PIETER'S BARROW

BY LOWLIFE
lowlife_@fastmail.fm

[ part 2 ]

Sunday Morning

The first intrepid bathers of the day were tiptoeing over the sand towards the chilly fringe of the Nordsee as Pieter guided his ancient Volkswagen Passat along the front, towards the caravan site.

Sundays were special and he was at his happiest.

He had had his weekly one day's respite from the cramped squalor of the caravan; time to feel smart and good back inside a tailored shirt, with clean fingernails and a decent shave and cup of excellent coffee from his own filter machine. Back in the city.

Once a week, he resumed his real life.

There had been an especially fine performance by a Czech string quartet in the Muziektheather in Amsterdam the previous evening and after a good night's kip between the fresh sheets of his king-size bed back in the spacious waterfront apartment, and a sumptuous soak in the spa bath first thing this morning, he was more than ready to put back on his shabby clothes and return to Katwijk and his summer alter ego.

As usual, he first drove to the lockup in Schiphol, to collect the clapped-out VW and secure away his treasured Jaguar then it was on to the A4 motorway for the quick trip back to his alternative world as invisible street cleaner in the small Dutch holiday resort.

As he pulled into the back gate of the caravan site, his penis was already stirring in anticipation of his little pet's accommodating young bottom. The familiar image of the nine-year-old's narrow hips beneath his body formed and remained in his mind. Those slim shoulders beneath her stringy blonde hair; the delicate line of her back, twisting in the throes of taking his length inside her. Her breathy whimpers.

Fuck, he was feeling horny!

He parked up and chucked his overnight bag in the caravan. He even found himself whistling the final few bars from the previous night's performance.

"Good morning, my pretty little thing," he drawled, bolting the shower block door behind him. "I hope you are ready for me."

Routine was important to Pieter. After weeks of meticulous training, he expected the small girl to have done her part without bidding. After all, she had been unmolested for twenty-four hours.

Pieter walked through to the female changing room. He smiled. She was ready.

Good girl.

Kneeling on all fours in the centre of the room, the girl looked up at him with rather appropriately puppy eyes, for she reminded him of a rather sad Labrador, with her long pale blonde hair loose and her bum in the air. She even had the right collar. All she needed was a tail to wag.

It had taken her some considerable time and effort to adopt this position. For strapped to the backs of her upper and lower limbs were the canvas pouches he had developed over the years, between them containing approximately the child's own bodyweight in lead fishing weights. She had worn the pouches since he had set off for home the previous morning and though she had effectively been free to move around within the dual-locked shower block, in practice any movement she attempted was not unlike that of a deep-sea diver wearing lead boots, and so she spent most of her respite period flat on the cold floor, where the weights rested on the tiles and provided some relief from the constant pull of gravity.

Just to be on the safe side, he had also put on her pairs of leather ankle and wrist cuffs, the halves of each pair connected by very short lengths of fine chrome steel chain. Her hands were fastened behind her back and so no matter how she tried, she could never quite reach the fastenings of the canvas pouches - there was just sufficient slack in all her bondage to allow the very tips of her fingers to touch the buckles, but not quite enough to let her fiddle about to release them. She had spent many agonising hours trying, each Saturday. The feeling of helplessness was calculated to remind her of her subjugation and it worked well - by Sunday morning, she was invariably like putty in his hands.

Pieter was particularly fond of his most recent addition to her ensemble, purchased from Japan via eBay earlier in the year and now put to good use. On the naked girl's back, strapped over her shoulders, was an authentic red vinyl school satchel. The straps were tightened to the maximum, and her pale shoulders and armpits tingled pink from the constant chafing.

It looked rather good on her naked body and set off her blonde hair very nicely. Very animé.

The combination of weights on her limbs, the cuffs and chains and the half-dozen housebricks stuffed inside the satchel ensured that no matter how she lay, she would never be quite comfortable enough to sleep for any length of time and so that even though she had been left to her own devices for a whole day and a night, she had still endured his measured torment. And she was very hungry, for the last meal she had been given had been the weekly treat of burger and fries on Friday night.

It was the sixth or seventh weekend as his captive and now she was so dependent upon him that she actually looked forward to his return. Though what she knew was in store was not so welcome.

She knew exactly what to expect and her legs and arms began to ache as she held her body still, waiting. The first of her Sunday ordeals.

The girl braced herself: her knees and elbows were already sore from crawling across the floor. When he did it, she had to remember to count each one out loud and then thank him afterwards. But the sooner it was done, the sooner she could eat. Her entire existence was now made up of simple steps, endure something and be rewarded. Or, and she dreaded the prospect, be punished.

This didn't count as punishment of course. The horrible man did this every Sunday morning just for fun. It made her bottom extra-sensitive, ready for her second duty of the day.

Pieter had turned the Sunday morning caning into something of a choreographed ritual, which today he performed naked for a change, as it was already warm and stuffy. His thick erection flailed in front of his thin, muscular frame as shuffled and sashayed and positioned himself to deliver the next swingeing blow of the long bamboo stick. It was an old friend and four or five very young girls had come to know its sting over the years. In the still, damp silence of the old shower block, the swish and crack of the cane cut through the heavy air, followed by the gasp and stifled cry of a little girl in pain, then a gulp and her small voice, choking on the tears, sounding out the count so far.

"...elf, twaalf, dertien..."

Yes there was a balletic quality to her beating, worthy almost of the Muziektheather itself, in the dramatic angles Pieter assumed, to slice the cane down on to her skinny little ass so that her buttocks and the backs of her thighs were evenly covered in narrow bands of red and white swellings. Each stroke was carefully planned, aimed and executed and designed to tenderise her entire rear end.

He paced it carefully, and was irregular in his strokes, sometimes feigning and pausing for several minutes to build the tension.

Thanks to the great weights on her arms and legs, she was effectively pinned to the spot, with her narrow white bum fully exposed and vulnerable to his performance.

"...twintig," she spluttered, coughing on her own saliva. "Dank u, de heer."

The ritual was complete.

Pieter crouched beside the sobbing girl, running his hands over her hot, rough flesh, slipping his fingers down between her legs and stroking between her labia. Her body spasmed as she cried, flexing her exhausted muscles. His fingertip located her anus and pressed until the sphincter yielded. His penis hardened.

He liked to take her whilst the pain in her ass was still fresh. He always took his time on a Sunday morning, making her lick him many times as he got her ready, simultaneously working her anus with one then two fingers then having her suck his hardness and coating it with her spit, before he squatted behind her and pushed the glistening crimson head into the centre of her puckered, relaxed little hole.

With a truly delicious slowness, he sank his rock hard cock inside her, the tingling tightness down the backs of his legs as he squatted simply magnifying the exquisite pleasure of impaling the tiny immobile girl.

Having accommodated his penis several times a day for all these weeks, her rectum was well-accustomed to his girth yet each and every time he entered her, he marvelled at the unbeatable way in which it caressed every part of his excited cock with its smooth firmness. Taking her in this position was his own weekly treat, for her sphincter pulled along the top of his penis and he could look down his trim body and witness the ever-thrilling sight of his bloated member easing slowly in and out between her flushed and swollen young ass cheeks.

It was a weekly challenge, to see how long he could remain penetrated, defying the protests of his legs, gripping her waist or hips and withdrawing then driving down again and again, pushing forcefully until he felt the softness of her bottom against his belly, and listening to the sucking of her breath and the delicate, sotto voce gasps as he stretched and filled her obedient young body.

And when the incredible sensations finally became unbearable and the breathless whimpers filled his ears as he curled over her and pumped deeply down into her belly, and her little frame seemed so thin and tiny against his own body, he threw back his head and shut his eyes and felt the intensity from every nerve in his groin as his eager cum welled and exploded along his shaft and filled her hot, captive innards, wave after throbbing wet wave until his balls literally ached from the prolonged release of his pent-up semen.

Sunday morning was just so special.

Pieter wiped the perspiration from his brow and climbed off the little girl, whose body swayed and shuddered and her head hung low from her shoulders as she panted for breath.

He crouched, took a handful of her fine, damp hair and pulled her face upwards. Her eyelids opened shakily and she focussed on the thick red cock inches from her mouth and she obediently lapped at the slick coating of semen and bodily juices.

It was an automatic reaction. For all her pained, addled brain could envision at that moment was the dog bowl of scraps and liquidised diet food he would soon place on the tiles before her once she had cleaned him up to the required standard.

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The closest she ever got to any form of near-normal contact with her captor was on Sunday afternoon, when Pieter fucked her without any form of restraint or superimposition of pain. It was almost affectionate in its intimacy.

But of course Pieter would not have been satisfied with simply buggering the girl. He still required some props.

She was left on her own for a few hours, licking the very last traces from her bowl, whilst Pieter shopped and did his housekeeping in the caravan. For those precious moments, she was for once free of all ropes and gags and straps and weights and able to shower as long as she wished and scrub herself clean of the engrained grime of the week and clean her nails and wash her long hair over and over again so that it smelt of shampoo whenever she moved her head. She loved that smell. It was for her probably the highlight of her week. A brief hour or two when she felt like a living being again rather than a piece of meat. He gave her a clean towel and she was able to wrap herself in it and walk unsteadily around the changing room to exercise her perpetually-aching legs and arms.

Pieter referred to it as 'the nest'.

It was in fact the old boiler room that still supplied hot water to the entire site and it remained locked during the week but on Sunday afternoons, he would lead her into it for another of his weekly rituals. She stepped down on to the musty old mattress and waited for him to unfurl the foul-smelling sleeping bag. The stuffy dry air was hot and within moments she felt her nice fresh-smelling skin tingle with perspiration, undoing the glorious glow of cleanliness from her long shower. He passed her the folded polythene sack and she crouched down and pulled it like a huge sheath over the bag.

Her nose wrinkled at the wafts of stale sweat expelled from inside the thick plastic. Despite being overwhelmed by the stench of trash inside the barrow for much of the week, her sense of smell had had time to recover, and it served to remind her how soon her body would once again be dirtied.

The furnace was actually oil-fired and every few minutes would click and whoosh and fire up, and as it topped up the supply of hot water to the rest of the campsite, the heat would radiate from it and her skin would prickle as her pores opened.

Pieter peeled off his tracksuit and climbed into the bag. He held the top open for her and she squeezed herself in alongside him, legs first, and slipped down until her head disappeared and she was squashed against his body in the blackness and heat. Within minutes, their bodies were slippery with sweat and he closed his eyes and concentrated on the singularly wonderful sensation of her small, hot little body sliding up and down his own and the caress of her little fingers stroking his balls and cock, then the feather light touch of her lips and the tickle of her soft young tongue, up and down his shaft and over his stomach and chest and down between his legs.

Little girls' fingers: so unbelievably small and delicate. And with enough training, so fantastically adept and a treat to watch. Once they had been bent back a few times, they pretty quickly learned what to do.

Deep inside the clinging nylon sleeping bag, cloaked in the oppressive heat, she slithered against his hard body, his scent filling her nostrils and the salt of his sweat thick on her tongue.

She knew not to stop. She knew to wrap her arms and legs around him and press her crotch and breasts against him and squirm and snake over his hard body. To stroke and caress. For what seemed an eternity she squeezed against him within the tight confines of the bag, now hotly damp from their combined sweat, her mouth roving over his hairy skin, kissing and licking and sucking. Her jaw was aching and drips of perspiration kept running into her eyes but she knew she had to go on. To risk upsetting him was something she could never do again.

The needles were never far from her thoughts and at night, as she curled in a ball on the floor of the shower, they would come to her as she slept fitfully and she would wake, startled and scared and she knew she had no choice but to obey him.

For ever.

So she squirmed and wriggled inside the sweltering bag, running her soft hands and face over his sweat and listening attentively for any sign that she pleased him - a grunt or a sigh and she understood what she had to do.

Pieter reached inside the bag and guided her head out into the open. Her hair was wet and matted to her head, her face scarlet and dripping. She gratefully filled her lungs with relatively clean air.

Then she shuffled back down without requiring instruction, pressing her body as flat as she could, with her face squashed into the smelly mattress and drawing up her knees, frog-like, the inside of her thighs flattened downwards, at least as far as she could within the confines of the sleeping bag. Pieter straddled her then lay on top of her and the feel of her tiny, burning body, slippery and hard beneath his chest, was all that was needed to swell his cock to its full glory and he wriggled his hips so that the shaft was pressed firmly between her tender little buttocks and he rocked slowly, sliding up and down the shallow, wet cleft and up on to the hollow of her back. Her hair smelt hot and clean.

She was all but crushed under his weight but it was essential that he slid up and down over her entire body, lubricated by their mingled sweat. He breathed in the thick, primeval odour of their bodies and lusted for her sweet ass once more.

He could feel her tense as his cock probed and tested her anus and he felt her shudder as it thrust aside the muscles of her sphincter and began to slip inside her.

They were as one.

It was as if their bodies had melted and melded and he pulled her tight under his body with her head under his chest and fucked her ass gently, slowly, even passionately. It was the only time he spoke to her as he took her, pushing his face down into her damp hair and whispering a string of obscenities into her captive ear as his cock swelled and spat its cum high up into her tight young belly.

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The sun was low in the red sky and would soon dip below the horizon way out to sea, to signal the closing of another glorious August day. All across the Dutch seaside resort of Katwijk, in their hotel rooms and caravans and tents, holidaymakers were changing and bathing and readying themselves for the evening's entertainment. A night at the casino perhaps, or a show on the pier, or a meal and a few drinks along the brightly-lit seafront.

And at the very far end of the promenade, in a private and rarely-used corner of a large caravan site, a nine-year-old girl was curled up in a deep yet fitful sleep.

As a reward for her efforts inside the sweat-soaked sleeping bag, the girl was allowed to rest undisturbed for the early evening. The unpleasant dampness and heat and cloying atmosphere meant nothing, compared to the sheer joy of a soft surface beneath her bony hips and freedom to sleep in whichever attitude she wanted. Her bottom was sore, not just from the prolonged sodomy that left her rectum filled with semen and her sphincter pink and stretched, but all across the surface of her buttocks, the welts still smarted from the sustained caning Pieter had given her that morning.

When he woke her, she winced as the immediate emptiness in her stomach twinged, reminding her that all she had eaten for two days were the scraps and gruel in her dog bowl first thing that morning. Yet she was less than thrilled when the man prodded her with his boot and said, "Wake up, you pretty little cunt, it's time to sing for your supper."

For she knew precisely what that entailed.

In fact the moment she opened her eyes, she realised it was that time again and she was consumed by a black despair. This was worse than her days tied up and covered in crap inside the foul-smelling cart. Worse than lunchtimes, when he pissed on her and made her suck his willy. Worse than all the times he put his big fat thing up her poor little bum.

She shivered. The only thing worse had been the needles. But this was almost as bad as the needles. Her big blue eyes watered with fear.

Yet she had no choice and miserably trudged through to the changing room to get ready, to take another shower (quick and functional this time), then dry and plait her long hair the way he liked it.

The way all the men liked it.