Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (19 page)

The woman was tall and serious and wore a black sweater
and leather pants. She smiled at the security guard, and they
chatted a bit, again in a language I didn't understand. She
carried a small black laptop computer and had the same whip
hanging from her belt. She looked me over, went to a small
dresser, and took out a collar and set of cuffs. She quickly put
them on me and hooked my hands to the back of my neck.
Then, nodding to the security guard, who slumped in a chair
on the other side of the room, she sat down at the desk and
sorted through the papers he'd put in the folder. She opened
up the laptop and typed a bunch of entries into it.

She was terrific to look at. In her late twenties, maybe
thirty. Very thick shoulder-length hair, a full mouth, flaring cheekbones, wide shoulders, and slim hips. She picked
up the desk phone and dialed an extension. "Paul? Margot.
They dropped off Lot 14 here just now. Let's do it, okay?"
Her accent was distantly British, probably not English, more
like Australian or South African, overlaid with a few years
of California, maybe. She continued, "Yeah, fine. I think so. No, I know you've got a file. Uh, let me see...uh, yeah, Carrie
Richardson. See, you do have a file."

Well, you could wish to be Lot 49 in the auction, but you
couldn't really insist on it, I supposed. Meanwhile, a guy who
was probably Paul came in. He was thin, spiky-haired, and
blond, with big glasses and lots of nervous energy. He was
also wearing black, with a whip hanging from his belt, but
he was wearing jeans and Dr. Martens. He carried a thick,
messy, folder. All of a sudden the room seemed very busy.

"Let's have a look at her," he said. "Come here, Carrie,"
he called to me. I walked over and he grabbed the ring in the
front of my collar. "C'mon, cmon," he said, pulling me along
and flicking his whip lightly over my calves. "Bend over the
desk," he said, and I did.

They both leaned over me.

"A few marks," she said. "What do you think?"

"Needs a few more," he said. "Definitely. It'll make all the
difference in the photograph. But just a few. You know how
they get when we bring them merchandise that's too marked
up. It's dicey-mark her up enough for the catalog, but not so
much that it won't clear up before auction day itself. But we
can do it. I can do it. Hey, I also have another idea. Before we
actually get her up there, how about spanking her? Might be
really effective, her butt all bright pink."

"It's a possibility," she said, fingering my asshole
thoughtfully. "Let's see how she'd look." She sat down on the
desk next to me. "Okay, Carrie," she said. "Over my knee
now." I froze for a moment. It wasn't as though nobody had
ever spanked me during my year at Jonathan's, but it had not
been very often. I was much more used to whips, canes, and
belts, and the necessary distance they put between me and the person doing the beating. Being spanked, with somebody's
bare hand, lying naked across their lap, seemed much more
intimate and humiliating to me. I moved toward her, finally,
but she had picked up on my hesitation.

Very tentatively, I lay down over her lap. She was strong
and sharply pulled me into place. And she was annoyed at
me. "God, Paul," she said. "Did you catch that? Little prima
donna doesn't want to get spanked. They are just so damn
fussy, these little packages of merchandise. They think that
because we're not buying and selling them, they don't have to
obey us. We'll deal with that tomorrow, though."

Even though I didn't think I was allowed to speak,
I started to apologize, but she wasn't listening. Just started
spanking-hard and rhythmically. Her hands seemed enormous, covering wide swaths of me every time. She wasn't,
I realized, looking for an emotional effect on me; she was
interested in getting my ass a bright, even pink as quickly as
possible. From my point of view it was taking a long time,
and it was making me cry loudly. The crying, I couldn't help
thinking, of Lot 14, and I was sure there'd be a lot more of
that to come. Paul, who was watching over her shoulder,
shoved a balled-up, not entirely clean, handkerchief into my
mouth to gag me.

"Thanks," she said to him. "I could hardly hear myself think.
How does she look?" keeping up the whacks as she spoke.

"Sure," he returned companionably, continuing to watch
eagerly, "Oh good, very good, Margot. Five more strokes?"

"Seven," she said, and it was a long seven. My ass felt
cooked. Hot, evenly hot, stewed, grilled, whatever-it was
painful and tender. I imagined a cube of butter melting on it;
I could almost hear the sizzle.

"Done," she said finally. "So, is this a possibility?"

Paul grabbed my shoulders and stood me up. The handkerchief was still in my mouth, and I was still sobbing and
sniffling a little.

"Not bad at all," he said, remembering at last to take
back his handkerchief. "Well, I think it's a go. I'll see that it
gets on George's instructions, and I'll add a gag for her to his
stuff. Okay?"

"Sure," she agreed. "Why not? Probably add five thou
to her price right there. Okay, so much for the creative part.
And I've entered her into the schedule for exercise, depilation,
weighing, and measuring, all that stuff. No allergies, regular
diet. And it's clear from her file that she'll do better the more
fucking she gets, so I've coded her on the high end of Level II.
We've got to photograph her tomorrow morning, so can you
come whip her at about ten? Are you busy?"

"I'll move some things around," he said.

"Great, love," she said. "Now, what have I forgotten?
Never hurts to have another pair of eyes."

He hit some keys on her computer, turned to her, and
said, "Looks good. Just type in her punishment for tomorrow."

She typed something in. "It affects some of the other
databases," she said, "but I think it works anyway. It's good I
fixed that Level II glitch. Well," she continued, "I guess I can
read her her rights and put her to bed. On your knees, Carrie,
at attention at my feet."

I hurried to do it and tried to present a graceful, compliant front as I gazed at her.

"I'm sure," she began, "that it's not really necessary to
point out that `reading you your rights' is just a little joke we have around here, a private name for the lecture I'm about
to deliver. Because if you think you have any rights around
here, somebody has made a terrible mistake. But you seem to
understand what's going on. So..."

She paused for a moment and then continued. "Now,"
she said, "I've been calling you by name, because that's what
you're used to, and it was easiest to process you in that way.
But you're completely entered into our system now, and for
most of our personal interactions, you won't really need a
name. `Slave' is quite adequate and a good deal more accurate.
This is a warehouse, a processing center, and also a display
center. We take care of all you little packages of merchandise that will be auctioned off this Friday. We take excellent
care of the flesh-some of you are ridiculously expensivewe package and display you to make sure you are appealing
to buyers. But we also have a more subtle responsibility-to
the spirit, which demands abuse and contempt.

"For what we understand is that although most of you
think of yourselves as slaves, you really have not the faintest
notion of the concept. You, for example, have served one man
for a year. Oh, I know you've participated in little entertainments he arranged, but they've been trivial. And you did the
pony thing, which is certainly good experience, but limited.
Essentially, you had a lover, a bzzyfriezzr)(she said the word
contemptuously), not a master, however he chose to superintend your activities. He organized his life around you every
bit as much as he commanded you to organize yours around
his. We don't consider that kind of situation an exercise of
your capacity for obedience.

"Now, you'll only be here five days, but we think you'll
find them instructive. You will find, in any case, that nobody here is particularly interested in you, in your little quirks of
personality or individuality. We value you -all of you -as
rather unique commodities that will be sold for a lot of money.
Our job is to pass you through our very well-designed system.
It's our system that's your master, and all of us who administer it are your masters and mistresses.

"This means Paul and I, of course, but it also means Karl
over there, and all the people on our payroll -cooks, security
guards, garbage men, and so forth. You will address us all
as Master or Mistress, when you address us at all. We will
indicate when you may speak-be careful to understand our
wishes. And keep your body as open and displayed as possible.
I like the way your arched back offers your breasts to me, but
your legs are too close together, your pubis too hidden. That's
better. Now keep your chin up, but lower your eyes. You're
not allowed to look us in the face. If it helps you to discipline
your gaze, remember to concentrate on the whip we all carry
at our belts. When possible, your hands will be bound, but
when they are not, you must remember not to touch yourself.
That's all. We'll take care of you completely during your brief
stay here. You'll hear the details as you need to hear them.
Well, what do you say, slave?"

"Yes, Mistress," I managed. "Thankyou, Mistress."

She rose. "I'm giving you back to your Master Karl now.
He'll get you to bed. And Paul and I will see you tomorrow
for your whipping, your photograph, and your punishment."

"Thank you, Mistress," I repeated. Paul prodded my
hip with one of his Dr. Martens, and I found myself saying,
"Thank you, Master," in his general direction as well.

Then they left me on my knees there, looking meekly at
the floor. I was tired. It had been a long day. I couldn't quite focus my understanding on everything Margot had said, but
I knew that these next days would be different than anything
I'd known thus far. I felt lost, really. I was frightened, and,
I realized, obscurely thrilled that something really new was
beginning to happen. I wanted to lose myself some more, dive
into the swirling, vertiginous feeling she had created, but just
then I realized that Master Karl was standing over me.

Great. An oafish teenage master. About the least attractive person who'd ever been thrown my way. I mean, I knew
that was the point, but I was tired, damn it. I don't think
he knew much English, but I guess he'd mastered what he
needed to know.

"Lick my boots," he managed, and I muttered, "Yes,
Master," and did. I could hear him moaning. He was really
getting off on it, and I started to hope that his teenage boyness would get the better of him and he'd come in his pants.
Because if he didn't...

He didn't. I was going to have to get behind this scene,
I knew. He pulled me to my feet by the collar and bent me
over the desk. I heard him unzip his fly, and I was afraid
this was going to hurt terribly. Relax, I told myself, open up.
You can do it...slave. I heard this last in Margot's voice. Her
lecture. I started to play it over in my head. It's the system,
I thought, the system is your master. He jammed his cock into
my asshole, and I just kept thinking, the system, the system,
the big, beautiful, well-designed system. And as Karl kept
pumping away, I kept hearing Margot, and then I kept seeing
her mouth, which I was glad I had gotten a look at before she
told me I couldn't look at her face. I was crying really hard,
but I kept seeing her, her hips in the leather pants, her hands
on the computer keys. She had, I thought, designed this hid eous, awful, beautiful system. She had created all this pain
and humiliation for me.

Karl cried out and collapsed on top of me. I could feel
him shrinking within my raw, abused asshole, and I could
feel various buttons and buckles of his pseudomilitary uniform biting into my back and legs. I wept and wept, but it
was partly with relief that it was over. I'd gotten through
it. But no way did I feel anything but outrage at being
violated by this dim-witted creep, and no way was I ever
going to feel any kind of respect or sexy abasement in front
of him. It had been my sexy images of Margot that had
gotten me through it. Margot and her system. I guess I'd
cheated. Sue me.

Karl pulled me up and then pushed me to my knees.
I was glad I didn't have to look at his face to see the mulish
satisfaction I knew I'd find there. He unhooked my hands
so that I could put his cock back in and zip up his fly. Then
he pulled me to my feet and pushed me in front of him. He
opened a door and we walked down a corridor. A few doors
down, he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. Then he
went into a little kitchen and came back a minute or so later
with a glass of what looked like milk. It was. Warm milk,
to help me sleep, I hoped, and I also hoped it was drugged.
He pushed me on, through some more corridors, and we
finally came to a room, all white, with a white iron bed in it.
There was a ring embedded in the wall above the bed with
a chain dangling from it. He nodded to the bed, and I lay
down on my side. He pulled the chain through the ring in
the front of the collar and loosely attached my cuffs to it as
well. Then he covered me with a light blanket. I settled into
a fairly comfortable position, dimly aware (the milk must have been drugged) that I was falling asleep in the same
position that 0 did, her first night at Roissy, in the Guido
Crepax illustration.

I woke up the next morning with the sun-cold, bluish
northern light-streaming into the little white room. There
were gauze curtains at the window, and they moved a little,
as a mild, fresh breeze blew in. It took me a minute or so to
remember how I got here. I stretched tentatively and realized
that the chain was long enough so that I could sit on the bed
or stand at its side. I felt okay, considering. Actually, I felt
pretty good, except for the fact that I was hungry and had
to pee rather badly. I wasn't groggy at all -if the milk had
been drugged, they'd known how much was the right amount
to use. I remembered that one of the papers I'd signed-it
seemed very long ago -had authorized my doctor, Jonathan's
doctor, to disclose just about everything to these people.
I thought of Paul's thick folder. What did they know about
me? Everything, perhaps. I stood up and stretched as well as
I could. And the day could hold anything.