Carrie's Story

by Molly Weatherfield

  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.

  “Do you hate me, Kevin?” I asked.

  He turned around and I could see that he was mainly okay. I mean, he had just come enormously, and that must have helped some. He traced the white crust of dried come on my chin with his finger and looked ridiculously proud of himself. “Nah,” he said, “but you are definitely weird, Carrie. Do you, like, do that all the time? March around in rubber outfits, too?”

  What to tell? He deserved the truth, I thought. So I told him, well, a version of the truth—sort of the Reader’s’ Digest Condensed Version, anyway. I was like, “Uh, well, there’s this guy Jonathan, and I go over to his house sometimes…,” telling him the story of me and Jonathan, Lite, which I thought was quite enough. But I did show him the welts on my ass, and they put him pretty much in awe.

  And then he got this really strange expression on his face. Finally he took a deep breath and said, “Well, what the fuck, I have something to sort of confess to you.” He got up and was gone for a few minutes, and when he came back he was holding a pair of handcuffs.

  “I had these in my bedroom,” he said, “in the drawer of my bed table. I copped them from an uncle about a year ago. He’s been retired from the force for a while, and I saw them in his desk drawer, and I…oh, you know, I mean on TV, ‘LA Law’ and like that, people are always using handcuffs. It was sort of my image of really sophisticated sex, and I thought that maybe I’d have the guts to try it with you. I mean, I’ve been hot all week, thinking of you cuffed to my bed. I don’t know if I’d’ve really done it, though.”

  Well, I had to admit he’d gotten certain things right. At least in general, though his specifics were way off. Handcuffs—the one element from that whole Mr. Benson/Folsom Street faggot phantasmagoria that has leaked into the mainstream cultural imagery of fancy sex—have just never seemed sexy to me. Maybe I never thought the policeman was my friend, or my enemy either, when I was a kid, and maybe lots of people did. Whatever, for me it will always be collars, corsets, riding crops, and spike heels. But Kevin obviously thought handcuffs were where it was at, and who was I to criticize? “They must really hurt your wrists,” I said, politely, running my finger around the inside.

  “Oh, they do,” he said eagerly, and then he blushed a little. I guess he’d tried them on. I kissed him on the neck and snuggled against him, and pretty soon we were, well, I guess you’d have to say we were making out. And, yeah, he got his wish. He triumphantly carried me to his bedroom and cuffed me to his headboard, and I’m here to tell you that they do hurt your wrists. But he was as happy as could be and politely used a condom, which was good because the truth is that I might not have insisted on it, not really having thought this thing out very well at all. In any case, I certainly liked having him inside me, even with the silly handcuffs. And I owed him one for Lucky, I thought, and I also thought that I owed him because he’d helped me to find out something about myself. Even if it was something as silly and obvious as the fact that I am one complete washout as a top.

  Well, my klutzy adventure with Kevin at least relieved some of the horniness, and I actually did get some reading done before Jonathan came back. I enjoyed the rest of my little vacation, but I was eager for his return. Trying out his role, and being so inept at it, made me appreciate him in a way that I hadn’t before. I remembered the night we’d met, when he’d told me he thought I’d be good at S/M. I remembered him calmly assuring me that he was good at it. He was, I realized. He really was. I couldn’t wait for him to get back so we could play hardball again.

  The Saturday he returned, Mrs. Branden laced me into a corset, this time a black one, pulling the laces unbelievably tightly. When he came in, he unhooked the leash from my collar. “Stand up,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

  I stood very still, and so did he, while he stared. He looked pale, tired, drained. And beautiful, as always. More beautiful, but then I always thought that about him when he was stressed in some way. Finally, wordlessly, he put his finger through the ring in my collar and, with his other hand, slapped my face hard. Then he stepped back and crossed his arms. He didn’t seem as angry as the slap would have indicated. He seemed a little spooky.

  “It was most probably a boy,” he said thoughtfully. “A girl would have been more interesting to me, but it was a boy, wasn’t it? So what kind of a boy, Carrie? Another messenger, or some punky poet type? Or perhaps both of those things? Maybe a pierced nose or something. Well?”

  How the fuck did he know? I mean, I didn’t show marks or anything. Hell, I was still showing his marks. But I looked different, I guess. Probably, ironically, it was the kind of appreciation I was feeling, my pleasure in just how good he was at taking control. Probably he was noticing that appreciative appraisal, and the brand-new little bit of canniness, of emotional detachment, that made it possible. He must have recognized that some balance had shifted, that he was no longer my whole sexual world. It was a subtle difference, but those are the ones that count, aren’t they? And those are the ones that you always let show if you’re as bad a liar and keeper of secrets as I am.

  “I have a friend,” he continued. “She’s a genius at discipline. She’s got three slaves who adore her. And she plays poker with them. They’re naked on silk pillows and she punishes them very severely if they—or their bodies—give away any information about which cards they’re holding. It’s quite exquisite. Maybe I’ll take you there some time. She’d flay you alive.”

  He slapped me again. “You haven’t answered my question. Boy or girl?”

  He’d been right about us losing momentum. Two weeks away from him made all of this seem odder than it might have before he’d gone. Did his rights over me really extend to reading my mind? Now that he was back, I wasn’t sure. And anyhow, I thought, if he hadn’t wanted me to fuck anybody else he should have said so, instead of relying on that original macho little speech about how I wouldn’t want to. Kevin and I’d used a condom, I assured myself self-righteously—forgetting that we might not have if it had been up to me—so what was the big deal? Sometimes he really could be tedious.

  “It could have been a man or a woman or a boy or a girl, Jonathan,” I said, slowly and distinctly. “It was a boy.”

  He took a deep breath, turned around, and stared out the window for a minute. When he turned back again to look at me, his face was composed back into its old ironic lines.

  “I’m really too tired to think fast,” he said, “but luckily you just handed me an easy one
. You do not correct the way I speak to you. Ever. Get the cane. I’m giving you fifteen and then I’ll figure out what comes next.”

  He hit me savagely, and I didn’t even try not to cry. And afterward, he just glared at me sobbing and sniffling.

  “Just get down on your knees and shut up,” he said wearily.

  And when I’d clearly done the best I could to quiet down, he began carefully, “What sort of person was he?”

  What could I say except the truth? “A…a construction worker, Jonathan.”

  “Right, downtown buildings,” he nodded. “I should have known. But I don’t imagine it was your big beefy type. More like a cuddly baby construction worker, right?”

  I whispered, “Yes, Jonathan.”

  “Well,” he said, “I didn’t say you couldn’t, so I’m really not surprised that you did. Would he come here? Would I find him appealing?”

  Since I had never even remotely considered either of these possibilities, I had to think hard for a minute. I thought of Kevin’s round butt and sweet face and then his hurt and outraged look. The answers were obvious, but it took some effort to frame the simple, logical response.

  “Well, yes, Jonathan, I think you’d find him appealing. And, uh, no, he’d never come here.” A logical proposition: P and not Q.

  He seemed a little miffed by the “never.”

  “Just good, clean fun, huh? None of this nasty scary stuff for you and your pal the Beaver. Just screwing and cuddling, I guess.”

  Couldn’t he fucking let it alone? No, of course he couldn’t. That was the point. I could fuck somebody else, but he had a proprietary right to it, and that was what he was making painfully clear.

  “Uh, well…,” I temporized.

  He looked at me sharply for a moment and considered. “‘Well, not quite, Jonathan,’ is what I think I hear. Maybe just a hint of kinkiness with Biff or Sluggo or Wally or whatever his name was. Well, that’s interesting, anyhow. Maybe even entertaining. I didn’t think you’d disappoint me, Carrie.”

  He opened a drawer and pulled out some hash wrapped in foil and a small pipe. He lit the pipe and took a drag, and then he offered me one as well. I took a meek little toke.

  “I’ve had a grueling, exhausting two weeks, with no entertainment at all, except if you count some old Nina Hartleys on hotel pay TV,” he said. “This is exactly what I need. A dirty story. And from such a good talker. I mean, I don’t let you talk much, but what makes that fun for me is knowing that you really are a good talker. So talk to me. Tell me the story of you and Eddie Haskell. And remember that I’m not too tired to beat you some more if you skimp on the details.”

  He sat down and dragged some more on the pipe, like a spoiled little sultan with a hookah, while his other hand unzipped his pants and took out his cock, which wasn’t exactly erect, but which looked as though it wanted to be, as he began to stroke it. He held the pipe out to me, and this time I took a healthy drag. Then I settled back on my knees at his feet, straightened my back, and began to tell him a story. Scheherazade.

  I didn’t skimp on the details, in fact, I juiced it up, timing things better than they happened in real life. I had Kevin unbutton my whole dress with his teeth (Jonathan raised an eyebrow at that one, but let me continue), and I put a lot of energy into describing Kevin’s enormous erection and oceans of come. Hell, I thought, if he was going to be so condescending about “Biff or Sluggo,” he ought to be able to deal with that. He winced a bit, but he was pretty high by then, so he decided to find it entertaining—in fact, I noticed he was getting pretty excited himself.

  This was certainly the most uninterrupted talking I’d ever done at his house, and the sound of my own voice (combined with the hash, no doubt) was getting me higher than a kite. I started slowing down, putting in more details. I was happy to be able to tell him about the condom, and I could see that he was glad, but he wanted the more hardcore stuff, and I did the best I could with what I had. I sneaked a look at his cock (“eye contact, damn it,” he said, smacking my cheek lightly) and wondered whether he’d come before I finished the story—and nastily, I started to try to make that happen. He caught on pretty soon and slowed down his own momentum. And he had pretty good—though not perfect—control, so I got us almost all the way through the handcuffs denouement before he grabbed the ring in my collar and dragged my head down over his cock, coming loudly and drowning the last few words of the story.

  After that, things changed between us. Rather a lot, actually. Perhaps they would have anyway, I don’t know. In any case, it wasn’t just me and Jonathan anymore; now he brought in a whole supporting cast of characters. He spent an afternoon teaching me how to put a condom quickly and attractively onto a guy’s cock—I felt like Gigi with Gaston’s cigar—and then he started having guests. Some old pals might come over for late drinks and casually pass me from hand to hand as they caught up on old times. Or they might like to lie me down on the floor so that two of them could fuck me at the same time, one in my mouth, one in my cunt. One dynamic duo seemed to have such great synchronization that I figured they’d rowed crew together in college.

  Sometimes the events were just that serendipitous, as though it were as trivial to pass a body around as to open a bottle of scotch. But he also liked to dabble in impresario mode, to affect an elaborate show of concern for his guests. He liked, for example, to point out how wet I was inside, how they needn’t worry about hurting me because I was already so turned on by my own abjectness. He made me thank them profusely after whatever they did to me. Sometimes he thanked them as well, explaining how much I needed to be used.

  I wondered, of course, just whom the charade was directed at. Was it for my benefit? Were these just the next set of lessons in his syllabus, new challenges, new humiliations that I’d think I couldn’t bear and then find that I could? Or for his benefit—maybe he’d always been waiting to share me around, as soon as I could be trusted to open all the holes properly. Or was he still pissed off because of the silly Kevin escapade and intent on telling me I was a slut? He was so cool most ways that it was hard for me to believe that he’d much care if I had a minor thing for muscular boys with big dicks and pretty faces. And soon, anyhow, the frenetic pace of these entertainments died down somewhat, and things went back to what I fondly called “normal.”

  Which isn’t to say there weren’t still entertainments and events. There were, but they were less frequent and rather more elaborately planned, and easier to accept as events that would turn him on. There might be occasions, for example, like the time he sent me upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms, with a note (written on heavy cream paper) shoved into my mouth. The note, which he gave me to read before he put it into its envelope, said,Dear Uncle Harry,

  Have a happy 55th birthday. Keep Carrie for as long as you want and please don’t hesitate to use the riding crop as necessary.

  Best regards,

  Jon

  He had Mrs. Branden tie a big white satin bow around my ribs, with the riding crop placed through the knot at an artistic angle, its loop just brushing my right nipple. Needless to say, giving Uncle Harry permission to use the riding crop was like giving the Republicans permission to cut the capital gains tax. But that was my polite Jonathan, ever the solicitous nephew.

  Sometimes he’d bring girlfriends home. No matter what their names were, I always thought of them as Muffy. They seemed to be the daughters of the ladies in the garden-party dresses at the dressage shows. Perhaps they’d be those ladies someday. They were pretty, slender, tanned, and they always had streaky blond shoulder-length hair. And most of them were as cruel as you could possibly imagine, making Uncle Harry look quite gentle and dear in comparison.

  I could understand why, though. Here they’d spent this absolutely fantastic evening with this guy who was a great catch (plus fun and sexy and entertaining) and he’d bring them home and want them to make love with his girl slave while he watched. I mean, it wasn’t presented that way—at first I’d just be some ex
otic spice added to the scene, not much more than an extra tongue. They’d be flattered and titillated. But at a certain point he’d draw back, being polite as always, but you couldn’t really miss the message—he wanted to watch and he wanted it to be good.

  He’d come back in for the last round, of course—send me scurrying away as though somehow it had all been due to my randiness, and then he’d do the requisite heroic male fucking number. But it always was a little beside the point, and they knew it. So the evening would end up with them showing me how they felt about it. Jonathan would let them punish me, and they’d really get into it—anything to prove that it had only been me who’d been used, and not them.

  These were the most difficult scenes I had to play, and not just because of the painful beatings. It was the sneaky, fucked-up psychology. I remember the first time I realized that Jonathan was being sadistic, and how silly I felt using that word, under the circumstances. But it was true—I didn’t really feel that what went on between him and me was sadism, because we’d, as he’d said, made a deal. But the Muffies were getting something different from what they signed on for, and I thought that was cruel and gratuitous. It wasn’t fun for them—all of the other people he threw at me got to indulge their pure and simple demands for obedience, but not the Muffies, who really didn’t want me there at all. I wished he wouldn’t make me do it; he was showing me a part of himself I really didn’t want to know about. Which was part of what I was trying to explain to Stuart the night after Jonathan had told me about ownership and auctions. Although he was as fascinated as I was with the buying and selling part—and especially the big bucks—he was heartbroken that Jonathan wanted to sell me.