Free Carol (Carol Schmidt Series) by Lori Cook Page A

started to release new hot waves of delight.
    She was riding herself hard, each ridge of ecstasy coming faster,
one after the other. Her ass was twisting and thrusting, each new jerk
accompanied by a sharp wince from deep in her throat.
    She came with a sudden, massive moan. Her body seized up, her hand
pushing hard into her pussy, the sweet-salt smell of her sex suddenly pungent
on the air.
    For the second time tonight, an orgasm was followed by the thought:
what now? In normal circumstances she would have licked her fingers greedily,
then let them go back for more.
    But this was not normal. She was in a church social center
pretending to demonstrate how sexually liberated she was, to a woman who was
pretending to be from a spiritually oriented commune. That’s a lot of pretence
when you’re butt naked on a sofa, legs spread, trembling after a huge,
self-administered orgasm.
    As she remained there, wondering what to do, there was also
something horny going on behind her on the sofa. Even as the last delightful
shivers of joy receded from between Carol’s legs, she could sense that this was
just the beginning, that Irina wanted more. Which was fine by her. The evening
was only going to end one way, but in the meantime this was nothing more than
two consenting adults enjoying each other’s company.
    Finally, Carol turned around and sat there on the edge of the sofa.
She was naked and her head was bowed. But gradually she opened her eyes and
looked up. Irina was sitting back on the sofa opposite. She wore a plain pink
bra and what appeared to be a G-string. The rest of her clothes were beside her
on the sofa.
    “Do you feel free?” she asked, still that slightly clinical tone of
voice. But it was a shallow pretence, and through the pink fabric of her
G-string the outline of her swollen pussy was clear to see.
    “I could feel freer,” Carol whispered.
    Why not! she told herself, as she saw the small silver crucifix
around Irina’s neck glint in the half-light of the room. This might be the last
thing that Irina would enjoy for a while, and if they both needed to keep up
the pretence, then so be it. There was no need for honesty here: Irina was a
trafficker of the worst kind, a human trafficker. And Carol, tonight’s sexy
young exhibit, was supposed to be her latest piece of merchandise.
    But tonight it was Irina who was going to get screwed.
    “I feel,” Carol continued, letting an air of confidence creep into
her voice, “I feel as if I can show you more. I want to show you everything. To
persuade you that I am ready.”
    “Then do it,” Irina said. “Do it to me.”
    “Yes.”
    Without any further words, Irina got up, turned her back on Carol,
and assumed precisely the same kneeling position on the sofa, her face pressed
down into the cushions, butt in the air.
    Her legs were close together, but that was only so that they could
be pulled apart as she was handled from behind. The pose, then, was modest,
despite its flagrant sexuality. In effect, she was giving herself up, asking to
be taken.
    So this was how Irina sought pleasure from her victims! This is how
she prepared them for whatever horror awaited them. Was it a means of introducing
them into the sexual servitude that would follow? Or perhaps a pathological
desire for extreme physical satisfaction with strangers. Was this what had led
the Russian into the flesh trade in the first place? Was she a slave to her own
fetish, making money from her kink the same way a junkie turns pusher to fund
his habit?
    It didn’t matter now. She was waiting there on the sofa, her
breathing a little agitated, and her G-string bisecting a plump, shaved pussy
that was seriously aroused.
    But not by Carol.
    Not yet.
    Not by a long chalk.
    As she laid her hands on Irina’s pale buttocks and gazed down at the
soft, fleshy sex below, she wondered how far she was going to take it.
    You’ve got to hand it to the Cardinal, she told herself as she ran a
finger down the G-string,