Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

you know how attractive you are, but that doesn't
mean I won't fuck somebody else."
    "That's not the point," he said. "I'm very glad you think
I'm attractive, but that's not what I'm talking about. You won't
fuck anybody else-at least, not on your own time-because
you'll be too aching, exhausted, and fucked out to want to
try. Trust me." I did, too, though I wasn't crazy about this
obnoxious gzziezz e,' Ina,; macho little speech. Still, his delivery
was impressive, casual and understated, as though he were
ordering a burrito. "Just a little more pain than you think you
can stand, please. With onions and hot sauce."
    He pulled out some more cards from his pocket. "And
get a haircut. Like mine, really short, maybe even shorter.
Very butch, only it won't look butch. It'll look ...well, you'll
see. Anyway, they'll know what I want. Oh, and a leg waxing,
too."
    "You pay for that kind of stuff too? Regularly?" I asked.
    "Yeah," he said. "I'm rich, or rich enough, anyway. And
I know pretty much what I want, and I've spent a lot of time
figuring out how to get it. When you're rich, price isn't important. The main point is getting things to be the way you want
them. So I pay. Your job is to work that beautiful butt off to
be as perfect as the scenery aroundyou. Oh, speaking of scenery. You know, if this works out, we could go to Provence."

    "No!" I shouted, before I was even aware that I was
saying anything.
    We were both surprised. "What I mean is," I stammered,
"Provence is a real, historical place, not a fucking virtual
reality. And it's a place I care about and want to learn about
and understand. And when I go there, I go as me, wearing
my glasses and my own clunky shoes. It has nothing to do
with this."
    The ironic lines around his mouth deepened. "Rio maybe,
then."
    "Maybe," I said.
    It took about two weeks to get all the arrangements made -the
doctor, the haircut, all that. Nobody in the expensive, tasteful
places he sent me to seemed to think it was weird when I asked
them to bill Jonathan, though I found it humiliating in the
extreme. They had to know, I kept thinking, these polite and
urbane functionaries. And certainly, the haircutter did seem to
know exactly what Jonathan wanted, and no, it didn't exactly
make me look butch. When he finished, I stared at myself for
a long while in the elegant chromed mirror. I looked terrific,
actually, in a cold, high-tech sort of way. Jonathan must have
a great eye, I thought, to know I'd look this good in such an
extreme haircut, but I also knew that wasn't the whole point.
I looked familiar, but not in a way that I could place.
    I stared at myself all the rest of the day, in every mirror
and store window I passed, but I couldn't figure it out. Not
until I woke up, startled, the next morning at about 4:00.
What I looked like, I realized, was a collaborator, one of those
sad French girls who'd slept with a Nazi soldier, and after the
war the whole village takes its revenge, which includes shav ing her head. My god, I thought, was this what he'd intended?
A little message about sleeping with the enemy, brought to
you-and paid for-by the enemy. I paced around for a few
hours with a quilt wrapped around me and a cup of coffee in
my hand, distractedly shuttling between my mirror and the
window, where a cold gray dawn gathered light.

    And then I also had to give Mrs. Branden about a million of my measurements, and she took about a million more,
odd sections of my body that I didn't like to think anybody
was going to deal with. Which just shows how realistically I
was going about this. Of course, if I'd been a more realistic
person, no way would I have gotten into this thing in the first
place. Then, finally, on a Thursday night just after Halloween,
it was showtime.
    But it's hard for me to describe those first sweaty, embarrassing
couple of weeks. Probably because I looked like such a klutz
for so much of it. I like to remember the parts