Carol (Carol Schmidt Series)

by Cook, Lori

  Then, as Carol was about to turn away, something caught her eye. The small, slim crucifix around Irina’s neck suddenly glinted in the light...

  She opened the door. Before her were two tall young men, muscle-bound and thick-set, their complexions bearing the scars of acne, and their expressions somewhere between impatience and outright contempt.

  Ms. Lescheva’s latest human merchandise was to be sold to the normal intermediaries, those who had dealt with her previous shipments of human cargo. But this time that cargo would be Irina Lescheva herself.

  As to the ultimate destination of the woman now writhing on the floor, Carol didn’t want to know. She fingered the small cross, that she’d taken from Irina’s neck and which now hung from her own, and stood back as the men entered the room without a word.

  “She’s over there,” she said in perfect Spanish, noticing that a sports hold-all had been placed on the floor by the door. “Is this mine?”

  One of the men grunted a reply. The two of them were already over by the sofas, looking down at the woman who lay there, and wondering how best they might carry her out without being noticed.

  “Oh, she doesn’t speak Spanish,” she told them as she picked up the bag, which was heavier than she had expected.

  The men looked at each other and shrugged. Irina would not be doing much talking from now on, their expressions seemed to say.

  By the time they’d gotten the delirious woman onto the backseat of their blacked-out SUV, Carol Schmidt was in a cab on the way to an airport hotel, wondering what she was going to do with a bagful of cash at this time of night.

  As for Irina Lescheva, her difficulties were somewhat greater. When she would escape the nightmare into which she had just been thrown, and which was entirely of her own making?

  That wasn’t Carol’s problem. Justice had been served.

  Chapter Ten

  Ten years ago. Mexico City.

  Carol Schmidt, the orphaned daughter of Chilean and American diplomats, was in her eleventh year at the Slaves of Our Lord convent school. The school was on the outskirts of Mexico City. She had been placed there by the Mexican authorities, who, on the death of her parents in a traffic accident, could trace no living relatives.

  From the age of six, then, her home had been a moderately comfortable convent school, and her family a collection of nuns who, though strict, were not cruel. Even as a young girl, she had realized that it wasn’t such a bad deal, all things considered.

  As she grew up, the mystery of her surname Schmidt fascinated her. Had her father been of German ancestry? If so, why had he moved to South America? Was there a whole family out there somewhere, armies of long-lost cousins just waiting to take her in and show her what she’d been missing? Or perhaps there was a fortune sitting in a bank over in Europe, if only she knew where to look?

  Over the years these questions had arisen in her mind, only to be dispelled and finally lost as she slowly came to understand that there was in fact nobody, no family in distant places, no one to embrace her tearfully and take her in. She had no family, other than those who lived alongside her in the convent.

  And, as children in such situations will, she had accepted this as if it were normal. She faced it head-on, developing a determination to get through life, and to enjoy it, whatever it might bring. Indeed, such was the unwavering optimism with which she lived her life that she was the object of admiration and great love among the nuns, who watched with pride and satisfaction as she grew into an enchanting young woman.

  Her unadorned beauty and a developing physical attractiveness also piqued the latent desires of several of the nuns, delighted not only by her bodily charms but by the easy manner of her intelligence, her playful honesty, and the absence of rebellion in her character. She was, all things considered, a perfect pupil, and had never spoken to the Mother Superior other than to receive congratulations on her academic achievements.

  In addition, almost every fellow student at Slaves of Our Lord had at some time or other lusted after her, as each girl passed inevitably through her own sexual awakening, there within the convent, starved of any prolonged contact with boys. They saw in Carol Schmidt something not just admirable but deeply alluring: a proud, confident, and physically perfect example of developing womanhood.

  For her part, Carol had also gone through that phase, and discovered that she rather enjoyed the sensuousness of the female form. But it didn’t excite her to distraction, nor did she become a regular sinner in the dorms, as some girls did, fondling and groping each other with eagerly, panting and kissing as they searched for new ways to invade each other’s soft, willing bodies. Occasionally a girl would be taken away, her sexual misdeeds uncovered. She’d be transferred to a halfway-house run by the church, or returned to whichever relatives could be found, who would scratch their heads and wonder how a convent school could have done this to her.

  No, Carol was not outlandish in her explorations of her own sexuality. On the contrary, she was unusually self-contained. For the most part, her sexual and emotional awakening was done alone. Her physical confidence was absolute, and she had never felt the slightest shame at her own body. She would strip herself naked, standing in the middle of the room, legs apart, or lying on her back. Finding a quiet spot where she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed (eleven years in the convent had taught her all the secret places), she would slowly explore herself, blocking out the rest of the world, fascinated by her own yearning for pleasure, and the number of ways she could achieve it.

  From the moment puberty had sparked in her the first tentative desire for gratification, it had been the most natural thing in the world, and she had been entirely content to do things on her own.

  Eventually, though, she discovered something even better.

  The Slaves of the Lord was one of the more liberal convent schools, not a closed order, and though the girls could not leave the premises unaccompanied before their sixteenth birthday, they did not feel trapped inside the grounds. Stretching out below the convent building was a long, winding garden spotted with old, gnarled fruit trees. At the very bottom was the chapel itself, a large, stone-built structure that always smelled of candle wax and dry wood inside.

  Adjoining the chapel was a handful of small, decrepit stone buildings, their roofs low and sagging, their walls bulging and uneven; without the support of the chapel, it seemed, they would tumble down in a cloud of dust. The buildings were used by two gardeners who worked in the convent grounds, plus an odd job man who looked after all the buildings single-handed. Although the girls were prohibited from talking to these male workers, they did occasionally see them. The old buildings down by the chapel, though, were out of bounds.

  By the time Carol was seventeen, her body was sleek and beautifully sculpted, and her secret sessions of naked masturbation had become her principal pleasure, almost a daily routine, now that she was counting down the weeks and months until her eighteenth birthday and the legal freedom she knew it would bring. Because, although girls could leave the convent at sixteen if she had somewhere to go, those with nothing were kept two more years. Carol had long since decided that, as soon as was practical, on the very day of her eighteenth birthday, she would walk out of the door forever, and into a new life.

  It was a hot spring afternoon, already past five, and she was reading under a tree at the bottom of the gardens. On a whim she decided to sneak into the gardeners’ sheds, the rickety buildings that the girls had been warned not to enter in case they collapsed. The gardeners used them, though. They wouldn’t collapse. What was the worst that could happen?

  Making sure there was nobody looking, she walked cautiously up to the wall that separated the buildings from the convent gardens. It was perhaps five feet high, but made of large, irregular stone and easy to climb. She was over in a second, quickly out of sight on the other side.

  There was small courtyard, four wooden doors giving onto it. She tried the nearest one. Inside there was only darkness, and a stifling
, dusty heat that made her nose itch. She went farther in, and as her eyes became accustomed to the murky light she saw that it was a potting shed, stacks of terracotta plant pots on all sides, hundreds of them, and the smell of dry earth heavy in the air.

  In the middle of the room was an old table, the varnish completely gone, its bare wood ringed with stains. Then, in the far corner, she noticed another door. It was small, and seemed to lead into what must have been the far corner of the building, right up against the wall of the chapel.

  Moving over to it, her heart beating fast with the thrill of being alone in here, she pushed open the door. It was another room, a little smaller, but big enough to walk around in. Against the far wall was a long table, a kind of workbench, and on the walls to both sides were shelves. It was the bulb room, and trays of flower bulbs filled the shelves, lending the air a delicate, oniony scent.

  She crept silently into the room. The only light came from a square hole in the wall up under the sloping ceiling, enough to lend the place a diluted, sleepy luminescence, but not enough for it to seem real. The air was dry and hot, and the smell of the bulbs was strangely sensual.

  When she carefully pushed the door closed behind her, she immediately felt her heart race and her skin flush with excitement. From now on, she told herself, running both hands down over her hips and then slowly up the front of her thighs, this is where she would come to be alone. Her new secret place, her refuge. She looked around, at the shelves full of bulbs, and up at the weak light that entered from above, and she felt a shiver of pleasure run through her, right down to the base of her spine.

  A minute later she was in her drab, unappealing underpants and a white bra straight out of the 1950s. The dull underclothes were standard convent issue, and the source of continual complaints from the other girls, who all desperately wanted the skimpy panties and half-cut bras they occasionally saw in the women’s magazines that were smuggled into the dorms and passed around like wicked, sinful treasure.

  She placed her gray skirt and plain white blouse neatly on the large workbench against the far wall, then returned to the middle of the room, stretching out her arms, legs apart, as if she were about to do some gymnastics.

  What if someone discovered her? she asked herself. It wouldn’t matter. In a few months she would be leaving the convent to embark on a whole new life, the entire world at her feet. What possible punishment could be given to a girl, almost a woman, in the final few weeks of her life in the convent?

  In any case, who would find her? The gardeners? Raúl, the odd job man? They were all old men, it seemed to her, hunched and wizened, permanently smoking those nasty dark cigarettes. If one of them were to appear now at the door, she could easily overpower him and escape. Who would believe that Carol Schmidt had been here, naked and alone, in the potting shed?

  Quite calmly, then, she removed her underclothes, placing then with the others on the workbench. Her young body was now completely naked, and she walked around the room, letting her fingertips brush the dried outer skins of the flower bulbs. Then she stopped and touched her toes, feeling the warm air between her legs. For a moment she remained there, running her hands up and down the backs of her calves, feeling the taught muscles, the sinewy skin behind the knees. Her back was toward the closed door, and she let her feet slide apart, her hands moving up her legs until she was squeezing the backs of her thighs.

  Then she stood up again and kicked off her sandals. The bare stone floor was gritty against the soles of her feet, the ground cooler than the air, but not much. She let her toes play with the dust on the floor, until they were dirty, the cracks between her toes full of fine grit. It was perfect. The place, the timing, the seclusion, everything was perfect.

  She let her hands fall gently on her breasts, which were firm, not too large. Then, smiling as if someone had just given her exactly what she wanted, she took one of her breasts gently in both hands and lowered her head until she could taste the nipple.

  For the next few weeks the bulb room became a daily ritual. There was plenty of free time for the older girls, and she soon got to know when the gardeners finished their shift for the day. Within minutes of them leaving, she’d be over the wall and in her sanctum, stripping naked and feeling the hot, stagnant air against her skin.

  Sometimes she would do nothing more than feel the wonderful liberation of being undressed, simply moving about the room and admiring herself. Or she might squat down on all fours, her ass raised in the air, and imagine that she was being watched as she slid a finger delicately in and out of herself, knowing that her thin pink slit was a beautiful sight, that it really deserved to be seen.

  There would be time for that! she’d tell herself, knowing that her birthday, and with it her release from the convent, was fast approaching. The thought of what she would do once she was out sent her crazy with desire. Once or twice she borrowed a trowel from the potting shed, using its smooth, varnished handle on herself. She’d lean over the workbench and run it up and down between her buttocks, letting her juices coat its surface, imagining a cock doing that to her, a guy right behind her taking his time as he felt himself grow and throb against her sex.

  A couple of the older girls had a dildo. God knows where they’d got it from. But they’d let her borrow it one night, and she’d done her best to be discreet in bed, trying not to make a sound in the dark as she eased it inside herself, dreaming of when she would have someone to do it for her and she could lie back and gasp openly with pleasure.

  There in the shed, then, she would use the trowel handle to stoke her imagination. But it was not as a substitute for a penis. When she was ready she would put the trowel down and let her fingers find their way slowly inside her until she shivered, her body pressing hard against the wooden bench.

  Then, one evening, as she was bringing herself to her first tingling little climax, she heard a noise behind her. Instinctively she glanced over her shoulder. The door was slightly ajar. Had she left it like that? A mistake? She couldn’t remember. There had definitely been a sound. But as she remained there, petrified and hardly able to breath, the little flutter of her first orgasm was impossible to stifle; despite her fear, then, she found herself continuing.

  Had she really heard anything? The thought faded quickly, her body taken by a sudden urge, as if the mere thought of being discovered turned her on. She let her fingers move more freely, reaching down with her other hand and tickling her clitoris. Her small patch of pubic hair was wet, its dampness had soaked into the edge of the workbench, leaving a dark stain there on the bare wood.

  Raising her ass in the air, she brought herself off quickly, all thoughts of calmness and control vanishing, her groin now grinding and jerking as she came, hardly managing to strangle her squeals, which seemed to echo around the room like cries for help.

  Seconds later she had slumped forward on the bench, breathing hard, her legs spread wide. Her sex was pulsating with the aftershock of the deepest orgasm she had ever experienced, and she was suddenly exhausted, her arms aching from the effort. It had all happened so quickly that she hardly knew where she was.

  Then she heard another sound, a distinct movement behind her. Someone was definitely there. Forcing herself to be brave, she looked over her shoulder. But the door hadn’t moved. It was still open a couple of inches, and behind it there was only darkness. She was being watched. Whoever it was, though, had made no attempt to come into the bulb room; they were outside, looking in at her.

  For several minutes she made no attempt to move, her perfect, naked body slumped over the workbench, her tits touching the rough wood, and her wet pussy and ass on full view. Whoever was watching her was still there, and she had no idea what to do.

  Slowly her breathing returned to normal. The effect of her self-administered climax was slowly ebbing away, but a richly soothing sensation remained. Quite unexpectedly, she was hornier than ever. The idea of having brought herself off, here in her secret place, with somebody watching, made her feel i
ncredibly sexy. She was scared, but that only seemed to increase the excitement.

  Just who was it out there? She was confused, unsure of what to do. Yet even as she thought about it, spread prone on the bench, vulnerable, her most intimate self on show, she realized that she wanted to stay here and show more of herself. The very thought of it made her hot, and it was a new kind of sensation, something more complex, dirtier, making her squirm with greedy, self-centered desire.

  This was ridiculous, she told herself. She had no idea who was out there. A girl? A nun? A gardener? She didn’t know, only that they must be enjoying it, because now, as she raised herself up on her elbows and lifted one leg up until the knee rested on the edge of the bench, she heard them breath deeply, as if stifling a moan.

  Chapter Eleven

  Three weeks later she was ushered into a small office on the top floor of the convent. Girls were not allowed up there, and from the damp smell of the place, nothing much went on in the series of rooms which led off from the long, dark corridor.

  Behind a desk in an otherwise empty room was a tall, dark-haired man. He wore a priest’s collar, but was otherwise in a normal black suit.

  “Miss Schmidt,” he said, getting up momentarily from his seat, then sitting back down, indicating that she should take the wooden chair which had been placed directly in front of the desk.

  The man waited until the nun who had brought her closed the door on her way out, her footsteps receding down the corridor. Then, once they were alone, he looked up from the desk. His eyes were large and black, but not malevolent. There was, indeed, something distantly compassionate about him, not in his movements, which were slow and calculated, but in the way that he didn’t smile, didn’t try to put her at her ease; an honesty, perhaps, a sense of frankness.