She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, okay," she said slowly, "if you want to. But when we're done eating. And back in bed."
Fair enough. We were both so ravenous that the food disappeared pretty quickly, and the night air was chilly enough to drive us under the covers.
"Okay then..." she began, snuggling against me. "Well, I think I'd better begin at the beginning...."
CARRIE'S STORY CONTINUES
So there I was, less than an hour after being auctioned off, kneeling on the floor of a limousine in front of my new master. I could feel the car's suspension under my knees-we were driving over cobblestones. We picked up speed on the paved streets; perhaps the driver had turned onto one of those small highways they sometimes build around the perimeters of ancient cities. I was naked, under a rough black cloak, except for tightly laced high boots. I'd been taught some new rules during my stay in the warehouse: I had to keep my eyes lowered, instead of maintaining eye contact, as you'd insisted. It was difficult for me-fixing my gaze on his very neat suede shoes, the thickly carpeted floor, while his hands methodically probed, opened, examined me. I wanted to know what he looked like. All I'd ever really seen of him were gray-tinted glasses.
He took his hands away now, reaching for a small package next to him on the seat. I could hear the faint clink of metal. Buckles, I thought. He tore open the wrapping paper and I could smell the leather-I think he was rubbing it between his fingers, to check its thickness. I relaxed my shoulder blades, lengthened my neck for him. The collar was tall and stiffI would have to get used to holding my head very high. And in front, dangling down over the gap between the bones of my clavicle, I felt a heavy iron ring. Was it three inches in diameter? Four? Big enough for him to grasp in his hand.
Yes. He used it to pull me down to his crotch, quickly unbuttoning his fly with his other hand, filling my mouth with a swollen cock that reached insistently for my throat. It took some effort to move my head back and forth over him, with my neck so cruelly bound. I think he sensed that, and I think he enjoyed it, too, pulling me closer with the ring, and holding me down firmly while I swallowed.
And then-well, that's easy. Put him gently, humbly, back in his pants. Straighten out his clothes, with light, deft hands. And then lean back on my knees-back straight, head high, eyes down, tits out, waiting at attention in case he wanted me again. He reached over me to a magazine rack, and selected a newspaper, opening a Wall Street journal and relaxing behind it, and I realized that he hadn't said a word to me since... well, he'd never said anything to me at all. I wondered if he ever would.
It was becoming difficult to stay still. Not just the aches at my knees or having to keep my balance as the car sped up and slowed down, but the silence, the poverty of images. I scanned my memory for stray glances I'd caught of him. I didn't think he was tall. His hands were large-I had the impression that he was squarely built, broad for his height. In good shape for his age-late forties, maybe? I'd heard his voice, at the auction, when he'd come over to where I'd been displayed on my little carpeted pedestal. He'd parted my ass with blunt, dry fingers, and commented to an assistant about my "pure passion for obedience." His English was precise, accentless; I suspected it wasn't his first language. He'd laughed a little, when he'd seen how jolted-how summoned to attention-I'd been by his fingers in me. He was right; I did want to obey him. Although maybe he'd meant that I want to obey everybody.
Only now, maddeningly, I didn't. I felt fidgety. I needed to hear his voice. I could happily obey him, if he'd tell me to do something, but I was having a difficult time doing the most important thing of all-which was waiting. I realized (tacky, obvious, but there it was) that I'd expected him to give me a little discourse on himself-how tough he'd be-Sir Stephen informing 0 of his fondness for habits and rituals. He wouldn't have had to say a lot; just something to give it, you know, a story line.
Yeah, I told myself, as the limo's wheels rolled over smooth road and sunlight flickered through the tinted windows, that's you all over, Carrie-life's only real when you've made it into a story. But the more I scolded myself, the more I found that I wanted to lift my eyes and peek at him. One peek, I told myself. Just to see what kind of a mouth he had.
Wide. Determined. The cheeks lined, the jaw squarish. That was all I allowed myself, through my eyelashes. A little something to go on, to settle me down for the rest of the ride. To allow me to imagine what sort of person might have those hands, that taste and smell. He was very rich, the assistant had told me. And he liked a bargain.
The car finally stopped in front of a hotel, and he stepped out and turned, to allow someone to drape a topcoat around his shoulders. I caught a glimpse of black cowboy bootsStefan, the assistant from the auction, respectfully murmuring assent to Mr. Constant's instructions: Get her ready, after she's fed and bathed and rested. "I'll be back for her at eight," Mr. Constant concluded, in his mild, accentless voice. "Oh, and give her two strokes, won't you, to remind her to keep her eyes where they belong."
The strokes had been swift and furious, the first making me gasp, the second wrenching tears and a few gurgled sobs from me. And neatly placed, I thought now, examining myself in the mirror while I waited for the large bathtub to fill.
It was taking a while, even with water pouring full force out of the taps into the square tub, its deep bottom sunk below the bathroom floor. Black marble. Ugly, expensive. Black tiles on the walls with a sort of water lily design etched into them to echo the metallic faux-Monet wallpaper on the ceiling and upper part of the walls. And too much light. Too many mirrors, also, in front of me and behind me: I stared curiously at the infinite parade of pale naked girls in cruel black collars, angry red stripes neatly X'ed across their infinite parade of asses. It was like seeing the year I'd signed on for, spread out before me.
I looked tired, my eyes much more deeply shadowed than usual. I'd been woken up early that morning, to get me ready for the auction. And I'd stood for I don't know how long, chained to my pedestal while the buyers had examined me. I was glad I'd get some time to rest. I just hoped, as I stepped carefully into the tub, that I wouldn't fall asleep in there.
The hot water felt great, the tingly buttermilk bath salts soothing my ass. But-no need to worry about falling asleep-the collar felt even tighter that it had on dry land. I couldn't dangle my head back as I wanted. And the leather would stiffen, too, as it dried. Get used to it, I told myself, as I experimented with how to dunk my head under the water to rinse my hair. Get used to it; you'll be wearing it all year.
And when the makeup lady woke me later that afternoon, I wondered if I had fallen asleep in the bathtub after all. But noI remembered then, through an enormous yawn, that after I'd finished my bath I'd been fed small cubes of cheese, fruit, and raw vegetables on a heavy white china plate on the floor near the bed. And given water too, in a big bright yellow plastic dog's bowl-I remembered feeling grateful that it was the big kind of bowl, for German shepherds or Akitas, because I'd been so thirsty. And glad that the pallet, which Stefan had prodded me down to for my nap, was soft, covered with a sheepskin, and placed near the floor vent, in the warm air currents.
I was lying on my side, my hands behind my back. Stefan had buckled a pair of leather cuffs around my wrists, and attached my hands behind my back-I'd had to dip from the waist to get to the food and water-and he'd also tethered me in place at the end of a long chain leash. But I must have slept well, I thought, because I felt a lot better, and amused to hear the makeup lady-a small, cheerful woman with bronzey dyed flyaway hair and rouged pink cheeks-imperiously telling me in French that I must wake up and sit au dell, at the vanity table across the room, my leash dangling between my legs.
She worked cheerfully and carefully, humming to herself, chattering about what a sweet little boy I looked like in my haircut, entirely unperturbed, it seemed, by my chain and nakedness. Was this something she saw every day in this hotel? I wondered. Or did Mr. Constant's money override people's usual expectations? I gazed at m
yself in the mirror. I looked better after my nap-my eyes huge and startled above pale pink and ivory cheeks, mouth carefully painted the color of a purplish bruise-while she rubbed a little more of the purplish lip gloss on my nipples.
Stand up, she told me. Turn around slowly, while she considered what else to do with me. She brushed and trimmed my pubic hair a bit, used a little more of the lip gloss at my cunt, but that was about all she could come up with, since I'd been manicured and depilated within an inch of my life that morning, for the auction. She stroked my ass pensively, and then she quickly packed up her makeup kit, tossing away used Q-tips and cotton balls, gently prodding me back down to the bench, this time facing away from the mirror. "Be good, petite," she called to me, clattering out of the room on high, slightly broken-down, platform shoes, the room suddenly becoming very quiet, the wrought iron vanity table bench cold and hard under me.
Next act, I thought, hearing a sound at the door a few minutes later. Opening acts for my own performance in this commedia, all the characters sketched in broad strokes. The dressmaker was thin, with features as sharp as the pins and needles stuck into the front of her dress, her eyes glittering gray behind spectacles. Her assistant, a bored, chunky teenager with lots of black eyeliner and a nose ring, grimaced under the burden of the big garment bag and various other packages, and chewed bubble gum to the rhythm of the Discman plugged into her ears. I could hear the tinny ghost of a back beat when she bent to smooth long black stockings up my legs.
No garter belt-the stockings went high up my thighs and seemed to cling there. The shoes had very high, straight heels, straps at the ankle, and an inch of platform sole. The back beat from the Discman changed slightly as I stood upa new cut, reggae-inspired, perhaps-and I swayed a bit to its distracting rhythm, my hands still bound behind me.
They let me sway until I got my balance, freeing my hands then, and unhooking the chain from my collar, to put the dress on me. It was really two pieces. The top was dull, matte black, a boned corset with cups for my breasts-a bustier, but with laces in the back so that you could tighten it. And the bottom was a skirt made of many layers of white tulle or organdy, one of those tired, old-fashioned-looking sheer fabrics that prom dresses-the good kind, that you get in thrift stores-are made of. The hemline was uneven, sometimes above my knees, sometimes below it. And above the organdy was a layer of what felt like thin, transparent vinyl-well, more like cellophane really-stiff, iridescent, unnatural.
I heard the skirt's odd rustle as the assistant slipped it over my head. The dressmaker tugged it here and there, turning it a bit, putting in a few clever stitches near the hem to make it less even, more raffish. The bustier, now-the assistant hooked it up the front, pulling at the laces behind me, and then indicating, with a nod and a little shove, that I should walk around the room, so that her boss could see the effect.
"The darts aren't right." Stefan must have come in from the adjoining room. The dressmaker murmured what sounded like grudging agreement, and the assistant rolled her eyes in exasperation as she struggled to undo the hooks and hand the corset to her boss for alteration.
Oh, yes, much better, they all agreed, after the adjustments had been made and the garment was hooked up again and relaced. Even Ms. Discman's eyes widened and her mouth slowed as she watched my second circuit around the room. I was still a little tentative; I'd mastered the shoes but I was dizzy from how tightly I'd been laced-the dressmaker had pulled them a full inch tighter than before. And when I passed the mirror, I saw that her alterations had transformed the dress entirely. Or had I just been too stupid to notice, my first time around? The tight lacing, the billowing skirt, the bare, vulnerable expanse of chest below the cruel collar. This was the Roissy dress, updated as expensive trash, a nouveaupunk pastiche. Involuntarily, I felt around the skirt, front and back, for the strings, the hooks, that I knew had to be there.
"Yeah, sure, try that part," Stefan said in a bored tone. And it wasn't very difficult to hook the little tabs of cloth in place, so that the skirt was lifted, front and back, to expose my ass and cunt.
"Keep it rolled up while you wait for him," Stefan added. He'd been thanking the dressmaker, tipping her, perhaps. I heard the door shut behind her, while he turned off some lamps. "You can sit on that bench until fifteen minutes before he comes for you-I'll let you know when that is."
I thanked him. No need for him to expand on those instructions. I knew he meant that fifteen minutes before Mr. Constant was due, I'd move down to the floor, in the center of the room, to wait for him on my knees. And that there was no need for me to know what time it was now, or how long it would be before that happened.
They're not exactly boring, those long stretches spent waiting for a master. You're hyperconscious of your bodyyou hope it will be pleasing, after all the preparation and grooming it's had. You breathe with your whole body, which is so open and displayed and ready. You're a little afraid of the moment when you'll be judged, examined. You're afraid but you also can't wait-to be seen, to be touched, to be commanded, forced, used.
I don't know how much time passed while I sat on the iron bench in the darkening room. There was a clock ticking on the mantle, but Stefan must have turned it around while I was asleep, so that I couldn't see the time. I watched stars appear in the evening sky, and I looked down at my body, and at my dress. The bustier felt even tighter than when I'd been standing, and my breasts swelled, plump and white, over the bra that barely covered the rouged areolas of my nipples. The odd, synthetic material of the skirt billowed to either side of my waist, iridescent as insect wings, crinkly as gift wrap, surrounding my pale thighs and dark naked cunt. Even with the skirt unhooked, so that my cunt and ass would no longer be visible, so that we could go out-and I knew we'd be going out, this was a dress for going out-this was a dress for announcing precisely what I was. In some ways it was simply a setting for the collar and cuffs-the way some black velvet evening gowns are settings for fabulous diamond jewelry. I swallowed, resolving to wear my restraints proudly. And then I snorted, wondering where I'd copped that pretentious thought.
I quickly stifled the snort, though, at the sound of Stefan's footsteps. Down to the floor now-he pointed out the spot with his toe, training a reading lamp at it, and dimming a few more of the other lamps. And perhaps because he'd told me I'd wait fifteen minutes, it felt like an eternity until he led Mr. Constant into the room. I was surprised by the edginess in the air; it was the first time, all afternoon, that I'd wondered what Stefan might be feeling about any of this. I could feel how relieved he was when Mr. Constant commended him on the dress and chuckled appreciatively at how my ass had been marked. Stand up, turn slowly, Stefan commanded me. Let down her skirt and get her cloak, Mr. Constant told him, before leading me quickly and silently to the elevator and outside the hotel, down a few crowded, brightly lit downtown streets to a restaurant. Showtime.
I followed the maitre d' across the floor, the big ring in my collar catching the light of candles on tables, Mr. Constant walking close behind me like an impresario, my cloak over his arm. I could hear murmurs. I blushed, but kept my chin lifted, even higher than the collar forced me to. I could feel my nipples stiffen, my cunt get wet, my whole body open and swell under the stares directed at me.
An image floated into my mind. I guess I thought of it because we were going to Greece the next day, but it was from an old fantasy, one I'd played over and over again, late in bed at night, during high school. I was naked, chained from a collar much like the one I was wearing now, the chain tugging me along behind a chariot. Booty of war, a slave captured at Troy, following barefoot behind the warrior who'd loaded me on his ship. He'd also got a wagon full of pottery and weavings, and some sheep and goats. The little Greek island kings had squabbled, had even come to blows once, over how to divide the spoils, especially the pottery. It had been raucous, cruel, violent, petty-like the rest of the war. They'd enjoyed it. And now, ship safely in harbor, we were marching through the gates of his city in a vi
ctory parade. The crowd lining the road seemed huge to me-I tried not to look at them, but I could hear, I could feel them-drunk, laughing, jeering. I thought I could hear them that night in the restaurant, though it was really just the tinkle of silver and china and crystal, and perhaps a few polite gasps.
Chill, people, I thought. If I can deal with it, so can you. But it's probably easier for me. Because I have to concentrate on walking in these shoes, and breathing in this dress, while you can hang out at your tables feeling... well, what are you feeling? Shamed curiosity, self-shielding contempt, outraged desire? Or envy, which is what Mr. Constant is really hoping for. He wants you to desire me, and to envy him terribly. And I know this because it's what I want too.
It couldn't have taken more than two minutes for the maitre d' to guide us across the restaurant. But it felt like an hour, with that Technicolor epic running in my head. And its coda, when everything caught up with me.
As we entered the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, Mr. Constant whispered, "Bravo." I smiled. It was the first thing he'd said to me.
A waiter held a chair for me. I lifted the stiff, oddly smooth, and crinkly skirt when I sat down-it wasn't exactly something you'd sit on. The seat cushion tickled my bare ass. My cunt was moist; I was going to leave a sticky little wet spot on the dusty-rose velvet. I sat as straight as I could while the waiter fussed with the flowers and glassware.
"And pull her dress down," Mr. Constant added, "so that I can see her breasts."
The waiter's hands were deft, circumspect. He used a finger to lift each of my breasts out of the bra cup that held it, and to fold the stiff cloth below it. My breasts rose under Mr. Constant's gaze, their painted nipples standing at obedient attention. I kept my eyes down while the waiter answered all of Mr. Constant's questions about the menu, and disappeared silently.
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