by K NILSSON
Carrie
It was eleven o’clock and still no message from the guy. I checked the website and got a notification that my message had been read.
“Well then, I’m supposed to read your mind. Way to keep a girl guessing,” I muttered.
The insides of my arms tingled, and I knew that soon, my anxiety would make me scratch them until they bled. Luckily, I’d readied BOB for a quickie before I walked out the door. The thoughts of dressing as a schoolgirl and submitting to a priest were erotic but terrifying. My feelings were mixed, and I didn’t know what to make of that, except that the result of this interaction would be momentous.
My uniform allowed for easy access to my white cotton boy shorts. They were super cute. I pulled them off and put BOB’s head directly on my mound, determined to have the quickest orgasm I’d had since Saint. The mental foreplay had begun earlier when I replayed the scene in my mind with him. His long licks from pussy to ass. The wet, savoring sucks on my clit, the fingering. That vision ratcheted up my pulse to the next level. I remembered the slightly musky smell of his soft but heavy balls gently slapping my nose. I came so fast it surprised me. The orgasm that came after was less intense, as was the one after that, until all that was left were throbs that mimicked my heartbeat.
Chapter Forty
Saint
The thought of catching Carrie in this dank, dark excuse for a church gave me the kind of thrill and dread I felt when I was about to bag a cheating wife. What was it about this situation that even remotely compared to those encounters?
This place was a dungeon, where an admission fee and signed non-disclosure form was collected at the entrance. Members of theconfessional.com got in for free. They just showed their profile name and verified the email address on record. Big Brother was everywhere.
I planned to stalk her in here, to watch and see what interested her, and when I saw an opportunity, I’d give her what she was looking for—atonement.
Speaking of the little minx, I just spotted her wandering toward The Confessionals. The props in here looked authentic. In fact, it seems like a lot of money's been invested in this place. Some of the equipment looked like it was in use during the Inquisition. One naked man shuffled around with iron shackles. A middle-aged woman had her head and hands in stocks. Several cages hung from the ceiling, attached to thick chains. There were people in the cages.
I’d expected to hear screaming, moans of pain, squeals, and squeaks, but instead, I heard murmurings of prayer, satisfied sighs, and smiles of satisfaction. What planet were we on? But this place was a dungeon. They must have had a marketing team study the demographics and compare them to info collated from different kink websites.
My little minx moved past The Confessional and planted herself in front of some nuns. By God, they looked authentic too. They were wearing cornettes, just like Sally Field in The Flying Nun. I was old enough to remember that show. I’d watched the reruns.
Carrie was talking to one of them. The nun took her hand and led her away to a kneeler, I assumed to pray. But that didn’t explain why that same sister raised her robes to expose white vinyl boots and a riding crop tucked into her garter. What. The. Fuck.
My cell phone vibrated, and I walked into a narrow, empty hallway to answer it.
“Yeah, Max?”
“That guy she’s been messaging? He’s a real therapist, a sex behavioral therapist who uses role-play for patients to work out their issues. He has credentials. Carrie’s therapist has him listed on her website as a member of her recovery team.”
“Oh,” I say, relieved.
“Yes. The guy's legit.”
“This gets curiouser,” I said.
“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.
“Go ahead.”
“She’s trying to cure herself…”
His voice trailed off, and I hung up. I walked over to the nun with the crop, turned to Carrie, and looked into the face of an innocent.
“Oh, my sweet angel. What happened to you?”
Carrie looked wide-eyed at first, as if I was out of place and not within the context of where she was. Then she emitted a low growl, it was almost feral, and when she narrowed her eyes, they looked as if they spit fire. It was the most fascinating transformation of this woman I’d ever seen.
I grabbed her hands before she knew what I was doing. “Slapping a Saint is not good for your soul.”
“You’re a traitorous pig,” she spat.
That’s how I felt every time I put my hands on any woman who reminded me of Natalie. But Carrie wasn’t Natalie. Carrie was me. I understood betrayal. But I felt Carrie was an innocent and someone took advantage of her, even if she didn’t know what that kind of betrayal felt like.
Carrie was struggling, slapping at my hands and then pushing my chest away. Soon, I saw men and women with armbands approaching us—dungeon monitors.
“Sweetheart,” I gritted out, “these people will throw us out if we’re fighting. I want to apologize.”
She had the good sense to stop struggling, but said, “I don’t have time for your apology. I’m meeting someone.”
I could have sworn she tossed her ponytail at the end of that comment.
Even though I knew she was talking about the role-play therapist guy from the website, I wanted to be that guy.
As I pulled her closer, Carrie wriggled, this time much like a kitten being squeezed by heavy hands, and wanted none of it. I put on my game face and held up my hands in surrender. Carrie visibly relaxed.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you who I was. But what we did was real. You were not a job to me. I’ve never had a hotter night than the one I had with you. I’d like another chance with your sweet pussy,” I said, hoping I didn’t come off as an altar boy.
Carrie adjusted her ponytail, folded her arms in front of her, and twitched her nose.
She was adorable. I wanted to snuggle her in my arms and make everything better.
“Who are you meeting?” I asked quietly.
She looked around, seeming slightly bewildered.
“A confessor, someone…”
Her eyes glazed over, and she looked as if the weight of the sins of the world were on her shoulders.
I picked her up and was motioned to an anteroom by one of the dungeon monitors. Carrie nuzzled my neck and sighed.
“I don’t know why I’m here. I came here with good intentions, but everything feels so… off.”
“What were your intentions?” I said with a smirk. As if I didn’t know.
“You’re laughing at me.” Her eyes flashed angrily.
“No, I shouldn’t be laughing. But I thought it was funny seeing that nun trying to pick you up as if you were naughty, and she was going beat the naughty out of you with that nasty crop.”
She grinned. “I see your point. That was funny.”
I laid Carrie on the cot inside the anteroom. It was dark; the walls were probably painted black. I couldn’t tell because the only light came from a couple of wax candles stuck inside sconces on the wall. The shadows of light and dark reflected against the linen-covered cot and her white blouse.
I heard the rattle of chains that hung from a stake on the wall, and a whimper coming from beneath them. I flashed a light from my phone right there. Sure enough, there was a person shackled to the chains.
The place was such a downer; whoever designed it had gotten the feel of medieval times down flat. This dungeon must have been recreated by a set designer from one of the studios. It screamed Hollywood all over the place.
“Come on, princess; tell me what’s on your mind. I need to get us out of here. It gives me the creeps.”
“Since Margie hired you, then you know something about my past. What is it that you know? If you lie, I’ll know it, and I’ll never trust you again.”
That was the line in the sand that I understood.
“I know a little about your reputation.”
She winced.
“But I
don’t think less of you for it. There’s a story in that beautiful head of yours about that. I hope one day you’ll trust me enough to share it.”
She nodded.
“You see a therapist, Dr. Jane, and go to the support group she sponsors.”
Carrie smiled weakly.
“Sometimes you appear confused and lost, as if you were coming back to consciousness. That must be why you see Dr. Jane.”
“Yes.”
“Anything you want to add to that?” I asked.
“I have bad nightmares—night terrors. I’ve remembered some details about the nightmares. I think something happened to me when I was young. If I can remember more, it will help me move forward with my life.”
“And?” I waited.
Will had told me some more, but it had to come from her.
“Like?” I asked.
She sighed. “I tried to commit suicide when I was sixteen. My dreams took over my waking hours.”
“So what were you doing here, in this depressing asshole of Hollywood?” I asked, incredulous that she would even consider coming to this place.
“Dr. Jane and I are trying to work out a strategy for me to remember my dream. It seems like when I deviate from a script in my head, sexually speaking, the dream is a punishment or a reminder. So I thought that reenacting some of the things that have come out in therapy sessions in the past could help. Religious symbols, prayers, phrases, rituals, confession, a priest…”
“Priest? Not priests?” I asked.
“Priest. I don’t know why.”
“So you came here hoping to role-play?”
She nodded. Her face was scarlet.
“Would sex have been involved?” I asked.
“That’s kinky.” I joked.
She didn’t laugh. We waited another five minutes.
I scratched my head.
“I don’t think that guy you’re waiting for is going to show up.”
“I don’t think so either,” she agreed.
“How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
“Let me take you home.”
Carrie bit her lower lip, unsure if she should take me up on it. That lip was mine. I wanted to nibble and suck it.
“What about your car?” She asked.
“I took an Uber here. How about I drive you home in your car. My friend will pick me up from your place. “Okay.” She smiled, uncertainly.
On the way to her home, I thought about all the ways getting involved with Carrie Drazen could fuck up my life. We didn’t say much during the drive. She was lost in her world, and I was wondering what a little role-play would be like with Carrie. Would it lead to sex or a full-blown psychotic breakdown? It was dangerous to role-play when you didn’t know what you were dealing with. So I thought I’d leave that to the professionals and let her and I use a little sex therapy of a different kind.
Chapter Forty-One
Carrie
There were times when you had to know when to throw up the white flag. Tonight was it for me. In a desperate attempt to hook up with someone who could help me through role-play, I’d almost gotten in over my head.
The whole drive home, I thought about what I’d seen at The Confessional, reviewing all the sexual activities played out in the name of the Lord. Soaked panties were responsible for the sticky sound I made when I slid around the seat in the car. How slutty would it be if I sneaked a hand up my skirt? He had his eyes on the road, and I didn't think he'd notice… much.
His demeanor had changed. Was he hot from what we saw too?
His smile was almost cruel. I loved that. When I slid my hand under my skirt, he snatched it away.
“Oh no, you don't, brat,” he snarled playfully.
“Please! Let me touch myself!”
“No, not yet.”
He kept my hand away from between my legs.
I wanted him, his beautiful, smooth, perfectly shaped cock inside me.
We pulled up to my building, and I knew he didn't trust me to keep my hands away from my crotch because he saw the desperation on my face. Like a Viking, he hoisted me over his shoulder and carried his prize inside.
“Let's play, Carrie. Do you like games? I like games we both win.”
I nodded, panting with desire, and wondered why the fuck he was talking so much.
“Do you have a problem with blindfolds?”
I shook my head.
“Have you ever used a blindfold during sex?”
I shook my head again.
He chuckled, reminding me of a fat black cat that had cornered the little white mouse. The only reservation I had about being blindfolded was missing what I wanted to see—his cock in all my holes. My desire for him was boundless. He slipped my panties off and put them over my head. He laughed, and I giggled.
“These aren't real blindfolds, but I trust you to keep your eyes shut.”
I reached for my pussy again, and he stopped me.
“My pussy, Carrie.”
Those words made the longing worse! He didn't waste any time undressing me, ripping my garments off and tossing them on the floor.
Saint carried me to the couch and gently laid me on my back with my hands pinned under me. The aroma of my panties mixed with the texture of his hands on my pussy was intoxicating, but I was very aware that we were playing his game. He dove into my nether lips and drew circles on my clit with his hard, pointy tongue. He blew air on my tender bud, sucked it, and then he started all over again.
I gasped in staccato.
Smack! He’d slapped me hard on my upturned nipple, and I screamed in shock and pain.
“Not until I say,” he mumbled.
How did he know I’d almost come? But that slap didn't stop me from trying. He pulled my legs up and placed them over his shoulders as he pulled my pelvis closer to his mouth. The new position made it easier for him to access another part of me.
Saint's spit-slicked finger wormed its way into my rosebud, one knuckle at a time. I ground my heated mound on his mouth with reckless abandon. I just couldn't wait. I had to come and fast. He slapped me on my tender slit.
“Ow!”
The pain stung briefly, but undeterred, I arched my pussy toward his face again.
Swat! His hand tattooed an imprint on my cleft. My scream was automatic.
He laughed. “Shh, be quiet, little minx.”
I pouted. So that was how it was going to be? Saint's way or no way. Wickedly, he teased me as his fingers traveled up my body like slow, soft caterpillars and latched onto my stubby nipples. He twisted them cruelly. I tried to hump his leg. Slap. Slap. Whap. His hands landed on my breasts in measured alternating strokes, making my head snap to attention in exquisite agony.
The bastard was withholding pleasure so that my orgasm would be so intense, I would shake, shiver, and beg for more.
Saint flipped me onto my knees, setting my chest on the couch. Using cold lube from the tube he’d found inside my coffee table drawer, he worked it into my asshole. I whimpered and squirmed to get away. He stopped fingering.
“Don't stop!” I implored, feeling empty without his fingers.
He went to get something—from where, I didn't know, but he came back and tied my hands with his tie, I thought.
Now I was helpless, just the way he wanted me. If I had known he had this cruel side, I would have begged him to stay that first night.
A cold, hard object was at my ass's door. The end, smooth and softly pointed, worked into my sphincter.
“Relax, or it'll hurt. Take small, quick breaths, and push out,” Saint crooned into my ear.
With a soft pop, my bum hole swallowed the slim plug.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
I shook my head. As his warm body crouched over mine, I shivered in anticipation. Cologne mixed with his musky scent filled my nose. His hand caressed my breasts, and the other fingered my pearl. As my body rocked in a steady rhythm, the finger pulled away from my clit and left me in a ne
glected state again. I thrashed in frustration. I heard the tear of a condom wrapper. Then, my prayers were answered as Saint cleaved my steaming pussy with his throbbing bone.
He said, “Talk to me.”
“I love you fucking me… fuck me harder. Fuck.”
I met him stroke for stroke. As I rocked harder and got closer to an orgasm, he slapped my ass, a reminder not to come.
“My little whore,” he rasped possessively. “How does it feel to have both holes filled? Your pussy is very slick. I can slide in and out all day.” He had set a good pace, but soon lost the rhythm as his climax approached, then, he pumped with wild abandon. Without warning, the butt plug came out, and Saint seated himself into the depths of my bowels. He fucked me in slow, languorous strokes, his balls slapping against my pussy. “Don't cum!”
Was he crazy?
“You have the tightest ass I've ever had! I love fucking your ass… I want to fuck your ass forever,” he rasped.
I flailed like a fish on a hook.
“I love you fucking my ass!”
He smacked my ass repeatedly, making me shiver toward an orgasm. I tried to squeeze my thighs together to get just a little bliss. He fucked me harder, and I wailed. I took the pain and turned it into pleasure.
“You can touch yourself. I want you to come with me,” Saint rasped.
Then my fingers were like birds in flight. With featherlike strokes, they danced and slid across the lips, blessing them with little slaps while I ground my hips in circles. That was all it took to raise the momentum from a crescendo to a raging roar. My brain sped like a bullet toward the bull’s eye. I reached my destination with a piercing scream and collapsed in convulsive orgasms.
He came long, and hard, shoving into me with everything until he was spent. I felt his cock pulsing. As we spiraled down from this incredible orgasm, my mind was mush.
“Later,” Saint gasped, “we’re going to try something different.”
Still blindfolded by my panties, I cocked my head to the side and hung on to every word.
“What was that all about?”
He caressed my face. “I wanted to give you what you were looking for.”
