Taken 49. A Peculiar Meeting

Marcus

We both eat while I think. Are you my doom or my salvation, little one? Do I manage to cling to sanity, to live my life happily, present and rooted in it day in day out thanks to you, or am I insane, beyond dispute, because of the things I do to you, the things I enjoy doing to you? The steadiness of our routine, the fact that I get sated whenever I like, the fact that I can do absolutely anything I want to you, gives me joy. It makes me think that for the first time in my life, I’m truly alive. It makes me care for the here and now, and not think much about what used to be, and what might be one day. I never believed in much, and I'm certainly not religious. But even in my fearlessness and shamelessness, with my ego the size of Jupiter and a deep-set sense of entitlement, there is, at the very edge of my consciousness, the nagging thought, the knowledge that if there is Hell, I will burn in it.

I'm too smart for my own good; too aware. I have no illusion about any of this being ethical, moral, or acceptable. I'm neither stupid nor mad enough to be deluded that any of this is right. Not because of society, laws, or religion. Even in an irreligious society, primitive and ultra-liberal – it really doesn’t matter which – none of this would ever be acceptable. There's that. Sometimes, like now, thoughts like that creep into my head, but they are just thoughts. Facts, okay, but still, they are just in my head. My head tells me that this is all wrong. My flesh tells me that it wants nothing more. It craves this. It feels right, straight down to the marrow of my bones. And my heart tells me it's worth burning in Hell for love. I push my plate away and sigh. I lean back.

"Make me a coffee, wash up, drink a can of Coke from the fridge, I tell you. “Then go have a rest, have a nap if you like.” I pause. “Laura?" I raise my voice to get your attention. "You will be punished if I catch you yawning again in my presence. If Coke isn't enough, there's Red Bull. Or make yourself a coffee. I don't care. If you yawn or in any way complain that you're tired when you are in my presence, you will be punished," I warn you. "In fact, the moment you yawn in my presence, you will apologize to me and ask for punishment, even if you manage to cover it up with your hand. Even if you keep your lips sealed, the moment your chin drops for a yawn, you're in for a punishment. The moment you forget to apologize, you'll be in for a very NASTY punishment. Now, shoo!" I say, flicking my fingers outwards to hurry you up. What a nice little thought, a nice little rule. A nice thing to mix into this moment of peace.

And then, suddenly, I know. Today is the day. There won't be that many peaceful, tranquil days like this one with a chance to make something strike like a bolt of lightning out of clear blue sky. The moment is now. I'm certain of it. Once I have my coffee, I stand up and walk off into the infirmary and close the door behind me. I go into Robbie's cell and extract him. It's a spur-of-the-moment decision. It's because I can, and because it feels something I should do when I’m in a good mood..

"Laura," I call. "Come here," I call into your cell where you are resting, "I have a gift for you," I say neutrally, perhaps a little bit cheerfully. Almost like in a business meeting, I introduce the two of you, unnecessarily, of course.

"Laura Vandahl, Robbie Waskowitz," I point you both out to each other. "If you remember, there was one thing I asked of you not to hold a grudge against me, not to be bitter about. This is it, this gift. Someone to help you with your duties and responsibilities when it comes to pleasing me, someone who will have to be added to the last part of your mantra, making it 'no one but us and you'," I say, smiling, carefully observing your expression.

"Ultimately, I own him just as I own you. His purpose is to serve me, to join with you in giving me more and even better orgasms. But he's still a gift to you," I say, and then casually bust you, letting Robbie know, without any previous mention of it, so he would be in for a shock too. "Your lover boy, the handsome kid you thought of when I was fucking you, your crush. Here. At your command, for now," I say, laughing a little. There is something hellish and demonic in it. Yes, this is evil. It's nasty. And I'm loving it. This moment alone, as you're both confronted with each other’s realities, would be perfectly worth an eternity of suffering.

"Robbie isn't allowed to speak today. You are, but you know to mind your tongue, I hope. Feel free to give him a hug. Like you might if you got a new puppy as a pet," I chuckle, already certain that a puppy soon will be a part of the equation, too. "I'll give you two a while. I'll grab a beer."

And I do. I walk out on you two, quickly grabbing a beer in the fridge and then watching you from the doorway of the kitchen as you stay at your cell's entrance. This should be interesting. It's one of those moments when I put on a poker face but essentially bluffed. I introduced you calmly, relatively confidently, without much ado, presenting you with your ginger-haired, sweet-faced, school-girl crush. I have absolutely no idea what your reaction will be, after the initial shock. Horror and disgust that this is now happening to you, too? Confusion and curiosity -- given that Robbie is clearly "tame" -- about how long he's been down here? Tears? Hysterical laughter bordering on madness? I seriously have no idea. Gratitude? A little bit of joy? A relief that you will no longer face me, and all of this, alone? I'd hazard a guess that it's going to be a mix of all those things, but what will prevail and how it will show, externally, is a complete mystery to me.

I give you a while, a few minutes, anyway, while I have a few sips of beer, so you can process the shock to your young system. I then come and put a hand on your shoulder, my other arm around Robbie's shoulder, and lead you both, like two chicks under my wings, into the midst of the dungeon.

"You are both exceptionally lucky that Laura did a great job draining my balls really thoroughly this morning. What are you, Laura? Tell him. Out loud," I demand and pause so you can do it. “Right now, because of that, I’m feeling more playful than anything else. You will take, between you, at the very least, three dozen whacks. Twelve with this paddle," I say as I present you with a nice, solid, heavy leather paddle. "Twelve with this crop," I add as I show you a long crop with some yield to it, and a narrow strap of leather on top; a nasty, mean, biting motherfucker, but tested and proven to be soft-edged and generally pliable enough not to cause bleeding unless it is handled exceptionally carelessly. "And twelve with a cane," I add as I pick a random cane from a stand, with the top bent, Victorian-style, and present it to you, then put all of the tools on the nearest punishment bench.

"Here's the rules of this game," I smile a Draconian smile, one that seems almost stolen off a statue of an ancient tyrant. "Laura is in charge today -- in charge of Robbie, that is. So, she decides who gets how many with which implement to start with. You can split them evenly, six each with each of the implements, it's entirely up to you. Or you can be a bit selfish, given that just now his butt is unmarked and yours still has fading marks, or you can be generous, and take more than half. Entirely up to you.”

“That sets the beginning,” I continue. “After that," I say, amused and smugly, sadistically pleased with myself, “you are allowed to start begging. I will keep spanking, and only pleasing and begging will make me stop. The sweet twist to this little game is that any promises delivered during the begging phase must be delivered on the other one's behalf. What that means is, when I'm spanking you, Laura, you can't say 'master please stop, I will suck your cock,' but 'master please stop, Robbie will suck your cock,’" I explain.

"Once the spankings are finished, we'll make good on all the promises. Whoever isn't busy being spanked will write them down," I smile and fumble a bit longer in the shelves before coming up with a paper notepad and a sharp, new pencil. "And we'll stay together, so you will get to watch your promises being delivered by the other. Now, before any confusion arises, you've both been good today, so this is not a punishment. This whole game will be played solely for my amusement and entertainment. It will be fun. Whatever pain it will involve, or nastiness in the 'promise phase,' will be your devout sacrifice to your master."

With that, I pick up the paddle and look at you. "So, Laura. Twelve whacks with a paddle. Who gets how many? Also, unless Robbie is getting all twelve, now would be the time that you undress. Both of you, actually," I suggest, and smile. You both will be naked down to only the irremovable steel that you both wear regardless of your will. And off to a whole new game. A whole new phase. A phase with two slaves on my hands, whom I no longer need to hide from each other. Keeping you unaware of each other’s presence here was becoming a nuisance, especially when it came to feeding you. I was also getting tired of trying to keep my sadism from you. This game really is the perfect demonstration, without any doubt, that I have fun hurting you. I enjoy it. And it can come even when the day is good, and you have done absolutely nothing wrong whatsoever. Now you know that I do these things to entertain myself, to test you, to see your skin redden and welts rise, to make you cry and beg. To have fun.

Laura

I eat, and then I eat some more. I’m not very good at cooking, but I helped to make this meal, I’m hungry, and it tastes good. I’m clothed, too, for once, and even though I almost forgot my panties, once I settle down to eat, I feel right and almost normal. I’m pretty pleased with the way today went. I got you off three times, and although it was a little nerve-racking to be “on the clock” for the first two, it didn’t hurt, I didn’t get punished, and I didn’t earn any punishments for future infliction. You’re not mad at me, and that fact is evidenced by my seat at the table and the clothes on my back. I’m pretty sure that I’m due for a rest, and I’m also pretty sure that I’m not sleeping in a cage tonight. (“As long as you don’t mess up, Laur’. Please don’t mess up,” I coach myself.)

I eat quite a bit, and when I’m finally finished, I feel pretty sated. I look up at you as you push your plate away from the table and instruct me to make you some coffee. I rise, preparing to obey immediately, but as soon as I begin to move you call me back with a simple word – my name – but in an odd tone of voice. (“Oh, no!” is my only thought.) I turn back, as you instruct me about being tired and yawning. (“Did I just yawn? When did I yawn?” I ask myself fearfully). I don’t remember yawning, but you seem aggravated, so I must have. I must have just done it, although I simply can’t remember. I listen. I am not to yawn. If I yawn, I am to report myself and ask for punishment.

“Yes, Master,” I say, in a contrite voice. I’m sorry I yawned. I really am – even if I can’t remember doing it. I don't want to mess this day up. I don't want to be beaten or waterboarded or made to sleep in a cage. Not today. There will be no more yawns.

I rush off to make your coffee, and I grab the can of Coke as a special treat, since you said I could. I haven’t had a Coke since I got here, and I open the can with a refreshing “Pfffissst” and take a sip. It tastes good, and the caffeine may very well help me to ward off any yawning. (“You better be careful, girlfriend. You didn’t get much sleep last night in the cage,” I warn myself.) I’m worried about this yawning thing. I know I yawn a lot. I’m tired a lot. (“So you better stop, then,” I intone to myself.) You seemed ominous and aggravated when you told me the new yawning rule. Sometimes I agitate you and don’t even know I’ve done it. I search my memory, but I can’t remember yawning while we ate. (“But you must have, Laur’. Why else would he be mad? You prolly didn’t even cover your mouth.”)

I leave the can of Coke in the kitchen and bring you your coffee on a tray, but when I return, you are gone. I place the coffee on the table and clear the dishes to the kitchen. You didn’t tell me to, but I decide to rinse them and place them in the dishwasher. I think you’ll be pleased that I did. Certainly not mad, anyway. I take another swig from my Coke and proceed to the bathroom. You told me to wash, so I take a shower. Just a quick one, because I want to lie down for a rest. I wash everywhere, soaping my body and shampooing my hair. I love the feel of being clean. I always have. And when I’m done, I step from the shower, dry off, and get dressed again. It feels nice to be in clothes. And I feel like I earned it. I take another pull on my Coke and return to my cell.

I have just lay down on my futon bed, arms behind my head, looking up at the ceiling, when you call me. My cell door is open. I instantly stand up and begin walking toward the dungeon, listening as you speak. (“You have a gift for me?” I wonder to myself.) I’m not sure what you want. A gift? (“You’re having a good day, Laur’,” I remind myself. “A really good day, so master got you a gift.”) I step out into the dungeon and turn in the direction your voice came from – and stop dead in my tracks. You are not alone. I haven’t seen another soul since I arrived here, and the presence of someone other than you, someone in addition to you, stops me cold. I look to the person – much smaller than you. A child. A boy. A long-haired, bare-footed, red-headed boy who looks like (“No, Laur’. Not looks like. IS.”) . . . Robbie Waskowicz.

I stare. My jaw drops. My eyes widen. They flit to you, then back to Robbie. He’s not smiling. He’s . . . collared. Like me. (“What is he doing here?” I ask myself.) We’re barely 10 feet away from each other as you introduce us. I stand rooted in place. Stunned. Staring at Robbie. Neither of us speak. I am too stunned for words. I listen as you remind me about the thing you asked me not to hold a grudge about. I’d forgotten all about that. I didn’t know what you meant, and I was very angry at you then, and I just dismissed it from my mind. And that was . . . days ago. Several days. Many days. (“Robbie’s been here the whole time, Laur’,” I tell myself. “Ever since that day. Maybe even before.”)

I look stunned, staring at Robbie as you keep talking. He makes no move toward me and I stand rooted in the same spot. I listen as you describe Robbie as a gift. A gift to me? (“Oh. My. God. He kidnapped Robbie to give him to you, Laur’. As a gift. Like a toy. Or a doll.”) If I wasn’t completely stunned before I am now. I want to tell you to let him go, to take him back, that I don’t want him – but you’re already telling him what I said. What you made me say. About Robbie being the boy I had a crush on – well, after Justin of course. But the boy I had a crush on at school. The exotic, ginger-haired, cool, fun, cute 7th-grader. The unobtainable older boy. I turn crimson with embarrassment as you say that you fucked me right in front of him. And that he was my crush – implying that I was thinking of him as you did it. (“It’s true, Laur’. You were thinking about him and you told Master that, too. He made you, remember? Remember?”) I am so embarrassed. I can’t believe you just said that. I can’t believe you said that in front of Robbie. He knows that you fucked me. He knows that we had sex. I want to die. I am absolutely mortified. I look at Robbie’s eyes as he turns to look at you. Oh my God is this embarrassing.

And then you simply leave, leaving us alone – but not before suggesting that I give Robbie a hug. I’m not sure what to do. For another few seconds I stand rooted in place, and so does Robbie. He says nothing, and the silence is weird. (“Master just said Robbie’s not allowed to speak, Laur’. He’s waiting for you to say something.”) I step forward, tentatively, and Robbie’s eyes start to glisten and mine do, too, and I run to him, crying, wrapping my arms around him in a big hug. He hugs me back and I can tell he is crying as well. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I sob, as I pull myself tight against him. He stands firm and tall and hugs me back.

We hug for a full minute. I don’t want to let him go. He’s the first person other than you that I’ve seen since I arrived here, days and days and days ago. Beyond that, he’s from my past life, my former life, and I haven’t had a single reminder of that since I gave up my clothes on the first day, or the second, or whenever I handed them to you in a little bundle saying “You can take them” – like it was no big deal to me. But it was a big deal. Not just because I was naked and you could see my body, my private parts, everything. And not just because I knew if I gave them to you, I’d never see them again. But because those clothes were all I had of my life before I came here. And giving them to you was like handing you my former life, like giving it away. But now, suddenly, a real live person from my former life is here. Down here. With me. Somebody I know. It’s overwhelming to me. I hug Robbie tight and sob. And he’s hugging me and sobbing, too.

Finally, I let my arms drop from Robbie’s back and we separate. You are nowhere to be found. “How long have you been here?” I ask. Robbie shrugs. (“He can’t talk, Laur’. Remember?” I cajole myself.) “You can’t talk, can you?” I ask, but Robbie surprises me when he responds with a clear “Yes.” We begin a strange conversation:

“You can talk?”
“Yes.”
“But master said you couldn’t.”
Shrugs.
“Will you get in trouble?”
“No.”
“Are there things you can’t say?”
“Yes.”
“Are you only allowed to say Yes and No?”
“Yes.”
It didn’t take me long to figure it out. Another one of your stupid, idiotic games. Robbie’s short, but clear answers tipped me off to the yes-and-no restriction.
“Have you been here more than five days?”
“Yes.”
“Did master kidnap you?”
“Yes.”
“Was that after I got kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know I got kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
I pause. I’m not sure what else I want to ask Robbie. And I’m pretty sure that you’re going to return any moment.
“Are you gonna get in trouble if you say anything other than yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. Has master punished you?”
Robbie pauses. His eyes glisten with fresh tears, and he nods. I think I see him shudder. “Yes," he says, in a soft voice.
“I’m sorry, Robbie.”
Shrugs.
This is my fault. You kidnapped Robbie and brought him here because I mentioned his name. Because you made me mention his name. And you just went out and kidnapped him. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you would do that. I can’t believe that you can just kidnap whoever you want. It’s like you have magic powers or something. I know that you stalked me and read my texts and stuff before you got me. But when I told you about Robbie, you just went out and got him, too. Like you were going shopping, or something. It’s amazing. How do you do it? How do you get away with it? Why can't anyone stop you or catch you? ("He was serious about Calvin and Jeremy, Laur',” I remind myself. “Dead serious.") My blood runs cold.

I want to ask Robbie more questions. I want to know everything. But just then, you return to the dungeon, put your arms around our shoulders, and start walking us away from my cell door.

Marcus

I watch you two interact, tentatively, and it's really quite an experience. You are happy. Shocked, stunned at first, just as expected, upset, too, but . . . gosh, the way you cling to him . . . and you keep apologizing. You are aware that while it was entirely my decision, while there was nothing you really could have done to prevent it, the fact that Robbie is here, specifically him and not some other boy or girl, is at least partially your fault. You thought of him when I fucked you and made you touch yourself. And then, when I made you to tell me who it was that you were visualized, you said his name. The following night, he was already sleeping in cell number two, which was well over a week ago now. A week that I spent brutally breaking this stunner of a boy into submission and obedience, without you knowing it, all the while parallel to your own training, sometimes at the cost of me sleeping very little and paying "visits" to him very late at night.

You look so cute, dressed in pretty, expensive clothes, looking, save for your collars and bare feet, so normal. Hugging, crying, communicating. You were made for each other. You even look good next to each other. Damn it! So aesthetic, the fiery, airy boy with flaming, coppery red hair, the water nymph with deep, earthy eyes and hair, both of you gorgeous. Both toned and sporty. Both slim, with Laura now bordering on skinny. I don't need any money, but I instantly see that you two are a gold mine. Images and videos of you for select, demanding customers would be worth a fortune. They would be an art form; art-porn, horrible and beautiful at the same time. I imagine capturing and recording you doing the nicest, most erotic things together, soft and pretty, as well as the darkest and vilest of acts I can think of. I almost moan; you two would look perfect. You do look perfect together. I have gotten myself the perfect duo of slaves, the luckiest of picks. I imagine Robbie's mouth wide open when, after weeks or perhaps months of chastity, he shoots a load down your throat. My belly tightens at the thought, and I'm tempted to reach for a camera already; not that I need to. Everything down here gets recorded anyway, and the cameras have motion sensors that aim and focus them on movement, wherever in the dungeon it happens.

I cringe when I hear Robbie speak; like a punch in the stomach, it almost hurts me to be disobeyed like that, and it’s certainly going to hurt him. Doesn’t he fear me enough? Was seeing you in the flesh all it took for my intense work to be undone? But I soon realize he's mostly obeying me, sticking to yes, no, and shrugs. He is not consciously disobeying; he just did a sloppy job listening to my instructions. Still, I’ll have to punish him severely, the poor lad. It's so easy to mess up down here; there are so many rules, so many very specific commands, so little wiggle space. I like being obsessive about enforcing them, and I enjoy delivering the punishments when they are broken, so the entire situation suits me greatly. Of course, I'm sure even I forget things, skip things, and omit things, but that just makes me even more unpredictable, and probably makes you and Robbie even more nervous.

And sometimes, I like to let things fester and stew. I might make it seem like it's all right, but then I’ll lash out, and dish you a punishment later on. Like that time when you lied about your tip-toe standing performance. Or with Robbie's notebook, which still lies on my desk, unfinished. But I promised it will be finished, filled to the last page, word after word written in his own blood and it will be. I haven't forgotten. I'm keeping that one tucked away for a rainy day. I mean, I own a girl with a phobic fear of needles, and a boy who cut himself to ribbons trying to obey me. What nasty ideas could possibly emerge in my head when I put those together, hmm? Even the fuzzy outline of the image that floats into my inner vision makes my cock twitch.

Damn, I am fucked up! Seriously, if there is Hell, I will burn in the hottest, most awful corner of it forever and ever, deeper in the searing flames than even the pit where Hitler, Pol Pot, Idi Amin and Stalin hang out, roasting in eternal agony. Funny how religion caused so much nastiness and violence, historically, but damn, if I were religious, if I really entertained this whole notion more than just a thought experiment, were I a God-fearing man, you two would be way, way better off. But I'm evil to the core and I know it. The world would be a better place without me. I'm sure I'm not alone, but I’m also a lucky fellow – rich, strong, and smart – and I thoroughly enjoy my evilness, relishing in it, basking in its awful, greenish glow, like things rotting in a bog at night. Maybe one day I will pay. Maybe. Here and now, I have one delicious victim under each arm, and I'm about to further my pleasure and satiation, which is already considerable on this incredible, memorable day.

Further into the dungeon, once I've explained the rules of the game, I pick up a thin, stingy, flexible nylon rod. "No matter how you divide the smacks, Robbie gets extra ten with a rod for not listening to me properly. I said, quite clearly, that you are not to talk to her. All you are allowed are nods, shrugs, head shakes. No cheating to get around it; lips sealed unless answering to me. You spoke to her," I state grimly. "You stuck to yeses and nos,” I allow, in almost a benign voice while stroking your throat, both of us knowing what's behind that gesture, "so you obeyed the gist of my words. But, is obeying the gist of what I say enough down here?" I ask, and point at both of you, each index finger at one young slave, waiting for a nice, synced "no, sir," response, fully ready to add five strokes to the punishment to either one of you, or to both of you, if it's not delivered smoothly enough. I grab Robbie's chin and make him look up and into my eyes.

"Is ten licks with a rod merciful, you think, for failing to obey me well?" I ask, as if his opinion really mattered. I then turn to you and make your doe eyes turn up and meet mine.

"What about you, do you think ten licks is maybe too merciful? Will he learn his lesson?" I demand, this whole interim serving purely the purpose to make the two of you more nervous -- just a taste of the dynamic that soon will become commonplace; the actions of one of you always hurting and disadvantaging the other. Too much mercy on anyone's behalf putting both of you into a worse, nastier position.

I watch you two undress. Robbie, even as he stripped, looked slightly too calm to me, stealing horny glances at you and appearing nowhere near as fearful as he should be in face of a game like this. Three days without pain and he's already forgetting where he is, what he is, and in the hands of whom? I notice his look, as well as a shy, almost apologetic blush as his eyes linger on your nipple rings and then move away. I can tell, from the slight tension in his belly caused that the pain of his cock trying to stand up in the device, that he's aroused. Of course he's aroused. I've consciously and intentionally kept him in chastity to get him maddeningly horny.

You also blush, and keep blushing. My plan worked; it really threw you. It turns the balance down here upside down. Once again, your otherwise already meaningless nudity has a meaning. It makes you nervous. You can't go back to your old life up above, but a piece of your life up above just came down here. And while "clad" only in a humiliating, clunky, pain-inducing chastity device, Robbie's cock and balls aren't on display. By the standards of this dungeon, he's actually modestly dressed, while you are naked, but for a collar and rings in your nipples that do nothing to cover your crotch area.

You're sweet. So sweet. Robbie is trying to make things easier for you, but you barely notice. Eventually, his own body and his raging teen boy hormones betray him. He's trying to make things easier, but he can't help but steal glances at you, and you notice, and the effect it has on you . . . I can't get enough of it. I drink in every moment of it. Ah, subtlety, sweet subtlety . . .

Fuck subtlety!

I grab your hair and pull you backwards onto the punishment bench. Back in the bench, feet on the ground, legs spread wide, your butt on the very edge of it so both your pucker and pussy are on display.

"Pelvis up and forward," I demand, making you expose your intimate areas even more. I reach into Robbie's hair. He's so lucky that he's a soft, girlie boy with red hair; it has definitely helped to keep him alive. Now his hair is used to bring him down as I push him towards your pussy.

"Have a close look. Have a sniff. Mhmm." I make him stare at what he tried to deny himself for three minutes or so. At this position, your pussy clearly shows signs of having been used; it's not virginal and the position stretches it apart and creates a tiny gap, with no hymen. I torture Robbie with the view and scent for a while.

"You guys never kissed, right?" I check. Of course you didn't; I know full well that Robbie was your secret crush. "Time to kiss, then," I say, but keep you in the position as I push Robbie lower. "Show her what you did for me after I used your mouth like a toilet. Do for her ass what you did for mine," I demand and step back, watching Robbie's first kiss of you ever land on your pucker, tongue sliding out, stud pressing against that tight opening. What a way for you to find out about his piercing! I let him do it for long enough that your pussy visibly moistens. just to give you another thing to be embarrassed and ashamed about. Then I make you sit up.

"That's enough messing about. Time to divide the strokes," I announce snappily. I look at you, both of you, naked and perfect. Both of you so delightfully smooth and small. Young kids. My slaves. A doe-eyed girl with unusually pale skin for a brunette, and a ginger boy with exactly the kind of skin you'd expect. Both slim. Both perfect. My cock rises in my pants with the image of what I'm about to do to you right now, and the further depravities that will come later. When you are together, next to each other, easily comparable, it is clear enough me to what I already suspected; it is you who matters to me. Robbie is a bonus. He's super cute and all that, but at the end of the day he’s a boy, and none of this would be worth my while with him alone, at least not for very long. To expand and intensify my enjoyment of you, to add extra options and extra variability to the game, he’s very useful. He’s fun for games such as this one. I wonder if he knows that if something were to happen to you, his remaining days on earth could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

I contemplate all the tensions, all the things I can use to manipulate and steer and force each of you, both of you to do exactly precisely what I want to happen, and I shudder with the pleasure of it, like a cold wet t-shirt just returned to clinging back on my sweaty back after hanging loose for a little while. It tingles all through my spine and even down in my balls. Damn it! I came three times in a row with stunning intensity, then had lunch and only the briefest of rests, and yet, my cock is already getting stiff, yearning for more attention from my preteen slaves. This is going to be a long, hard day; pun intended, indeed. Images of the kinds of things I'll make you do until you both pass out with exhaustion float in my mind, almost like a movie clip, and my cock stiffens in my pants. My hand itches. But there's no point trying to scratch that itch away now; it's too deep set, too specific. It will not be soothed unless I've caused someone a considerable amount of pain.

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