Free Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel by Molly Weatherfield

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