Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (13 page)

I figured I'd finally get to go to Chicago, though I didn't
really see that fantasy making much sense at this point, or
how he'd fit it into our current intensive training schedule.
But just then an alarm went off on his Mac to remind him that
it was time for me to go for yoga, so he unbuckled my collar
and shoved me out of the room.

He was very quiet and intense that evening, though, and
didn't mention any changes, not that I'd expected him to. In
fact, he was oddly affectionate, if you can call fucking me
just about every way possible affectionate. I was exhausted,
nearly swooning; though he did beat me, it was rather lightly,
with his belt, before he sent me to bed early.

The next morning, however, after I'd brought him
breakfast and eaten some myself at a plate at his feet, Mrs.
Branden brought a man I'd never seen before into the study.
He was different from anyone I'd ever seen visiting Jonathan,
I thought. He was fat and late-fiftyish, in a buoyant, Sydney
Greenstreet kind of way, and he wore corny light blue polyester pants and a yellow alligator shirt. Jonathan had me
kiss his shoe-white loafers! -and called him "Sir Harold."
Oh, right, I got it. This was one of his porn movie friends,
or something like that anyhow. One of those silly-looking
guys he respected so much. Well, the man was for sure sillylooking. As for what this was actually about, well, we-or I,
really-would just have to wait and see. Not that there was
much I could do about it anyway.

He sat down in Jonathan's armchair. Jonathan sat in the
straight chair opposite, and I knelt at attention, my shoulders
in front of Jonathan's knees. Mrs. Branden brought in coffee and rolls. Sir Harold dunked his rolls, wolfed them down,
and talked. He was expansive, affectionate, fatherly almost,
toward Jonathan, and Jonathan was very, well, respectful.
There was some chatter about "business," about how the good
old days were, of course, better than these benighted times,
about how Kate was doing in Napa. I couldn't tell much from
the conversation, until finally it seemed to turn to the matter
at hand, which seemed to be me.

"Anyway," Jonathan was saying, "it's wonderful of
you to help at such short notice. I would have had to take her
with me, which wouldn't have worked out at all, or send her to
Kate."

"Would've been fine to send her to Kate, you know," Sir
Harold rumbled, finishing the last of the rolls. "Don't know
whyyou're so set against that."

Jonathan winced. "Well, she's busy. She's got some big
deal going this week. Some emir or a senator, or both maybe,
I don't know."

"Don't give me that, Jon," the fat man said. "Kate can
always handle one more little girl, no matter what she's got
going. You don't want to send her, fine, I'm glad to help. But
that's your call. Anyway, let me have a look at her."

Jonathan patted my shoulder. "Stand up, Carrie," he
said. "Let Sir Harold look at you."

I stood up and walked over to where Sir Harold was sitting. "Turn around, girlie," he said. I did, slowly.

"Legs look okay," he said. "Rides a bike, you said? And
ass, too. Well, more than okay, poetic, even. Kind of ass that
talks to you across a crowded room." Block that metaphor, I
thought, and I could see that Jonathan was a bit nonplussed
by it as well, even as he nodded, somewhat shyly.

"How's the mouth?" Sir Harold continued.

"Pretty good, I think," Jonathan said. He'd regained his
cool. "Try it, why don't you? Kneel down, Carrie."

"Unzip me, girlie," Sir Harold said, "and put it in your
mouth." His cock wasn't totally erect, but it grew, rather spectacularly, as I sucked on it, and he pushed, insistently, for the
back of my throat. He made some guttural, moaning noises, but
I could tell that he was seriously checking me out all the while.
I could tell that Jonathan was nervous. I did the best I could,
though I was nervous myself. What was all this about?

Rather than come, though, he pulled out and grabbed
my shoulders. "Turn around," he said roughly, pushing me as
he said it. He was very strong, and his big hands were very
sure, and he quickly had me turned around with my ass up.
I was surprised, but Jonathan clearly wasn't, because he was
ready with the ottoman. And when I was quickly positioned
on it, he parted the cheeks of my poetic ass himself.

Sir Harold finished fucking me up the ass, groaning and
bellowing. It hurt, and I had tears in my eyes by the time he
was done, but I figured I'd done all right, whatever that might
have meant.

When he'd pulled out of my asshole, and was zipping
himself up, relaxing, and catching his breath, Jonathan signaled to me to return to my original kneeling position, at
attention. I did, and both of us waited silently a few minutes,
our eyes on the fat man in Jonathan's armchair.

"She'll do," Sir Harold finally said. "You've taught her a
few things, I guess. I'll take her with me."

Jonathan made a relieved sound and bent to kiss my
shoulder blade. "Get a coat, Carrie," he said. Take me with
him where?

When I had put my coat on, and some shoes as well,
we walked out to the front of the house. There was a pickup
truck parked there, and attached to the back was one of those
carrier vans that they use to transport horses. You know, you
see them on the freeway sometimes. They're usually somewhat open, so you can see the back part of the horse, but this
one was closed over. The shape was the same, though. On the
side was lettered SIR HAROLD'S CUSTOM PONIES. My knees
began to wobble, and I wanted to turn and run, but Jonathan
put a hand at the small of my back, steering me toward the
curb at a steady pace.

Sir Harold opened the back of the van, so we could walk
in. There was room for the three of us, since the van was made
to carry a horse. We stepped onto clean straw, heaped on the
floor, and he closed the door behind us.

"Strip," he said to me, "and then bend over."

I handed my coat and shoes to Jonathan. The straw
under my bare feet was disturbing. I bent at the waist, holding on to a horizontal bar in the front of the compartment. I
could feel a greased dildo probing my asshole. I took a deep
breath and Sir Harold shoved it all the way up, belting it into
place with stout brown leather straps. And then I could feel a
tickling against the backs of my knees and thighs. Hair. It was
a long horsetail, attached to the end of the dildo. Sir Harold
slapped my ass. "Up," he said.

He fit a set of narrow straps over my head, buckling it in
back. One of the straps bisected my face, down the middle of
my nose, and two more angled down from the top of my nose
practically to the bottoms of my ears. Together, they held a
hard plastic bit in place in my mouth, stretching it widely and
making it impossible for me to speak.

"May I see her, sir?" Jonathan asked timidly. Sir Harold
nodded and slapped my ass again, indicating, I realized, that I
should turn around.

Jonathan stared raptly at me, as though he'd never seen
me before. He stroked my breast softly and then rubbed
me behind the ear as though I were an animal, to be communicated with in this way. It was unbearably humiliating,
the bit making me mute, the tail making me less than human.
I clenched my bare toes against the straw and looked at him
miserably. He continued to stare at me, one hand on my ass
under the tail, the other touching my face through the straps.
I lowered my eyes, but he slapped my breast hard, and I knew
that meant he wanted me to keep looking at him. They'd
speak to me, I thought, as little as possible while I was,
as I realized, a "custom pony." I raised my eyes, sighing and
shuddering a bit.

"You're making her skittish," Sir Harold said, stroking
my ass slowly with one of his big, meaty hands. Amazingly,
his stroking did seem to calm me down. "Quiet now, quiet
now, that's it," he crooned to me. They umrdd speak to me,
I corrected myself, but only like this, a kind of brief, phatic
communication meant to elicit a physical rather than a verbal
or cognitive response.

Sir Harold turned to Jonathan. "She's a nice bit of
flesh, see, but high-strung, like you. It'll take some work, you
know." He attached a set of reins to brass rings at the ends
of the bit and tugged. The pain in my mouth was echoed by
stabs of feeling in my cunt and breasts and waves of shame.
I remembered wondering how this would feel. It was new,
and very frightening. I turned in the direction of the tug,
away from Jonathan and toward the front of the carrier. Sir Harold attached the reins to the bar that I'd been holding.
Then he nodded to my hands, and I held the bar again. I figured I'd need to do this in order to keep my balance once we
got going. He attached the rings on my cuffs to rings on the
bar, on either side of the ring where the reins were attached.
Jonathan stroked my ass one more time.

"In a week, you won't know her," Sir Harold was assuring Jonathan as they stepped out of the carrier and shut the
door behind them. Would I know myself? I wondered.

The pickup truck's engine started. I held on tight. Pretty soon
we were on the freeway, crossing the Bay Bridge. There was
a little round window I could look out of at my side. At first
I was frightened that people could look in at my bridled face,
but passengers in cars didn't seem to see me-not even little
kids, who were staring extra hard, trying to get a glimpse
of the pony. Finally I decided, with some relief, that it was
a one-way window. Probably it looked dark or like a mirror
from the outside.

I didn't have a watch, of course, so I don't know how long
we were on the freeway. Two hours, maybe? And the little
window wasn't really angled to let me see the road signs. All
I knew was that it was hot and sunny outside-I could tell by
the bright sun through the window and the warm air coming
through the vents in the carrier. From the little I could see, it
looked very rural outside -we were somewhere in the Central
Valley, I supposed. The ride became bumpy as we pulled onto
a gravel road, and bumpier after Sir Harold unhooked some
gate and we went uphill for a few minutes on dirt and stones.

Finally we stopped. He came back into the carrier
and, wordlessly, detached me and led me out by the reins. I blinked in the brilliant sunlight, stepping onto a patch of
grass. Ayoung man in jeans, cowboy boots, and an Aerosmith
T-shirt was holding a pair of sturdy, thick-soled lace-up boots
in his hands and grinning at me. He had dark skin and very
white teeth, I could see as my eyes adjusted to the light, and
he knelt to tie and buckle the boots onto my feet.

"Not bad, boss," he said. He was short and solid, the
T-shirt stretched against a broad hard chest and shoulders. "No experience, though. That's pretty clear. What's her
name?"

"It's Carrie," Sir Harold said. "We'll put her next to that
blond, curly-headed one. Hey, is she named Carrie, too?"

"Cathy, boss," the young man said, grinning again. He
seemed easily amused. Maybe working all day with naked
girls in bridles and tails had always been his dream job. The
boots were tightly laced on my feet. They felt solid, making
me want to stamp my feet. The young man gave my pubic
hair a friendly little yank and then got to his feet. We were
standing near a fenced-in ring of ground, maybe thirty yards
in diameter, and he looped my reins over the fence.

Within the ring, maybe half a dozen girls, bridled and
tailed like me, were going through various paces, supervised
by a few guys in jeans with riding crops in their hands. The
girls were all doing different things, so it was hard for me to
get a fix on the general principles involved. One was jumping
hurdles. A few others were practicing various gaits, walking, trotting, and a kind of slow run-a canter? Two were
harnessed together, trotting in what looked to me like perfect precision. Another was goose-stepping. Yet another was
marching, her knees very high. Unlike the rest of the girls, who wore boots like mine, she wore very high-heeled shoes.
I winced as I watched her feet move over the uneven ground.

Just then I heard quick footsteps and a jingling sound.
I turned in the direction of the sound and there it was, the
whole deal, the finished product, coming down a path toward
us from some rolling wooded hills. If they'd wanted me any
more agitated than I was now, they couldn't have done better
at that very moment than to show me this.

It was a cart, a small one-seater on two large wheels,
designed a bit like a plough, or a backward wheelbarrow.
There was a man sitting in it, holding reins and a whip, and,
running quickly but carefully, lifting her knees elegantly in
front of her, a harnessed and bridled girl. Her bridle looked
like mine, and the man in the cart was holding the reins.
I couldn't entirely make out the complicated arrangement of
other straps that attached her harness to the cart, but I could
see that her cuffed wrists were hooked to metal handles,
which were like the handles of a wheelbarrow, and that this
was where a lot of the pulling happened. It was, all in all, a
simple but fiendish little contrivance, and it seemed to work
well. I mean, they were going fast, and as they approached us,
I could see that she was sweating and breathing hard and that
the man in the cart was smiling broadly.

They weren't seeming to slow down as they approached
us, and I figured they'd just go past. In fact, I could hear the
crack of the whip as the man used it to speed the girl up. But
just some twenty yards from us, he pulled hard on the reins,
jerking her head back cruelly. "Whoa," he yelled, "whoa,
Stephanie." And she dug in her heels and stopped, almost on
a dime, I thought, pulling up so close to us that I could see
that her eyes were a violet blue.

The man jumped out of the cart, looping the reins over
the fence not too far from me. I stared at Stephanie curiously.
The bridle distorting her mouth and the dusty rivulets of
sweat running down her face and body didn't stop her from
being supernally beautiful. She had long black hair, and to
keep it from getting tangled in all the straps, it was done in
a thick braid, near the top of her head, coming out through
the straps of the bridle. But tendrils and curls were escaping everywhere, and you could see that when the braid was
undone there'd be oceans of gorgeous black curls. They'd cascade almost to her perfect ass, crisscrossed with whip marks
and bisected by a tail like mine and over her goblet-shaped
breasts, which were heaving as she panted. Her peachy skin
was flushed bright pink under the dust. I kept looking at her,
transfixed, but she just looked straight ahead, consciously
evening her breath, stretching and relaxing her muscles.