Read Online Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel by Molly Weatherfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Molly Weatherfield
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playing the lurid moments over in my head, and
I found myself giggling when I remembered him insisting on
fucking in his bed that second time. It was, I guessed, our
own little staircase scene.
And then I got to work and forgot about everything.
Because things were wildly disorganized. One of their most
dependable messengers had gotten injured the day before,
and somebody else had quit. So I really had to hustle all day,
and when I finally got a chance to ask for the time off, they
told me they were too short-staffed and I was too new. I was
disappointed and a little scared of what Jonathan would
say. I was right to be scared, too. He didn't say much when I
told him I couldn't come, but his eyes got stormy and his jaw
twitched. And all the sweaty honeymoon vibes in the room
iced over. "It's notyour fault," was all he said, which sounded
a lot to me like, "I wish it were your fault so that I could cane
you within an inch of your life."
He found reasons to cane me anyway, of course. I mean,
it wasn't that hard, since he was making up the rules. Things
got very formal, very difficult, almost like the early times I'd
spent with him.
This time, though, it wasn't my inexperience that was
causing the problems. It was our arrangement itself: the emotional challenge of shuttling between real life and whatever it
was we were doing in Jonathan's study. I took this seriously.
I think Jonathan hoped I'd volunteer to quit my messenger
job, but I wasn't about to do that, and he wasn't about to ask
me to. So things were not exactly fun for the next week, until
Jonathan left for Chicago. I kept coming to his house, kept
getting criticized and beaten, spent a lot of time with painful clips on my nipples, didn't get fucked at all except stiffly,
painfully, up the ass. And, yes, I accepted it all without
second-guessing it. He would do it some other way, I thought
stoically, when he felt like it.
What I wasn't prepared for was my almost instant horniness
after he'd left. I'd planned, of course, to get lots of rest, read
a couple of the books I'd pretended to have already read, that
sort of thing. But I found myself nodding off over books and
waking up with my hand up my cunt. Okay, I thought, that's
just how it is, he'll be back soon enough. But I was no longer
"aching, exhausted, and fucked out," and I missed it. And,
well, I started to look around me.
And found Kevin. Actually, I suppose it's more accurate
to say that he found me. I mean, I'd been half noticing him
for a few weeks. And if I'd stopped to think about it-which
I hadn't, quite-I would have become aware that he'd been
making himself very noticeable, lounging around the lobby
of one of the buildings I delivered to a lot, a rather glamorous retrofitted brick coffee factory that now housed computer
programmers. He was doing something to the air-conditioning system, something with the ducts -he told me what, but
I don't really remember much except that it paid well and he
was a member of the Boilermakers' Union. Well, for a few
weeks now there he'd been, always in the corner of my eye
in that beautiful retro marble lobby. He wore torn overalls,
wonderful artful rips and holes in them with bright ski underwear underneath. He had blue eyes and pink cheeks in a
beautiful boy's face under a backward baseball cap, with tendrils of dirty blond hair peeking out. I noticed his shoes, too,
for some reason, dusty L'il Abner work shoes that looked like
they had iron in their toes. Maybe Jonathan was turning me
into a shoe freak.
When you retrace certain paths fairly regularly during
your workday there are some people you semiconsciously
depend on seeing and smiling at, receptionists or homeless people or flower vendors. Kevin had become part of the texture of my workweek, one of the prettiest parts, I've got to
say, but still just part of the background scenery. I mean,
Jonathan pretty much hogged the foreground.
But all of a sudden
I found myself giggling when I remembered him insisting on
fucking in his bed that second time. It was, I guessed, our
own little staircase scene.
And then I got to work and forgot about everything.
Because things were wildly disorganized. One of their most
dependable messengers had gotten injured the day before,
and somebody else had quit. So I really had to hustle all day,
and when I finally got a chance to ask for the time off, they
told me they were too short-staffed and I was too new. I was
disappointed and a little scared of what Jonathan would
say. I was right to be scared, too. He didn't say much when I
told him I couldn't come, but his eyes got stormy and his jaw
twitched. And all the sweaty honeymoon vibes in the room
iced over. "It's notyour fault," was all he said, which sounded
a lot to me like, "I wish it were your fault so that I could cane
you within an inch of your life."
He found reasons to cane me anyway, of course. I mean,
it wasn't that hard, since he was making up the rules. Things
got very formal, very difficult, almost like the early times I'd
spent with him.
This time, though, it wasn't my inexperience that was
causing the problems. It was our arrangement itself: the emotional challenge of shuttling between real life and whatever it
was we were doing in Jonathan's study. I took this seriously.
I think Jonathan hoped I'd volunteer to quit my messenger
job, but I wasn't about to do that, and he wasn't about to ask
me to. So things were not exactly fun for the next week, until
Jonathan left for Chicago. I kept coming to his house, kept
getting criticized and beaten, spent a lot of time with painful clips on my nipples, didn't get fucked at all except stiffly,
painfully, up the ass. And, yes, I accepted it all without
second-guessing it. He would do it some other way, I thought
stoically, when he felt like it.
What I wasn't prepared for was my almost instant horniness
after he'd left. I'd planned, of course, to get lots of rest, read
a couple of the books I'd pretended to have already read, that
sort of thing. But I found myself nodding off over books and
waking up with my hand up my cunt. Okay, I thought, that's
just how it is, he'll be back soon enough. But I was no longer
"aching, exhausted, and fucked out," and I missed it. And,
well, I started to look around me.
And found Kevin. Actually, I suppose it's more accurate
to say that he found me. I mean, I'd been half noticing him
for a few weeks. And if I'd stopped to think about it-which
I hadn't, quite-I would have become aware that he'd been
making himself very noticeable, lounging around the lobby
of one of the buildings I delivered to a lot, a rather glamorous retrofitted brick coffee factory that now housed computer
programmers. He was doing something to the air-conditioning system, something with the ducts -he told me what, but
I don't really remember much except that it paid well and he
was a member of the Boilermakers' Union. Well, for a few
weeks now there he'd been, always in the corner of my eye
in that beautiful retro marble lobby. He wore torn overalls,
wonderful artful rips and holes in them with bright ski underwear underneath. He had blue eyes and pink cheeks in a
beautiful boy's face under a backward baseball cap, with tendrils of dirty blond hair peeking out. I noticed his shoes, too,
for some reason, dusty L'il Abner work shoes that looked like
they had iron in their toes. Maybe Jonathan was turning me
into a shoe freak.
When you retrace certain paths fairly regularly during
your workday there are some people you semiconsciously
depend on seeing and smiling at, receptionists or homeless people or flower vendors. Kevin had become part of the texture of my workweek, one of the prettiest parts, I've got to
say, but still just part of the background scenery. I mean,
Jonathan pretty much hogged the foreground.
But all of a sudden
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