And she expected me to do something about that, I realized. Well, good thing I'll be disciplining her again soon, I thought. And I thought of how much I'd enjoy it, knowing what a greedy little self she'd be hiding behind the bowed head, the body meekly offered for punishment.
CARRIE
I'll pay for this later, I thought. He's keeping accounts and I am deeply in the red. He put a finger up my cunt, gently touching my clit, lightly, lightly. Just letting it all build up in me, all the tension and excitement, and when I started coming, I could see his mouth curve, as he watched me writhe at the end of his finger. And even after I finished coming, and was ready to sleep, he kept his finger down there. He moved it to the outside lips, caressing them softly and sweetly and gently. He sat up next to me, looking down at me, and I reached up and touched his mouth, a wide tilde surrounded by little inverted commas. He sucked my finger, bit it gently, while he moved his hand again, put his finger in me again, and then another finger, and another. I could feel the bones, the knuckles in his hand, as it became a fist, and I could feel the movement of his arm, taking me far away, beyond words and almost beyond consciousness. Totally out of control, until finally I had to grab his arm and beg him to stop, gasping and kissing him wherever I could reach.
He turned off the light and curled up into himself, and I put my arms around his back, my cheek against his shoulder blade. Enough rough strife for one day, I thought, time to give it a rest. Tomorrow, though... well, tomorrow, we'd see.
The Second Day
JONATHAN
'he rain woke me up just before dawn. It was pounding loudly on the tile roof, dripping down on our little balcony, outside our window, whose faded blue shutters were still open. I remembered the women in the yard taking the sheets off the line yesterday afternoon, and I felt absurdly happy that they hadn't got their laundry wet. I put my arms around her and rubbed my front against her back, my cock against her ass, and fell back to sleep for maybe an hour.
And when next I woke up it was still raining, but the room was filled with pearly gray light, and she was up, she'd turned around and her face, her mouth, were against my chest, her arms around my waist. I remembered how demanding she'd been last night, and how exasperated I'd felt, but all that seemed comic, cartoonish, in the pastel morning, the smell of the rain dripping from the trees in the courtyard.
I detached her arms, and I got up on my knees and crawled down to the bottom of the bed, and "Ummmmmmm," she sighed as I put my head between her legs. It's different, early morning sex. It's something your body does before your mind's quite itself, all the little complexities and annoyances still sweetly blurred. It's kinder. She opened her legs wide and bent her knees, and I-right then what I was feeling was that I wanted to spoil her so terribly that she'd never, never go away. It meant making my mouth, my tongue, move so slowly and so gently. Being so steady and building so gradually. I didn't want her to move away from me, I wanted her to move toward my tongue, my breath, to dissolve under my mouth, her cunt and then all of her, helpless with pleasure, melting beneath me.
Tell her now, I thought. She'll agree to anything.
The thought surprised me. That hadn't been why I'd eaten her. I'd truly wanted to make her feel that good. To render her, well-helpless with pleasure was the word I think you used, wasn't it, Jonathan? Shit, it was too early in the morning for that sort of conundrum.
No, I wouldn't tell her now. Wouldn't even think about it for a while. I was tired of strategizing, I thought. Maybe I needed a vacation too.
"Let's have breakfast up here," I said. "I'll lick off the croissant crumbs you'll drop all over your tits."
She laughed. "I'm surprised you want to be in the same room with these sheets. They're pretty rank."
"I can handle it," I promised her. "And anyhow, I kind of like the idea of being isolated from the world. Well, at least until the rain lets up a little."
I did like the isolation, the subtle, underwater lightand how easy it would be to grab her right after breakfast for a quick fuck. Except, as it turned out, I didn't have to grab her at all. I did lick some crumbs off her, and she grabbed me, hard, greedily. She pulled me to her, and I pulled her to her feet, and we fucked standing up by the table, leaning against the wall-a happy, noisy, silly-looking fuck where I kept slamming her hips against the wall, and she had a leg oddly propped against the perpendicular wall to keep her balance, and we hoped the people in the rooms upstairs and downstairs and next door were doing the reasonable thing and having their coffee and croissants in the restaurant downstairs.
"Come on back to that smelly bed," I said, "and tell me what happened next.
"Sort of like we were stranded by fire or flood or something, you know, in some old monastery," I continued, straightening the covers a little, "and had to entertain ourselves by telling each other dirty stories."
"Well, if you really want to..." she said. "I mean, it's just your basic, redundant, S/M tropes, in which your eternally clueless innocent gets shown-yet again-which end is up. Which seems to be more or less how it actually happens to me."
I took her hand. Basic, redundant tropes sounded fine to me. "Come on," I said. "You were in bed, and Constant had just fallen asleep...."
CARRIE'S STORY CONTINUES
I woke up slowly the next morning, alone in bed. I was a little sad, but not surprised. Next time I saw him, it would be completely different. Maybe I'd be harnessed to a pony cart, I thought, stretching a little. And then I jumped, as the door banged open and Stefan marched in. He stood over the bed, looking at me for a moment, both of us simultaneously recognizing that I hadn't slept on the pallet. It seemed to make him terribly angry. And then he pulled the covers off me.
"Waiting for breakfast in bed?"
I didn't know what the right thing to do was, so I scrambled off the bed to kneel at his feet. He sat on the bed and jerked my head up, looping his fingers through the ring in my collar.
"Uh, no, Stefan," I said, as meekly as I could. "I'm sorry, Stefan." But of course I wasn't sorry, because I figured that if Mr. Constant had wanted me to sleep on the pallet, he would have told me to, and I didn't see what business it was of a mere secretary to get so exercised about it. Even if he was a bright boy.
Bright enough to know that I wasn't sorry.
"Yeah, right," he muttered.
And then he just looked at me, in a sneaky, calculating, hostile sort of way.
Oh, shit, I thought. He's going to fuck me-he's been given permission, as a reward for all the little chores he's been doing. Only he wants to fuck me where Mr. Constant fucked me-shit, Carrie, he worships the guy, how slow can you be, figuring that one out? He worships the guy, he'd give anything to be in my place, and he hates my guts, especially because I've been taking him for granted, as a functionary. Oh, and if he can't be in my place, at least he wants to be in the place where his boss's cock was.
And I heard myself say, very softly, almost meditatively, "Well, he did come in my mouth, but that was before dinner, before I ate the oysters, and some sorbet to clear the palate, you know. And after dinner he fucked me a lot up the ass, but he didn't come, I think he was feeling kind of affectionate to me, so he decided to come in my cunt...." Just trying to be helpful. I figured he wasn't allowed to beat me without specific permission, and I didn't think he'd want to tell Mr. Constant about this little conversation. Of course, I thought belatedly, it's not as if he's going to forget this conversation the next time he does get permission to punish me.
But for right now, I'd won-well, the battle, if not the war. Well, maybe a small battle, anyway. Because even if he was going to fuck me, at least he wasn't interested in discussing it any further.
"Shut up," he said, "and turn around. Head on the floor."
This probably had always been Plan A, anyway. Well, it was what would hurt me the most, and after all, he'd so neatly marked the spot for himself yesterday, with his X. And I won one more tiny battle that morning. I didn't cry, though he hurt me a lot and I
certainly wanted to.
"Take a shower," he said afterward, standing up and zipping his fly. "There'll be some clothes on the floor for you when you get out, next to your food and water. And hurry up. Our plane leaves in two hours."
The clothes I found on the floor, next to the cut-up banana and rice gruel, were smaller-sized versions of Stefan's: black jeans, black collarless dress shirt, black leather jacket. He'd probably had to buy them for me, and he wanted to make it clear that he hadn't spent any more time than necessary picking them out. They fit, I guess you could say, in an approximate way. Probably Mr. Constant wouldn't be on the flight, and so it wouldn't much matter what I was wearing.
The plane trip was uneventful. I was right about Mr. Constant's not being there just me and Stefan, looking like your basic bratty rich leather kids in first class. When we got to the security gate, he silently and matter-of-factly took my collar and cuffs off, and sent them through on the conveyor belt, and just as silently and matter-of-factly put them back on me after we'd gone through the metal detectors. Some people stared, but I wasn't bothered by it as much as I would have thought.
He said almost nothing to me the whole way, except to tell me I couldn't have coffee or alcohol. He did hand me my glasses and the book I'd been reading before the auction, and then he buried himself in some terrifyingly abstruse-looking journal, its subject matter seeming to be balanced on the cusp of mathematics and economics. At least that was what I could tell from my occasional peeks at it. As for the runic-looking notes he furiously scribbled on green index cards, they might have been physics or Gaelic or-for that matter-Greek. I was surprised that he let me peek at all, but his concentration was so fierce that he didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he refused to let on that he was noticing. Well, it must be a perpetual humiliation for him to have to shepherd me around like this.
Maybe, I thought, he'd kind of fade from view when we got to the island. But I doubted it. I imagined him lurking in corridors, like one of those infinitely resentful Shakespearean villains in their black velvet doublets-Edmund, lago, Richard III. He even somewhat looked the part-though more your handsome bastard Edmund than your crippled Richard-tall, with his pointy cowboy boots, hair in a severe little ponytail, and cold, pale blue eyes. Oh, and a surprisingly small, pretty, sensual mouth.
But I was probably pushing my luck, checking him out as openly as I suspected I was. He was starting to look annoyed, so I read a story or two in the book. And then I was dazzled by the bright beautiful sunlight as the plane swung out over the Mediterranean. I pressed my nose against the window. I'd never been to Greece. I knew this wasn't a sightseeing trip, but I was still getting excited.
And you could see a lot from the smaller plane that took us to Mr. Constant's island. Beautiful, fierce, rocky landscape in the shimmering sea. There was an open four-wheel drive car parked at the airstrip. We drove through a small villagewomen in black with kerchiefs peering at us as we passed. When we came to a low stone wall, Stefan stopped the car and told me to take off all my clothes except my boots. He clasped my hands behind my back and told me to kneel up on the back seat. He attached the leash to my collar, hooking it to one of the door handles.
He drove quickly on the bumpy gravel roads. People passed on their ways here and there, leading horses, or herds of goats. I guessed they worked for Mr. Constant or used his land. Two teenage boys who were repairing a bit of wall at the side of the road looked up and laughed uproariously, gesturing broadly with their hands. And about five minutes later, the road stopped, and Stefan led me the last bit of way on foot, over a little rise, to a corral.
No one greeted us. A small figure in black and a naked boy were all I could see at first in the glaring sunshine, against the cruel blue of the sky. I was panting a bit; Stefan had been dragging me along quickly. But now he quickly unhooked my leash and shoved me forward. I think he'd hoped that I'd go sprawling, without the use of my hands to break my fall. I cried out, staggered, shifting my balance wildly, calling on all my will to keep me upright, and miraculously succeeding. It all happened very quickly, but it got the momentary attention of the pair in the ring. And just quickly enough for me to catch a detailed glimpse of them.
First, the smaller figure. My trainer, I guessed. But had Mr. Constant ever said it was a woman? Well, I thought, he'd never said it wasn't. No reason for me to have imaginedas I had-some big, hunky guy. But in the moment while I struggled to keep my balance, I watched her lip curl as she watched me frantically shifting my weight. She knew her job. No need for big hunky guys around here.
She was maybe five foot two, pumped, wiry, with sharp black eyes that contrasted with her pale skin and whitish buzz cut. Her jeans and sleeveless T-shirt were black too, and the very abstract tattoos on her impressive deltoids looked like unreadable pre-Columbian designs. The tattoos were all black, except for the red eyes on the narrow, realistically rendered snake that wound around her left wrist.
Stefan pushed me to my knees and looped my leash around a fence post. "I'm leaving, Annie," he called. She turned, grunted, and turned back to the sweaty panting boy.
And I did too. I mean, it was difficult not to want to look at him forever. The muscles bunched with exertion under his tanned skin were long, neat-looking dancer's muscles. He was shining with sweat, his chest rising and falling, but he was also intent on following her instructions, as he pranced and capered to the snaps of the riding crop in her right hand, the tugs at his reins with her left. His cock was erect, you could tell that he liked this. He tossed his head, bowed it, snorted behind the bridle that distorted his mouth. It was pony dressage, and he was very, very good.
But I have to admit that what most fascinated me was the long tail he wore. It was of bright chestnut horsehair, to complement the thick, wavy, bright brown hair that fell around his shoulders. The tail was attached to a dildo up his asshole, which was held in place by narrow leather straps attached to a belt around his waist. Just like the tail I'd worn during my week of pony training. But it wasn't the technology that made me catch my breath, it was the gender coding. Because all the pony slaves I'd been trained with had been girls. I knew boys did this sort of thing, too, of course, but I hadn't seen a lot of them, and I was oddly moved by the long tail streaming out from between the cheeks of his tight, muscular boy's ass. I was glad that my hands were bound behind my back, but I couldn't help rubbing my thighs together, moving my hips in rhythm with his.
Well, I'd have to learn those moves soon enough, after all. But I'd never be nearly as good as he was, I thought. It was discouraging, and frightening: What would they do when they discovered that I was a washout? I reassured myself that it would be a while, anyway, before they gave up on me. And until then, I told myself, at least I'd get to try it-to preen and prance, to snort and toss my head, and to respond, as he was doing, to her small hands, skillfully wielding the reins and riding crop. She almost never gave him a verbal command, doing it all by degrees of touch, laying the whip on him but also, it seemed to me, cajoling him with prods and tugs. I wanted to know what it would feel like.
They seemed to be finished, now, or taking a break. He stood before her and she spoke softly, sternly to him, criticizing his performance, I guessed, though I couldn't hear the words. He hung his head. And then he turned and bent over, presenting his ass to her for punishment. He turned again, straightening up so that she could beat his cock. And then she took off his bridle so that he could kneel and acknowledge his punishment, kissing the riding crop, and then the soft, red, peat-mossy ground at her feet. The slope of his back was unspeakably elegant, I thought, trying to memorize it in my muscles.
She pulled him to his feet by the big ring in his collar, and she slapped his ass and sent him loping toward a small stable a few hundred feet away. And then-gulp, show's over, Carrie, time to show your own unimpressive stuff-she headed toward me.
I knelt at attention, my eyes on the dirt at my feet. And I wasn't entirely surprised at the stinging swipe of the riding crop agains
t my breasts. I didn't know why I was getting it, but I did know that somehow I'd had too good a time watching Tony.
She reached for an odd, harness-like leather contrivance that was hanging on a fence post.
"Stand up, asshole," she said. She had a nasty, nasal little voice. "I thought you might need this," she continued, buck ling strong brown leather straps around my thighs. There were clumsy little squares of wood on the inner surfaces. Just wide enough to keep my thighs apart, to deprive me of a small way of pleasuring myself. I hoped they wouldn't make me wear this all the time-it would make me waddle. But I could see where they'd think I might need it.
She freed my hands from behind my back.
"On your knees," she said briefly. "On your knees and present."
Present-the verb in its imperative case, as in "Present your body to me, slave."
She paused for an uncomfortable moment, realizing that I didn't know what part I was supposed to present first. And then she sneered, as though it should have been obvious to anybody, "Ass."
Okay. On my knees, turned around, back arched. She probed, roughly, but I was ready for her. Impatiently, she pushed me through the other stages of the presentation. Cunt. Crawling around to face her, kneeling up, parting my legs, leaning my torso back to show her how wet and open I was. She pinched my labia. She put her fingers up me, way up this time. The difficult part was remembering that this was for her, not for me. I had to be still, controlled, no matter how much I wanted to come. I tried to even out my breathing.
And now my mouth. She took a small blunt whip out from where her old black garrison belt was holding it in place. I leaned back even further, opened, relaxed my throat to let her fuck it with the whip's thick handle, while I caressed it lovingly with my tongue, my lips. And then I bent to kiss her feet, and to kneel up, my eyes cast down. She nodded, grunted noncommittally.
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