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

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 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