Carrie's Story by Molly Weatherfield

Author:Molly Weatherfield [Weatherfield, Molly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Erotica, Erotic Fiction, Sadomasochism
ISBN: 9781573441568
Google: tYjWhDEJYWsC
Amazon: 1573441562
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 1997-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Stephanie, though, it was as though she didn't need this training, as though she were above it. Cathy and I were as nasty and bitchy as we could be, egging each other on to imagine humiliations for her, humiliations she never got, of course, because she was so prissy and perfect. If we'd been in summer camp, we would have short-sheeted her bed by now. Or dipped her hand in a bucket of water while she was sleeping to make her pee in her sleeping bag.

"What I would have liked to see," Cathy whispered one night,

"was her pulling a plow." It was her last night here. Madame was coming for her tomorrow. She was so excited that she couldn't sleep, and I was so sad about her leaving that I couldn't, either. So we both were overtired and punchy, repeating all our old Stephanie jokes just for companionship. But this plow stuff was news to me.

"A plow?" I whispered. "They have a farm here?"

"Well," she answered, "when Madame drove me up here, on the road through the grounds, we passed a girl pulling a plow. They have a vegetable garden, I think, and they grow some flowers.

Anyhow, the girl, she's gone home since then; she was all tired and muddy and everything, and, you know, bent over. She looked terrible. Madame asked Sir Harold about it and he just rumbled,

'Punishment.' And then he looked at me and said, 'For a pony who didn't behave.'"

"Wow," I breathed, "it does sound terrible; it would be perfect for her."

And we were so taken with this image, both of us, that we didn't even hear when Phil and Mike, both of them that night, came through for a bed check and shined a flashlight right at the rubber hose between my mouth and Cathy's ear.

"Well," Phil drawled, "will you look at this? Two little ponies talking on the telephone. Or pretending to talk, anyway, because everybody knows ponies can't talk. Why, that's so cute, Mike, I think we'll just have to show the boss. Get the fuck up, you two."

And while we scrambled to our feet, he and Mike gathered up all our hardware in our arms ― boots, bridles, everything, and not forgetting our telephone. Then they each grabbed a riding crop and began hitting us hard, on the ass, driving us barefoot through the night, running up a path we'd never been on to Sir Harold's house.

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