Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (8 page)

He chained my hands above me and whipped me, almost
languorously, from my knees to my shoulders, front and
back, the whole strike zone. It felt like millions of little stings,
again and again and again and again. I gasped and groaned,
and tried to keep my eyes on him, his thighs, the muscles in
his forearms, his mouth, his beautiful, erect, reddened cock,
with the veins so elegantly articulated and clearly standing out. When he unchained me I slumped against him, and he
picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist, hungrily
and impatiently trying to angle toward his cock, which I
didn't think I could bear not having in me another moment.
I knew I wasn't supposed to act so aggressively, but I didn't
care. What was he going to do, beat me some more? I knew
he didn't want to. I knew that he wanted to be inside. He sat
us down in his armchair, moving me up and down, his hands
on my burning ass, his mouth on my neck, my breasts. I felt
teeth, I think.

And then later, after we'd both come, there was still his
mouth, all over my face, my neck, and me kissing him back,
just as hungrily and furiously, the both of us banging teeth
against jawbones as though we both wanted to eat the other
alive, as though all the whipping and fucking had not been
enough, and we didn't know what would be. I stayed on his
lap for quite a while until we got our breaths back, and then
I slid off and he got up and we did eat each other, first him,
then me, until we both had enough energy to fuck again, this
time, though, in his bed-"We should get to do this comfortably once in a while, damn it," he said, leading me up the
stairs -and then to nap a little, until he unbuckled my collar
and sent me away, first to raid the refrigerator and then to fall
into a deep sleep in my bed in the little room down the hall.

But I never made it to Chicago. I drifted to work the next
morning, feeling like Scarlett O'Hara after the big staircase
scene. I liked playing the lurid moments over in my head, and
I found myself giggling when I remembered him insisting on
fucking in his bed that second time. It was, I guessed, our
own little staircase scene.

And then I got to work and forgot about everything.
Because things were wildly disorganized. One of their most
dependable messengers had gotten injured the day before,
and somebody else had quit. So I really had to hustle all day,
and when I finally got a chance to ask for the time off, they
told me they were too short-staffed and I was too new. I was
disappointed and a little scared of what Jonathan would
say. I was right to be scared, too. He didn't say much when I
told him I couldn't come, but his eyes got stormy and his jaw
twitched. And all the sweaty honeymoon vibes in the room
iced over. "It's notyour fault," was all he said, which sounded
a lot to me like, "I wish it were your fault so that I could cane
you within an inch of your life."

He found reasons to cane me anyway, of course. I mean,
it wasn't that hard, since he was making up the rules. Things
got very formal, very difficult, almost like the early times I'd
spent with him.

This time, though, it wasn't my inexperience that was
causing the problems. It was our arrangement itself: the emotional challenge of shuttling between real life and whatever it
was we were doing in Jonathan's study. I took this seriously.
I think Jonathan hoped I'd volunteer to quit my messenger
job, but I wasn't about to do that, and he wasn't about to ask
me to. So things were not exactly fun for the next week, until
Jonathan left for Chicago. I kept coming to his house, kept
getting criticized and beaten, spent a lot of time with painful clips on my nipples, didn't get fucked at all except stiffly,
painfully, up the ass. And, yes, I accepted it all without
second-guessing it. He would do it some other way, I thought
stoically, when he felt like it.

What I wasn't prepared for was my almost instant horniness
after he'd left. I'd planned, of course, to get lots of rest, read
a couple of the books I'd pretended to have already read, that
sort of thing. But I found myself nodding off over books and
waking up with my hand up my cunt. Okay, I thought, that's
just how it is, he'll be back soon enough. But I was no longer
"aching, exhausted, and fucked out," and I missed it. And,
well, I started to look around me.

And found Kevin. Actually, I suppose it's more accurate
to say that he found me. I mean, I'd been half noticing him
for a few weeks. And if I'd stopped to think about it-which
I hadn't, quite-I would have become aware that he'd been
making himself very noticeable, lounging around the lobby
of one of the buildings I delivered to a lot, a rather glamorous retrofitted brick coffee factory that now housed computer
programmers. He was doing something to the air-conditioning system, something with the ducts -he told me what, but
I don't really remember much except that it paid well and he
was a member of the Boilermakers' Union. Well, for a few
weeks now there he'd been, always in the corner of my eye
in that beautiful retro marble lobby. He wore torn overalls,
wonderful artful rips and holes in them with bright ski underwear underneath. He had blue eyes and pink cheeks in a
beautiful boy's face under a backward baseball cap, with tendrils of dirty blond hair peeking out. I noticed his shoes, too,
for some reason, dusty L'il Abner work shoes that looked like
they had iron in their toes. Maybe Jonathan was turning me
into a shoe freak.

When you retrace certain paths fairly regularly during
your workday there are some people you semiconsciously
depend on seeing and smiling at, receptionists or homeless people or flower vendors. Kevin had become part of the texture of my workweek, one of the prettiest parts, I've got to
say, but still just part of the background scenery. I mean,
Jonathan pretty much hogged the foreground.

But all of a sudden Jonathan was gone and I was horny
and opening my eyes, it seemed, to the world around me. God,
I thought, one day in the middle of the first week, doesn't
that cute guy with the baseball cap ever do any work around
here? How come he's always hanging around when I come
through? Oh. Brilliant, Carrie, I thought next. Well then.
"Hi," I said. Brilliant again.

Brilliant didn't seem to be necessary, though. He rode up
the elevator with me, asking my name and telling me his, while
I realized just how pretty he was and how astonishing it was
that I'd paid him so little attention these weeks. I'd always been
turned on by boys like him -they made me feel simple, goofy,
and sexually voracious. I was a little disappointed that he didn't
turn off the elevator in midascent-don't all those construction
guys know how to do that, with those big bunches of keys that
they carry around? But he didn't, or didn't want to. He just acted
simple and goofy, too, on that elevator ride and all the ones to
follow. By Friday, he'd asked me to have dinner at his house.

"This is a really terrible idea," Stuart insisted that Friday
night. "It's a great dress, but we should go dancing or something. This dinner thing is not going to work."

It was a great dress, droopy flowered silk that buttoned
down the front. A genuine thrift store find that looked wonderful with socks and combat boots. And I was having a
wonderful time getting dressed up for a date.

"Damn it," I said. "Why can't I be doing this? Jonathan
didn't say I couldn't fuck anybody else; he just said I wouldn't.
And anyhow, maybe I won't."

"Right," he said. "Carrie, you've been panting and slobbering over this guy all week. You are going to hop into bed
with him and you are going to be very sorry. Just how dumb
are you being here? I mean, don't you think he's going to
notice that you've got welts on your ass?"

"I'll think of something," I said.

And I did.

Dinner was fine -he'd pulled it together from a designer pasta
store-and we'd just barely been able to keep a conversation
going. His job. My job. Ducts. But there was great eye contact
and lots of accidental touching when we reached for the bread
or wine. It was sweet, embarrassing, horny, suffused with a
sense that something was going to happen. He lived far out
in the avenues, a block or two from Ocean Beach, on one of
those great plain little streets that smell like the ocean and look
perpetually scrubbed by the thick fog. We went for a walk on
the beach after dinner, froze our asses off, and ran giggling
back to his flat, pulling off all the layers of his sweaters that
we'd piled on. He was just about to reach for my hand, I think,
but I had bigger plans, if only I could get the timing just right.
Okay, Carrie, I thought, one...two...hit it.

"Take off all your clothes, Kevin," I said calmly, though
it came out about an octave higher than I usually spoke. He
was so shocked that it gave me a minute to catch my breath
and repitch my voice. I settled down on his couch, crossing
my legs and calmly unbuttoning the last sweater.

"You heard me," I continued (much better). "I want to
look at you. All of you."

I thought, for a wild instant, that he might strangle me.
Scenes from L okizzg for Mr. GooN,ar flashed across my line of
sight. But no. He stood there frozen for a long moment, and
I watched his eyes widen and glaze and his mouth hang open.
I recognized the look; sometimes Jonathan liked to make me
look in a mirror while he buggered me. And then, slowly, he
began to unbutton his shirt.

"Come on," I said, with just a touch of impatience. And
yes, he hurried up a bit. I felt a rush-wow, there's nothing
quite like power. I can do this, I thought. Waddya know?

But he was taking too long unbuckling his belt. Perhaps
his hands were trembling or sweaty. How do you move this
along? I wondered.

"You're very clumsy," I observed. "Come here. Put your
hands down for a minute." I took off his old black Garrison
belt and played around with it. I doubled it, slapping my palm
lightly. He looked at it in my hands, and quickly and rather
fearfully took off the rest of his clothes.

"Shoes and socks, too," I said. And there he was-blond
and blue-eyed and pink-cheeked with a small sweet round
butt, golden hair dusting his big arms, and one of those monstrous boyish vertical erections. I looked at it hungrily and he
looked at me as though he wanted to die.

"It's not that bad, is it?" I asked. (Jeez, you couldn't
relax for a second, could you? I mean, you had to keep the
scene moving along. I'd never realized.) He shook his head,
mutely.

"My name," I said, "is Carrie. You know that. You can talk
to me if you want. I'm going to call you, uh...Lucky."

He didn't seem to get it, and I wondered why I'd thrown
in that gratuitous bit of snobby cruelty. Some day, I thought, a
wife or girlfriend would drag him to a performance of Waiting
fa° Godbt and his whole evening, his whole week, would be
ruined. Probably I was cruel because I was so nervous, so
scared of making a botch of this.

"Kneel down in front of me, Lucky," I said. When he
had, I looped his belt around his neck like a leash. I held his
back hair in my other hand and angled his head upward so I
could kiss him. He tasted sweet. Partly it was the wine we'd
had and partly it was him.

I unlooped the belt from around his neck, but I held his
head still, staring at him. He looked hypnotized.

"Unbutton my dress," I said. The dress had two dozen
little antique pewter buttons running down the front. He
reached for the top buttons and I smacked him on the ass
with the belt.

"With your teeth," I said.

It's not easy, you know, unbuttoning buttons with your
teeth. But Kevin did remarkably well, getting down to my
waist, while I stroked his hair and gave his ass teeny little
slaps. And then I thought he might really beat me up in complete frustration, so I quickly undid a few more of them myself.

"Take off my underpants," I continued. "And I'll let you
use your hands for that. But thank me, first."

Talking's the hardest part, I think. It brings your mind,
your consciousness, into play, makes you admit to yourself
that it's you who's bearing all this humiliation, not just your
dumb animal body. Kevin gave me a look of pure misery,
opened and closed his mouth a few times, and finally mut tered "thank you," so unhappily that I didn't have the heart to
make him add "Carrie."

He pulled off my underpants quickly, and I pushed his
face into my cunt. He started licking and nibbling and was
doing just wonderfully, I thought. I started to relax, to rest
up from all the stage managing I'd been doing. Oh, yum yum
yum, I thought, this is more like it. But no it wasn't, it seems,
because he evidently felt really ripped off by this-or, more
likely, my asking him to talk had simply humiliated him past
his limit and he wanted a reward, now.

So he raised his head and scowled at me in a menacing
way. And I suddenly realized that he really was a very strong
boy and that I didn't think I wanted to keep pushing my luck.
And also, or perhaps mostly, I've got to admit that it was hard
work keeping this thing going and my invention had just
about run out.

"Okay, Kevin," I said agreeably, "something for you
now," and slid down between his legs. I gulped down his
cock, which was, if anything, standing up even straighter
than before. I don't think I could have dealt with it all if
Jonathan hadn't been such a stickler for getting deep into
my throat. And I don't actually think Kevin meant to come
in my mouth -I don't think he was the kind of boy who did
that on a first date. But he hadn't had a date like this before,
and he was really out of control; he came and came and came,
messily, his come drooling down my chin. All in all, though,
I thought that he deserved it, and I was actually quite happy
to oblige.

He was pretty exhausted afterward and took advantage of
that to roll over on his side and avoid looking at me for a while.
Finally, I inched over to him and stroked his head shyly.