Slaying the Green DragonbyCorylea©
Author's Note: The story contains lesbian BDSM and sexy sculpture but no genital sex.
Carla and Leah also appear in "Leda and the Swan," though it's not necessary to read that story in order to understand this one. The alert reader will notice that Carla is a switch in this story, whereas she's a top in "Leda and the Swan." That's because there's a story in between the two, in which Carla discovers her bottom side. Unfortunately, so far that story only exists in my head...
Carla and I have been lovers for a while now. Although I have a husband and another lady love, and Carla has as many lovers as there are days in the week, still the bond between Carla and me is special. Of course, making her lovers feel special is something that Carla is awfully good at. For example, Carla would look at me appreciatively and say, "Mmmm. I love tall women." This is true, but like many of the things Carla says, it isn't the WHOLE truth. If I were a foot shorter, Carla would look at me, and with equal sincerity say, "Mmmm. I love petite women." And, of course, if I were medium-sized, she would tell me, entirely truthfully, that she loves women who are neither too big nor too small. The fact is that Carla just plain loves women, period. But, since I love them, too, I can't complain.
Carla is as tall as I am but bigger-boned, and where my hair is fair and straight, hers is black and curly. Carla is a sculptor, and when she laughingly threatens to "go commercial," as she does periodically, she says that she could make a GREAT pair of salt and pepper shakers out of us. She only does this so that I will threaten mayhem on her person if she goes through with it. Carla likes a little mayhem from time to time. Well, so do I.
Friday night, Carla was due to have a show of her new pieces, and of course I was planning to go. Her last show, two years ago, was a series of mother-daughter pairs -- some loving, some fighting, some coldly indifferent. Carla's work is always very realistic and packed with emotion, and lots of women broke down and cried at the last show, even the butches. Yeah, a lot of women have some left-over mother-daughter shit to take care of, and Carla knew how to tap into it all. Carla had been mysterious about the theme of her new series; all she would say was, "It'll get you where you live, Polly." My name is actually Leah, but Carla almost always calls me Polly. She says it's short for "polymorphously perverse," which is partly a Carla-style compliment and partly ragging on me for being bi when she herself is pure dyke. It's typically Carla to combine a compliment with an insult, so I wouldn't know whether to squirm, defend myself, or feel proud when she called me Polly. Yeah, she's a bitch, but she's also magnetic as hell. I can't get enough of her.
So, I dressed myself up and took myself off to the opening. There was a small crowd of women already present when I got there -- I had timed my arrival so that this would be true. I didn't want Carla standing over me when I first saw her pieces -- I wanted to be able to react to them honestly.
I approached the first piece in the show and started to giggle. Like her previous show, this show appeared to be of a series of life-size pairs of women, but they weren't mothers and daughters. The first piece showed Carla and Mary; in fact, it showed Carla with her fist inside of Mary. It'd met Mary several times and had even had a threesome with her and Carla once, and she did indeed like fisting -- that was what made me giggle -- Mary looked EXACTLY as she had looked when I last saw her -- head thrown back, mouth gasping for air, cunt stretched impossibly wide. Carla was wearing a sexual grimace herself, and I wondered how Carla the sculptor knew what Carla the sexual person looked like while in the act. Does she masturbate and then run to the mirror, I wondered, or did she photograph herself somehow? It seemed somewhat disconcerting to appraise oneself dispassionately enough to sculpt when one was engaged in such passionate activities. If sculpting required dispassionate appraisal, however, the result left the viewer anything but dispassionate -- looking at Mary's sculpted form made my fingers itch.
The next piece showed a standing Stephanie, legs spread wide, and a kneeling Carla with her mouth on Stephie's vulva. I'd met Stephie at parties at Carla's house and wondered what she looked like under the baggy garments she often wore. Now I knew, and I liked what I saw. She looked quite tasty.
The third piece also showed two women, and I was rocked when I realized that one of them was me. If Carla were sculpting a piece featuring each of her lovers, of course I would have to be in one of them. It made sense, but somehow I was still surprised. I'd never told her that she couldn't sculpt me, and I was flattered at being included, not angry, but still ... there I was, having sex in front of a hundred people. Looking closer, I realized that Carla had somehow made the stone Leah look lush, voluptuous, and desirable, not fat or dumpy, the way I felt on the days when my self-esteem was low. I wondered if that was truly how she saw me and felt warmed by the positive depiction. The stone Leah was on her hands and knees while Carla fucked her from behind with a strap-on. Carla looked as if she were having a very good time, and Leah looked transported, in a way that seemed nearly spiritual. By the time I finished looking at it, I was both dripping and floating.
I floated through looking at the fourth, fifth, and sixth pieces, which were of Carla making vanilla love with three of her many loves. I knew all of them, of course, and I was amazed at how well she managed to make each woman's personality come through. What a gifted sculptor she was!
The seventh and last piece was different. It showed Carla, whip in hand, arm upraised, about to beat a woman who was lying belly down but with her head turned round to look at Carla, an incredibly lascivious expression on her face. The small brass plate at the bottom of the piece read "Samantha." It wasn't anybody I'd ever seen before. It wasn't anybody I'd ever even HEARD of before. I crashed abruptly to earth. "Why didn't she tell me?" I thought. "Is there some reason for keeping this woman a secret?" I tried to think of a reason why Carla would hide Samantha from me. "Does Carla like her better than me, and that's why she can't tell me about her?" As soon as I heard myself saying this, I was overcome with shame. "Oh, shit, not JEALOUSY. I thought I'd gotten over that." Evidently I had not gotten over it, because here it was again, beginning to consume my love and my reason and my better nature.
I found Carla, told her the show was magnificent, even better than the last one, and left as quickly as I could. I tried to act normally while doing it, since I didn't want to ruin her show with my childishness, and I think I succeeded.
As soon as I got home, I gave in to my feelings. I was angry with Carla for loving others more than me. I felt hurt that she had lied to me, even if only by omission. My pride was wounded, and my self-esteem. One minute, I felt scared that I would lose her; the next minute, I declared to my empty apartment that I was through with her -- we were finished, over, kaput. The next minute, the thought of never seeing her again made me cry as if my heart would break. And overlaying it all was shame. Shame that I was feeling such a dishonorable emotion as jealousy, shame that I was engaging in self-pity, shame that I seemed to care more about my own insecurities than about Carla's happiness. It was not a pretty sight.
Eventually I stopped raging and crying and making resolutions, but I still didn't feel that I had resolved anything. I was still angry at Carla, and I was still ashamed of being angry at her. I spent the next few days avoiding her, hoping to put myself back together before I saw her again.
But, Friday was my night (when you have as many lovers as Carla has, some scheduling is necessary), and we had a date to go out dancing. I could break it, or I could show up. There was never any chance that I would break it, but I was afraid to show up, too. I always was a coward.
I picked Carla up in my aged blue Volkswagen and drove to CG's, the local gay bar/disco. When we got there, she didn't get out of the car, but turned and looked at me.
"I was surprised you didn't stay for the party after opening night."
"I wasn't feeling too well," I said. This was true, I figured -- mental illness counts, too.
She looked at me and waited. I hate it when she does that. She can endure a silence longer than I can, and she can get whatever she wants out of me, just by being quiet and looking.
I looked at the dashboard. I think VW's are cute, but I was pretty familiar with this particular dashboard, so it wasn't all that interesting. I examined the stick shift, then the handbrake, then the heater controls. "I never have understood why Volkswagen decided to make the heater controls look like baby hand brakes," I said. God, I'm a scintillating conversationalist.
"Leah, you ran out of the show, and you've been avoiding me for days. Just tell me what the fuck the problem is."
"I must really be in trouble," I thought, "she called me by my right name." Aloud, I said, "The show was great. The pieces were very powerful. You're the best, Carla."
Again that silent stare. I wasn't going to be getting off the hook. I might as well just tell her.
"Um, I'm sort of bothered about the last piece."
Dead silence. She wasn't going to make it any easier.
"Uh, it upsets me that you never told me about Samantha."
I took a deep breath and babbled it out, all at once. Maybe it would be easier if I blurted it out, and didn't stretch it out. "Carla, I'm feeling jealous and hurt and angry, and I'm ashamed of myself for feeling this way. I haven't been able to face you all week, because I've felt too guilty for feeling this way, but I haven't been able to STOP feeling this way."
"Yeah, you always hate yourself when you discover you're human."
She was trying to make me laugh, but it didn't feel like a laughing matter. (I always take myself too seriously, too.)
"What do you want, Leah?"
"I guess I want you to reassure me that you still love me, too. But I'm not sure that I'm very lovable right now. Jealous people aren't, usually."
"Oh, Polly, you are such a silly goose."
Polly. Hallelujah -- I was back to being Polly. That one silly word reassured me more than more formal declarations of love would have. Carla was an expert at the formal declarations of love biz, but "Polly" just slipped out without her thinking about it. It wasn't calculated, so I knew it was real.
"Yes, I still love you, even though you're being jealous. Do you still love me, even though I've `betrayed' you?"
"I guess I deserve that, but I'd really rather you didn't make fun of me."
"Well, even though I still love you, I am a little angry at you. You're still a little angry at me, are you not?"
Miserably, I admitted it.
"Good!" Her eyes gleamed in the way they have when Carla is plotting some devilment. The first time I ever saw that expression on her face, I didn't know Carla very well. We were both putting up posters for the campus gay organization, when a bunch of frat-boy types started hassling us. "Pair of fucking faggots," one of them said. Carla had whirled on them. "Get your terminology straight," she had said. "Gay *men* are faggots; *I* (she drew herself up proudly) am a DYKE!" For a moment, it had seemed as if we were likely to get beaten up by a bunch of angry frat boys, then they had guffawed instead. I had dragged Carla away before she could get us in real trouble. Even though it was this spit-in-their-eye spirit that attracted me to her, I was still always trepidations when it came up.
"Good? Why is it good?"
"Because things are so much more reciprocal that way. You get to punish me for being unfaithful, and I get to punish you for being jealous."
"Carla, you weren't planning to take anger into a scene with you, were you?"
She pursed her lips in mock horror. "Oh, my, no. That would be TERRIBLY politically incorrect."
I grinned at her. "Which, of course, means that you have to do it."
I still wasn't sure it was a good idea, but now that Carla had decided that the PC police were after her, it wouldn't be possible to talk her out of it. Oh, well. I'd never gone wrong by trusting Carla before. Even the frat boys had only ALMOST beat us up.
We drove back to her apartment, dancing forgotten for the moment. "Who goes first?" I asked.
"Well, my, er, transgression came before yours, so I should be punished first, don't you think? Besides, if I'm to punish you for being angry at me inappropriately, you can't then turn around and do it again, can you?"
She took my face between her hands and stared into my eyes. She was being serious. "Polly, you're not into the spirit of things. I want you to really get in touch with your anger and really punish me for hurting you."
That sounded dangerous. I wasn't sure I wanted to. But Carla was right there, staring into my eyes, daring me to follow her. I don't usually accept dares. "Only a fool takes a dare" was my motto before I met Carla. It's still my motto with everyone except Carla -- the incomparable Carla, whom I follow even when I don't know where we're going.
"Okay." I said. "Take off your clothes and lie face down on the bed. I want to beat your skinny little ass."
"It's not skinny," she said.
"Anybody tell you to talk, bitch?"
"No, my Lady."
"Then you should shut up, shouldn't you?"
"Yes, my Lady."
Well, she had told me to get in touch with my anger. I could feel it flowing back into me, once I let the wall down. It was scary but exhilarating at the same time. I was starting to feel excited at the idea of beating her, of braiding all my little resentments together and snapping them against her ass.
I looked over her toy collection and picked up a braided leather cat, one that would bite. I hit her with it lightly at first, letting her get used to it. She sighed.
"Talk to me," she said. "Tell me how angry you are."
I wondered if she was afraid that I would cheat, that I would only pretend to be angry while keeping my true anger walled off. I realized with amusement that although she was the one saying "my Lady," and I was the one with the cat, Carla was topping this scene. Well, she usually does. Bitch.
"Bitch," I said, swinging the cat harder. "Who the fuck do you think you are? You play with all of us, but you don't care about any of us, do you? You collect people's hearts, but you never give your own." Did I feel that? I never realized I felt that.
I was really getting into it now, swinging the cat with all my might. Carla screamed beautifully but didn't safeword, so I kept going. Again and again I beat her, panting with the exertion. Again and again she screamed. "Bitch," I said again. "I'm tired of your hiding behind your faces. I don't want the I'm-so-sophisticated face or the I'm-such-a-bad-girl face or the what-a-dyke-I-am face. I want your naked heart and your naked soul, and I want them NOW."
Carla was bleeding -- the stiff braids had a tendency to cut -- and her screams were starting to sound frantic. "Six more," I said, "one for each of your other lovers, and then I will stop." I gave them to her, six hard ones, the leather braids biting into her soft flesh, then I stopped. I looked at the bloody ass of the woman I loved most in the world and felt a confusing jumble of emotions. I was appalled at my own viciousness. I had beaten Carla before, but never so hard or so long, and I had never before taken so much pleasure in her pain. I felt obscurely proud of both of us, for being able to use real emotions in a scene, rather than just playing. I felt shame that I had ever been jealous of my amazing Carla, had ever even considered punishing her. I felt a tremendous rush of love for her. And I felt horny as hell.
I put my hand gently on her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear. "How are you doing?"
She lifted her wet face from the bed and looked at me, then, incredibly, gave me her bad-girl grin. "I feel pretty good for somebody who just got the shit whipped out of her."
"Polly, if I can joke, I must be okay. Yeah, you got pretty heavy there for a while, but you were getting lots of bad stuff out. I learned some stuff about my reactions to pain and to you, and all in all, I'm glad we did it, and I'm glad it's over."
"What do you want for your ass? Cool cloths or ice or what?"
"Just a little neosporin ointment, I think."
I applied ointment to her ass as gently as I could, wincing whenever she did.
"Polly, you're never gonna make a bad-ass top, if you wince whenever the victim does."
"Quiet, or I'll smack you."
"Almost. Once again, with feeling."
I laughed. "Oh, Carla. You are the CARLA-EST person."
"I hope that's a compliment."
"And I'm glad you're all laughing and merry, because now it's my turn to punish you. You still feel all ashamed and guilty?"
"Yeah. But not jealous anymore."
"Call the shrinks -- tell 'em catharsis works after all." She moved closer to me and took off my tank top. "Sit on this table -- it'll put you at the right height without my having to sit down. I find that I don't want to sit down." She gave me a significant look.
"I'm sorry, Carla."
"Oh, you will be, you will be. I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do to you, because the anticipation will make it worse."
I gulped. The playful Carla had vanished, and in her place was a mean-eyed Carla with a hard voice and an angry manner. The change was frightening. "She told me to get in touch with my anger," I thought, "she must be getting in touch with hers now."
Carla grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head close to hers, staring into my face and emphasizing each word with a little jerk of my hair. "There's something I've always wanted to do, but it never seemed right before. It always seemed a just a little too cruel. But today cruelty is called for, isn't it, bitch?"
I thought the question was rhetorical and didn't answer. This was a mistake. Carla pulled my hair hard, jerking my head up and down in a forced nod. "Isn't it, bitch," she said more loudly.
"Yes, my Lady."
"You dare to tell me what I can and cannot do. You dare to be jealous of me, as if I were property instead of a free human being. You dare to focus on your own sniveling insecurity instead of on the truth of us. You have a small soul."
I started to cry.
She went to her toybox and came back with some electrician's clips*. She'd never put them on me before; she knew I was afraid of them. When she spoke, she used a voice I'd never heard before. She practically hissed at me. The change was scary. "I've put these on people before," she said, "but once on, they've always been ... stationary. When I put them on you, I'm going to twist them and pull on them until your nipples are as bloody as my ass."
I didn't know if she meant it or if she were just trying to scare me, but I couldn't take my eyes off the clips in her hand. She pinched my nipple with her fingers, lightly at first, then harder. Once she had me hissing, she started to twist as well as pinch.
She broke in on my reverie. "Don't think I've forgotten about the clips," she said. "I just wanted to ... tenderize your nipples a little before I applied them."
She dug her fingernail into my nipple, hard, and I squealed a little. "Did that hurt?" she asked in mock surprise. "But that is nothing."
She continued to pinch and twist and pull until my nipples were indeed tender, then twisted so viciously that I screamed.
"How gratifying," she said. "I think maybe you're tender enough now." First one, then the other, she put the clips on my already sore nipples. They were just as bad as I was afraid they'd be. I desperately wanted to ask her to take them off, but I remembered the beating she had taken at my hands and contented myself with screaming instead.