Read Online Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel by Molly Weatherfield - Free Book Online Page A

suspenders all sweaty
from muggy Chicago. Perhaps, I thought, he'd hire somebody
to come in and chain me up an hour or so before he was going
to get back (though he'd always get back at least an hour later
than he'd planned).
    Concretely, the idea sucked, I thought. Abstractly, though,
I discovered that I found it somewhat exciting. I was turned
on by the purely objective, instrumental quality of my situation. Why shouldn't he bring his slave along, I thought. Why
have a slave unless you could have her there to stick yourself
into when you were hot, stressed, and exhausted? I thought I could arrange the time off. That was one of the good parts of
being a bike messenger. I promised to try.

    He stroked my breasts and shoulders and kissed my forehead softly. "Undress me," he whispered, and I started with
his shoes, as he'd taught me, unlacing them with my teeth. He
helped me, taking off his shirt, unzipping his pants. We were
both very turned on; I realized that we were both imagining
this trip, though I'll never know if our fantasy images matched
or not. Everything was going very slowly, as though we were
already moving sweatily through heavy, moist air (though in
fact it was fifty degrees outside-gray San Francisco summer
weather). I sucked him, rolling his balls around my mouth
while he stroked my face.
    Then he pulled away from me and told me to choose a
whip from the cabinet where they were hanging on hooks. He
had several, of different styles. As though in a dream, I chose
the heavier of the two cat-o'-nine-tails. It had knotted ends.
Why did I pick the heavier one? Maybe I wanted to be hurt
more, or I knew he liked that one more, or (this is the way I
really remember it) I simply thought it was a prettier whip.
I handed it to him silently, and he flicked it lightly over my
breasts. "You don't have to count," he said. I nodded. I knew
he meant that he wouldn't need the sound of my voice to tell
him when I'd had as much as I could take. That he'd know.
    He chained my hands above me and whipped me, almost
languorously, from my knees to my shoulders, front and
back, the whole strike zone. It felt like millions of little stings,
again and again and again and again. I gasped and groaned,
and tried to keep my eyes on him, his thighs, the muscles in
his forearms, his mouth, his beautiful, erect, reddened cock,
with the veins so elegantly articulated and clearly standing out. When he unchained me I slumped against him, and he
picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist, hungrily
and impatiently trying to angle toward his cock, which I
didn't think I could bear not having in me another moment.
I knew I wasn't supposed to act so aggressively, but I didn't
care. What was he going to do, beat me some more? I knew
he didn't want to. I knew that he wanted to be inside. He sat
us down in his armchair, moving me up and down, his hands
on my burning ass, his mouth on my neck, my breasts. I felt
teeth, I think.

    And then later, after we'd both come, there was still his
mouth, all over my face, my neck, and me kissing him back,
just as hungrily and furiously, the both of us banging teeth
against jawbones as though we both wanted to eat the other
alive, as though all the whipping and fucking had not been
enough, and we didn't know what would be. I stayed on his
lap for quite a while until we got our breaths back, and then
I slid off and he got up and we did eat each other, first him,
then me, until we both had enough energy to fuck again, this
time, though, in his bed-"We should get to do this comfortably once in a while, damn it," he said, leading me up the
stairs -and then to nap a little, until he unbuckled my collar
and sent me away, first to raid the refrigerator and then to fall
into a deep sleep in my bed in the little room down the hall.
    But I never made it to Chicago. I drifted to work the next
morning, feeling like Scarlett O'Hara after the big staircase
scene. I liked