Carol (Carol Schmidt Series) (6 page)

At seven thirty
she was knocking on the door of the social center again. She wore loose canvas
pants and a white cotton shirt, and she looked about as innocent as a freshman
lining up for college registration.

When the door opened, a priest stood there.

“Padre Hernández,
buenas tardes
,” she said.

He was in his forties, a full face, the skin dark and leathery, but
not unhandsome. He was shorter than her, but made up for it in bulk.

“Carol,” he said, his voice a dull, low monotone. “Welcome. We have
been expecting you.”

On the phone they had spoken in Spanish, although he’d also
mentioned that he spoke some English.

He closed the door behind them, and clasped his hands together in
front of him.

“Come,” he said, gesturing toward the sofas.

His expression was serious as he waited for her to sit down. He then
sat down on the sofa to her right. She twisted a little so as to be able to see
him as he settled in his seat. He was clearly in no hurry, taking his time to
flatten out his black, full-length cassock over his thighs.

“Irina tells me that you have decided to join the community in the
hills,” he began, his voice slow and measured, as if he was talking to a child.

“Yes.”

He nodded as he considered her response.

“As I told you on the phone, it is an unusual spiritual journey,” he
said, as if delivering bad news, “and the rites demanded of you are equally
unusual. Have you understood that?”

She nodded obediently.

“In order to be truly free, you must first banish from your soul all
contamination from this corrupted world. To ascend to the spiritual plane, you
must divest yourself of shame and self-concealment. It is not,” he said, his
words even slower now, “a path that all people could or should take.”

“I understand, Father.”

He appeared to think about this.

“There is only one way to ascend, to truly ascend, and that is to
overcome all shame. Are you ready to demonstrate to me that you have begun that
journey?”

“Yes, Father, I am ready.”

He swallowed, and looked away as he spoke.

“Very well. Please stand up and face the door.”

She did as she was told, her back to the priest, perhaps six feet
away from him.

For some time he said nothing. She imagined his eyes running over
her body. Her pants revealed little of her strong, firm behind. But would he be
searching for the lines of her body? How do priests look at women? This priest?
For him it might be no more than a game. But how seriously did he take the
game?

She was about to find out.

“Touch yourself,” he said, that same soft, low monotone, not a scrap
of emotion in his voice.

For a few seconds she remained there, quite still. Around them the
silence seemed to intensify. She listened in vain for the sound of his breath.

Slowly, as if unsure of what to do, she brought a hand up to her
breasts, running the palm carefully over them, making them lift then fall. She
felt the tiniest tingle in her nipples, as if they’d been awoken from a dream-filled
sleep.

The sensation reminded her of hours spent alone as a teenager, alone
and naked, admiring her body as she explored herself, knowing she could touch
every inch of it, in any way she wanted, and no one would tell her to stop.

The excitement of those delicious, spine-tingling journeys of
self-discovery had never left her. Indeed, they’d gotten better, right up until
she left the convent. She still did it now, whenever she was alone, standing in
front of a mirror and playing with herself quite happily. Over the years she’d
developed new and more profound ways of extracting pleasure from her body, so
much so that if she happens to find herself alone for whole weeks at a time, it
hardly matters; she can touch herself in so many different ways that each day,
each hour, feels like a new lover is caressing her for the first time.

Tonight, though, there would be a new twist. Having someone to watch
her had always been a particular turn-on. But for the person watching to be a
man of the cloth, a celibate man (at least, that was in the job description), this
would be something special. She’d always loved showing herself to others, of
putting on display the whole repertoire of her well-practiced
self-gratification. But a priest? Now that was extra-special, the naughtiest
sort of exhibitionism.

She closed her eyes, relaxed, and began to trace the outline of her
breasts, using her fingers sparingly, the very gentlest touches, little more
than a feather-light tickle.

Behind her she could almost feel his eyes on her ass. She took it
slow, pacing herself, knowing just how long she could keep this kind of thing
going. But even now she could feel her nipples hardening. Her rear end started
to rotate in small, almost imperceptible movements, and she could feel her panties
riding a little way up between her buttocks.

There was something about the room, about the situation. It took her
back to her youth. Suddenly she was like a teenager again, amazed at the sheer
physical wonder of her own flesh, and how much she adored her own body and what
she could do to it.

Her hands began to grope her breasts. It was as if her tits had
never been touched before. One of her hands slipped inside her shirt and she
pulled the cup of her bra down, taking the nipple between two fingers, rolling
it between them, her mouth opening, miming silent words of delight.

Helpless to stop herself, she unbuttoned her shirt and lowered the
other cup. Her breasts hung down, pert and sagging only slightly, and
perfectly, agonizingly natural. Whenever she was in a locker room, women would
simply stare; given the right opportunity, she knew, half the women there would
have sucked her tits without the least qualm.

She took her right breast in both hands and examined the nipple,
licking her fingers then applying playful rotating movements from the edge to
the dark center, circling and tweaking, watching the dark skin contract and
thicken, its color intensifying. Her hips were riding backward and forward a
little now, and between her legs she felt herself responding, getting ready,
warming up nicely.

She lifted the breast until she could flick its rubbery tip with her
tongue. A moment later and all attempts at delicacy vanished. She was sucking
hard, the breast in her mouth, half-choking on it, saliva dribbling from her
lips. She drew the breast out and moved it across her mouth, letting the nipple
drag against the skin of her face, before sucking it up again, drawing it into
her mouth, eyes closed, slobbering like a dog as the taste of her own tit sent
her dizzy.

God, this is great! she told herself, feeling like a kid in a
toyshop. On she went, one breast then the other, licking and slurping, almost
giggling with the sheer delight of it. She let them hang loose, glistening with
saliva, then took each one into her mouth again, more hungrily now, as if she
literally couldn’t get enough of herself.

And all the time, she kept thinking about that ecclesiastical fool
behind her, insisting that she banish all her shame and self-concealment. If
only he knew what she was capable of! If only he knew how little shame she felt
when it came to her own gorgeous, insatiable body.

It was too much. Before she knew it she’d plunged a hand down into
her pants, cupping it against the warm mound of her sex, feeling the springy
bush through the cotton of her panties, moist and promising. Her thighs widened
to let the hand in, and there she remained, riding it with slow gyrations, her
ass now pushing backward and forward enough to give any man a hard-on, whatever
professional garb he was wearing.

Father Hernández was a weak man, the Cardinal had told her. He had
fallen for the icy charms of Ms. Lescheva. It had been Irina Lescheva who chose
this church, just as she had chosen a number of other churches previously, poor
places, where life is cheap and hope is easily bought. Father Hernández was not
directly involved, other than through Irina, acting as her translator and her
intermediary, since she spoke no Spanish. But, of course, he also made sure he
got his pound of flesh.

Poor Father Hernández! Only the Cardinal knew what was going to
happen to him. Perhaps he would claim innocence, taking his pleasure passively,
sitting there behind her on the sofa and touching nothing. Did he somehow
believe himself to be free of sin.
Un
-touching, untouchable?

To hell with it, she told herself as she delved inside her panties,
finding them already wet. If he wanted sin, he’d chosen the right girl. And the
wrong one.

She slipped a finger between the lips of her sex and began to
explore herself, her ass lowering a little further as she widened her stance.
She hoped he was still concentrating...

There she remained, rising and falling slightly, a hand deep between
her legs and the other still fondling her breasts, eyes closed, her knees
bending as she relished this unexpected opportunity to bring herself off. She
imagined what she must look like from behind, her ass pushed out and her upper
body leaning forward as she stroked and pulled on her tits, occasionally
lifting one and sucking it.

From his position on the sofa, could the priest see her hand inside
her pants? Could he make out the movement of her fingers as they ran up and
down her slit, the whole hand crabbing up as she eased a finger inside, her
pelvis jumping in tiny little jerks?

She longed to watch herself, to be there on the sofa looking at her
own butt rise and fall. She knew how horny it must have been, and, as always,
it turned her on to know someone was seeing all this.

Gradually, her thumb worked its way up and found the clitoris. Hot
and slippery against its tight little hood of skin, she hardly needed to touch
it, carefully nudging it up and down as she shivered with pleasure.

Time stood still. How long was it? She had no idea, drifting in and
out of full consciousness as the faint little flurries of delight became more
powerful, her mouth contorted, open wide, drinking in the air in big, helpless
breaths.

Then, quite suddenly, a beautiful stabbing sensation rushed through
her crotch, sending shards of intense, almost painful ecstasy up into her belly
and down deep into her ass.

A hollow, huffing sound arose in her throat. The noise brought her
out of her reverie. When she looked around, she noticed that Irina was now
sitting on the closest of the three sofas, watching with a calm, contained expression.
But however contained the expression was, the Russian’s eyes were wide open,
and there was no doubting that she was way into this. No doubt at all.

Carol didn’t know whether to continue. Did the “test” finish here?
Her ass was still grinding in thin air, so she carried on, finger-fucking
herself gently through the aftershock of the orgasm, her hand sticky with pussy
juice, the top of her thighs wet with it too. The silence of the room was
broken only by a series of regular wincing sounds, which she realized were her
own.

Then they stopped. Everything stopped. She felt the hot walls of her
pussy press against her fingers, which were a little way inside her, but had
come to a halt. From behind her she heard Father Hernández rise from his seat
and make his way to the door, his footsteps quick, his steps short. If he was
aroused, he was hiding it well beneath his long black cassock.

Only when he was about to open the door did he turn and look briefly
back at the two of them, a flash of crushing shame in his eyes, as if he wasn’t
sure what he’d done, or, perhaps, what he was about to miss.

Then he was gone. With her eyes still on the door, Carol started to
move her hand again, withdrawing her finger and running it quickly up and down
the length of her sex until she was trembling, her butt jerking, her legs
spread wide.

As she came again, she let her fingers rest on her wet pubes, her
pelvis moving of its own accord with hard little spasms.

And there she remained, her whole body spinning with the most unexpectedly
deep feeling of satisfaction as the climax finally receded. However, she was
still aware of Irina behind her, and as she let her pleasure subside, she
wondered what the next part of the initiation was going to entail.

Irina Lescheva was
a recent arrival at the church of San Filipe. She never stayed in any one place
long, and tonight would be her last night here. The business she conducted
through the social centers of different churches across the continent was high
risk, and she moved around a lot, making detection difficult. She had been on the
Cardinal’s radar for several years, and now, after a long and frustrating
search, he had caught up with her.

This evening’s business was to result in considerable extra income
for Father Hernández, which was precisely why Irina managed to inveigle her way
into places like this: she paid well. Tonight’s plan, though, was going to
suffer some last-minute alterations.

“Did you enjoy that?” Irina said, her accent somehow stronger when
she whispered.

She watched as Carol slowly removed her hand from her pants.

“Yes,” Carol said, still with her back to the Russian, making it
sound as if she was overcome by guilt, unable to turn and face her.

“It is good,” Irina whispered. “It is good. Very.”

Carol stayed where she was. And there they remained, neither of them
moving, not looking at each other.

The expectation was just right. She could tell how horny Irina must
be by now. This wasn’t just business. This was pleasure. Between them the air
was electric. They were both as horny as hell. Yet they didn’t move.

“What,” Carol said, in a low, tentative voice, “what shall I do?”

“Anything,” Irina replied, “anything and everything. Free yourself.
Show me everything.”

Carol nodded, obedient. For a moment she seemed to consider the
instructions. Then she slowly removed her shirt and let it fall to the floor.
She loosened her pants and slid them down over her hips.

She turned around, but kept her eyes to the floor, as if still in
the painful process of renouncing all bodily shame. She used a single finger to
circle her sex, just the lightest of touches, almost as if she was showing
Irina where it was.

Her breasts swung loose, hanging over her bra. She stopped touching
herself and unclipped the bra at the back, letting it fall to the ground. For a
second she remained like that, letting her tits hang there in all their glory.

Then she began to toy with them, lifting each to her mouth and
sucking, her eyes closed, her breath heavy. Her other hand returned to her sex,
easing two fingers inside herself and letting the rocking of her body move
against them.

The only sounds in the room were the lapping of her tongue on her
breasts and, even quieter still, the softest of moans. She drew her fingers out
and brought her hand to her mouth, licking each finger then rubbing them
against her nipples, tasting herself until there was nothing left to taste.

Then the hand was sent back down between her legs, which were
inching wider and wider. Her fingers disappeared inside again, as if her pussy
was sucking them in.

Still she kept her eyes closed. And now, as her pelvis rolled and
twisted, she heard another noise. In front of her on the sofa there was
movement, the faint rustle of clothes being carefully rearranged.

She ignored it. Her own pants had by now fallen to the floor. She
stepped out of them, still averting her eyes from Irina, and turned around to
face the door again, her back to Irina. Lifting one foot and resting it on the
sofa there, she bent over and sank forward, her other foot still on the ground,
her ass pushed up into the air. With one arm she steadied herself on the sofa,
and with the other she reached down between her legs.

“Yes,” she heard from behind her.

But it was not meant as encouragement. It was involuntary.

Reaching all the way back between her legs she fingered the top of
her panties and pulled them down over her butt, leaving them tight across her
thighs, her ass on full view. She imagined Irina behind her on the sofa
fingering herself, watching the show with that especially naughty delight that
comes when something surpasses all expectations.

Carol traced the outer edges of her vagina, now slippery and hot,
beautifully engorged and vulnerable. She eased the lips gently apart, knowing
what a gorgeous sight it was, the dark, almost brown skin of the outer lips,
those irresistible butterfly wings, and the tighter, pinker flesh within.

For a while she simply displayed herself, glorying in her own
magnificence. It wasn’t unknown for her lovers to lick and kiss and suck her
down there until they were totally spent; horny-as-hell men who went down on
her and just stayed there, unable to stop, until they were too exhausted to do
anything else, having brought themselves off on the very taste of her amazing,
irresistible sex.

Behind her the rustle of clothing continued. What did Irina have in
store? Carol hardly cared. This was her show now, and she was loving it. She
ran a finger up and down the length of her sex, then on as far as the butt
hole, which was tight and pert and just slightly protruding. Her finger
remained there for a second or two, enough pressure to tease a little shiver
out of herself, then slid back down into the wetness of her slit.

Her legs were straining against the panties. So she stood up and
took them off, then flopped forward on the sofa once more, kneeling this time.
Her face was pressed down into the cushion of the sofa, her ass high in the air
as she spread herself.

She felt the cool air on her sex and ass, as now she seemed to open
up further. She got two fingers inside and began to fuck herself in a slow,
deliberate rhythm. With the other hand she reached beneath her and placed the
tip of her index finger on her clitoris.

The movement of her pelvis increased until she was thrusting hard in
the air, so hard that it appeared that someone was taking her from behind. Her
finger began to rub her clit more firmly, pushing down on the taught little
nexus of pleasure as it started to release new hot waves of delight.

She was riding herself hard, each ridge of ecstasy coming faster,
one after the other. Her ass was twisting and thrusting, each new jerk
accompanied by a sharp wince from deep in her throat.

She came with a sudden, massive moan. Her body seized up, her hand
pushing hard into her pussy, the sweet-salt smell of her sex suddenly pungent
on the air.

For the second time tonight, an orgasm was followed by the thought:
what now? In normal circumstances she would have licked her fingers greedily,
then let them go back for more.

But this was not normal. She was in a church social center
pretending to demonstrate how sexually liberated she was, to a woman who was
pretending to be from a spiritually oriented commune. That’s a lot of pretence
when you’re butt naked on a sofa, legs spread, trembling after a huge,
self-administered orgasm.

As she remained there, wondering what to do, there was also
something horny going on behind her on the sofa. Even as the last delightful
shivers of joy receded from between Carol’s legs, she could sense that this was
just the beginning, that Irina wanted more. Which was fine by her. The evening
was only going to end one way, but in the meantime this was nothing more than
two consenting adults enjoying each other’s company.

Finally, Carol turned around and sat there on the edge of the sofa.
She was naked and her head was bowed. But gradually she opened her eyes and
looked up. Irina was sitting back on the sofa opposite. She wore a plain pink
bra and what appeared to be a G-string. The rest of her clothes were beside her
on the sofa.

“Do you feel free?” she asked, still that slightly clinical tone of
voice. But it was a shallow pretence, and through the pink fabric of her
G-string the outline of her swollen pussy was clear to see.

“I could feel freer,” Carol whispered.

Why not! she told herself, as she saw the small silver crucifix
around Irina’s neck glint in the half-light of the room. This might be the last
thing that Irina would enjoy for a while, and if they both needed to keep up
the pretence, then so be it. There was no need for honesty here: Irina was a
trafficker of the worst kind, a human trafficker. And Carol, tonight’s sexy
young exhibit, was supposed to be her latest piece of merchandise.

But tonight it was Irina who was going to get screwed.

“I feel,” Carol continued, letting an air of confidence creep into
her voice, “I feel as if I can show you more. I want to show you everything. To
persuade you that I am ready.”

“Then do it,” Irina said. “Do it to me.”

“Yes.”

Without any further words, Irina got up, turned her back on Carol,
and assumed precisely the same kneeling position on the sofa, her face pressed
down into the cushions, butt in the air.

Her legs were close together, but that was only so that they could
be pulled apart as she was handled from behind. The pose, then, was modest,
despite its flagrant sexuality. In effect, she was giving herself up, asking to
be taken.

So this was how Irina sought pleasure from her victims! This is how
she prepared them for whatever horror awaited them. Was it a means of introducing
them into the sexual servitude that would follow? Or perhaps a pathological
desire for extreme physical satisfaction with strangers. Was this what had led
the Russian into the flesh trade in the first place? Was she a slave to her own
fetish, making money from her kink the same way a junkie turns pusher to fund
his habit?

It didn’t matter now. She was waiting there on the sofa, her
breathing a little agitated, and her G-string bisecting a plump, shaved pussy
that was seriously aroused.

But not by Carol.

Not yet.

Not by a long chalk.

As she laid her hands on Irina’s pale buttocks and gazed down at the
soft, fleshy sex below, she wondered how far she was going to take it.

You’ve got to hand it to the Cardinal, she told herself as she ran a
finger down the G-string, he knows how to choose the victims for me. He knows
what I need. And, in turn, I deliver up exactly what he wants...

Irina Lescheva moaned, jiggling her rear end in delicious
anticipation. It was that sexy little wobble of the ass cheeks that did it.
Carol decided there and then, as a twinge of anticipation gripped her in the
stomach: the Russian was going to get it hard.

Standing there behind Irina, she could have brought herself off
again. The very thought of this whole crazy situation was a turn-on, and what
she was about to do to this despicable dealer in human beings was role reversal
at its very best. But there was no time for thoughts.

Slowly, she lowered herself down until her breasts came to rest on
Irina’s back and the rest of their bodies touched, her belly on the Russian’s
lower back, her crotch against the ass. The flesh was remarkably cool, and
there was something taught about it. The skin was off-white, almost powdery,
with a sallow aspect to it. And it ached to be touched.

She set about caressing Irina’s neck and back with her tongue. Her
hand reached underneath and found her tits inside her bra. They were smaller
than hers, firm and almost triangular, the nipples already bullet-hard, as if
they couldn’t possibly have gotten any more excited.

“How do you like it?” she whispered, as she took a nipple between
her fingers and squeezed it.

“Everything. Do everything,” she said, her body jumping
involuntarily.

Carol squeezed harder, and when the Russian winced, she pulled the
nipple, just a fraction, while her teeth bit into Irina’s ear. As the two of
them bucked together, one on top of the other, her tongue following the
contours of the ear and then plunged inside, her hands now squeezing Irina’s
tits hard.

Irina brought a hand up between her legs and strained to reach
Carol’s pussy. It was impossible, because the two of them were now moving
against each other energetically, like a bucking bronco with someone trying
desperately to stay on.

Carol steadied herself, bringing the jerky movements of their bodies
under control. Then she took Irina’s hand in hers, guiding it to her sex and
letting the eager fingers force their way into her slit.

It was too much, too hard. This Russian bitch had no subtly. There
was a tension in her movements, a desire that made her clumsy. She desperately
wanted to screw, and to be screwed. That much was obvious. But she needed
someone to show her how to get the best from another woman’s body.

Carol stood up, her crotch still resting against Irina’s ass, so
that the Russian’s fingers could continue to explore her sex. Then she ran her
hand all the way down Irina’s back, pressing her fingertips into the ridge of
the backbone, feeling its knobby contours, down, down over the boney nub of the
coccyx, then easing down between the buttocks, using the pink cord of the
G-string as a guide.

The flesh was a good deal warmer here. Her fingers stopped when she
came to the butt hole. She could feel its raised edges, poking out on both
sides of the G-string, and it seemed to be crying out for attention. Irina now
shifted her legs further apart and thrust her ass upwards, her little hole pushing
itself into Carol’s hand.