scentless gas, painlessly and almost instantaneously killing you, because I hate the idea of you dying of hunger, over the periods of what, weeks? However long it would take. I can very easily disable it remotely, by various means, and I can even ask someone to "go water my plants" and they will inadvertently disable it too when they come into the house, following the instruction, punching a specific sequence into the door alarm. It's not a nice area of thought though, and I try and prevent you from lingering on it.

I'm going through my memory; I only spied on your house per se in a limited fashion; spending too much time there before the kidnapping would have been a danger, a potential lead for the police. But I do have a few decent shots of your room from the top a tree up in the park nearby, zoomed in by a super powerful lens on a very expensive camera. They show a big section of your room, and some plush toys. Not all I guess, the angle is limited, but some. There may have been something grey there. If there was, you're in for a surprise. Just like Italian chocolates, getting the same copy of your toy should be a non issue with my means and determination.

I'm considering what impact would getting you a gerbil have. I mean, it would make for an excellent blackmailing tool, but that would just feel wrong even to me, somehow, and if I leave you with a gerbil that you can take a good care of, it might undermine your respect and fear of me. It's a fine balance to strike. I don't want you unhappy, but I also don't want you thinking I'm soft. Or that you'll get away with a non slave-like behavior when it comes to obeying, pleasing me. I'm not soft, and you will not get away with misbehavior.

I note that you don't believe me when I say I could take you outside. I consider the risk. On a day like this, a workday, noontime, too late for postman even if he did bother today. Nice weather, but no walkers usually come this way, especially on working days. It's a risk. But I can work with calculated risk. It might be worth it, just to keep you on your toes, to prove you wrong and shake up your certainties, even the negative ones.

"The last one was not a question. That's actually asking for something, kind of. And so it missed at least two things, therefore. Two words. If you correct yourself quick, I will let it slip," I say to your "Can I take a bath now?"

I hope they are both obvious. I don't wanna freak you out. Or punish you. I make a serious face though, masking the fact that you're, despite this little mistake, out of danger for now. I already told you that bath is on the schedule next, after all, so it won't take that much to "sway me".

Laura

I'm feeling pretty good, considering what a crappy couple of days I've had. It's amazing what a full tummy will do to lift a person's spirits. And wow am I full. You warned me to go slow and not get sick. I don't feel sick, not exactly anyway. But I feel full. Very full.

I messed up. I just got in the habit of asking questions, and you're right: the last question ended in a question mark but it wasn't a question like the others. It was a request. The fact that you had already told me I was gonna get a bath, and the causal way the questions and answers were going, I completely forgot to say "sir" at the end. Duh. I only had to say it about 50 trillion billion times when we worked on commands. I totally forgot –– it just seemed like another question.

You don't look super mad as you correct me. But mad enough to say something. The "sir" part is easy. But I'm drawing a blank and I can't remember what the other word is supposed to be. You said two words. Is it "please"? Should I have added "please" at the beginning and "sir" at the end? It's probably "please," but I don't remember that being part of my training. I mean, of course it's always polite to say please when you want something, but I just can't remember if that was one of your rules.

You said two words. Two. One of them is "sir"; I know that. During my training I was saying "Yes, sir," after every command. An that's two words. But this isn't a command. It's a request, and you didn't give it –– I did. So what is the second word?

I look at you, drawing a blank. Quickly as I can, I go through everything I have learned. Hands behind my back. Thank you when You slap me. “Yes, sir” when you give me a command. And a few more, like cleaning up if I spill your cum, breathing through my nose when I lick your butt hole. But I can't remember a lesson about a second word. And I can't remember if it was please. And I'm running out of time.

"Please can I take a bath now, sir?" I ask, my expression uncertain. I don't know if that's right. I can't remember. I hope it's right. I don't want to start today out with another punishment.

Marcus

I watch the blankness and worry wash over your face. You haven't really asked for anything just yet, well you kind of asked for a plush toy, but that was really just enquiring about the possibility of owning one. There wasn't really an expectation, a sort of demand for it happen. A subtle line perhaps, but I didn't miss it, and brought the difference to your attention. Softly and lightly and yet you look almost like I slapped you. I a way that warms me and pleases me, it's good to know I have that kind of authority, that sort of respect. But it's a moment of unnecessary panic, all the more because you almost immediately get it right.

"There's a smart girl," I say merrily and smile. "That wasn't too hard to figure out, hmm? You know what to call me, and your parents taught you the magic word you say when you ask for something, I assume. Anyway. The answer is yes, Laura, we're gonna have a bath now. I let the door swoosh open and lead you to the bathroom and run the bath.

"You wash me, I wash you. And you better wash me well. I think your tongue might need a bit more practice, later," I wink while the bathtub fills. I run it quite hot, add a lot of foam, I light some incense, make it nice. Turn the lights up to be quite bright, slide into the tub and give you a sponge, so you can give me a read good scrub. The tub is big, and I fill it a lot, it even splashes over while we're both in, but who cares, this place has drains in the floor. And so even if you are waiting for your turn to be scrubbed down, the hot, bubbly, nice smelling bath should already be enjoyable.

As I lean back and let you wash me, front first, I ask you.

"You told me what you miss. Was there anything at all you liked?" I ask, quite curious if you'll think of something other than the baths and the chocolate. "Was any of the sex nice at all?" I ask, and make sure not to sound demanding, not to force and affirmative answer from you out of fear; I just need to know, it would be good to have . . . feedback. To know where I'm at. To get a bit of a something to work with, something positive, a starting point of our interactions becoming at least in some aspect, in some sense mutual.

In pauses between speaking, I'm thinking more about up above, and just how much obedience have the couple days instil in you. Is it safe. Will it be a step in the right direction? Up on the surface, I need to be straight and firm and decisive and unrelenting; that doesn't mean that inside, I don't have dilemmas, such as this one.

Dilemmas. I've starved you to a point where your situation no longer posed one. But I like you in a state of dilemma. I reach to your head and smile, a knowing, slightly... provocative smile. I know what kind of a dilemma I'll put you into. But first, before you're faced with more stuff that you dislike, I wonder if you'll come up with anything at all you liked; I wonder if the orgasm was memorably nice, or if it was too scary to be remembered as such. It's just hard to enter the mind of an eleven-year-old, even having spied on you for months, even though I know lots and lots about you, even though I'm good at reading body language, faces, things that eye contact or avoidance of it betray . . . but I can't read minds, even if I really would liked to.

When you answer, I have more time to just ponder it quietly as I turn and get on all fours, so you can wash me from behind, too. Something you ought to be thorough about, given my likes . . . and your dislikes.

Laura

I exhale in relief, thankful that I got the answer right. There is little doubt in my mind that I would have been punished if I didn't. I still can't remember being trained to say please ("You're just 'sposed to know that by yourself, silly," my mind tells me). Down here, in this place, where everything is different, everything is turned upside down, and everything is based on what you want, it is easy to forget what is normal up in the real world. So, yes, saying please is something that I've been taught since I was little, but so is dressing myself with actual clothing. And eating regular meals. And being able to talk when I have something to say. None of THAT is allowed down here. And the things that do happen in this place –– watching sex videos on TV, doing sex stuff with you, being caned, having 'lectodes that hurt in my teeth –– didn't happen at all in my old life. So I've started to un–learn some of the things that I've known all my life, and to stop relying on the things that worked up there (I can't help but think of this place, under your house, as being like a big subterranean cave now). Why would saying please be any different? Still, I feel a little silly that I wasn't sure of something as basic as that.

The bath is nice. The water is warm, almost too hot actually, with nice scents and stuff. I start to use the sponge on your front side, looking down at your wet skin as I run the foamy sponge up and down your legs. I've never washed anybody but myself before, so my scrubbing is a bit random. I start on your knees, and do your thighs, kinda on the sides, too. Then I go back and do your feet ("He said he wants you to use your tongue later, so you better get his feet good, Laur'" I remind myself. "And his butt."). I clean your feet, top and bottom, and even in between your toes. It feels weird to do it. But I clean in between my toes when i bathe.

I move up along side you and start on your chest. Moving the sponge slowly from your shoulders, to your pectorals. ("He's got a lot of muscles," I think to myself). My face is lined with concentration. This is the first time I've had that chance to see, and touch, your body up close, all over. And while I'd prefer not to be made to do it, since I don't have a choice in that regard, and since you have a nice, fit body for an old man –– I mean not old, old, but older than Justin and way older than my classmates –– I'm kinda interested.

I scrub and sponge you, using both hands to draw the foamy sponge up and down your belly. I get your whole chest, and then move lower. You got hairs there, leading down to the trimmed part right where your penis comes out. I scrub around your penis ("Does he want me to do that part, too?" I ask myself. "Duh, Laur'. What do you think?")

And then finally when I've done everything else on your front except your face and hair, I run the sponge over your flaccid member. I don't see it much in this state. And I'm surprised to find that it feels soft, like a fleshy tube. My hands draw the sponge over the pinkish-purplish, red-helmet looking part on the end, and scrub the slit part where the stuff comes out. My eyes flitting up to yours to see if it's OK before I pick up your floppy penis in my left hand and use my right to scrub the side that had been lying against your abdomen.

I move down to your balls –– those strange, rounded things hanging in that hairy, wrinkled, sack of flesh under your penis. I've seen them up close before, and even felt them on my chin, but never actually touched them with my hands. They feel totally weird! Soft, almost smooth. With crinkly hairs on them. As I try to use the sponge the things inside move every which way, as if trying to avoid being scrubbed. This brings a tiny smile of amusement to my face as I scrub your scrotum all over.

You ask me if I liked anything, and I think back to the dinner we had. And the breakfast this morning. And the Torrone bars, all gone now, sadly. And then you ask about the sex stuff. Did I like any of it? Yeah, right, You totally know I didn't. But I don't want to offend you. Or disappoint you. Your tone clearly is hopeful that I liked something we did. I try to think of the least-bad thing. I don't even think of what you did that time to me as "sex." Sex is the bad stuff. What you did that time with my pussy, on my special spot –– that wasn't sex. It doesn't even cross my mind. I struggle to come up with something. I don't want to get you mad. But so far, I haven't liked any sex stuff. Not when you put it inside me, not when I licked your butt hole, or your feet. Not when you held my head and rammed it in my mouth so bad my jaw hurt for a whole day. The kissing wasn't too bad –– but is that sex? No, prolly not. Wait . . . the very first time you put it in my mouth. The first day I was here. And you cummed in my mouth. That didn't hurt; only just a little when I had to stretch my mouth open super wide. I didn't like licking up the floor afterwards, but I didn't mind the first part that bad.

"When . . . when um . . . when you put it inside, inside my mouth? Remember? On the first day I was here? It was OK," I say, matter-of-factly, as I finish scrubbing your front. I rub the foamy sponge all over your back, taking extra special time to clean in your crack, and clean on your butt hole. I keep looking to see if I can see anything. I even smell it, but it smells perfumed and nice now. I don't want to lick it again but it's way, way better than this morning. As I clean and scrub your sunken, brown-edged pucker, it seems like almost more than a butt hole to me. I know it so well. It's like it has a separate identity from the rest of you.

I wash it very, very well. I wish there were a way I could wash on the inside part, where my tongue goes. That's the part that I can't see, and I don't know what's in there. I mean, I KNOW what's in there 'cause I know what comes out. I just don't know if there's any of it right there where my tongue enters. I wish I knew. I wish I could see. I wish I could scrub inside before . . . before . . . before I have to do it again.

Marcus

I'm really surprised when of all the things we did, you pick giving me a head. Especially since your throat barely stopped being sore. It's true, though, that I let you off quite easily the first time round, only making you gag a bit, allowing you to make up for the lack of depth you could provide with intense tongue work, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Who knew? My ex used to say I like blowjobs too much, selfishly so, and started making a fuss when I demanded one; it was actually one of the reasons for her becoming an "ex." I know what I like, I'm not afraid to ask for it, and being refused, let down and disappointed were things I always hated. Before, girls who did things to me that I hated were just dumped. Now, I have one that simply isn't allow to do stuff like that. You -- you just have to obey and serve. I'm not dumping you. It's an altogether more practical arrangement. For me.

It's almost laughable with how super-thorough you are with my toes and then my ass. You know full well your tongue will venture there at some point, and make sure it's a lot less gross than first thing in the morning. I let you. The stimulation feels nice, and my cock, which already grew half way up when you washed it and my balls, becomes fully erect now. Well that has an easy and obvious solution, but first things first.

I take the sponge from you when I consider my body washed. I slid lower into the water and pass you a shampoo. I enjoy having my scalp touched and massaged, and I relax into your washing my hair. Not that there's much to wash, compared to yours, my grizzly black hair streaked with the occasional silver hair is something like an inch long only. Then I take over, and wash you. I mostly do it with my hands, but also use a sponge, another one, small, pink, super–soft one, that I got specifically for you. I pay extra attention to your pussy and butt, too, and unlike you, I'm not afraid to slide a probing finger in, pussy first, just 'cause, and butt, too, to make sure there's no nasty surprise waiting there. Not that it's bloody likely, with how little you ate the last couple days.

I wash my hands thoroughly before touching you anywhere else, I don't wanna gross you out. I do your hair, twice. And then once more, after a rinse, with a super extra mega shiny premium conditioner.

I rinse you off. Dry you. Dry myself while I let you blow-dry and brush your hair. Lotion . . . almost a routine now. I let you brush your teeth, too. You have a second toothbrush and toothpaste here in the bathroom, this one doesn't sting, it's a children kind, cherry and cloves flavoured, luxury kind, without mint and without a pinch to its taste and smell. Then, I take you out, into the dungeon after. I put some clothes on; I have a sort of wardrobe next to the entrance to the whole complex, and I put on loose, casual clothes. I put a blindfold on you, gently, but making sure you really cannot see.

I squat down, so even if you can't see, you can feel and hear me talking to you level, not from up above. Meaning this is personal. Important.

"Laura. Listen carefully now. We will go out. It's a nice sunny day up above. Just about warm enough to be okay to be naked in, for a little while in the sun. I'll take the blindfold off once we are there. You'll have only a brief bit, ten minutes or so today, then blindfold goes back on, and we come back here. It doesn't change anything. There's still just this, there's still just here, there's still just me. It's just that 'here' will get a little bigger, for a while, with my permission. You will be naked and barefoot. I'll have my shoes on; I don't need to tell you how trying to run would end, who's faster," I mention casually. "If you manage to stay close, and quiet, just enjoying the sun gratefully, and if you then let me put the blindfold back on and come down, than this is just a first glimpse of many. You look good with a bit of a tan, to always keep you of off sun would be a shame. If you scream, or run, or . . . you know, you're smart enough to guess the kinds of things I'd call silly and be very unhappy about, but mostly if you scream or run, then the walk is over, we're going back, and you'll have to wait till at least your birthday, eleven months from now, to get another chance. Is that understood?"

I wait for a yessir, and unlock the first door, lead you gently, warning you of the steps, of the landing in the middle, of the further steps. Another door. Warmth and wooden, homey, sandal–woody and beeswaxy smell of my home. More warmth, as I lead you into the winter garden, glass panes letting the sun fall on your skin. You look pretty in the sun. I check the monitors in the hallway. No intruders. No one even near. It's still a risk. A super tiny almost negligible risk, like a sort of reverse jackpot lottery, but a risk nonetheless.

I open the winter garden's sliding door and lead you into the back yard, large, out of view; surrounded by thick hedge on three sides with the house behind us, to serve my nudist and more consensual kinky needs. Private. But if I miss an alarm or if it doesn't go off, and if you scream a helluva lot . . .

I turn you in the direction of the sun, make a few steps over the concrete, onto the soft, well tended grass, and slip the blindfold of off your eyes. "Breathe," I say. The air is fresh, very fresh indeed. Smells a good bit of pine sap, sunny grass, herbs. You see the large yard, grass, a greenhouse, a veg patch, tops of trees – we seem to be surrounded by a rather extensive forest. The land slopes down away from the house, and over the hedge you can just about make out the glimmering of a large water surface; a lake. No one in sight, or within an earshot.

Laura

I wash your hair, crouching beside you in the tub, my little hands massaging the shampoo into your scalp. I feel dumb telling you that I didn't mind it when you stuck your penis in my mouth and cummed the first time. but I froze. You were asking me if I liked any of the sex stuff, and you were being super nice, and I didn't want to say I didn't like any of it. I tried to think about all the stuff we did. I don't like –– no, I HATE –– tonguing your butt and feet. I don't like it when you stick it inside my pussy 'cause it hurts. I hated it when you rammed it down my throat and I couldn't breathe. All that was left was the very first time –– that first night –– when you had me lick on it and suck it. That wasn't so bad, I mean, compared to the other stuff we did. But now I'm worried that you'll want me to do that all the time. I didn't LIKE it; it just that it wasn't as bad as the other things.

It still feels weird when you wash me, your hands and fingers roaming all over my body. I just have to kind of lie there, or sit up, or spread my legs, or whatever you ask me to do. I used to give myself my own baths, every night. But when you do it, I don't have to do anything. Your hands touch me absolutely everywhere. There is not part of me that you leave untouched. I gasp when you casually poke a finger in my pussy. It doesn't hurt but it was only a few days ago that nobody but me ever touched me there, and nothing ever went inside. It's even worse when you poke me inside my butt. That hurts! And it feels super, super weird. I wince and hold my breath as your big, slippery finger presses painfully inside and twists around. I don't like things inside my butt. It's yucky and weird and it hurts.

Of course, you get to put clothes on. Not me. I have to be naked all the time. You said I might get to wear clothes again someday if you decide you want me to. I watch as you get dressed. I know that next up is "training" in the dungeon, and the thought has me a little on edge. My anxiety instantly quintuples as you put the blindfold on me. ("Oh no –– what's He going to do? What's he going to dooooooo?" I think to myself, imagining the worst. But then you crouch down in front of me. I am shaking. Terrified. Not being able to see fills me with dread and a feeling of doom.

For a moment I am stunned. We're actually going outside? Out of here? Out of this place where there is nothing but this? I can't believe it. It's a trick, surely. Why would you blindfold me? But . . . maybe you are going to take me outside. When you said you might I didn't believe you. But maybe you are. Maybe this is for real. ("Maybe he's going to kill you now, Laur', did you ever think of that?" Huh?") I banish the thought from my mind. I don't think you will. I trust what you said earlier.

And then it IS for real. I walk with you –– tentative, unable to see –– up stairs, across wooden floors. I can feel the sun on my body as we walk through your house. And then we're outside. I can feel the gentle breeze. Concrete, and then grass under my feet. The blindfold comes off. I blink in the bright sunshine, shielding my eyes with a hand cupped into a visor. I'm outside! It's only been a few days but it seems like a lot longer. I look around, the scene unfamiliar. It is very rural, very beautiful.

As I take in the landscape the thought of escape doesn't even enter my mind. I am content just to be here, if only for a few minutes. It is a beautiful day. The sun feels warm on my bare skin. Everything looks so beautiful.

I feel an overwhelming wave of emotion wash over me. I can't stop it or control it. It's a combination of things –– the natural beauty of the landscape, the gentle, warm sunlight, the feeling of freedom after so many days underground, my amazement that you actually did it, actually took me outside, actually kept your word, actually did something nice just for the sake of being nice, when you didn't have to. I know that I shouldn't, but I feel so grateful to you. Taking me outside, here, today, when I didn't think you would –– for a moment it seems like it's one of the nicest, most generous things that anyone has ever done for me. It seems that way, to me, anyway, as all of these emotions come surging to the fore. I feel silly but I can't stop myself, and tears quickly form in my eyes, as I try to blink and wipe them away. ("Baby!" I accuse myself). I want to hug you, to wrap my arms around you and squeeze you with hard with thanks. ("What is WRONG with you, Laur'? Jeez!"), but of course I don't, I can't. It's not my place. I suppress the urge, but I can't stop the tears, and I can't stop the feelings. I don't remember feeling this intensely happy and grateful for anything ever before. I know it's dumb to feel this way, since all you did was take me outside, and I should be able to go outside whenever I want without you telling me I can't. But I can't stop the way I feel.

Marcus

I watch your initial wariness shift through surprise to radiant, pure happiness. The way your eyes light up, your shoulders rise, your nose seems to savor the breeze like nothing ever smelled better... it's a joy to witness. It makes me smile, and it makes me want to hug you. You don't seem overly keen on physical contact with me, though, hardly a surprise with all the abuse I put your through. But then, suddenly, you look sort of at a loss, like you wanna do something and you stiffen, stopping yourself from doing something you'd like to do. It could be a lot of things, but it doesn't feel quite like an suppressed urge to hit the ground sprinting. And so I risk it. I grab you as gently as I can by the sides of your chest, under your arms, lift you up, sit down cross legged and draw you into a tight, bearish hug wrapped around you as best as I can. After a moment I feel the need to relax further, and I collapse backwards with you on top of me, and you let out an involuntary squeal and I can't help but laugh; it's just a perfect little moment. If I wasn't fucked up, if my sweet dreams could come true and sate me, letting the spicy ones fade away, if I was a different sort of person, this would be it. This would be how we could be, and perhaps in that world you'd be here by choice, and not by force, and you'd have a bedroom upstairs in the house, and not a cell down below . . . but that's a different world. All that we have of it is this brief, sunny, joyful glimpse, a little fragment of light, tranquil happiness.

I hold you in a hug for a while, then release you, let you sit up on me, cowgirl style, and I give your sides a light, brief tickle. Just to make you giggle. It's been like three days since I took the cane to your bottom, but in the bright light of the day, your marks are still very clear and obvious, playing with colours as they heal. Your face is OK, and even if your throat isn't perfect, it doesn't show on the outside. Having had good bath and the lotion put on helps a lot. I can't really see any other marks on you at a glance other than the ten cane marks; once clear lines, now fuzzy and fading, already past their darkest phase, but far from gone. I try not to focus on them; I don't want you to notice and to think of them as well. This is a good moment and I don't want it ruined. I only promised you ten minutes, but the reality of my yard is safer than my slightly paranoid perception of it. We're miles and miles from the nearest civilization, even the lake, almost out of view and quite definitely out of earshot, never gets visited this time of day, this time of week. My alarms and alerts are reliable. And it's good to see you happy. After about a quarter of an hour, I take your hand and draw you close, my touch warm, and sensual, with the "we're about to do sex stuff" insistence.

"Wanna stay up here a little bit longer?" I ask, sitting on a sun bed and spreading my legs. Now I'm definitely risking all; a random passer by, if they caught a glimpse may not stop at the sight of a kid running about in a garden, even if she's naked and if they overlooked she was collared. But a kid giving a head . . . but to hell with it. I decide the only one who could actually see us here would be a trespasser, and I have a legal right to shoot a trespasser, if I prove I felt endangered, and while the last thing I need is police sniffing about, there would be a way out even if the unlikely happened and shit hit the fan.

"You said you liked it . . . " I circle your lips with my finger. "I hope that at least means you really don't mind doing it," I say and undo my pants. "Your pace. Your style. No slapping today. But remember I don't like hands too much and I dislike pauses and breaks, OK? I'd rather if it got a bit messy than if you spoiled the experience by stopping to swallow drool and such." I stroke your hair. The sun makes your skin look healthy, but as you kneel down in front of me, I also become painfully aware that you have actually, visibly, and noticeably lost weight since I kidnapped you. I'll have to start feeding you more. Well, you're in for a snack. "And swallow without making a mess, you can't lick stuff up of off the grass," I smile. There. I'll be happy, and you'll get another what . . . fifteen, twenty minutes in the sun? Sounds like a good deal to me. I just hope that an alert doesn't ruin our fun halfway, or worse even, near the end. I would not risk ignoring the alarm even for a brief bit.

Laura

I wipe away my tears, embarrassed by my uncontrollable emotions. I didn't used to be this way –– before. Before you took me. Brought me here. I didn't really have a lot of reasons to be emotional. I don't know what has come over me. The soft, gentle, warm air. The sun shining on my body. The feel of grass under my feet. The fact that you brought me here when you didn't have to. When you hug me more tears come out. I want to hug you back, but I don't. You're a sex pervert person. You do mean things. But right now you're not being mean at all. I feel so conflicted –– happy, yet with no earthly reason to be happy. Grateful, but with no possible justification for feeling grateful. ("You're totally losing it, Laur'," I chastise myself.) But I can't help how I feel.

I'm lost in my meandering thoughts when suddenly you topple backwards, accidentally on purpose, and I am catapulted on top of your, your hands on my hips lifting me crazy high in the air, before lowering me down atop you. I squeal in surprise, and can't help but giggle and glare at you with a "I know you did that on purpose" look as you laugh and smile. For the briefest of moments, a snapshot in time, it's as if we're something other than what we are. I am not a collared, nude, preteen sex slave. And you are not a sadistic, perverted, adult kidnapper. We're just two human beings, enjoying a warm summer day, enjoying each other's company.

I giggle as you tickle my sides again, my skin breaking out in goosepimples. I want to be mad at you ("He's a sex pervert person! He beat you! He makes you lick his butt hole!") but I'm 11 and I can't. It's too nice a day. I'm too glad to be outside, away from my cell, away from the dungeon, to be mad at you. ("He didn't have to bring you up here," I remind myself.) And I don't want to go back down. Not at all. Training awaits me, and I'm not looking forward to that. I'd rather sit here all day, with you, even if you are a mean sex pervert person.

When you stand, and draw me close, I can just tell, as sure as I'm standing there, that you want to do sex stuff. And when you sit down on the sun bed and spread your legs, I can see the huge tent in your loose–fitting pants. Your finger touches my lips, my mouth, in a circle, and you mention what I "said I liked." Of course, I didn't exactly say that. I said it was OK. Even that was an exaggeration, just because I didn't want to disappoint you or make you mad. But I am hardly in a position to say no. I know what you want. You don't give me the option to decline.

I watch as you open your pants and tug them down, exposing your nearly fully hard erection. I swallow, knowing that I will have it in my mouth in the very near future. I listen to your instructions as I start to kneel down before the sun bed, between your legs. The grass is soft under my knees as I grasp your shaft in my soft, smooth, 5th-grader hand, open my mouth just as wide as I can, and take your penis between my lips. Once it is inside, I kneel up, place both hands behind my back, and begin the blowjob.

For the next 20 minutes or so, I work your penis with my sweet little mouth, sucking, licking, tonguing the head, making a real effort to please you. My soft little tongue teases your slit and bathes your cockhead. My lips are sunken with suction. I cram your shaft as deep in my mouth as I can, wincing, my eyes watering, as I manage to cram it to the opening of my throat. I bob on it, never once using my hands. I bob, suck, lick, and tongue you, hands behind my back, my mouth full of man cock. I do my best, I really do. It is my thank you for the sunlight, the fresh air, the outdoors. I work and work your cockhead until my lips are numb, and my tongue is tired, but still I continue, bobbing on it. up and down, taking it to the very back of my mouth, pressing it hard, trying to get it into my throat, trying to pleasure you, trying to please you. When I hear your groans and feel your cockhead flex and contract in my mouth, I pull back, waiting with a sort of wince on my face . . . and then proceed to gulp down every last drop of your warm, spurting, bitter-tasting ejaculate.

Marcus

It's a nice, bright day. It's gorgeous to bask in the sun like a tomcat, just for the pure joy of it, with no hurry. I let go of my worries, and relax. And you get busy, and . . . Oh. My. God. You simply blow me away. You actually make my brain stop working, make me so focused on the pleasure, the sensation, that for those twenty minutes, practically for the entirety of that time, I stop planning and plotting and scrutinizing and reasoning and all that, I just . . . stop. And it's a wonderful feeling. It's a gloriously, amazingly, spectacularly wonderful feeling. I probably should be restraining myself somewhat, given that we are out, but as you work me with your mouth and tongue and throat all at once, totally hands free even though this makes it harder, less comfortable for you, just the way I love it, it just feels too good. Way too good to allow myself to taint it with any concerns and worries. I moan loudly, aah and sigh and gasp and hiss through my teeth on the in-breath, in the "I'm-so-fucking-close-now" way, and I tense and then I cum, crying and shuddering, the orgasm overcoming me head to toes, totally shaking me up with its intensity. I feed you a lot to swallow, and you do, you take it all, not spilling even a drop, and keep your mouth on the tip of my cock, taking it all, to the last bit, leaving my cock clean and glistening when I finally push you of off it.

I'm breathing in a heavy, heady way now, sweaty from this, and from the sun. I'm looking at you like I can't quite believe, quite . . . understand that this was you that did this, that a girl that young, a girl only recently kidnapped, a girl kept in my dungeon against her will could really make me feel this way. I don't think I've even been given as eager, striving to please, intense, pause-free, no-nonsense blowjob by anyone.

Picking you up of off your knees I sit you up on my lap and kiss you on your lips, stroking your hair. "Thank you," I say. It's not like this was a favor, I commanded it and got it, but you did incredibly well, and I thank you for that. "That felt really, really good. Really special. I'll bring you pen and paper after lunch when you're resting. You can write your letter."

And I'll see if I can figure out a way of giving them a chance to send you a message back, I think but don't say to have a little surprise for you if this works out. "Now let's go back down. This was great. That was better than just good behavior. We'll be back up here for another while, soon," I promise. Well, not really promise, I state it. I blindfold you again, not wanting you to be familiar with the layout of my house, the details inside and all that, it feels risky, you're tamed, but not trained quite enough yet. I lead you back gently. We re-enter the dungeon, door, stairs, door, and then, in the dungeon, the blindfold comes off.

"Well now that you've been out, I should probably show you around down here properly, don't you think?" I ask, stroking your hair, smiling. You look a bit sad to be back, but then . . . What did I expect.

"Get that gloom of off your face and there'll be pizza for lunch," I say lightly, to try and cheer you up and keep the mood from dropping too low.

Laura

I have to swallow quickly to take your load, but this time I know what to expect, and I pull back at the right time. Even though I was ready the very first spurt surprises me with its intensity, the way the cum jets and squirts up against the roof of my mouth, the muffled, spurting "Thwwwwwwwwwwitttttt" sound it makes inside my head. The first time you came in my mouth I had no idea what to do. I knew I wasn't allowed to pull off so I simply left my mouth in place on your penis, wincing at the taste as you spurted warm, slimy goo between my lips. God there was so much of it! It filled my mouth to overflowing and just kept coming as it drooled to the floor. I was punished for that, forced to lick your cum and my vomit up from the floor even though I was exhausted and on the verge of collapse. But this time I know that if I don't swallow fast right from the start, I won't be able to keep up or catch up. This time I know what to do. I know what to expect. I know what the stuff tastes like. So I swallow, and swallow, and swallow, and swallow, seemingly endlessly as you drain your seed into my 5th–grader mouth. Even though I'm prepared, it's only 50–50 that I can swallow fast enough to keep up –– but somehow I do. There is so much spunk it's like quickly drinking a warm, thin, yucky-tasting milkshake from a thick, fleshy straw. Except that once you start I don't have suck anymore; I just hold your helmeted cockhead in my little mouth as I gulp the contents of your testicles down into my tummy and look up to watch your expressions as you climax.

Even before you pick me up and sit me on your lap I know that I did a good job and gave you a lot of pleasure. Although I didn't perform the blowjob voluntarily, and although my status is that of a lowly, collared, cane-striped preteen sex slave, I still take some pride in a job well done, and in my ability to make you groan and sigh and shudder and cum just by using my mouth and tongue on your penis. There is a certain power in the knowledge that I can make this happen, that I can bring you to an organism. Me. Laura Vandahl. In the 5th grade. 11 years old. I could tell that there were certain ways I used my tongue, certain things I did, that made you feel really good. I didn't want to do it, and I didn't like doing it ("Yes you did!") but ("Shut up, I did not!") as sex stuff goes, at least it doesn't hurt. And the stuff that squirts out of your penis doesn't taste all that bad if you you know when it's coming out and swallow it really, really quickly. But boy there is a lot of it! I really have to concentrate and time my swallows not to spill it.

I feel almost a little sheepish when you thank me, knowing that you don't have to, but I'm pleased that you did, pleased that you liked it, pleased that I did a good job. It makes me feel proud ("You are sooooo weird! He's a sex pervert person, Laur'!"), like it's a real accomplishment. I know it's not, but still. It's nice to be appreciated for something.

And then . . . you tell me I can write the note! The note to my little brothers 'cause I know they're worried about me, the note to my Mom and Daddy. My heart skips a beat with excitement, and my expression is one of incredulity. OMG! OMG OMG OMG! Really? Really? A nearly overwhelming sense of gratitude washes over me, and I once again feel the urge to hug you. I know that you don't have to let me write it. I am so grateful. For the first time since I was abducted, I feel genuinely happy –– here, sitting naked and collared in your lap in the sunshine, the taste of cum in my mouth, I feel truly happy. Happy and grateful. Tears well in my eyes AGAIN ("What is WRONG with you, girl?"), and I wipe them away, sheepishly, embarrassed.

I don't even mind when you put the blindfold back on me and lead me back down into the dungeon, but once I get there, and the blindfold comes off, it's hard not to feel a little sad. It's dark down here with just the artificial light. And I know that training awaits me; training I'm not gonna like. But at least I feel better than I have in days. My tummy is busy digesting the breakfast I ate earlier (as well as the protein from your cum) and I feel energerized. Yes, it's a downer to be back in the dungeon. But at least I'm not starving and lethargic, and at least you're in a good mood –– stroking my hair, smiling –– and I can tell you're happy with me. It's way better when you're happy then when you're mad. It scares me when you get angry. It scares me a lot.

I'm a little confused when you tell me you're going to show me around. I already know every inch of the dungeon and my cell, and I've seen the dining room and the bathroom. ("Yes, but there were all those other rooms, remember?") Yes, there were all of those other doors. I'm curious what's behind them. Pizza for lunch? OK. I like pizza. I look up at you and force a little smile.

Marcus

"All right. Let's start with what you know already," I open the door into the bedroom. "This is the bedroom. It's for cuddles, sleeping and such. Here are clean sheets, the bottom of this wardrobe is the dirty laundry basket, the drawers have some toys for softer play. Mostly vibrating eggs and such, feel-good toys," I comment. Letting you take in the room which you have only see dimly lit and distracted with the worry of being about to lose your virginity before.

We come out, next up, the dining room, now a mess of dishes and unfinished food. Behind a drawn curtain is a kitchenette, including a dishwasher, sink, electric kettle, electric stove and oven, cupboards with plates, bowls, mugs, glasses. Drawers with cutlery and basic cooking equipment. Some pots and pans. That sort of stuff. A single sharp knife, a small, ceramic knife with a round tip, only really good for cutting vegetables. Peeler, rolling pin, chopping boards, garlic press, tea sieve, cafetiere, the kind of stuff you'd expect in a small, tidy, practical kitchen. There's a fridge, too, but it's empty and off; I keep food upstairs. There's a locked larder, which I unlock to let you take a peek at an assortment of snacks and easy to make foodstuffs. The bottom two shelves are dog food. Cans, kibble. Dried liver treats. I don't mention them, but make sure you notice those, too. Just so you know that I could put you on that kind of diet on a whim. I lock the larder and show you the bathroom. Including the drawers and cupboards this time. There is a first-aid kit and some basic pills, but only small doses so they are not a suicide risk. Cosmetic stuff. No bleach or cleaning stuff. That's in the utility room behind, locked. There's lots of stuff here. Stockpiled long-lasting stuff, spare sheets and some basic clothes and lots of toothbrushes and such. Just in case going out shopping ever becomes problematic, dangerous. If I'm ever observed, followed . . . I have plenty of everything, to make sure I don't need to go and buy anything suspicious. There's a washing machine. A tumble drier. Clothes press.

Through there, we get into the medical ward, which I assume the most intimidating bit of the dungeon to a little girl. There's a full on operating theatre, surgery-ready. There are tiny cells with transparent walls of heavy shatter-proof glass, six of them. Clearly, while it's only you, it doesn't always have to be. This space could contain a few girls, easily. Though the tiny transparent cubicles look awful, the kind where evil product testing lab technicians keep animals to drop nasty stuff in their eyes. The space doesn't feel good, and smells like a hospital. Adjacent to it is a room with a couch and a carpet, looking almost like a living room of sorts, with multiple screens arrayed into what could be seen as a sort of home cinema, some folders, more cupboards and drawers, a filing cabinet. There's another cell, just like yours. Toilet, sink, same plastic walls. Empty. Back through the medical ward into the dungeon, locking doors as we go.

"That's that. Your world," I say with a sense of fatality. "And brief visits of the garden when it's possible, and when you deserve it. Now. Bedroom. Onto the bed, on all fours, butt high, face low." I usher you in and rummage through the drawer until I find a small, tiny butt plug. About the size of my thumb, bulky near the root and then very narrow and then with a wide ring to keep it from slipping all in. I lube it up.

"This will feel weird, but it's one of the things you'll need to get used to, for me," I say calmly, and after lubing your puckered ring, I slowly, gently push the little plug in. Once in, it's secure, no tendency to fall out or move. Good.

"That's size one, out of twenty," I comment. "Around size six they get as thick as my penis, not that long though. We will train your butt with them, gradually using bigger ones. Today, I'm happy with size one. It stays in until further notice. Now . . . " I make you kneel up, and pop a smallish red ball-gag into your mouth securing it with a strap.

"Go clean up the dining room. Thoroughly. Throw away all uneaten food, into the bin. The gag stays in, no secret snacking. And don't try to keep or hide any of the food anywhere. It all goes into the bin. You'll take the trash bin when you are done and leave the bin bag by the dungeon's main entrance. Give the floor a scrub, too. When you are done, come back in here, see that rug in the corner? That's where you will kneel, waiting, until given further instructions. You have freedom of this place now, and little things, like going to the bathroom, washing your hands and such are okay to do without asking. OK?" I check, and then usher you out, plopping myself onto the bed to relax.

Laura

I am curious and somewhat mesmerized as you take me on a tour of the entire complex. Ever since we went to the bedroom I have been dying to know what was behind all these doors, down all those halls. And now you're going to show me. Now I get to see. But I'm a little nervous, too, since I have no idea what the tour will have in store.

I walk by your side, guided, your hand on my bare neck and soft, warm shoulder. I am nude, collared, 11 years old. I make no effort to cover myself or hide my nudity from you. Five days on and it feel almost perfectly natural to be naked in your presence. I even have grown accustomed to the heavy, ever-present weight of the collar around my little neck. I tend to fidget with it when I am nervous, rotating it around my neck an inch here, another inch there. It's like biting my fingernails –– that used to drive my Mom crazy. ("Used to," I think to myself, with a tinge of melancholy.") I am amazed at how much stuff you have down here. Not just the rooms themselves –– I already knew that there were a lot of rooms –– but the stuff you have stocked them with. Food (and, yes, I DO take full note of the dog food on the bottom two shelves), toiletries, sheets, towels, kitchen items. Everything is here. Neatly ordered. It truly is like a house down here. It occurs to me that somebody could actually live here. I mean, not somebody like me who was brought here against her will –– that's not what I mean. But somebody who needed an apartment. Somebody who was here voluntarily. It wouldn't be all that bad a place, actually. Not bad at all. Maybe even . . . ("Stop it, Laura! There is more than this! More than here. More than even Him! Just stop it!")

Except for the medical ward and the surgery. This place makes me feel very, very, very unsettled. It's spooky and scary and antiseptic in an ominous, threatening way. Who has a surgery in their dungeon? Why? I feel cold. I wrap my arms around my chest protectively and shiver. I'm used to the dungeon and all of its torture equipment by now. That room is centralized and we have to travel through it with its tall, cathedral ceiling whenever I leave my cell. I've played fetch among the devices. I've even been strapped across one of the punishment bench and experienced the evil kiss of the cane. But at least the purpose of the dungeon, however scary, is clear. The purpose of this place is not clear. Not clear and very foreboding. There can be no good use of this place. None. This looks like a room in a hospital. But we're not at a hospital. And there are no doctors here –– only you. And me. I shiver again.

The existence of the surgery down here brings a whole new level of uncertainty and fear to my 11–year–old head. I know that you put 'lectodes in my teeth while I was knocked out. ("What else did he put inside you, Laur'? Did you ever think about that?") But to have this whole hospital-smelling room down here. Complete with an operating table, and all sorts of stainless steel cabinets with who-knows-what inside them. It brings a chill to my soft skin and goosepimples appear.

I want to ask you questions, but you make it very clear that this is a guided tour, not a conversation. I take everything in and look where you point, but I keep quiet. I instinctively understand the purpose of most of the rooms, and you explain some of them just to make sure. But the surgery –– you don't say what it's for. The purpose of the six cell-like heavy glass cages is left unsaid. The reason for the second cell like mine off the medical ward is not discussed. The use of the operating table is not discussed. This all leaves me feeling very nervous and scared. I want to leave this room so bad. Even the floor feels different –– colder –– under my bare little feet.

I can't get the medical ward out of my mind, even as the tour continues to the "movie" room and the other cell. My mind wanders all over the place as I half–listen to your words. ("Is he a doctor? Maybe that's how he knows everything. He knew how to knock you out when he took you. He knows how to put 'lectodes in your teeth and use a remote control to hurt you.")

But I have little time to think, as you direct me to the bedroom and order me up on the bed. This is is the bed where you took my virginity. Fucked me. Just the second day I was here. After our dinner date. (“There wasn't that much blood, Caroline," I think to myself. "Liar!") I climb up on the bed and position myself as you directed, my head down, my forehead plastered to the mattress between my elbows, my hands outstretched and clasped together on the bed in supplicating fashion. My preteen body looks so tiny and slender on the large bed. The soft, white skin of my back slopes gently upward to my raised little bottom. My cheeks still bear the marks of the cane –– dark, purplish blotchy stripes, tinged with yellow at the edges, separated by starkly white stripes of unsullied girl skin. My stripes will be visible for weeks –– reminders of my first real punishment in this place. Here, where there is nothing but this.

I wince, and flinch, and exhale a little moan as you slide the plug inside my tiny, pink pucker. It feels so full and big and weird back there. ("What if I have to poo?" I think to myself. "Why would He want to stop my poo from coming out?"). I kneel up on your command ("Oooh, it feels weird when I move with it inside me!") and the next thing I know I have this big, rubber ball in my mouth. It's huge and stretches my jaws and forces my tongue back and there is no possible way I could talk. I continue to kneel as you strap it around my head. I look at you with wide, dark eyes, not understanding you or your methods. I slurp in a breath through my mouth as I feel a trickle of drool forming.

I head back to the dining room –– walking a bit funny, penguin-like, as my bottom grows accustomed to the plug. It's weird having the ball in my mouth. I can't close my mouth, and I keep having to slurp back drool because I can't.

I set to work cleaning up the dining room. I suspect that You think you've given me an arduous chore to perform, but I'm actually happy to have something, anything, to do. I've been here for five days and it seems like I haven't done anything significant or productive in all that time. I haven't gone to school, obviously. Or dance, or soccer, or a photo shoot. I haven't had to clean my room ("You licked the floor with your tongue, remember?" I remind myself. "Shut up –– you know what I mean!") I haven't had to take out the trash or bring my laundry down. Or clean the sink in my bathroom. Nothing. And I'm good at cleaning. Always have been, ever since I was little.

I like things clean, and orderly, and neat. For a brief moment I harbor a bit of resentment for having been instructed to clean the dining room, by myself, without help, but the feeling doesn't last. I know how to clean. I'm good at it. It takes me about 30 minutes, but I have everything cleaned up, thrown away, bagged and ready to go. The dishes are done. Washed and dried. The only thing I'm not sure of is where everything goes. The stuff I can stack on top of another dish is easy. But there are some one-offs –– serving bowls and the like –– and I have to guess where they go. I'm also not sure if you want me to leave the salt and pepper shakers and napkins on the table or clear it bare. This bugs me 'cause I want it to be perfect. I know it's dumb but I want to show you I can do it perfectly. I want to impress you. Show you what I can do. I know it's silly but it makes me feel good. Like I have value.

When I am done with the table and the dishes. I look for a mop, but that is in the utility room, and it's locked. For a brief moment I feel panic ––yYou instructed me to clean the floor. And I want to clean the floor. But I can't get to the mop, and I am afraid of returning with the work undone. My heart starts to race. ("Think, Laura. Dammit think!") I suddenly seize upon a solution. I grab the sponge, and some paper towels, and a bowl. Using dish soap, the bowl of warm water, and the sponge, I scrub the floor, naked, on my hands and knees. Rinse, squeeze, scrub, dry, crawl, repeat. The process takes another 25 minutes ("Faster, Laura –– you're taking too long! He's gonna get mad!" I urge myself). It's awkward and slow-going with just the sponge but the floor is clean. And dry. In the middle of this process I give up trying to prevent myself from drooling because of the ball gag. Little droplets of drool hit the floor as I work, but I sponge them up, too. Finally I am done, and I hasten to wash and clean and replace the bowl, as another little trickle of drool rolls down my chin, my neck, and onto my flat, preteen chest.

As I depart the dining room I take one last look around. The room is spotless, and I think that you will be happy. I adjust the shakers on the table one last time ("Should I leave them or put them in the cupboard? Which would He want me to do?" I wonder to myself). I decide to leave them. I exit the dining room, no longer pigeon-walking now, as my little bottom has grown accustomed to the plug inside.

I retrace my barefoot steps to the bedroom, and enter it, going immediately to the rug in the corner. I look over and see you on the bed as I lower myself to my knees, and sit back on my heels. ("Oooh, that feels weird with that thingy in my butt!") I wipe a dribble of drool from the corner of my mouth, and wait for you to acknowledge my presence. ("I hope He likes how nice it looks in the dining room," I think to myself, utterly unaware of how much the the importance of pleasing You is starting to permeate my every thought.)

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