Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (9 page)

"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 i;' Diye;t
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 ofyou 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 z7[r. Beamzz/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
hurtyour 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 hi; 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 O.

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 j ust
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 "Riff 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.