middle-aged lady
of voluptuous and gourmandizing appetites. It was something
to look forward to. Well, depending on how things worked
out, I thought, suddenly much more interested in the fact that
(speaking of appetites) I was starving again. We'd managed
to simplify life in a charmingly utopian way-reducing it to
food and sleep, sex and storytelling-and now it was time for
food again. The rain had dropped off to a drizzle. So we went
exploring, and found a neighborhood restaurant, where they'd
listed tarte tatin on the blackboard in the window
"Ahhhh," I breathed an hour later, blissfully downing
the last bite of apple and crust and vanilla whipped cream, as
he nodded to the waiter to bring our coffees.
"I'm going to tell my next story right here," I announced.
I wasn't sure why. Probably because I wanted to make him
sprint-or hobble, perhaps-back to the hotel. Well, because I thought I needed some sort of advantage. Because, damn it,
was Kate going to be in all his stories?
But I didn't have time to think that one through right
then. I had a story to tell, after all.
CARRIE'S STORY CONTINUES
I wish Madame had let them punish Stephanie publicly,
for the entertainment of her guests. So you could have told
me what nasty rituals she, or her trainers, had dreamed up.
Because it's my experience that that's where they really like to
get funky, at those punishment ceremonies. At Mr. Constant's
parties, for example, if the token master had found any lead
demerit markers in your coinbox, you'd have to go line up at
a special punishment station. It was a panel of wall-mounted
dildos. And for every lead token, you'd have to bugger yourself on one of those dildos for fifteen minutes. You'd have
to hold your hands at the back of your neck-part of the
punishment was the awkward, exhausting crouching position you'd have to assume, while you ground your hips like
a demented go-go dancer. And guests could fondle you, or
flog your front, taking turns with the floggers that hung from
hooks at the punishment station. It was worse, I thought, for
the guys-people wouldn't leave their cocks and balls alone.
They looked so "out there," I guess.
But the hosts at other parties had other, equally fiendish, punishment rituals. And since I often got at least one
demerit token in my box, I got to know them all, to be a sort
of connoisseur, you might say.
Parties like that were a big part of my life. Mr. Constant
would give one every six weeks or so, and he'd go to a fewand bring us, of course-during the weeks in between. Parties
like that were one of the things that Annie trained me for.
But first-that first day on the island-she showed me
the lay of the land. After I'd dozed in the straw for a while,
she prodded me awake with her boot, and led me outside.
There was a pony cart waiting for me, with a pile of pony
gear-harness, bridle, whip, and tail-on the seat. Of course I
was familiar with the cart's basic design-shaped more or less
like a plow or a big backward wheelbarrow, but with two big
spoked wheels on the sides. The spokes were a rich, mellow,
brass color, as were the little door handles and tiny lamps at
the front (for night rides, I guessed). Otherwise it was matte
black, the seats inside a rich buttery chestnut leather. It made
the red and black and gold coaches I'd pulled at "Sir Harold's
Custom Ponies" seem as tacky as the name of his establishment. I felt absurdly proud that I'd be pulling something this
sober and elegant.
Annie put the bridle on my head, jerking the bit far back
into my mouth. It was a thick steel bar, and it distended my
mouth and made me gag as she buckled it into place, the
heavy leather straps meeting at the back of my head. She
turned me around and I bent a little so that she could insert
the dildo, with the long horse tail connected to it, into my
asshole. She pulled the straps of the belt that held it in place,
my body welcoming the parallel restraints
of voluptuous and gourmandizing appetites. It was something
to look forward to. Well, depending on how things worked
out, I thought, suddenly much more interested in the fact that
(speaking of appetites) I was starving again. We'd managed
to simplify life in a charmingly utopian way-reducing it to
food and sleep, sex and storytelling-and now it was time for
food again. The rain had dropped off to a drizzle. So we went
exploring, and found a neighborhood restaurant, where they'd
listed tarte tatin on the blackboard in the window
"Ahhhh," I breathed an hour later, blissfully downing
the last bite of apple and crust and vanilla whipped cream, as
he nodded to the waiter to bring our coffees.
"I'm going to tell my next story right here," I announced.
I wasn't sure why. Probably because I wanted to make him
sprint-or hobble, perhaps-back to the hotel. Well, because I thought I needed some sort of advantage. Because, damn it,
was Kate going to be in all his stories?
But I didn't have time to think that one through right
then. I had a story to tell, after all.
CARRIE'S STORY CONTINUES
I wish Madame had let them punish Stephanie publicly,
for the entertainment of her guests. So you could have told
me what nasty rituals she, or her trainers, had dreamed up.
Because it's my experience that that's where they really like to
get funky, at those punishment ceremonies. At Mr. Constant's
parties, for example, if the token master had found any lead
demerit markers in your coinbox, you'd have to go line up at
a special punishment station. It was a panel of wall-mounted
dildos. And for every lead token, you'd have to bugger yourself on one of those dildos for fifteen minutes. You'd have
to hold your hands at the back of your neck-part of the
punishment was the awkward, exhausting crouching position you'd have to assume, while you ground your hips like
a demented go-go dancer. And guests could fondle you, or
flog your front, taking turns with the floggers that hung from
hooks at the punishment station. It was worse, I thought, for
the guys-people wouldn't leave their cocks and balls alone.
They looked so "out there," I guess.
But the hosts at other parties had other, equally fiendish, punishment rituals. And since I often got at least one
demerit token in my box, I got to know them all, to be a sort
of connoisseur, you might say.
Parties like that were a big part of my life. Mr. Constant
would give one every six weeks or so, and he'd go to a fewand bring us, of course-during the weeks in between. Parties
like that were one of the things that Annie trained me for.
But first-that first day on the island-she showed me
the lay of the land. After I'd dozed in the straw for a while,
she prodded me awake with her boot, and led me outside.
There was a pony cart waiting for me, with a pile of pony
gear-harness, bridle, whip, and tail-on the seat. Of course I
was familiar with the cart's basic design-shaped more or less
like a plow or a big backward wheelbarrow, but with two big
spoked wheels on the sides. The spokes were a rich, mellow,
brass color, as were the little door handles and tiny lamps at
the front (for night rides, I guessed). Otherwise it was matte
black, the seats inside a rich buttery chestnut leather. It made
the red and black and gold coaches I'd pulled at "Sir Harold's
Custom Ponies" seem as tacky as the name of his establishment. I felt absurdly proud that I'd be pulling something this
sober and elegant.
Annie put the bridle on my head, jerking the bit far back
into my mouth. It was a thick steel bar, and it distended my
mouth and made me gag as she buckled it into place, the
heavy leather straps meeting at the back of my head. She
turned me around and I bent a little so that she could insert
the dildo, with the long horse tail connected to it, into my
asshole. She pulled the straps of the belt that held it in place,
my body welcoming the parallel restraints
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