Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (2 page)

The day was a little foggy, but we were warm from sex
and tea, and I was too confused and curious to worry about
any chill in the air anyway. Jonathan held my hand tightly
and began to explain.

"You don't know about the auctions, I guess," he said,
"or how slave ownership really works. But haven't you wondered, when we've gone to dressage shows, what the real
relationships are?"

"Yes, Jonathan," I said meekly, "I had hoped you'd tell
me."

The dressage shows were among the stranger events Jonathan
had taken me to. They had their rules, too. They'd take place
in some very fancy house, really a mansion, usually down the
peninsula, often with walled grounds you'd drive through on
the way to the house. Jonathan would give the car to a valet,
who would also take my coat. Without my coat, I'd be naked,
except for boots and a leash and collar. Jonathan would take
my leash and lead me to the chairs set up in a ring, usually in
some gorgeous garden area. He'd take a seat and attach the
leash to a little post set up next to it, and I'd kneel there, as all
the other slaves were doing next to their little posts.

The first couple of times we'd gone to these events,
I couldn't entirely believe it. I mean, I wouldn't have been
surprised if Jonathan had just hired this bunch of attractive
people from central casting, that's about how real it was to
me. It was hard for me to believe, or admit, that other people
were participating in arrangements similar to the one I had
with Jonathan and that, moreover, there was a world of
them-a miniworld, anyway. But little by little I began to
accept at least a certain level of factual reality. Physical facts,
like the thin red lines on that blond, curly-haired girl's thighs.
They were precisely spaced, those lines, and I had to believe
that they were the work of that very sallow, soignee woman
in white silk whom the blond girl was gazing at so adoringly. I had accepted the evidence by now, and I was beginning to
wonder how much more there was to all of this and how it all
worked.

Jonathan had had no patience for my curiosity. The
point of the show, he'd told me in no uncertain terms, was the
performances. I was there to watch and learn from them, not
to drool over the audience. Or, to be more precise, the point
for me should be those performances he was interested in.
Because actually there were many kinds of performances featured, including races and steeplechases performed by slaves
in boots and harnesses, sometimes in color-coordinated equipage (were there really people who had more than one slave?
I wondered). Jonathan didn't care so much about the horsier
parts, though, and sometimes left early. As I followed him out
I'd be filled with disturbing feelings, incoherent imaginings,
for example, of what it would feel like to be commanded by
tugs at reins attached to a bit in my mouth.

What Jonathan did care about, though, were the performances called presentations. These were likely to be up at
the front of the program right after the introductions, which
were usually delivered by some very manicured rich man or
lady. Last time we'd been to one of these, it had been a lady in
a garden-party dress, welcoming the assemblage to her home,
in a creamy voice. Then she announced the participants,
although actually that information was all on a beautifully
printed little card, which had been distributed to all the masters and mistresses when they'd come in.

Anyhow, her announcement had gone something like,
"Today, we have six lovely participants in our first event.
They are Elizabeth, owned by Mr. Elias Johnstone; Janet,
owned by Mr. Frank Murphy; Tina, certifiably owned by Mr. John Rudner..." and so on. Six naked, very beautiful young women walked twice around the ring, then each
in turn kneeled before the lady and kissed her foot. Each of
them had her name, the name of her master, and some other
code numbers that I didn't understand elegantly stenciled in
grease pencil at the small of her back. The garden-party lady
smiled at all of them and then introduced the judge, who, it
seemed from the audience reaction, was very well known, for
whatever it was he usually did. Maybe it was this. I overheard
some whispering about his working wonders as a trainer,
whatever that was, with somebody's slaves. Anyway, he had a
great body and a not so great haircut. He was wearing a sort
of Jack LaLanne getup. And he got a lot of applause.

The performance itself was very simple and very difficult. There were formal positions, called presentations, that
the slaves had to strike in turn. These were sexual positions,
of complete compliance and availability. There were, as you
might imagine, a mouth position, a cunt position, an ass position, and variations on all these. The idea was to strike a
posture in which you would be most easily and appealingly
fuckable. It had a lot to do with muscle control. Even if you
weren't the judge, who would put the slaves through their
paces and try them out, you could see that there were right
and wrong ways to do it.

I particularly remembered the slave named Elizabeth,
who I thought was really good. She was wearing a very high
collar, which seemed to be made of silver, but which was
probably stainless-steel mesh, like a good, flexible watchband.
She had dark hair, tied in a small knot on top of her head like
a ballerina, and big, guileless, pale blue eyes, outlined in black.
Her only adornments were a pair of bright nipple clamps, prob ably also of stainless steel, and a white orchid attached to the
side of her head. Her breasts were large and firm, and her
waist and ribcage were very small and delicate.

The trainer held a small whip, which he mostly used for
pointing and gesturing. He pointed to her and said, shortly
but calmly, "Elizabeth. Mouth." Slowly, and with wonderful
grace, she kneeled in front of him, holding her body so her
mouth was perfectly in line to receive his cock. Since his pants
were on, I don't know how she) udged the probable angle of
his erection, but she put her open mouth six inches from his
crotch, arching in a perfect curve from the small of her back
to her neck, so that when he unzipped his fly, there she was,
to the naked eye immobile as she received his cock down her
throat and began to suck. You could tell, too, that her throat
was wide open and relaxed and that she was breathing gently
through her nose. Her eyes were wide open and serene. There
was scattered applause.

The trainer didn't keep his cock there for long, of
course. He pulled it out, very large and very erect, and said,
"Elizabeth. Cunt." This looked especially difficult to me, as
there was nothing but the soft grass for Elizabeth to lie on,
but she didn't lie down-rather, she stood on her toes and
levered herself slowly onto his cock, until he was all the way
in, and then she wrapped one arm around his shoulders, a
little like a trapeze artist sliding down the rope. "Elizabeth.
Ass," he continued, and she levered herself off and got down
on her hands and knees. You could see, somehow, that her
ass was beautifully open, though still hot, tight, and young.
Her face was meek, beautiful, impassive, but somehow lustful. There was more applause as he quickly got in deep, then pulled out and stroked her head. She turned around, kissed
his foot, and then kissed the ground in front of the audience.

There was quite a bit of applause, and then Elizabeth got
to her feet and returned to the circle. I was very taken and
tried to file away my impressions for later use.

In fact, though, Elizabeth didn't win first prize. She came
in second. Tina, certifiably owned by John Rudner, came in
first. I wasn't sure why, but I figured that I still had a lot to
learn. Still, Jonathan was impressed with Elizabeth, too, and
went over to talk to her master during the champagne break.
I saw Elizabeth shyly kissing his foot, and then he shook her
master's hand and stroked her breast. The red second-place
ribbon was pinned to her collar. I, of course, was still kneeling
with all the other tethered slaves. Next to me was an absolutely
gorgeous boy, all shoulders, suntan, cheekbones, and flowing
hair. He whispered to me, "Your master is fabulous-looking.
Are you certifiably owned?" I had no idea what to say, but
didn't have the chance anyway, as one of the servants who
was setting out little troughs of water for us to lap from came
over and slapped the boy for talking out of turn. Then another
one came by with a bucket of SPF30 sunscreen and started
slathering me with it, rubbing it in hard, and finding ways to
get in some invisible but painful prods and pinches.

In any case, as Jonathan was explaining to me now,
what "certifiably owned"-which Tina had been and Elizabeth
hadn't-meant was that Tina had been bought by her master,
probably at an auction. This didn't clarify things a whole lot
for me, but it was a start.

"Well, in that case, Jonathan, am I just plain `owned' by
you?" I asked.

"No," he answered, "not even that. This is just an informal arrangement. I want to formalize it, though, so that I can
sellyou."

"Will you make a lot of money if you sell me?" I asked.
The words felt so strange in my mouth that I forgot to call
him "Jonathan."

"You'll get ten strokes when we get home," he replied,
and then calmly continued, "No, that's not how it works, not in
this century. If you formally give ownership of yourself to me,
then we'll draw up papers and I'll own you and I can sell you.
But I get a pretty nominal fee. You actually get the moneyit's held for you in trust and earns interest until your term of
service ends. Terms of service are usually ayear or two."

I was silent, partly because I was thinking of the ten
strokes. But this was also a lot to digest.

"How much money, Jonathan?" I asked.

"Tina," he said, "cost her master $250,000 for two years.
Let's go home."

When we got back to the house, I helped him off with his
leather jacket and hung it up. Jonathan sat down in his armchair, and I came and stood before him, trembling. I hoped
he'd forget about the ten strokes. I knew he wouldn't. "You
know what you have to do," he said quietly. "Don't dawdle."

"Yes, Jonathan," I said. I dropped to my knees, pulled
off my sweater, boots, and jeans, and folded them as quickly
as I could. I crawled quickly to the closet, put them away, and
then crawled to a cabinet, where I got his rattan cane. The cane
made me tremble more as I crawled back to him. He took the
cane from me and removed the leash, unhooking it from my
collar and deftly unknotting it from around my waist.

"Over the table," he said. There was a small table near his
chair. I stood and bent over it, folding my hands at the small
of my back. He stood up, grabbed both my wrists with his left
hand-hard-and pulled them up in the air behind me. Good,
I wouldn't have to worry about keeping them out of the way
of the cane. And his holding my wrists like that would help
me keep my balance, too. All I had to do was bear the pain
and count the blows. And then it was really happening. God,
it hurt. I kept it together, more or less, just sort of whimpering
until the fourth stroke, when I gave in to the pain, sobbing
and crying even as I called out each stroke by number. Before
the tenth stroke, he shoved his foot between my legs, kicking
them open a little, so the last stroke hit right where my pubic
lips began in the back. I think I screamed before I remembered to say "ten."

He let go of my wrists and I slid to my knees again. He
shoved the cane in my mouth and I crawled to put it away.
Then I crawled back and knelt in front of him, thanking him
and promising to try to keep the rules better in the future, and
he held my head in his hands and kissed me lingeringly on the
lips and on my cheeks, which were cold and wet with tears.
He bent his head down and kissed my breasts, too, while I let
out the last little volley of sobs. "Crawl out to the kitchen," he
whispered. "I'll see you later."

In the kitchen, Mrs. Branden gave me my dinner in a
pan on the floor. And after I'd finished eating, she led me
upstairs to Jonathan's bedroom, where I waited on the bed
on my hands and knees, my collar chained to the headboard.
I figured that Jonathan had probably gone out to grab some
dinner, maybe a beer, with friends. I knew I'd have to wait at
least an hour, but, well, waiting's part of what I do. Amazingly to me, I usually stay in position, even when nobody's watching. When he came in, he snapped his fingers. I lowered my
face to the pillow and folded my hands at the back of my
neck. My back arched, and I became open, relaxed, ready.

He stroked the back of my head, reached under my
shoulders, and caressed a breast. "Good, Carrie," he said.
I murmured my thanks. I was really happy, in fact, no longer
to be in disgrace. My ass hurt a lot-it felt huge and swollenbut in a funny way this didn't feel entirely bad. I felt, well,
there, open and available. No question about there being a
there there. I knew exactly where there was.

Jonathan fingered my ass thoughtfully, making me
whimper, then stroked his tongue along one or two of the
longer welts. I began to moan. He got up. I could hear him in
the bathroom, peeing, washing, and brushing his teeth. Then
he came back into the bedroom and got undressed, slowly
and carefully putting his clothes away and whistling a theme
from the "Trout Quintet." He liked anticipating pleasure; I'm
an antsy, impatient kind of person, but I'd learned to see what
he got out of the stately way he paced these things. Trembling
on the bed, with my face in the pillow, working to contain my
sighs and moans, I couldn't see him, but I could hear little
things-the closet door turning on its hinge, a zipper sliding
open, clothing rustling, the tiny sighing sound that was the
squeeze of the Charlie's Sunshine bottle-all behind the sad,
sweet melody he was cheerfully whistling.

Finally, naked, smelling of toothpaste and oatmeal soap,
he climbed behind me. He whistled a rousing final bit of
Schubert-he'd been doing both the strings and the pianoand then he entered me quickly. Did I say I was ready?
I was almost ready, I guess. But for me there's still always that shock, that invasion, that readjustment, it felt, of everything, including-especially-my will. And then that moment
of reacquaintance with the smaller sensations, the pure little
pleasures, the feel of the sweetness of his belly, the fine black
hair on it, the muscles stretched across his pelvis, perfectly
curved around my painful butt. He took his time, fucking me
slowly, luxuriously, up the ass. Floating, buffeted by waves
of sensation, I tried to anchor myself to something besides
the pleasure and agony by kissing and nibbling at his hand,
planted on the bed next to my face.