Taken 48. Dead Obedient

Robbie -- Marcus

Any hope I had that you wouldn't be too mad when I declined your offer disappears entirely as you berate and chastise me. I remain on my knees, slightly back on my heels, my wrists still crossed behind my back. I am absolutely exhausted. I’m shaking, and on the point of collapse. My skin is white as snow, almost pasty. I look unhealthy. My eyes are red with lack of sleep and glimmering from fatigue.

"You're a pathetic, weak, whining wimp and sissy,” you tell me. “You indubitably belong to the very bottom of the hierarchy in this house and dungeon. Admit it. Say it. All of it."

"I'm p-pathetic. A whining, w-wimpy . . . sissy," I say, in a meek, defeated voice. I keep my hands behind my back, but I am cowering against the slap or smack that I am sure is soon to come. "I'm- I'm at the bottom of the, the house. And the d-dungeon," I stammer, trying desperately to remember the exact words. I'm so tired. I wish my mind was working better. I sense danger, like I am seconds away from yet another beating. I need my brain to think, but all I'm getting out of it is dull, reactive thoughts.

I watch as you open the can of glop and pour it on the floor. It sounds and looks like mud as it lands, but I crawl to it, on hands and knees. I don't want to eat it, but the thought of disobeying you never even occurs to me. I begin to nibble and lick the foul, greasy food into my mouth. I swallow. I am shaking. I am aware of how exposed and defenseless my naked body is to you -- to your potential kicks and blows -- as you loom over me. This causes me eat with some enthusiasm. I don't want to piss you off again.

I eat it all and clean the floor with my lips and mouth. The dog food somehow stays in my stomach. Maybe the fact that it was completely empty helps. I rise to my feet and follow you to my cell. And there I see a mattress. I've never seen a more comfortable-looking mattress in my entire life. Ever since I destroyed my bed, I've been sleeping on the floor, and I'm so tired that I could sleep there now; I'd be asleep in under a minute even on the floor. But the mattress -- it looks so inviting. All I want to do is sleep. I’ve never felt so tired in my life.

I gladly lie down on it and make no effort to stop you from securing my limbs in the straps. I nearly fall asleep as you do. I'm that tired. I don't even contemplate the idea of getting free from the straps. When you warn me about amputating my limbs and feeding them to me if I get free, my only concern is that one might loosen accidentally in my sleep. But the straps seem relatively tight. When the earplugs and blindfold go in, I surrender to the quiet and darkness. I am aware that my body is spread-eagled and defenseless, but I don't care. I need to sleep. if you want to kill me while I’m sleeping, go ahead. I am barely aware of you fiddling with my chastity device, and I actually fall asleep before you leave the room, my chest rising and falling gently as I sleep the exhausted sleep of a very tired and traumatized young boy.

I sleep for nearly a full 12 hours, barely moving, and unable to move much, anyway. I can't see as you feed me the next can of dog food, propping my head up as you do, feeding it to me too quickly, barely giving me time to grimace and swallow before the next huge, greasy glop off it is pressed to my lips. But I eat all of it. My brain is working again, thank God, and I am aware enough to realize how much I hate what I am eating. But I eat it anyway, even as my tummy churns in protest.

Then you are gone again. I drift in and out of sleep for the next several hours, but I'm no longer tired. I pee three times. I try to rotate from side to side a little, as much as my binds will allow. And then you are back again. I eat another can of the horrible dog food and also drink. I want to tell you that I'm not tired anymore, that my body is sore from being in the same position, unable to move. But I am too afraid to speak, and soon enough you are gone again. I want to get off my back, so I start rotating to the left, then the right once again. I am wide awake now, no longer tired, and eager to be freed. I moan with unhappiness.

Suddenly the plugs are out, and my blindfold is removed. This startles me as I thought for sure you were gone. I blink at the sudden brightness and you are right there, close to me, staring at me with a strange look. I sense danger. I don't like that look.

"Have you rested enough? Are you ready to serve now?"

"Yes," I croak, almost unable to form the word. I swallow, wetting my mouth. "Yes, Master" I say, slightly more coherently, but softly, almost a whisper. I stare up at you with fear in my eyes. You look so massive and huge looming over me. You intimidate the crap out of me.

You undo the straps and at your command, I roll off the mattress to a crawling position, then stand. My body is sore. I immediately obey your command and begin to stretch and exercise -- running in place, jumping. The blood starts to flow in my limbs as I hit the floor for sit ups and pushups. It feels weird exercising, naked, in front of you, and the chastity device feels strange and bounces around as I do it. I do a handful of pushups. I stretch some more as you call me a girl. My heart is beating hard, and I am breathing deep, as I stand up and you grasp my chin.

I look into your eyes. Mine look terrified. I shake my arms out on your command and try to regain my breath. I have an expression of panicked terror that goes beyond just about anything you probably see from Laura. I swallow as you chastise my effort. I know all about what happens when my effort is lacking, and the thought of punishment has me paralyzed with fear. I swallow again as you hold my chin. When you tell me that I'm not resilient enough, my blood runs cold, and I feel faint as you talk about drowning me. My legs feel wobbly as you guide me by my neck into the medical ward, and as you feel the bucket I actually try -- half-heartedly -- to pull away. I make a little moaning sound of terror as you fill the bucket, shaking my head no. Panic grips me, and my testicles shrivel against my groin. I moan again. I don’t want to die, not here, not like this.

With a gasping moan of desperate relief, I drop to the floor on your command and begin to do pushups. The muscles of my back and buttocks clench and cord as I breathe deeply, plunging down and pushing up from the floor, over and over again, making little gasping sounds of effort, extreme effort. I work fast. Over and over I descend, and rise, 10, 15, 20, 25 times. My arms start to tire with the count in the late teens, and my frenzied pace slows. I don't stop. I continue to go down, and, gasping, straining to rise. My arms are shaking but I make them do it. Little gasps and moans and grunts escape my lips. By number 25 my arms are about to give out. I finish 25, and barely finish 26. I go down for 27 but I cannot rise again. I slump to the floor, panting.

When your hand clutches my hair and begins to pull me toward the bucket, I absolutely panic. My naked body slides easily across the floor, effortlessly, almost weightlessly, as I try to clutch and grasp at anything to slow my progress. I am sure I am about to die. "No! Master!" I shriek, in a shrill, little-girl voice. I writhe and twist but cannot break your grip on my hair.

"I don't wanna die!" I sob, my petrified voice trailing off. I am shaking all over, writhing and twisting in a frenzy. As we reach the bucket and you lift my head up, my hands claw at yours, trying to free myself. "Master! Please!" I beg, my legs kicking helplessly behind me as you press my face into the bucket, dunking me slightly. I nearly have a heart attack . . .

. . . then you command me to drink, and I lose it. Sobbing in terror as I lap at the water in the bucket. You free my hair and I grasp the sides of the bucket with white-knuckled fingers. I am shaking all over, like a wet kitten on a cold Fall day. My skin is a shade of near-translucent white that could not be replicated without makeup. I drink and sob, unable to stop quivering. You have just about scared the life out of me. I have never been more terrified.

I listen to your instructions, nodding, grateful to you, still crying and shaking uncontrollably. I am a very upset young boy. Vaguely I am aware that I must look absolutely pathetic, and that you were just trying to scare the wits out of me. ("Was he only just kidding? Are you sure?" I ask myself). But I can't help it. Your plan succeeded. You scared me nearly to death, and reduced me to a blubbering, shaking, shell of a boy. I'd be pretending if I didn't admit it, but I don’t even have to admit it verbally. You can tell that I simply can’t stop shaking and crying from the fright you gave me.

I calm down somewhat as I shower and take care of myself. I'm glad to be able to brush my teeth as the taste of dog food lingers there. I wash my body, the cut lines looking better already. Just a series of scabs now. It helps to have tasks to perform, but my mind keeps wandering. ("He could have drowned you. Right there. In that bucket. With your legs kicking behind you as you died.") The thought gives me the shakes all over again and my white skin breaks out in goose pimples. I can't help it. You are in my head now. I am terrified of you. Absolutely fucking terrified. There is no sense in pretending otherwise. I am not at all sure what my life expectancy is in this place, but when I really think about it, when I really try to fit all of the puzzle pieces together, it doesn’t really seem like it’s going to be all that long.

You take care of my cuts and that is at least a tiny bit reassuring. It speaks of a future for me. We go into the security room and as bidden I instantly kneel between your legs. I am ready to do whatever you ask. From this position I am quite sure that you will want a blowjob. I will give you one. And a second if you want it. And a third, fourth, and fifth if that's what you want. Whatever you want. Anything.

"Next time I hear about you being sleepy and tired, you'll end up floating in a full-on sensory deprivation tank for 48 hours, and that's if you are lucky. Clear?"

"Yes, Master," I say, softly, in an embarrassed voice. I am embarrassed. I should have sucked you a second time. No matter how tired I was. I was being a stupid, selfish baby. It won't happen again.

"Now how long has it been since you last came, and how does THAT feel right now?"

I look up, remembering that I was supposed to tell you that. I was supposed to do the math. I hesitate. How long has it been? My mind spins. I can't remember. Suddenly I think about my penis and I can feel the effects of the chastity. I would never go this long at home -- not since I learned the joys of masturbation, anyway. My cock feels like it needs a wank. I can feel the fullness of my balls. It's a fullness that could cross over into dull, needful pain in the near future. I know I must answer you, but I am not at all aware of how much time I was sleeping. Or how much time has gone by. I really have no idea. None.

"M-more than . . . more than t-two days?" I respond, uncertainly.

Marcus -- Robbie

It's not even erotic, pushing your face into the bucket. The profound, thrilling satisfaction that it gives me is grim. It’s an animalistic, Alpha Male, bone-marrow-deep sort of sadistic, not the exciting, sexual, cock-twitching type. This is at a whole new level of mean, and you shriek, fight, beg, and cry for your life. Then you clutch at the bucket, totally scared shitless. You look so pathetic it really brings up the bully in me, conjuring memories of my teen years, when my sadism was still crude and unrefined. Not that it's exactly polished smooth and shiny at all times these days, but it does tend to manifest in slightly more creative, sophisticated ways than this.

Even when it is finally over and I’ve made it clear that I don’t intend to drown you, I simply can't resist the urge to make a quick step towards you and go "Boo!" just to see you flinch again. It's not even funny; even I can see that this is pointlessly cruel and kind of idiotic, but on some very primal level I just can't help it. I laugh. There’s something about the way you are, something about the way you compare to Laura, that makes me want to just keep pushing and poking and humiliating you more and more, endlessly. Where I found edges and points of resistance and rebellious spark and even flickering flames of fury in her eyes, I find nothing but submission and vulnerability in yours. It's incredibly sweet and pleasing. It really, really makes your presence thoroughly and continually enjoyable, but at the same time, it ever so slightly rubs me the wrong way. You’re way too easy to intimidate, especially because you are a boy. Our dynamic, ever since the bed-board-plank incident, has been straightforward and uncomplicated. It almost defies belief. It's hard to fully trust in it, and it makes me want to test it, use and abuse it, to make you endlessly put up with shit just to see if you will eventually lash out.

But then obviously if you ever do, I'll just beat even that last little smidgeon of resistance out of you. It occurs to me that it really is bad to be a boy down here, not that being a girl is all that easy and sweet in the first place. But by comparison, you do incite a lot less mercy in me than Laura does, and likely less than most girls would. You poor kid. Even after all you’ve been through, you still have no idea how hard your life is going to be with me. There’s simply no way you could know.

"When I ask you how many hours it's been since you last came, and specifically demand you to do the math -- explaining that you'll be whipped for the hours you are off the actual time -- do you really expect to satisfy me with 'M-more than t-two days' as your answer?" I demand grimly, mimicking even your stutter mockingly. "Don't bother to do it now. I'll whip you for that, in due time," I say matter of factly. "You were also tell me how it felt, which, by the looks of it, I'll have to torture out of you," I say, cocking an eyebrow, tossing the word torture around like it means next to nothing to me, like it’s just another verb. "But there's a more serious matter at hand," I announce, as I guide you back into the security room and sit comfortably on the sofa while pointing to the floor between my knees. After a bit of dramatic silence, I drop the bomb.

"You hurt me." I say. I show you my arm where you attempted to claw at it as I dragged you towards the bucket. It doesn't matter that the scratches are barely noticeable, although one of them actually is red with blood. You really were thoroughly desperate to avoid being drowned.

"Look at me, Robbie," I command. "Not at my damn arm – you’ll be punished for that soon enough,” I say. “Look at me. I weigh 225 pounds. And we both know that it’s not because I'm fat. It's because I am six foot five and I pump iron or do something like that at the very least for an hour every day. I'm not great at guessing, but you're what? 110 pounds? 115? That's almost exactly half my weight. Half. And I can lift my own weight on a bench press. Two times your weight. Up into the air. And down, and up again, and back down. I can do sets of those. Can you even bench your own weight? " I demand, and looking at your frame, I'm pretty damn sure I already know the answer. The twenty-five odd pushups you did was not bad, but also not great for a sporty boy your age. I'm sure you could do more. But I'm also sure I want my eleven-year-old girl slave next door to always be able to do more than you, just to rub it in and remind you of your girlie, weakling status. Even if I have to make Laura do pushups until she pukes and cattle prod her ass to make her rise again, I'll make sure she's tougher than you are. I might even make you two fight. It occurs to me that she’ll likely win despite being a full year younger than you. Imagine that: A "boi" beaten by an actual girl and a younger, smaller one at that!

I snap out of my thoughts with a slight flinch and focus on you, and on the here and now once again.

"Now, if I wanted to drown you, if I had decided to push your face into that bucket, do you think you could have beaten me somehow and won the struggle? Was it realistic to expect that clawing at my arms was going to save your life?" I demand. The answer is obvious, of course.

"I wasn't going to drown you," I state the obvious again. "I was messing with you because you disappointed me the last time. You didn't push yourself to please me. Not enough, anyway," I muse. That really should prevent 'I'm exhausted' from coming up as an excuse from you for a good while now, methinks. "However, if I were actually going to drown you, the only thing you would have achieved by that would have been to piss me off. By pissing me off, you would have made your own drowning slower and a lot more awful. Did you know that you can actually be made to drown several times, and then be revived to experience it again and again? You would have shit and pissed yourself with the trauma of it before I finally finished you off. Would you like to die like that?" I demand. Again, there's really only one correct answer to that question unless you are utterly insane.

"So," I reach into your hair, “the fact that you think that death is imminent does not in any way excuse disobedience and struggle. You're simply not allowed to do that. It gets punished. And when you are about to be killed . . . well, turning a near-certain death into a certain and exceptionally awful death isn't exactly the best outcome for you, is it?" I demand again. This is basically an exercise in nodding along and providing the expected answers, not really a dialogue in any real sense of the word.

"If this ever actually happens – if you fail me, piss me off, and I set out to kill you, I will tell you, or make it otherwise obvious. It's not going to be sneaky or sudden like that." Yes,because I'm fucked up and I want to be looking into your eyes and see whatever it is that can be seen in there when you are told of your fate.

"From that moment on, your only chance, and it will, admittedly, be a slim chance," I say, speaking about your death as casually as it was a possible, commonplace occurrence, like the next meal or something almost, “will be to submit to it, utterly, thoroughly, and fully. To follow my hand and let me dip you into the bucket. Palms flat on the floor, or if you would be too tempted to push up, folded behind your back. If it's a gun pressed to your brow, you will stay put, and wait for the bullet in silence. If it's death by fire, you will fry and sizzle. You will ready yourself to accept death from my hands. The worst outcome there is that you'll be granted a quick, straightforward death without any added torment, and the other is that I will be so impressed with the depth of your submission that I will decide to spare you and give you another chance. This can't really be demonstrated or practiced; nonetheless, you will do us both a major favor if you remember these words and take them to heart. They might save your life one day. You cannot fight me; or fight you can, but you can never win. Your only chance, faced with death, is utter meekness and obedience. Is that clear, kid?" I demand finally.

"Now. You scratched me. You hurt me. That means I have to punish you, and I also need to test your devotion in another way. Do we have a clear understanding on that? You're also in for a whipping, so you don't want me angry when I deliver that, I hope that's obvious, too?" It is clear that I don’t even consider the whipping to be part of your punishment. You nod, but of course you do. You might as well be a robot, a nodding machine right now.

"Good. Lie down on the floor. Open your mouth wide. I will take a shit straight into it, and you will eat every last bit of it, and then you will lick my ass clean. If you vomit, you will be trying to slurp it of off the floor until you manage, or until you die of dehydration and starvation,” I tell you. “There will be no restraints, no further commands, and no reminders. It's as simple as that and cooperating enough not to need further instruction is a test of your devotion. Get down. It's kind of like the bucket before. Begging or fighting back won't stop it and will only earn you a harder whipping later. The best thing you can do it to take this, obediently and smoothly," I say, rationally and persuasively, like we were talking something normal, like ingesting a nasty medication that we both know you won’t like.

"There will be a lot. You'll have to cope," I inform you matter-of-factly. It's the truth. I'm not going force a bit of something out of myself for perversion's and punishment's sake; I actually need to take a dump. And so I remove my pants, squat over your face, facing the rest of your body, give you a moment to get your mouth in the right position, and then I sigh, and push, a foul-smelling fart coming out first, followed closely by the first turd. It is brown, gooey, and stinky. Bon-fucking-appetit, slave boy.

For the second time today with you already, I'm totally overcome with a sense of profound righteousness and satisfaction as I do this. I'm happy. It's weird, it's surreal, and it's very nearly inexplicable. But for a brief moment there, as my pucker opens and expels shit, the knowledge of where it's going and where it's going to end up overwhelms me blissfully. A tingling, ecstatic feeling of sadism washes over me. Somehow, for whatever reason, that brief moment is one of pure, unadulterated happiness for me.

Between being scared shitless, intimidated by a death talk, and having a punishment whipping to look forward to, I don't even expect resistance. Somehow, despite your breach of conduct minutes earlier, I actually trust you and I believe that this can and will happen to my satisfaction. It will be all the more dangerous for you if you unexpectedly fail me, because I don't mean to make this symbolic, light or easy. I intend to vacate my bowls entirely into your mouth, making you eat as many mouthfuls as it will take, and I expect you to do take it all, and to keep it down afterwards, too.

Robbie -- Marcus

I am a very miserable boy. When you suddenly start for me with a teasing "Boo!" I fall from my knees to my butt, and lean away from you, wide-eyed, the fear showing in my expression, and in my eyes, which glimmer with tears. You did that just to tease me. I know it. We both know it. And it worked. You scared the living shit out of me, elevated my heart rate, made my cry like a baby, evoking the very responses that you probably expected. But I am powerless to stop myself from reacting to you. You have me absolutely terrified. I am completely intimidated by you. You are strong, huge, manly, and mean. You beat me and fuck me and do whatever you want to me, and there's no way I can stop you. Absolutely no way. And there's nobody to help me down here. If there is anybody else down here but the two of us, it's little Laura Vandahl from a grade below me in school. She disappeared right before I did. You probably do have her. But even the two of us put together are no match for you.

I listen as you chastise me for my pathetic answer about the chastity device. You're right, of course. It was pathetic. I realize that. You warned me that you would ask that very question, but in all of the trauma, the episode with the bucket, I forgot. I forgot to calculate the number of hours. You were ("No -- ARE," I correct myself) going to whip me if I got it wrong. Problem is, I have not even the slightest idea how many hours I spent on the mattress, in the dark, immobilized. ("He said a morning, day, night, and morning -- or something like that -- remember?") My brain is so foggy I'm not even sure what time it was when you put the thing on my dick in the first place. I'm not even sure what day you put it on. I could be off by 24, 48 or even more hours. I was going to try to calculate it. But I forgot. And then the question came, and I wasn't ready. My answer was ridiculous. Pathetic. Punishable. And now it's too late. You're going to whip me, and I don't even know how many hours I was off.

"When I ask you how many hours it's been since you last came, and specifically demand you to do the math, explaining that you'll be whipped for the hours you are off the actual time, do you really expect to satisfy me with 'M-more than t-two days' sorta answer?" you ask, mocking me.

"No, Master," I quaver, wishing I had not said that, not said it that way. Your tone mocks me. I sounded like a baby when I said that. An infant. You're right to mock me.

"You were also tell me how does it feel, which, by the looks of it, I'll have to torture out of you . . ."

I open my mouth to speak, but close it again. You don't want an answer now. You didn't invite me to speak. ("Please, please don't torture me," I say to myself, as my eyes glisten with tears once again.)

We return to the security room and I kneel between your legs. When you show me your arm, I look like my own arm has just been caught in the cookie jar. Your arm is scratched. Bleeding, even. I did hurt you. We both know it's not bad, but it's there. I'm guilty. I did it. I hurt you. I broke your skin with my frantic struggling. There is no escaping the fact that I will be punished for that. I have so many punishments and tortures stacked up now, and I'm screwing up so bad, that a sense of foreboding and dread casts a pall over me. I have to get a grip. I have to overcome this. I just don't want to make it worse.

"I'm s-sorry, Master," I whisper, wide-eyed.

"Now, if I wanted to drown you. If I had decided to push your face into that bucket, do you think you could have beaten me, won the struggle? Was it realistic to expect that clawing at my arms was going to save your life?"

"No, Master," I say, feeling foolish. Your words penetrate me, resonate with me. You're right. You're always right. It was foolish to struggle. Very foolish. I'm making foolish decisions. I'm not usually this way. You are in my head. I am really fucked up right now.

I listen as you lecture me, comparing our relative sizes. I've never felt more puny. You ask me if I can bench my own weight, but I don’t even know.

"I- I'm not sure," I whisper. "Master," I add, as you continue without even waiting for my answer. It's fairly obvious, even to me, that you don't really care what I have to say. Nor would I, if I were you. So, I listen, looking up at you from my kneeling, supplicating position.

"Now, if I wanted to drown you. If I had decided to push your face into that bucket, do you think you could have beaten me, won the struggle? Was it realistic to expect that clawing at my arms was going to save your life?"

I look down. What you say is true. I could not stop you. "No, Master," I say, in a defeated whisper.

You talk to me about the different ways of drowning. None of them are appealing; some are worse than others. "Would you like to die like that?"

I shake my head no. I sense that you don't even want to hear my pathetic voice anymore.

You discuss my death matter-of-factly. It would be chilling if I weren't already absolutely terrified of you, of this place, of buckets filled with water and rooms filled with whips and chains and torture devices, some of them obviously child-sized. "Turning a near-certain death into a certain and exceptionally awful death isn't exactly the best outcome for you. Is it?"

I shake my head no. You're right, of course. I agree with you. Even as scared as I am, you're making perfect sense. I'm well-rested. My mind is alert. I can't disagree with a thing you have said so far. And it would be suicide to do so, anyway.

You then proceed to go through a few straightforward examples of how I might be put to death. All of them unsavory. All of them leading to a very final, unhappy outcome. My head spins a little, and I swallow hard to avoid fainting. It is surreal in an almost out-of-body way to be kneeling on the floor at the feet of an adult who is talking matter-of-factly about killing me. Not just killing me, but drowning me, roasting me, blowing my head off with a gun. If it weren't you, and I didn't know this place and what's in it, even in my fear I might assume that you were joking or teasing me. But I do know you, and I do know this place. In this place you can fuck a kid in his ass with your cock coated with acid, listening as he howls and shrieks in pain, and then drown him in a bucket of water like a kitten. You're not kidding. And that makes it all the more chilling, all the more terrifying, and all the more surreal.

"Is that clear, kid?" you say at the end.

I nod. "Yes, Master," I whisper, my voice soft, as my brain ponders death by fire. ("Fry and sizzle," I repeat to myself, absently, thinking of my skin.)

You tell me again I'll be punished for hurting you, and you need a sign of devotion from me. I nod. I nod vigorously. I am devoted. I am devoted to not pissing you off. I am devoted to continued living. I am devoted to whatever you want me to do whenever you want me to do it. You have me completely and abjectly terrified. I have a tense, nerve-inducing feeling that I'm not cutting it here. That I'm not going to make it. That I'm running out of chances. I know that I've messed up just about everything you've given me to do -- from lying to you, from writing about lying in the journal, from writing about lying in the journal in my own blood, from failing to please you with a second blowjob, from calculating the number of hours I've been in chastity, and by scratching and hurting you just a few minutes ago. If this were a sporting contest, I would be like 0-10. And this isn't a sporting contest. You aren't going to put up with failure like that for long. You may not have been serious about drowning me a few minutes ago but lately we’ve been having an awful lot of conversations -- actually lectures -- about my behavior and my impending death.

So, I nod. A lot. I'm devoted. I really am. In addition to being frightened of you, I'm also intimidated. You are stronger, bigger, smarter, manlier, and a lot of other "ers." I am . . . not much in comparison. But I can be devoted-er. I can show you. I will show you. I want to show you. My devotion borders on worship. I can't help it. You are so deep in my head that I can't even think straight.

I lie back on the floor -- responding instantly to your command -- and open my mouth, as you continue to speak, and the horror of what you are about to do to me registers. My eyes display unhappiness and fear, but my mouth remains open. My mind races with snippets of little words and phrases. Shit. In my mouth. Swallow shit. Eat shit. ("You ate dog food -- it's just dog food," I tell myself.) But it's not dog food. It's shit. Poo. Crap. Feces.

Before I can finish thinking about it, finish steeling myself, your loose-fitting pants are down, and your naked ass is crouched over my face. I see your cleft, your hairs there, the darkness. I see your asshole. And like a little toilet I move my body an inch further down, positioning my mouth under your anus as you fart directly into my face. I don't close my eyes. I have to see. And I do see. I watch. I witness as your anus dilates, then begins to spread, then parts and separates, a brown spear of shit emerging from inside, framed all around by the pinkish interior of your anal ring. ("Oh, God," I think to myself.) I force my mouth to remain open and clasp my fingers into fists of determination at my sides. I know that this is not an optional exercise. My very survival may depend on me doing this.

Your turd hits my upper lip and bounces into my mouth, and I feel it, warm and heavy, leaden, thick, as it spears into the back of my mouth and rests on my tongue. With every bit of resolve in my young body I force myself to chew-chew-chew-chew-chew, furiously, not tasting -- oh God, please don't taste it -- and swallow. I start to gag but suppress it. The next turd follows the first, and I chew furiously, my fingers and toes clenching and unclenching in distress. My mouth fills with saliva. I don't want to taste what I am consuming. But I do. I taste it. I taste it and I know what it is. Other words do not exist to describe the taste. It is the taste of shit. Warm shit fed directly into my 12-year-old mouth.

The shit keeps coming and coming, and I eat it. All of it. I tell myself that it is dog food, but I know it is not. I swallow it down into my tummy. I taste it everywhere. Smears of it on my lips, my tongue, my teeth. My breath is foul with it. My eyes water. My body is shaking from the trauma of it. I feel like I have committed a crime. A crime against nature. A crime against the living. A crime against my friends, my family, my former life. I have eaten shit. I have eaten shit fed directly into my mouth.

A single command -- "Clean me" -- and I proceed to lick your asshole. My tongue is wet and slippery as I lean up and press my mouth to your hole, bathing you, licking your cleft. A second command -- "Inside, too" -- and my tongue licks deep against your pucker, then spears itself inside your body. I hate every part of this, but I do it, anyway.

Marcus -- Robbie

Memories flood my mind as I squat over your face and start pushing. Memories of how even just to lick my dirty ass for the first time, I had to torture Laura, hard. How she ended up in one of the poop-chairs, strands of hair fixating her in position helplessly, and she nearly drowned in her watery, runny, acidic vomit once a turd landed in her mouth. Which was, by the way, open with stainless-steal mouth-spreader, if I recall correctly. You? You are only bound by my command, and your mouth stays wide open out of fear alone. You keep it open. And not just that, you chew, taste, chew, taste, chew, and swallow the porridge-like, sticky, bulky, heavy substance that can't be confused with anything that it isn't. It's shit. Warm, stinky shit, straight from my crapper, and I push it right into your mouth, turd by turd, piece by smelly piece, and you eat it, and you even manage to keep it down. Some gourmet you are, little ginger boy!

I pace myself, I don't do long continual pushes that would produce long strings of shit, too large for your mouth, impossible to process. I feed it to you in manageable pieces, if that's even possible. But I guess it is. You manage. Somehow, you manage. I instilled so much fear in you that despite the gagging and clenching and clear, acute distress that I see from your prone body, you do it, you take it, take it all. And keep it down. How cute.

The sadistic satisfaction of pushing you through such an atrocity, through such utterly, brutally depraved act, through one of the oldest and most universal taboos of mankind, is absolutely profound. It certainly is one of the most satisfying things I've ever done to you, if not the most satisfying thing; it’s a shame it won't always have the same effect. This is special because it's your first time. With too much repetition, it would lose its potency and its magic. I can't do it all the time, which is a pity, because really, this is so wrong, depraved, and sadistic on so many levels it makes me shudder with pleasure. It makes my cock ragingly, furiously hard, and I almost cum. It was absolutely wonderful, the whole act. I sigh slightly, then snap 'clean me' and your tongue darts forward and starts licking and removing whatever remains there are, still perfectly obedient.

And then, with equal obedience, you push your tongue-tip into my ass and wiggle it. Your tongue feels good, nice, and strong as you try to do a good job but end up keeping your actual penetration quite shallow. It’s firm, but you mainly use the tip of your tongue. That won't do. I enjoy myself for a little while, but after some time, when I see that you're relying on getting away with the spear-shaped point of your tongue doing some turning and twisting, hoping it will be intense enough, I grunt with dissatisfaction and speak to make sure I get the full service, the way I expect it.

"Did you think that pretty tongue stud is just a decoration, kid?" I laugh. "Push it in. And out. And in and keep going. In, and deeper, deeper, and wiggle. Ram your face into my ass. Tongue my damn hole. Tongue it good. Tongue it hard. Tongue it deep," I demand. I sit down on your face, my ass crack pinching your nose closed, effectively cutting your air off, for extra special motivation. This would also be a way to off you, if I felt so inclined. But once I'm satisfied with the quality of your rimming, I lean forward just enough to expose your nose and allow it to sniff in a think streak of smelly, butt crack air. That's how I communicate with you for the next quarter of an hour. When I'm unhappy with the intensity of your effort, I lean back and cut off your air, when you start performing to my satisfaction, I lean forward just enough for you to breathe.

"You know what I found in the garden the other day?” I ask you casually. “A wasp's nest. I usually get hornets late in the season, and some ground bees, but a huge wasp nest like this, this early, it surprised me. And it got me to thinking," I start ranting away. “Those little beasties could do my job for me on an occasion. You know, I could just spill the nest in your cell. I have a bee suit, so grabbing it and not getting stung myself would be easy. Then I thought to myself, if they are not mad enough, I'd just end up with a cell full of wasps and a boy with just a few stings. So I thought I could tie you up first, and pour sugar water, and connect you to some electricity, so you keep twitching and bucking with wasps all over you, and keep getting stung more on more.”

“And then I remembered how sweetly you wailed when I fucked your ass with the ginger extract on it -- I bet you remember, that too," I continue with a laugh, "and wondered what sounds you would make if I stuck a big fucking funnel up your ass, cracked the nest open, and poured those beasts down the funnel. Most would fly away, but I bet a good few would get in. Then I wouldn’t even have to use electricity to get you to buck, you see?" I describe vividly.

My tone grows a little darker. "What's between you and that happening to you is just your tongue in my asshole. Make it go deeper than any tongue has ever been up that hole. I don't care if you have to dislocate your jaw to open your mouth so wide, or what you have to do, but be the best inside-of-the-ass-polisher ever, or . . . I'll bring the magic of nature down here," I laugh. I laugh and relax to enjoy if not the best, then definitely at least the most-motivated rimming ever performed on my puckered hole.

In the end I stop you simply because I'm too horny to enjoy it; it's almost like being edged. I walk a few steps into the surveillance room, get a phone from a drawer (there’s no signal down here, in case you were ever wondering), prepare it for a selfie-video mode, and pass it to you.

"On all fours,” I command. “Now, I assume you are aware, having walked through, and even spent some time in this room, that this whole dungeon is just stuffed with cameras hidden in all sorts of places. What you just did was recorded from several angles, and at least one of them in full HD quality, with sound. So, what you are about to do is just a little cherry on top of the cake. You will start recording, and you will tell the potential viewers your full name, your age, and your hometown. You will then grin and open your mouth, and you will tell them what the mess in your mouth is. You will describe, not just say with two words or so, but describe, step by step, what you just did. You will tell them you will do it again, if commanded, because that's what you do down here, you obey. That will do, you can turn off the recording then. If I'm happy with the way you do it, I'll use lube when I fuck you. If I'm not happy, I'm not sure if I can even be bothered to use spit."

I smile cruelly and touch your pucker through that steel ring that exposes it with the hot throbbing tip of my cock. “This is an important video," I smile, "because if you ever openly defy me, and I decide to punish you, a part of that punishment will be this whole incident going online. Public. For everyone, including all your family and friends, that last thing they will hear from you and about you will be that you are a shit-eater and dirty crap-hole cleaner," I say cruelly. "Press record. Now!" I command.

And as you do and start speaking, I keep teasing your pucker with my cock tip, slightly slick with precum, not entering, but teasing, toying with it, hoping that perhaps a little pleasured moan will escape your shit-dirty lips while you are talking to what might be the entire internet, should I decide to upload the video one day. I listen to you, your shaky catching voice, and I reach for lube towards the end. I wasn't going to go in dry no matter what, apart from perhaps if you totally refused to comply, which isn't going to happen, obviously, if you just debased yourself by eating my shit. I let you say what you have to say, but when you're done and about to press the stop button, I stop you.

"Don't stop. Keep it running. Keep looking into it. Tell them what's happening," I say, and then, with your face still being recorded in a close-up selfie mode, I slowly penetrate your ass. "Tell them what you are wearing. And tell them that if you drip cum, you'll have to lick it up and ask for a punishment." I smirk. I let my slippery, huge, hard, swollen glans press into those sweet pink folds and creases, and watch them part and open for me, stretching until they turn smooth, crease-free, thin pink-like, stretched to their utmost around my thick cock. I push further, my glans inside you now.

"Keep reporting, boy," I laugh. "Make it a nice color commentary, like a football announcer." And with that, I start pushing deeper, and deeper, and deeper. I'm slow, and I pause whenever I hit resistance. "Breathe. Relax. I don't mean to tear another ass so soon. Who would I bugger if the only pucker not dripping blood down here is my own?" I ask with a cynical, rhetorical mockery, but without telling you what I mean exactly. If you’re smart, you might be able to figure it out.

I pull out, not entirely but to a point where my tip is in so shallowly that I have to hold it in position, or it would certainly slip. I aim my next thrust downwards against your prostate. If you haven't lost any cum already, you just did. I know that. But whether, despite your lasting chastity, I can actually make you cum despite my cock being so agonizingly painful to take, I don't know. And I don't care. If you don't cum, I know I can bugger you safely without giving you even a semblance of a relief. If you do cum, I will have fun humiliating you even more, and punishing you for it. It’s a win-win for me. I always win down here. It's usually a part of the rules of any of the games we play. Rule number one. Marcus always wins. The corollary to that rule: Kid always loses.

I pull back, and this time my generously lubricated cock actually slips out of your hole, somewhat annoyingly, and I have to re-penetrate you. It takes some effort to do so reasonably slowly. Even though I said it with amusement in my tone, I meant it when I said I don't want to tear your ass. I want it in one peace, for purely selfish, utilitarian reasons, one of is that seeing an ass bleeding profusely actually proved a far-from-sexy sight last time, and that memory is still fresh. So, I treat it accordingly. It is not out of niceness or mercy. I don't care about your pain; in fact I enjoy the act mainly because of the amount of pain it's causing you, but just like I would with any other sex toy that I don't want broken too soon, I handle you with reasonable care.

I make you record the whole act, even borrowing the phone from you to make a close up of your hard-earned, anal cream pie. Only then is the recording over, and so, too, is this part of your ordeal. You're still in for a whipping, though, both for your demented answer, and for scratching me, and also for that dribble of cum on the floor.

Robbie -- Marcus

It seems to go on and on, endlessly. Your anus dilates, and opens, and another lump of shit squeezes out, into my open mouth. I dare not close my mouth; my jaws remain apart, ready to take your offering. My hands are shaking by my sides as I clench my fingers and toes, willing you to stop, willing your bowel movement to come to an end. But it doesn't end. Turd after doughy turd plops into my mouth, some rebounding off my lips and dangling on the edge before falling in. My lips are foul with shit. My lower set of teeth, too. My mouth is swimming with a mixture of saliva and feces. Did you know that your saliva glands go crazy when somebody craps in your mouth? Neither did I. Not until today.

I manage to keep from vomiting. I just concentrate on chewing, and swallowing, as if I'm eating a hated food, like lima beans, or more recently, slimy dog food. The taste is horrible. Evil. Cloying and awful. It tastes somewhat salty. Earthy. It is soft and horrifyingly warm, and the smell is beyond horrible, truly evil. But there is something even worse than the taste, even more awful than the consistency, and more horrible than the smell. And that's the knowledge of what I'm eating. And where it's coming from. I'm eating shit -- warm shit -- and it's coming straight from your asshole, straight from inside your ass, straight into my mouth.

I know that I've reached a new low. Not just in my life, but in human life generally. I'm a shit-eater. I am a human toilet. I am lying here, on my back, naked, collared, with that thing around my dick, my mouth open and willing, ready for your shit. I'm not even fighting back. I'm just taking it, eating and swallowing. I feel subhuman. If I were brave, I would fight you. I would fight you until you killed me. The outcome would be certain, but at least if I had courage, I wouldn't be a subhuman shit-eater. I had courage a couple of weeks ago when I was a regular boy, but you have stripped that courage from me. In here, I am nothing but a pathetic, terrified little kid.

I'm not much into history, but I remember seeing a photograph in my social studies book last year of Jews being taken to a pit to be executed by the Nazis during the holocaust. There was a long line of them. They were all naked. Nazi guards stood nearby, brandishing machine guns. A naked Jewish man knelt by his naked little son and pointed to the sky, trying to comfort the small child before they both were executed. I remember thinking that the Jews should have run, tried to get away, tried to overpower the guards. Why would they just walk to their deaths like that?

Now I know the answer. The Jews walked to the pits to be machine-gunned because they had no choice. They had no hope. They had no way to escape. And that is me now. I can't stop you; in fact, I'm terrified of you. I’m in awe of you. Nobody is going to help me. Nobody is going to intervene on my behalf, stop you, or arrest you. Nobody else even is here. I'm 12 years old. You are twice my size, three times my age, and four times my strength. If you want to shit in my mouth, you simply will. If I fight you, I will lose, and I will still end up eating shit after you have punished me for opposing you. If I disobey you will hurt me. You will torture me. I know I have made the right decision, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I’ve never felt more betrayed and I’m the one who betrayed me.

So, I eat your shit. Every last bit of it. And when you have finished emptying your bowels into my mouth, I proceed to lick and clean your ass, tonguing the shit from your anus, cleaning your hole with my studded tongue. Back in the real world, my friends and classmates are in school. I don’t know it for sure, of course, but at the precise moment I am cleaning your asshole with my pierced pink tongue, Mr. Benson is probably talking to some of them in 5th period science class, talking to them about me, about Laura, about personal safety. Ever since Laura's letter arrived, with the accompanying note from The Kidnapper, our little town has been on edge and paranoid. Parents won't let kids out of their sight. The police have upped their patrols. Kids are worried; parents are frantic. "The police will find them eventually," confides Mr. Benson as I lick the shit from your asshole while you squat over my face with your pants around your ankles.

I lick your hole until the exterior of it and your cleft are clean and free of shit. My stud catches and pulls as I work. Then tip of my tongue penetrates you, squeezed by your sphincter as I spear it inside your rectum. I can feel the stud as my tongue folds around it, and I must press hard to get the thickness of the stud past your sphincter muscles. I was using just the tip of my tongue to lick and clean you, until you ordered me to press deeper inside. I press my mouth to your anus, latching on as you sit back, and worm my entire tongue inside your bottom, forcing the stud past your barrier.

I can't breathe as you sit astride my face, but I dare not attempt to move. I steal a breath through my nose as you rock forward, then press my tongue deeper as you sit back. We continue like this for a while, with you rocking on my face, grinding your asshole against my face, my mouth, and my tongue. I hate this, but it's better than eating shit; I still can’t get the taste out of my mouth, or even get the foul substance off my teeth. It’s stuck there, and I’m too busy licking and probing your asshole to remove it. Your rectum is warm, and your anus grips my tongue as I spear in and out. I steal breaths as I can. It is dark and sweaty and musky as you sit on my face. I hate it, even as my cock twinges in its unforgiving metal tube.

As I lick, I can hear you speaking clearly. My ears are not covered at all. I listen as you talk about the wasps. I press deeper into your ass as my skin crawls. Wasps are the worst. Worse than anything. They can sting over and over and over. Ask Shane Overdorf. He reached into a hole in the drywall at his grandparents' house to get a ball. There was a nest in the wall. Wasps. He got stung like 30 times and his arm swelled up like a sausage. The little fuckers were crawling up his arm, stinging him, and he couldn’t get them off. I don't want wasps in my cell. I wouldn't be able to get away. They would sting me over and over.

I continue to press my tongue deep into your asshole as your ruminations go darker. I would be tied. Covered with sugar. Zapped with electricity. You're crazy! I've been kidnapped by a crazy, insane man who likes to torture kids! My heart is racing before you even get to the part about the funnel. And when you encourage me to press my tongue deeper, I am highly motivated to do so. I do press deeper. My tongue goes deeper and farther into your ass than just about any 12-year-old boy's tongue has ever gone in a man's ass since the beginning of time. I am virtually a record-holder in the Boy-Tongues-Man's-Ass category.

Finally, you tire of my oral ministrations, and I am able to draw a clean, cool breath of air for the first time in a while. As you leave the room I continue to lie there, on my back, simply because you have not yet instructed me to move. I do roll my tired tongue around in my own mouth, trying to cleanse my teeth of feces. It’s everywhere. Even worse is the fact that I am salivating like crazy, as if my mouth is trying to self-clean. But all that makes me do is swallow, so every few seconds I taste the liquid, shit-infused foulness of my own saliva as it slides like a milkshake down my throat and into my stomach.

When you return, I obediently climb to all fours, as commanded, still working my jaws, mouth, and tongue to rid myself of the horrifying, cloying nastiness of the feces that is glued to my teeth. My body appears ready for your assault, even if I, myself, am not. I listen, quietly, obediently, and miserably, as you explain what I am to do next. I have to record myself. Reveal who I am, and tell everyone that I am a disgusting, subhuman shit-eater. Just because you think it’s funny. I don’t think it’s funny at all. It’s embarrassing, and my face turns a deep pink color. It’s one thing to make me do something that awful, but to tell everyone, for the whole world to know what I just did, it’s simply unimaginable. Then again, the act itself already has been recorded. You could just post that to the Internet any time you want. If that gets out, I am done for, anyway. There won’t even be a reason to go home, even if I’m rescued. I’ll never be able to show my face to anyone who knows me. You truly have my entire life in your hands, in more ways than one.

In the end, of course, I have no choice. I know that you will simply beat the living shit out of me, or worse, if I disobey. And I’ll end up making the video, anyway, probably after you make me eat another load of your shit just to get my mouth full of it again. Te only difference will be that I’ll be bruised and mattered from the beating you’ll give me to make me do it. I feel trapped and cornered. There is no way out.

I take the phone. I point it at myself, and on your order, I press record. I swallow one last time, one last shit-flavored shot of saliva to remind me what I just ate. Then, in a soft, compliant voice, I begin to speak.

“My name is (I swallow again) Robert Waskowicz . . . I’m 12 years old, and I live in Waverslee (at this moment, your cockhead begins to tease my ass, poking and rubbing against my orifice, between my cheeks, causing me to flinch). . . um, I used to live in Waverselee . . .” (I flinch again, as your cockhead threatens my opening). I open my mouth, and grin, falsely, baring my teeth for the phone camera. My teeth are brown-stained in places, and chunks of nastiness can be seen in the gaps in between. I hold my mouth open, rocking a fraction of an inch forward on my knees as your cockhead caresses my nether region. My mouth doesn’t look right. It most closely resembles that of a boy who has just eaten a Snickers candy bar and is in immediate need of a toothbrush. It looks like some kind of candy. Chocolate candy. Or is it?

I resume speaking. My voice is very soft. My eyes are puppy-dog sad. “The stuff in my mouth is shit. My Master made me eat it. I . . . I was bad. So, um, I lay down on my back. And (I swallow again) I put my . . . I had to (I flinch as your erection prods my anus). . . I got my mouth open. And my Master took a dump right in my mouth. And I chewed it up and ate it,” I add quickly. I pause, as if finished, and suddenly remember that there was more. “If (I swallow again) my Master (my voice rises on the word “Master” as you poke my butt hole with your cockhead) . . . tells me to do it again, I have to. ‘Cause I have to obey what he says,” I add.

When I am finished speaking -- finished saying everything I can remember -- I look to my left, and to my right, the camera still on me, not sure what to do. You tell me to keep recording. I put my head down for a second, my ginger crown facing the camera, as you position yourself for entry. I know what you are going to do. I begin to speak. “M-my Master’s gonna f- (I groan with worry) fuck me now,” I say in a worried, panting voice of anticipated pain. I grunt as you press forward. “He’s . . . pushing his (I gasp) cock . . . in my b-butt.” I lower my head in pain, then look up again as you break the resistance of my beleaguered sphincter and slide your cockhead into my ass. When I look up, my mouth is clenched with pain, my pupils are rotated toward the ceiling, and I have a look of pain etched in my face. I groan softly as my eyes shimmer with tears. I readjust my hands on the floor as you mount me like a dog. “It’s partway- partway in my b-butt,” I gasp, in a pained, tight, little voice.

As you proceed to fuck me, I continue to narrate for the camera in a pained, resigned voice. I describe what I feel as I rock back and forth in response to your thrusts. Anyone watching the video, even with the sound off, would know that the boy was being fucked in his ass. My facial expressions and back-and-forth rocking tell the story as much as my words do. But my words narrate, and the gasps, grunts, and groans punctuate the fact that this is a boy-fuck video, and that the cock doing the fucking is man-sized. On your command, I tell the audience what I’m wearing and even aim the camera between my legs – but I can’t be sure it focuses or I have the angle right. I bring it back to my face. It is the face of a young boy in the act of taking a large cock up his ass.

The lube helps a lot, but the pain still is there. You can see it in my face and hear it in my grunts, groans, and little squeaks. But there is something more than just pain at work here. As your cock brushes my prostate, I begin to welcome the sensation, and even seek it, pushing my bottom back against your cock to aid the process. I continue to narrate, my voice choppy now. “My Master is fucking me . . . uhh . . . uhh . . . uhh . . . in the . . . uhh . . . ass. He’s . . . uhh . . . fucking me . . . ahhh . . . it’s g-going deeper (my head drops down, then looks back up). “It hurts . . .uhh . . . uhh . . . it’s really . . . uhh . . . big . . .” My cock strains in its metallic tube as you stimulate my prostate. I can’t get hard, but I start to leak, and at one point my cock quivers and spasms in the throes of a partial orgasm. Boy juice leaks to the floor underneath me. Contraband boy juice from my over-stimulated loins.

Marcus -- Robbie

This turns out to be one of the hottest fucks yet, certainly the hottest fuck of your cute ass, my little ginger pet. Your ass is tight, and you spasm around me in pain as my huge cock invades that tiny hole. The fact that you're fully aware that all this is being recorded makes it even hotter. The fact that you're holding up a phone, and your flinching, wincing face can be seen in the front with our fucking bodies in the back, somewhat blurry, as you comment and report on exactly what I'm doing to you makes it even more sexy. Lava hot. Sizzling, frying, steaming hot. Every grunt, every gasp of pain you make when I thrust in is captured, both by the security cameras from various angles, but also as a close-up of your face and how you react to it, and whatever words you find to describe it. Your shit-stained mouth reports on what happened to you and is happening to you, and the deep humiliation of it makes the situation even more arousing.

I'm soaring with it. Enjoying every thrust. Aware that mixed with all the pain and dread and humiliation, there's also pleasure, and it shows. When this video is out, when your tearful, freaked-out, disgusted mother sees it, there will be added horror; the awful element that even under such utterly extreme, unimaginable circumstances, you are aroused and getting off on this to a certain degree. When you cum, even though it is not a satisfying, proper orgasm – indeed, far, from it -- and even though only a limited amount of cum can dribble out of your cock which, struggling to stiffen in its tube, kind of locks itself, and prevents any proper release, it still shows. I feel it in the tightening of your ass around me, and I'm sure it shows on your face, too, the way your voice peaks certainly hints that something like that is happening.

I cum soon afterwards, deep inside you, thrusting in a few more times as my cum floods your ass generously; a lot more generously than your chastity device would ever allow you to cum. My cumshot is probably worth five of yours at least on any given day, but today mine is especially strong as I shudder and groan loudly in the intense throes of an orgasm that deliciously, intensively satisfies my body, mind, and soul all at once, while yours is especially limited due to the device.

In fact, as your prostate tries to expel and pump out cum out through your trapped, constrained cock, which is futilely attempting to stand up in the tube that keeps it small and downwardly pointing, you should feel a sharp pain. The counter-pressure that's simply not meant to be there causes considerable pain, most likely spoiling any semblance of a pleasurable release that this could otherwise have brought you and leaving you, if anything, more tense and desperate. It will be only when your arousal has faded and the remains of the cum in your piss tubes and related areas finish dribbling out that the pain will dull down and eventually fade away.

I've come up with lots of fucked up things in the past weeks, but putting a hormonal, nearly-teenage boy who was an avid masturbator, used to lots and lots of release, into harsh, strict chastity may be one of the most devious ones, actually. I wonder how long before all that unreleased tension will start driving you mad and it makes you so desperate it will actually further change your personality and temperament. We shall see; the device doesn't go off, no release is allowed, not today, nor in the days to come. All it will take for the full deviousness of this scheme to unfold is for some more time to pass.

I pull out, make a close-up video of your gaping ass exposed by the metallic ring around it, leaking cum. Much to my satisfaction, there is no blood, meaning that I achieved exactly what I was going for: hurting you and humiliating you without really harming you. I present my cock to you, complete with cum, lube, and small smears of your own mess on it, but it doesn't matter what's on it; you will clean it up. There's no substance on Earth foul enough that could be on that cock that you would not open your mouth for it, I'm confident of that now. On that front, you've been broken. Someone who takes and eats, mouthful after mouthful, an entire bowel movement of another person and keeps it down, won't make fuss about a little stickiness on a cock that needs a bit of sucking and licking to be clean. I let you get on with it.

"If ever you feel brave enough to stand up to me, to say no to my face, even knowing it might get you killed, or very nearly so, before you do it, take a breath, and imagine your mother watching this video, and it being the last thing she ever hears from you and about you, other than maybe your body being found much, much later, all messed up and mutilated," I say as I stroke your hair while you are at it. "Think about that, think hard, before you ever do anything stupid."

I let you suck on my cock for a while, just so we both have a bit of a rest, in relative terms at least, for the thought to sink in and for my cock to get really thoroughly cleaned. Then, you are to lick your own cum, small droplets as well as the larger splash, cold and already drying, as well was sticky, off the floor. I make you polish the floor clean with your tongue really thoroughly before I deem the job sufficiently well done.

I lead you into the dungeon and make you hop onto the larger of the punishment benches, the one that is generously padded. You kneel on it and your ankles, knees, wrists, and neck all get locked in place. One knee and hand on each of the lower, side plans, your body firmly but relatively softly supported from your locked bits all the way to your upper chest and chin. I use wide straps and tighten them up nicely. I won't rely on your not moving out of position on this occasion, I want to lose myself in hurting you without having to pause and fiddle and think and worry.

"Here's for fucking up your answer to how long you've been in chastity, and for scratching me, and whatever else you've done -- let's not be perfectionists about the details. The point is, you deserve to be hurt, and I feel like hurting you," I say bluntly and honestly. "It's funny what a difference a year of age can make," I muse. "You totally get it. You know that hurting you arouses me. That I enjoy doing it. Laura hasn’t quite come to that realization, you see?" I say, as I prepare a whole variety of tools.

The first tool is an absolutely gorgeous ruler, twelve inches of solid, dense beech wood. It will hurt, I can assure you, even if I just use it got get you warmed up for the main event. Next up is an actual rod, a perfect tool for punishment, even if mostly associated with the old “spare the rod” saying. It has just enough flex to sting like a motherfucker, but enough firmness to mark the skin and provide that deeper, more lingering pain. Next is a strap of suede leather, heavy, split into three folds at the end, firm enough not to flop around too much. It's almost as firm as a paddle, which gives me a lot of control and makes it easy and convenient to use, while still bending over the skin and having a much larger area of impact where it really stings and causes fiery, pain. Last up is my favorite cane. It’s one of the meanest ones available, if not the meanest one outright. It is a soaked, oiled bamboo cane, 36 inches long, light and agile, less prone to breaking skin or to inflict the deep heavy bruising that would take long to heal, but with a super-awful, wasp-like sting that has a tendency to linger as an unpleasant prickly sensation making each new stroke harder and harder to take. Used properly, with he blows applied in quick succession, it can cause an unbearable flood of agony.

None of this is at all fair to you, of course. You’re not a bad kid at all. I didn’t do the research on you that I did on Laura, but by all signs, indicators, and accounts, you’re just a nice, normal, well-adjusted 12-year-old boy. You have a soft side. You’re sweet. You were probably popular and a fun kid to be around. You had friends. You were a good athlete. You were personable. You likely did well in school. Your teachers probably liked you a lot. You had two loving parents. Maybe even siblings. But you also had the terrible misfortune of becoming known to me. I am none of those things, and if I ever was, it’s been a long, long time since my sweet side showed itself. If I ever had a sweet side, it was long ago captured, imprisoned, and tortured to death by my sadistic side. And now, even thought it is horribly unfair by any objective measure, I own you. I own you heart, soul, and body – especially body, which I can do absolutely anything to, without limitation, as long and as harshly as I please. Right now, I’ve decided to hurt your body, and I can assure you, it is going to hurt. It is going to hurt a lot, certainly more than a sweet, innocent 12-year-old kid who never did anything bad or wrong should ever have to experience. Bad luck, Robbie Waskowicz. Very bad luck.

I make sure that all of the implements are in your view, that you see them all before I even get started. I pick up the ruler, walk over to you, and cup your ass in my hand. I grope it and stroke it. The thin iron "thong" of the chastity device cuts into your butt crack, but it will still be a bit in the way, especially where that steel ring is pressed into your cheeks now, exposing your anus as is desirable for your hygiene and also to enable penetration. My penetration. I will have to work around that axis, aiming most strokes, apart from the leather strap, more on one cheek, and then more on the other, rather than ruining both sides of your ass at once; at least with most strokes, obviously down below, around that line where your ass meets your thigh, the chastity belt is not a problem, but then, that's almost where the bench gets in the way. It will require a certain skill to punish you like so, but then again, it’s a skill that I mastered long, long ago.

"Feel free to make noise,” I advise you. “You can even beg, try and humiliate yourself with insults and make dirty promises, though the chances it will have a significant effect on me are low. You'll be beaten until I've deemed it to be enough, end of story. There's nothing you can really do," I inform you stoically. I'm erect again. The fact that I can actually communicate my sadism to you in advance, before it is actually unleashed, makes my cock drip with precum. This is very arousing to me. This will be fun.

And it is, every moment of it, as I proceed to ruin your bottom expertly. I warm it up with the ruler, forty smacks, most on the lighter side -- by which I mean that they don't break skin, raise welts of blister, not that they don't hurt -- whack, whack, whacky-whack, whack, at rather a sharp pace. This is done for my sake, not yours. I neither want to beat you cold without any warm-up for maximum pain, nor do I particularly care if your body adjusts to the pain level caused to it for the punishment to be bearable. It doesn’t really matter to me either way. Not that your input, particularly of any noise that you'll contribute, isn't welcome and helpful in creating the perfect experience for the sadist in me to enjoy.

After a while, I switch to the rod, a pain that's harder and nastier, causing howls and screams from you that sound delightful to my ears. Welts start to rise up now on the dark pink skin, turning it more towards red. The sound is duller, paradoxically, than with the ruler, because that was flat, and this is round and bit softer. The impacts sound almost like a thumpd, thumpd, like heavy steps of some booted creature. The effect of doing angular impacts on first one butt cheek and then the other is actually quite beautiful; the mid-line, the highest arch of each butt cheek, is darkest and most marked, with the lines fading away into sides, more gradually outwards than inwards, highlighting and flattering, really beautifully, the shape and curve of your little butt. Some thirty smacks land on it, evenly spread, before I run out of space. I reach for the strap.

"This will hurt more," I said and stroke your buttocks with my hand. Oooh, they are so warm. So very, very warm. How nice! And so red now. Delicious.

"Maybe this would be a good time for some begging?" I suggest amusedly. I'm almost certain that, even though I warned you it will not help, in face of the ceaseless flow of brutality, you'll give it a go. There's always hope, right? I like begging.

I stand sideways and unlike before, where the action was coming mostly from my wrist and elbow, I put my whole arm into this phase; holding the tip of the strap over my shoulder and really lean into it. FFFT-SMACK! FFFT-SMACK! FFFT-SMACK! FFFT-SMACK! My oh my, who knew gingers color so beautifully! Your skin is now a deep crimson, fading into purple. It seems to almost glow with the heat of pain caused to it. My cock is throbbing. I lose myself in it. Your wails and begging might actually be useful here, because I do have a tendency to zone out, almost as if into a trance, and I might beat you nearly forever if you didn't make a sound of one sort or another to snap me out of it. I'm breathless, sweaty, and high as a kite on hormones and chemicals that I perceive as joy and bliss.

I've beaten you more, and for longer with the strap than I intended, and it may seem for a moment, as I catch my breath, that this might be over. It is not. I go, return it onto the bench in front of you, and pick up the cane.

"Beg. Swear. Sing. Tell me what a crap-eating lowlife little piece of shit you are. Do everything you can to save your ass," I demand. And I mean it almost literally at this point, as the cane is more than capable of flaying your skin to ribbons, especially in its already-damaged state. I wait. I listen.

"I was going give you a hundred with the cane," I muse. "Let's see how impressive this is, shall we?" I suggest mockingly, and start caning you, strapped down, helpless, immobile, with an ass already purple and welted, THWICK! THWICK, twangggg -- this one slid at bit and wasn't as strong -- THWICK, THWICK, THWICK! The fire of agony just keeps coming. And then, finally, it stops.

I've done a marvelous job on your little butt, Robbie Waskowicz! I've also absolutely and thoroughly enjoyed myself, let myself loose, I'm sweaty, warm, spaced out, totally in a "top-space," overwhelmed with the bliss of hurting you, but at the same time, I held back juuuust enough. Your skin isn't broken, apart from very shallow blisters. There is no blood. And while the whole area has surface deep welting and light bruising criss-crossing over it, like a grilled steak, or perhaps not, the grid of marks being too dense for that, I didn't give you a single deep bruise, nothing that won't be more or less faded in -- at my best guess -- three days' time.

I grab onto those red tomatoes of your butt cheeks, dig my fingers in playfully, climb on top, and fuck your ass again, this time going in balls deep, being a lot less gentle and careful than before. I ride you faster and rougher, but with lots of lube, and with your ass already stretched, your body takes it. It takes only about three minutes of such intense stimulation before my cock twitches and spasms inside of you and shoots another load up into your bowels. I sigh, pull out, and walk out of the dungeon, up into my house to have a shower, leaving you beaten, strapped down, and with your little pucker oozing cum.

You're left like that, overnight. To sleep in that position.

I come in the morning to find an utterly exhausted young boy boy still strapped in position on the punishment bench. I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for you, even if at some point, you must have stopped crying. I brought some aloe vera gel and use it to soothe your ass and help the healing, but I can’t help but use it as lube to bugger you again, giving you about fifteen minutes of a fairly rough, deep fuck, before I cum and relax. I don’t just cum, either, as I empty my bladder up your butt before unstrapping you and directing you to stretch and use the toilet. The mess the two of us made on the floor is the first course of your breakfast, but then you get a proper one, as well as a an antibacterial pill to help your stomach recover from your "supper" last night.

I feed in the following days, as well, but that's all that happens. Breakfasts, lunches, suppers, I rush in at least twice a day, making sure you eat three times. Sometimes I leave behind an extra snack, too. Fruit, nuts, or a cereal bar – that kind of stuff. No more dog food. No more shit. More aloe vera. I don't use you though, and I don't really talk to you. It probably seems like the silence before a storm, like I'm leaving you to rest and regain powers before whatever big thing is coming next.

One evening not too long after your flogging, I take off the device and check that you're not getting sores. Your cock smells awful and your foreskin is full of smegma, but it seems healthy and to be coping well enough with the confinement. I use antiseptic on both the chastity belt and to wash your cock, doing it in icy cold water to make sure you won't get erect and get off accidentally. All too soon, your little "bird" is back in its cage where it belongs.

Quite intentionally, I leave you deprived and bored, alone, with nothing to do. You have plenty of time to sleep and think and wonder about what has happened and what might happen. I make your mind become your own enemy during those three days of silent solitary confinement when I take care of your biological needs, but don't really engage with you beside that. I’m letting your need for anything to happen grow, to turn almost into desire, and also letting your balls do their usual cum- and hormone-producing job, making you hornier and more desperate for a release with each passing hour.

Robbie -- Marcus

I'm pretty sure I came, but it hurts so much I can't be sure. Your cock was killing my rectum with every stroke but it also tickled that spot inside me, giving me that weird feeling. My balls are still aching to cum, but the thing encasing my cock won't let it happen. I want to cum sooooo bad. If you free my cock I would be hard in seconds and spewing cum in just a couple of strokes. And that's regardless of whether I just came while you fucked me, or not.

Regardless of what just happened I am not satisfied. Not even close to satisfied. In fact, it hurts; my balls are aching with need and my cock hurts because it can't get hard. Worst of all is that I know you’re doing that to me on purpose. I know what the device around my cock is for. Can a kid die if he doesn’t cum? Will his balls explode if they keep making cum but can’t get rid of it? I doubt it, but I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that my balls are killing me. They’re tender and they ache. I really, really want to jerk myself off. But there’s absolutely no hope of that.

When you finish inside me, I can feel your warm jizz pumping into my bowels and I know that I'll be loose and runny back there for a while. My ass clenches on your shaft as you pump your sperm deep inside me. At least you didn’t put acid on your cock this time. You sure make a lot of cum when you get off but the way my balls feel right now, I could give you a run for the money. I mean, not really, because I’m only 12 and you’re way bigger than me. But I think I would make the most cum I’ve ever made if I could just jerk myself right now. Unfortunately, that’s not happening, and I’m not sure when it’s going to happen. It’s not going to happen at all with this thing on my cock, that’s for sure.

I remain on my knees after you pull out of my ass. Cum dribbles down my hairless sac and down my right thigh. You take the phone from me and I know you are photographing my butt. Nice. If anyone sees it there won't be any doubt what that white stuff leaking from my ass is. I know it's there and leaking because I can feel it. My ass feels slippery and loose and gaping. I can feel it running down my balls and my leg. I have to admit that you make an awful lot of cum.

You present your cock to me, and I know it's my job to clean it. It doesn't matter what's on it. I take it in my mouth and suckle the head, swirling with my tongue, removing the cum and lube and ass juices. The taste of your cock is becoming more familiar to me. The texture and feel of it in my mouth is familiar, too. You have a huge dick, even when it’s partly soft. The cockhead alone fills my entire mouth, feeling spongy and soft and fleshy. I clean your cockhead and I proceed to lick your shaft, tilting my head to reach the underside. I lick everywhere. I clean it well. I take my time. I don’t want to fail at cock-cleaning.

OK, truth be told, I’m also taking my time because I’m scared to death what you’re going to do to me when I’m done. I know I have a whipping coming, but I have other punishments stacked up, too. So many, in fact that I can’t even remember what they all are. I’m dreading the whipping. I’m not used to corporal punishment. This is all new to me. I don’t like pain. I’m scared of pain, and I’m worried that I have a lot of it coming.

You talk to me as I clean your cock. It’s already clean, and I’m basically just sucking it now. I’ll suck it all day if you’ll forget about my punishments, but I know you won’t. You tell me about showing the video to my Mom. That’s bad enough, but I hate the way you casually talk about mutilating me and leaving my body to be found. Would you mutilate me before or after you kill me? You don’t say, but that’s a pretty big detail to leave out. I don’t want to be mutilated at all. I resolve to be better, more obedient. But the question gnaws at me. Before or after? Are you really going to kill me? Would you really mutilate me? I don’t like what I’m hearing. I have this very disquieting feeling that my life isn’t worth two cents to you. You’d kill me without a second thought if I cross you. You might kill me even if I don’t. The only way I can possibly avoid that fate is if I make myself valuable to you. By serving you. By pleasing you. By obeying you. I resolve to do so. I really, really mean it.

All too soon, you tire of me sucking you. I lick my cum from the floor, and I’m well aware that its mere presence has earned me another punishment. I clean the floor until it shines. When I’m done, I know it’s time for my punishment. My hands and feet feel clammy as you lead me into the dungeon. I feel like a prisoner who’s about to be executed. My heart is racing in my chest. I walk through the dungeon as if in a trance as you lead me to one of the punishment benches. Every cell in my body doesn’t want to get on that bench, but I do so, anyway. You strap me down, which worries me even more. You take your time, carefully buckling each strap. My back, butt, and the backs of my legs are completely exposed. You are so methodical about it, and that makes me very nervous. I feel like I’m going to want to move and also like I’m going to be here for a while. My breaths are coming in little nervous shivers now. I’m very, very frightened.

My blood runs cold when you tell me you like hurting me. What kind of a person likes hurting kids? I was pretty sure you did, but when you confirm it – casually, almost off-handedly – it’s really chilling. Why would you want to hurt me? What did I ever do to you?

You pull the ruler out, and I know exactly how it’s going to be used. It’s going to be used on me, on my ass, and it’s going to hurt. I watch as you bring out the rod, and I swallow in fear. Are you going to use both of them? You probably are. My heart starts to race in my chest. There’s no way out. This is going to happen. You are going to blister my butt. Then you show me the strap. A nasty, three-pronged leather whip that looks positively vicious. If you’re trying to make me nervous, it’s working. Can a kid die from being beaten? Are you going use all three of these on me at once?

And then the cane. I can’t even imagine that hitting my butt. I can’t help it and a little moan of trepidation leaves my lips. I am breathing hard, shivering, very worried. If this is all an act – if you’re just trying to frighten me – you’ve succeeded. The fact that you even have this stuff is scary. Why would anyone buy stuff like this? Why would anyone actually have a dungeon? It would have to be someone who likes to hurt people. Hurt kids. And I’m the kid. One of them, anyway. I look over as you pick up the ruler. And you have a boner. You’re hard again. Just thinking about hurting me makes you hard. You’re sick! You’re crazy!

You tell me I can make noise. That scares me even more. I’m not sure what to do. Will you be more impressed if I’m brave? When you start with the ruler, the first blow lands with a WHACK on my right cheek. It hurts, but it’s bearable. Then my left cheek. Then again, and again, and again. My butt cheeks clench and flex. I am quiet. I am under no illusions that this isn’t going to get a lot more painful. By about the 10th blow of the ruler my butt hurts. I start to dread the next blow. My body flinches. By around the 20th blow my backside is burning. My thighs, too. My butt is clenching defensively now. I can’t help it and I start to grunt after every hit. “WHACK uh, WHACK uh, WHACK uhh,” goes the sequence. My toes start to clench. My face flinches with every hit.

The rod comes next, and it fucking hurts. It’s thin and whippy and I dread every blow. It cuts the air with a “thwoooos,” sound on its way to my body. “Thwoooos –thumpd uhhh, thwoooos –thumpd ahhh, thwoooos –thumpd ah, thwoooos –thumpd uhhhh.” My bottom clenches against the pain. I am hyperventilating and moaning in between blows. My eyes glisten with tears. I tried to hold them back, tried to be brave, tried to impress you, tried to be a big boy. But it fucking hurts. Jesus it hurts. My moans increase in intensity as my ass starts to burn red, with raised welts from the rod.

I am moaning, gasping in pain, as you pick up the leather strap. That thing looks nasty. You warn me it’s going to hurt. And the first blow causes me to strain in my binds for the first time as a tortured “Uhhhh huuuh,” leaves my mouth. I had promised myself I wouldn’t flail around on the bench. I know I can’t get free. But it hurts so bad. I need to get free. I need to pull at the straps. I can’t take this. The strap makes an evil “FTTT” sound as it hurtles towards my backside, punctuated by a nasty, meaty “SMACK” sound as it plows into me. The second blow makes me cry out. “Ahhhhhhh!” But it makes no difference. The blows keep coming. “FTTT-SMACK! Ahhhhhh! FTTT-SMACK! OK! OK! Ahhhhh. FTTT-SMACK! Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhhhh! Owww! FTTT-SMACK! OK! OK! Please! Master! OK! FTTT-SMACK! Ahhhhhh! Master! Please! FTTT-SMACK! Ow! It hurts . . . it hurts . . . FTTT-SMACK! OK! Master! Master! Pleeeease!”

By the time you are done with the strap I am sobbing, my face wet with tears, my bottom ruby red, the skin actually shiny and glowing from abuse. I beg for mercy as you change implements to the cane. “OK . . . Master . . . please!” I gasp. “Please . . . I want to s-suck your cock, I want to suck your coocccckkk!” I sob, begging. I eye the cane in terror. It looks like it will split and slice my skin. “Please Master! Please! I’m sorrrreeeeeeeeeee! Pleeease!”

I manage to pause my screaming as you speak to me. I look up at you in terror as you brandish the cane. Your cock is erect and straining.

"Beg,” you tell me. “Swear. Sing. Tell me what a crap-eating lowlife little piece of shit you are. Do everything you can to save your ass.”

I do. I try. “Please Massstttttterrrr!” I cry. “I want to suck your coccccckkk!” I sing in a mock falsetto, sobbing at the same time. “I want to eat your shittttttttttt! Master! Please. Please. Please don’t hit me . . . don’t hit me with that. I can’t take it. It hurts so bad. Please Master!” As you walk behind me, I become even more frantic. “Master! Pleeeease! Please don’t!“ My voice is frenzied, an octave too high. I am terrified. I don't think I will survive the cane. I actually fear for my life.

But begging doesn’t help. You show me no mercy. Your erection bobs as the cane slices the air and impacts on my pink, red, and purple welted bottom. The pain is unimaginable. Ferocious. I nearly pass out. My eyes roll up in my head, but I recover. I am squealing and yelling, crying and begging, sobbing and grunting, shrieking and screaming. I’m not even sure what I say, what I promise. I would do or say anything to make the pain stop. I say everything that comes into my mind. Nothing helps. Nothing stops the pain.

I am close to passing out from pain as you finally finish, squeeze my burning ass cheeks, and mount me. I gasp, drooling, and moan, as your hard, thick cock plunges into my ass once again, taking me, fucking me, owning me. You fuck me hard and fast this time, and there is not even an illusion of pleasure in it for me. I moan and cry as you fuck me like a disposable sex toy, and I sob as you plunge deep and empty your balls into my bowels. When you pull out and leave me for the night, without fanfare, without a word, I am weeping, my body trembling. My ass is a panorama of colors and textures. I am a very upset kid.

It is a couple of hours before I sleep, and I sleep fitfully. I can’t hold it and end up peeing in the night. In the morning, I wake up as you enter, as you mount me, and fuck my ass again. I grunt as you thrust into my helpless body. It seems to take forever. I can tell you’re making it last.

I am a tired, dispirited boy when you release me. I stretch. I lick up my pee from overnight. I’m sure that I’m going to be punished, but you don’t even speak, just point to it. From my hands and knees, I slurp and lick it up.

The next three days are weird. I get good food. You take care of me. But you don’t speak. You don’t fuck me, or make me suck you, or anything like that. Something is going on. I’m not sure what. By the third day, I’m bored. Very bored. Even worse, I am horny beyond fucking belief. But I can’t even touch my cock, much less stimulate it. Nor can it get hard. When you free me from the device, my hopes rise, but after an inspection and a cleaning, it’s back inside. By the end of day three, I’m bored, stir-crazy, horny as fuck, and desperate for any kind of attention, even the bad kind. I have no idea what’s going on, but something is afoot.

Marcus – Robbie

"Hi there, kiddo," I say, walking into the cell. "Feet!" I snap, without explaining. The moment I see you lurch forward to kiss and lick my feet, I know you are ready, the time is right. "Good boy. Listen now. A shower in the infirmary. Brush your hair. Use this," I toss you a can of Axe, so you will smell good. I give you nice, light hemp-and-linen pants, and a blue shirt. You look sharp. You get no socks, no shoes, and no underpants, but you look sharp.

I think things are going to be overwhelming as they are; I briefly contemplated presenting you to Laura fully girlie, transformed, in your Kaitlyn form, but no. I want Laura impressed first, faced with the boy she loves. Then she will lose him. Step by step, day by day, she will see that he was just a veneer, an illusion, and that what is there instead is a thoroughly, utterly submissive, unresisting slave "girlboy" who changes gender on his master's whims. He will be weaker and more fearful than she is in a shorter period of training time. Mhmm. Right now, however, you look smart and neat. Unless your harness get revealed, unless the stud in your tongue glimmers and catches the eye's attention, you might as well be going out to the movies or something, like nothing ever happened, like there was no kidnapping.

"It's time,” I tell you. “Listen really carefully, boy. Rules will change as and when needed. Today, she's allowed to speak to you, it will not always be so. You are not to talk to her. All you are allowed are nods, shrugs, head shakes. No Morse code, no binary, no secret alphabet or sign language to get around it; you are limited to nods and head shakes. Yes, no, and I don't know. Your lips are sealed when it comes to Laura. You’re not mute; you will answer to me, obviously. But if she asks you a question that cannot be simply answered with a nod or head shake, such as 'what are you doing here' you will ignore it, or shrug. Understood? The punishment for breaking this rule will be super-severe. I might even consider muting you permanently, severing your vocal cords if you wilfully disobey me, which leave your tongue only useful for serving my body. Clear?" I check in a strict tone.

"Some days, you will have restrictions on touching,” I continue. “Today, the only rule is that your chastity belt stays on, and you don't get to have an orgasm. If you as much as dribble cum from your cock-tube, even non-erect, you will report for a punishment. For now, you are the third in the hierarchy here, unless I command otherwise. Unless it breaks any other rules that I've given you, you will obey her. If she says kneel, you will kneel. Clear?" I demand once again.

"Be a good boy. Make me happy. Make me proud," I finish, and walk you out of the surveillance room, out through the infirmary and into the dungeon.

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