A tepid (maybe) baby bottle with at most five differenttasting substances. A sense of movement as I would push her between thecrib room and the Awake ...oom. Hood off. Hood on. The Awake Room. Diapers.And so on. A bland, featureless wall.No sense of time. No meaningful human interaction (except with me, and,because I despised her, I would, generally, say nothing to her). No changeof scenery. Day after day of gentle yet unremitting, relentless, continualsensory deprivation, or at least a lack of. It wasn't a pleasant sound. It had overtones of evil glee."You're mine," She shouted. "All mine and you can't do a thing about it."Unfortunately that was true. She could direct everything I did. Her first instructions were how to please her. My tongue moved to the exact place she wanted, applied the right pressure in the right sequence and rhythm to make her squeal in ecstasy. We were engrossed until an orgasmic shudder from Celia made my sword hilt dig hard into her stomach, causing her to. More

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