Those Carter Women

As I was leaning over to gather up my things there was a knock on my window. I’m
afraid to admit I actually screamed. A little. I really wasn’t expecting it. I turned, eyes
wide and surprised. Standing by my car door was this girl that I had just driven past on
my otherwise empty street. She was smiling. Smiling in a way that suggested that my
little yelp had amused her. But it was an infectious smile, and she looked innocent
enough, so I rolled down my window.
“I scare you?” she asked, eyes glittering.
“Not really, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting the sound.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Can I help you?” I asked, and her smile just broadened a bit.
“Have you ever read anything by Mary Helene Carter?” she asked. Her tone was so
matter of fact, that the oddness of the question scarcely registered.
“Uh, no. No, I haven’t.”
She smiled again. It was a strange, knowing smile, sort of gratified.
“Come on.” she said and walked around the front of my car and up onto my walk.
What was this? Was she a Jehovah’s Witness or something. She wasn’t carrying anything,
no tracts or pamphlets, no big Book of Mormon. Just a diminutive white girl in winter
coat.
I leaned over again to pick up the bags I’d dropped when she’d knocked.
“Leave that shit where it is for a minute. You can come back out and get it. After.”
There was a tone of command in her voice that made me drop the bags I had in my hand
again and reach for the door handle. This was greeted with a brief little flash of a smile
from her — a smile of triumph for herself, not for me. “Oh, you can bring that fast food.
Wouldn’t want that to get cold.”
I had noticed her in my rearview mirror as I turned onto my street a moment ago. It
was kind of odd because I hadn’t paid her much attention while she was in front of me.
There wasn’t a great deal to recommend her, dirty blond hair, cut in a page boy, a puffy,
tan, down jacket, well worn bell bottoms. She looked like any teenage girl. But as I
passed her it looked like she raised the hem of her jacket to show me her ass. It was a
nonchalant gesture, probably not what it looked like. Probably I’d just caught her as she
was about to get something out of a back pocket, but I never miss an opportunity to ogle
a girl’s ass (I love that curve most of all) and there it was. Add to that the fact that she
didn’t reach into her pocket. There was something calculated and suggestive about the
gesture, but then again it was too casual to have been on purpose. I know that my
attention lingered in my rearview mirror longer than I intended because I had to correct a
little swerve when I refocused on the road ahead.
I picked up my Wendy’s bag and my nearly empty Sprite and got out of the car,
thoroughly nonplused, but curious. As soon as I got out of the car she started to walk up
the slate path to my house as if she were going to let me in, not he other way around. Was
I going to let her in? This was getting stranger by the moment.
I looked at my street as I rounded my rear bumper. There was no one around, but
that wasn’t unusual. Just a typical early afternoon, on the chilly end of spring. Most of my
neighbors worked nine-to-five jobs and were gone. It was too early for kids to be home
from school, and too chilly for the neighborhood nannies to be out walking their tiny
charges.
When I looked back at her she was fiddling with her jacket again, just going
around the big azalea bush that hulks in front of my front door. The bush was gigantic
and covered most of the door. Probably, at this stage, it should have been ripped out and
replaced — it was way too big to prune into shape, but it bloomed so spectacularly that I
couldn’t bear to touch it.
As I got to the bush, which would not be in bloom for a few weeks yet, I smelled
something. Well, why lie? Saying that ‘I smelled something’ suggests that I didn’t know
what it was – and there was no denying what it was. It was a fart. That’s what this little
girl must have been doing, possibly both times, lifting her jacket so the fumes wouldn’t be
piped straight up to her face. The problem was that I have a weakness for certain smells. I
like a lot of scents other people find disgusting. And I must admit, for such a little girl,
she packed quite a potent ‘punch’. If I know my farts – and I’m a little ashamed to say that
I do – that one probably left a little calling card on the seat of her Victoria’s Secret
specials. I drew it into my nostils like the scent of a freshly baked pie.
As I got around the bush she was standing there at the top of the porch, smiling her
strange little smile. Her head was sort of cocked, as if to say ‘What? you smell
something?’ but she didn’t actually say that. What she said was slightly stranger. “Give me
your keys.” Again, she said it in this quiet tone of command that left me no real option
but to obey. I handed her the ring, holding it out by my house key. She promptly dropped
them. I don’t mean that she fumbled them. She took the proffered key, the rest dangling
and jingling, then, eyes on my face she opened her slim fingers and dropped them on the
stair that separated us. Then she just looked at me. I like to think of myself as a
gentleman and so I bent to pick them up.
As I did she turned, pushed the soft, blue fabric of her jeans down and slid her jacket
up. All of this happened so quickly that by the time I reached down and snagged the keys
and stood again, I was facing not the front of a weather soiled down jacket, but the
exposed cheeks of a smooth, rather fine, white ass. My jaw dropped, and my breath
caught and then, I suppose I should have expected it, there was a slightly fricative hiss
as she farted in my face.
I thought several things at once, ‘why is she doing this’ and ‘Oh my God, what if
someone sees us’ and ‘what a glorious ass’ and ‘my, I’d love to kiss that’ and ‘how dare she
do that’ and ‘what has she been eating’. Then I noticed her smiling at me from between
her legs, upside down. She thrust her hand between her legs and snapped her fingers and
I, as if the command was telepathic, handed her the bundle of keys. Then she stood and
walked to the door, her jacket dropping like a curtain over her bottom, but not before I
saw the way that it swelled out over the tops of her pushed down jeans as she
straightened.
“Get on your knees and kiss my ass as I figure out which key to use. And don’t worry
about being seen, this big ass bush will cover most of you. And if you’re lucky I might
have another fart for you before you get inside. Hurry up, bitch.” Bitch? Who was she
talking to? Here was this complete stranger, standing on my porch, on my day off, having
just farted in my face, giving me orders, now calling me names that would get a much
bigger man’s ass kicked almost anywhere in this city! What can I tell you? I complied.
I dropped to my knees and pressed my face under the hem of her jacket and got busy. She
unhurriedly tried one key after another, or I supposed she did, I could hear the tinkling
and scraping, but I was busy with following her orders and didn’t see what she was really
doing with the keys. Nor did I care. All I saw, all I wanted to see, was her ass – her
smooth, pale, firm butt, her crack, the little Y shape at the top as I covered her bottom
with kisses. I was working up the courage to nuzzle deep enough to get to her asshole
when the door opened and she said “Come on in, but don’t you fucking dare stand up.” I
followed her into my house, on my knees.
After I crawled in she said, “Close that door.” Then she turned to me and pulled up
her pants. She walked quite close to me, sneering down. “Mary Helene Carter says in
‘Property, A Womyn’s Guide to Finding, Owning and Using a Slave’ that the most
important things to consider are ‘Psychology, Proximity and Propinquity’. She says that
all these things add up to Perpetuity. In other words, dumbass, that you find a guy who’s
naturally submissive, lives close to you and likes what you like and you can own his ass
forever. She says not to worry much about how well he does what you want, that the
training him is part of the fun, just as long as he wants to do what you want him to do.”
As she went through this lecture she was taking off her jacket and her sweatshirt, and
kicking off her old sneakers. She walked into the living room in her T-shirt and jeans and
sweat socks. “You have a camera, cunt?”
“Yes,” I said, stunned.
“Go get it. Oh, and leave that food here. You can stand up and go get it, just as long
as you never stand in a room I’m in, you understand me, asskisser?”
I nodded as she took my lunch and walked into the living room. On trembling legs I
went up to my room and got my digital camera. She yelled up the stairs after me, her
mouth sounding as if it were full, for me to leave my jacket and hat and shirt. I came
back downstairs, barechested and nervous and looked into the living room to see her
naked but for a baby blue Victoria’s Secret thong (I also know my panties), eating my
double cheeseburger and finishing my soda. She looked over at me as I got to the
archway and I, almost without thinking, dropped to my knees. “Hmmm, a digital, cool.
Turn it on and bring it over here.” Then she took another big bite of my sandwich.
She fiddled with the camera for a moment then said “Put it on that table over there,
and push the button.” I did and the timer started beeping. “Now get back over here, you
bitch, and lick my thigh. No! Stupid the other side! Quick!” Just as I placed my tongue
against her warm, satiny thigh, the camera clicked and the flash popped. Then she pushed
me off. “Bring it back” I went for it, my knees rubbing against the carpet, and she
snatched it from me and fiddled with it, smiled and popped the memory stick out of the
back. “Mary Helene Carter says it also pays to have a ‘hook’, a little something to keep
your slave in check with. So I’ll be keeping this unless you think you want to pictures of
you licking the thighs of seventeen year old girls showing up in dangerous places like the
police station. Don’t worry, we’ll take some more later that you can keep. Now help me
off with my panties, you dickless freak.”
I was afraid that she’d tell me to do something goofy like take them off with my
teeth, but she just lifted her slim hips and waited for me to obey. I did, easing them over
her hips and butt, watching them turn inside out as the cotton clung to her stickily wet
labia, then sliding them over her shapely legs, and getting a little tiny kick in the face
from a painted toe as I pulled them over her feet. I was right, in spades, the white cotton
liner of that covered the bottom seam of her underwear was a riot of color, yellow and
brown and a tiny trace of dark red, as if she were on the last day of her period and hadn’t
bothered with a tampon, and even traces of pale blue where the wetness of her pussy had
soaked the fabric enough to see the other color beneath. In other words, her panties were
filthy. And fragrant. I stiffened at the sight of them. She looked at me looking at them.
“Go on, nigger, you know you want to sniff them. Sniff them.” I wrapped the tiny web of
cotton around my fist and held it to my nose. Outrageous, explosive, she must have been
wearing them for weeks. I loved them. “Go on and suck that stain out, boy. I know you’re
hungry. Oh, and don’t worry about your lunch, I’ll have something for you to eat in just a
minute. Till then, suck on that, you whore, till I allow you to eat my pussy.”
Hers wan’t the first pussy I’ve ever eaten, but I must say it was the ripest. Her jeans
were clean and there was a faint trace of perfume from above, as if she had dabbed some
between her tiny breasts before leaving the house, but her labia were clearly unwashed,
and powerfully fragrant. Again, this was not going to let me off her hook as I love that
smell. She quite often jammed my head between her legs or ground her pelvis into my
mouth, in between bites of cheeseburger and sips from my Biggie Sprite. Some of the
pushing was in the form of nonverbal instructions urging me to suck or lick harder but
some of it was clearly an attempt distribute the funk of her unwashed vulva more widely
around my face. At one point she pushed me back from her and lifted her knees and
farted royally point blank into my face again then said, “Get back to your job, coon.”
Occasionally, she would clamp her surprisingly strong thighs on either side of my head
and hold on, squeezing painfully. I could tell by her breathing and moaning that she was
pleased with my ministrations , but there was never any praise. Once, for no reason I
could think of at all, she used her feet to push me away from her and slapped my face
stingingly, then used her heels to put me ‘back in my place’. Again, I’m ashamed to say, I
loved it.
She pushed the last bite of my big burger into her mouth, wiped her fingers on my
short, nappy hair and said, “OK, time to ride you home!” Then she did something to me
that in all my extraordinarily broad sexual experience I have never seen or heard of. She
stood, pulled me back so that I was pretty uncomfortably bent backwards, squatted back,
laced her hands beneath the back of my head and began to rub herself forcefully against
my face. It wasn’t comfortable for me, it wasn’t sexy. She didn’t care. I could barely
breathe and the friction of her untrimmed pubic hair was excruciating . But it was very,
very clear that she was loving it. She moaned, and cursed and screamed as she neared
her orgasm, a climax that I only hoped would come before she broke my nose or rasped
my lips from my face. I was sure that I’d be bleeding when this was over. I doubt that
her ‘ride’ went on for more than a few seconds, but in my cramped, suffocated, abraded
state, it seemed to go on forever. Then she screamed and let go of my head, dropping it
painfully against the coffee table and splashed two, three, five huge jets of that
strangest of substances, girl cum, all over my stomach and chest and pants and face.
Her legs were vibrating violently from the intensity of her release, and almost
in slow motion, her knees buckled, dropping her onto my neck and chest. She braced
herself on my chest and scooted around, clearly trying to get into some new position. She
came to rest with her slick pussy oozing onto my chin and her sweaty, funky asshole over
my mouth. I could see her pink hole clearly, still spasming with the aftershocks of her
titanic orgasm. Yet, that wouldn’t really explain that much puckering and expanding.
Another fart? No, I knew what was coming. I knew it. Even though her weight was all on
me, I was still strong enough to move her if I wanted to, or at least shrug her off, I
doubted if she weighed much more than a hundred pounds. But I didn’t. I watched her
anus spasm and distend and I did what she told me. Her voice, hoarse form screaming,
said, ” Open up slave, open wide. Here comes your meal. Here comes what I made for
you. You ready, bitch? Huh? You better be. This is your future. This is what you’ll be
doing for me till I get bored with you. Eat it. Eat my shit! Eat it all!”
And I did.
I ate her shit. I had never eaten any before, not really. I’d licked many an ass and
even had a brown shower or two, but I’d never gone this far. Out it came in slow, steamy,
relentless dollops only to be pinched off by her sphincter muscles. I’d use those breaks to
push the pastey mass past my rebelling tongue and down my throat. Then her pucker
would distend and evert and deliver another turd for me to guzzle – and I would. On and
on it went. Occasionally I’d miss a bit and it would plop onto my lips, but then I’d
swallow and poke my tongue out and rake my new prize into the hopper and send it to
follow it’s sisters in my stomach. She was clearly enjoying the experience, and I could
feel her rocking her clit against my chin, heading for another climax. The pieces got
smaller and her rocking got more vigorous and soon she got her release – another
shuddering, squealing orgasm. Then she got off me, pressed herself up to standing and
turned to look down at my ill-used face.
She watched as the warning whistles of my digestive system finally signalled a
red alert. She giggled like the teenager she was and said, “Well, go on and puke,
dumbass. Hurry! I don’t want to see it. Go!” I crawled from the room as fast as I could
then stuggled to my feet and ran upstairs to my bathroom to purge myself of my meal. I hung my
head into my toilet and retched and retched until the heaving stopped. What had I gotten
myself into? How had this happened? She yelled for me to brush my teeth before coming
down and I did, thankfully. On rubbery legs I made my way back down the stairs. I had
scrupulously avoided looking at myself in the mirror – I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to
look into the face of some teenage white girl’s toilet slave.
When I came back down stairs, she was dressed again. I came down, still
stinking of all she’d poured into and onto me and collapsed on the bottom stair. She was
shrugging into her jacket. “Mary Helene Carter says, that one shouldn’t wear one’s slave
out the very first time, so I’m going now. She also says that, if pleased, a mistress can
bestow some praise, so, I have to tell you that that was very good, my sweet, lttle nigger
bitch – for a first time. It won’t be the last. I live just around the corner and my Spring
break just started. I’ll be here every day, at some point or another until school starts again,
to get you properly trained. After that we’ll set up a schedule that fits in with my
afterschool activities. Now I’ve gotta go home for dinner. Oh, by the way, your job is to
suck those panties clean. Mary Helen Carter says in “Dominion”, to always leave your slave
a task ”
“Wait!” I blurted out as her hand reached the door knob, “How will I know if you’re coming? What if I can’t be here? Why me? Aren’t
your parents going to be upset if they find out? I mean, does your mother know you’re
reading these kind of books?”
She gave me that smile again. “I’d smack the shit out of you for questioning me if
your face wasn’t such a mess, even though this is our first time together. Don’t get into
the habit of questioning me, boy, unless you want to explain a lot of black eyes. But
since you’re new, I’ll answer your questions, just this once, bitch. I’ve been watching you
for a long time now. I’ve been looking for a slave in walking distance, and I wanted a
black boy. I know your number already. I know you’re an actor and I know you’re
between shows, so you better fucking be here whenever I say so. You’re mine now. Just
be happy that you are. And don’t worry about my father, he’s just a piece of shit slave,
like you. You see, my name is Jenna Clarice Carter. And my mother wrote those books.”