Carol Ch. 07


Forget all the men turning towards her. Forget how her breasts rocked under the distressed fabric of her top, how her little skirt flipped up, how it hardly covered the twin curves of her ass. Forget how she was moving down the New York streets and avenues wearing next to nothing. She probably didn't hear the words the men said to her, the whistles. She was still thinking about blowing the newspaper guy.

* * * * *

The next Monday, I didn't meet Carol at her class. She was finally having her -- meetings -- with her guys, and I gave her all the time she needed. I waited in the library, glancing up as she flounced in. She wore a muscle shirt, green, with wide arm-holes, and a wrap-around tartan skirt. The skirt was fixed with a big safety needle. In addition to that, she had big shit-kicking boots on. She looked captivating.

She had a smile for me. I noticed her lipstick was all messed up. She kissed my cheek, then sat down beside me. I waited as she pulled out her lipstick tube and a little mirror, and applied a new layer.

I was patient. This was the first time I'd seen her since Friday, and I wanted her to be in a good mood. I didn't want to break the suddenly delicate mood while she was preparing to tell me.

"The last three days," I said finally, unable to handle the silence any longer, "did you have fun?"

She nodded quietly, suddenly shy again, then impulsively pulled me to her and kissed me. She buried her head in my shoulder, and her voice was muffled. "You want my report?"

"Hell, yeah," I said.

Still muffled, she said, "I fucked Andrew. Lots of times. And then today, I made friends with the guy at the newspaper stand in Queens. It was easy, like you said it would be. And then, with the Cap guy -- the frat boy guy I don't like -- I got him before the class. I just pulled him out, around the corner, and put him up against the wall. Then after the same class, with the other guy -- the Guido? I took him to the student lounge, and frenched him by the coke machines. He was all under my shirt."

I nodded stiffly. I still didn't know what I was feeling... only that I wanted to know more. "What was it like?"

She knew what I was asking. "Oh, Tyler. It was fun! I don't know if it should be so fun, like that."

"Of course it should be fun, Carol," I said. "Otherwise there's no point."

"Really?" she seemed relieved.

"Of course," I said. "Are you still mine?"

"Tyler, I'm yours forever!" she clasped me closer, her fingers bunching on my shirt. "You don't have anything to worry about. It was just fun, and I still want you all to myself. I was worried that my feelings might change, with all the boys working me (four men in three days!), but my feelings are the same. I feel more for you now than ever."

She gave a wet, crowded little sniff, and I realized she was crying a little.

"Good," I said, stroking her hair. "Then everything is like we hoped, right?"

"Yeah," she said.

I said, "Now, tell me everything, all the details."

"You want to know a secret?" she asked.


"This part is the most fun for me. Telling you. I'm so happy and relieved."

"I have a secret of my own," I said. "I want my cock in your mouth." And, boy, did I. My cock was so hard, it was pushing out the fold of my jeans.

"Me too," she said, not making a move towards me. We both knew, by now, that it was much more fun to let the tension build. We would be going back to my apartment after this, anyway. We sat together quietly for a moment.

"Tell me everything," I said. "All the nasty details." It was wonderfully intimate, listening to her wet, muffled whisper about sex and sluttiness, there in the middle of the library.

* * * * *

Weekend With Andrew

On the subway, I bounced against Andrew all the way back to Queens. I was in front of him, staring at the crowd in the car, and he was behind me, leaning over me and whispering in my ear. For most of the ride, he was a voice in my head, hot breath in my ear, and a disembodied cock rubbing my ass.

He was full of questions about you and me, Tyler. I think he idolizes you. His main fear about transferring here was not the classes, the cost, whatever. It was 'the level of cool,' as he put it, of the guys there. I mean, all he saw were my guy-friends confidently jumping all over me, passing me around. And then there was you, cool, sophisticated, world-wise, teaching him secrets about how to please women (me).

He played it cool, and he has always been very judgmental, but he was wondering how he would fit in.

First off, I told him that not everybody was like me and my friends. I had to work for it. Up till the start of my second semester, I was just as lame as everybody else. I encouraged him, saying, you just go to the city, become something, and everybody treats you like you are that something. I told him it was easy, once you started.

He wasn't convinced. Then I got this flash of insight. He had wrapped his arm around me, with his hand gripping my shoulder and his forearm over my chest. It felt so warm and comfortable -- and fewer people were looking at me. I don't notice people staring very often -- not any more -- but sometimes I do. And it all goes away when you're holding my hand.

I'm sure some people still stare, but they don't outright ogle me. They don't come up and start talking. It's like you, being my boyfriend, make a man-barrier between me and the world. It's nice to hide behind, sometimes. I can't be me all the time.

I think about the man-barrier every now and then. Like when I leave my house in just a little silk dress and nothing else. Like when I'm on the subway platform, and the train pulls in, and my dress flies up. Suddenly I think, I'm going into the city and I'm mostly naked. I think, I'm gonna be walking around with a millimeter of fabric between my cunt and every guy on the street.

It all slams down like a ton of bricks. But then I think about meeting you, and how you basically eat me with your eyes. Everybody can stare, they can talk to me, and get me to kiss them, and run their hands under my skirt -- but eventually I'll be there with you. (And then there are the other times, when I just get totally horny with all these strangers.)

Well, I got that same protection-feeling from Andrew when he wrapped his arm around me. So before I could think it out, I said, "Well, why don't we pretend I'm your girlfriend this weekend?"


"No, really. I'll be your girlfriend, like we've been going together for a few months. You can practice on me, and I'll give you instructions."

"Really? You really think I can learn to be a Tyler?"

You're smiling, Tyler. Yeah. That was great for me too. Like, here's a guy, and he thinks you're a totally cool hunk. I don't have many girl friends, and certainly none in college, since this semester. Usually girlfriends give feedback about boyfriends. So this was the first time I'd actually heard, from someone beside myself, that you're a great guy.

"What about... you know. The sex part?" Andrew asked me.

"The sex ties everything together," I said simply. I didn't want to get into it: this position was allowed, this position was not. I decided I would just drop everything in his lap, and let him sort it out. "I'd certainly be insulted if, like, you jacked off instead. I mean, I thought I felt something between us."

"We have pictures, even," he laughed. "Okay, girlfriend, let me take you out to dinner tonight. You can tell me about life at the Big U."

"Sounds great!"

"What about Tyler?" he asked. "Is he going to mind?"

"About the dinner? Or all the sex?" I giggled at his discomfort. "Tyler has no say in what I do with my body," I lied. "He says it's all my own business, just that I should be safe and respect him."

"Hmm!" said Andrew.

After we got off the train, we walked the four blocks back to my house. He held my hand, he teased me, he squeezed me when I made jokes -- he was very good at pretending to be my boyfriend. Almost as if he'd been imagining himself in that role since the morning.

Andrew's first test came early, when we passed by the newspaper guy. He stays in his stand to sell stuff to returning commuters, and as we were passing by he was closing up for the night.

The newspaper guy saw me coming, and started his yelling. He said something about how I was bringing my men home with me now. Of course this caused other people on the street to look at us. I thought Andrew would lose it, or crumble.

But no -- he played it up. He had a big smile, and he walked me close by the stand, even slowing down. I followed meekly. As we passed, Andrew reached up and patted my head, grinning at the newspaper guy. The newspaper guy gave Andrew a big thumbs-up.

I was relieved, whispering, "Good job!"

Andrew looked a little surprised. "That was all acting. I patted your head, like you were a good little pet."

"Like Tyler said, that guy isn't yelling because he's mean. He's yelling because he's left out. You just included him in something. That was a 'New York Moment.'"

"I included him at the cost of humiliating you," Andrew said.

"Yeah!" I squeezed his hand. "Wasn't that easy?"

"What's easy is being your boyfriend," he observed.

I laughed. "Tell that to Tyler for me, the next time you see him."

I installed Andrew in our guest room in the house. Actually my step-brother's room, which is empty since he's in the army.

It was late, and we'd have to hurry to get to dinner. So while Andrew got ready, I went to my room to change.

Since he didn't know about my rules for clothes, I thought I would dress differently. I put on a bra and panties, and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked tasty, all strapped-in or fluffed up in the right places. But it also felt a little constricting, like a two-piece string bikini that had been tied too tightly.

I put on socks, and pulled on some jeans. Tight little hip-huggers, with the belt-loops cut off. They left my belly uncovered almost down to my puddy -- very low. I threw on a little sweater with long sleeves, four buttons in front.

As I moved around the room, throwing stuff in my purse, the clothes rubbed against me. I dug out some shoes, and as I bent over to put them on, the jeans cut into my stomach. I had to push against my jeans, just to lean over.

My bra was cutting into my back. The sweater was scratching my arms. I could feel prickles of sweat breaking out on my neck. I was slowing down as I moved.

This wouldn't work. It felt all wrong.

My clothes were against me. I could feel all that fabric, pressed against every square inch of my body, digging in and squeezing me. The friction was abrading my skin, giving me a rash, making me all itchy.

In thirty seconds, I'd thrown everything off again. I stood naked in the middle of my room, sighing with relief. I went back to the closet, to the special part.

I pulled a flowery little dress off the rack and tried it on. It had little straps over the shoulders, an open back with a tie that would draw it tight across my breasts and stomach, and a flouncy little skirt that ended at the top third of my thighs. It looked like the perfect antidote.

I pulled it off again, found some scissors on my desk, and cut the tags off. Then I cut the straps in the back off. After I cut the straps, there was no going back. When I slid into the dress again, it hanged loosely over my chest, the two triangles over my tits sliding this way and that. The open back, without the strings to tie, gaped to my tailbone. When I arched my back and looked in the mirror -- that open back was like a big, gaping window to my ass. All you had to do was get the right angle.

Anyway, it was comfy. It didn't press on my tits -- I could barely feel it -- and air circulated freely under the skirt. It had two things going for it: It was cute, and I would barely notice it.

Andrew whistled at me when I walked into the room. "Very hot," he said.

"Very light," I added. I turned, and showed him my back, "Does this go down too far? Does it show too much of my back?"

"Sure does!" he admired me, motioning me to spin around again. "I can see the top curves of your ass, but no ass-crack. And when you turn, I can see the sides of your breasts from behind! And I didn't know you had so many muscles around your shoulder blades! I can see everything!"

"Should I change?" I asked. If he was my play-boyfriend, then he had the right to offer advice.

"Hell, no," he said. "It's like you're wrapped in wet toilet paper. You're going to be the hottest thing on the street."

"Use them or lose them," I giggled.

But his mood didn't stay.

We rode the subway a few stops to a better part of town. I noticed he was half staring at me, and half staring at the guys around me.

"What are you looking at?" I whispered to him.

He leaned into me, his eyes fixed on my breasts. "The guys around you. Every stop, they get a little closer."

"So?" I asked. "They always do that."

"And you don't mind?"

I shook my head, "This is nothing. You should see me when it's crowded. They're all over me."

"And this happens every day?"

I gave him a mischievous grin. "If I'm lucky."

He still didn't look happy.

"Once, I got a hickie on my neck," I told him, just to fuck with him. It didn't really happen, but I like to think about it on the subway.

He shook his head at me. "You've changed, Carol."

"Thanks," I said. I stepped close to him, and turned around to face the ring of men around me. They looked like any other men -- nicely dressed, badly dressed, fit, fat. If I'd been alone, I would've grabbed the pole in the center of the car, and rocked with the motion, my eyes closed.

I knew what would happen then. Soon, I would've felt them on me, an accidental touch here, a pressure there, as they slowly closed in. Eventually, a hand would land on me, and glide off toward the pole. And the others, seeing that I didn't respond, would hesitantly reach out.

It was rarely anything obvious. Just easily-explained brushes here and there, that would slowly make me flushed -- it was mostly in my mind, I think. When you're being looked at so closely, and you can feel their breath on your skin... a girl starts to imagine. (And sometimes, there are the obvious gropes; different story.)

I told Andrew, "If they think you're with me, they won't get any closer."


I sighed, a little exasperated. "So kiss me already. You'd be doing me a favor, right? Boyfriend?"

His hands closed around my waist. I dragged my eyes off the watching men and tilted my head back over my shoulder, lips meeting his. He gave a tentative kiss. I opened my mouth and reached up for more.

My hands were braced against his thighs for support, and I could feel his cock getting hard against my ass. I let my legs spread for balance. As the train rocked, I could feel my breasts sway back and forth against the fabric of the dress.

I let my eyes drift back to the men, they were watching. I made sure they knew I saw them watching, as I scooped my tongue back into Andrew's mouth. Andrew wasn't the best foil for me, but he was there. This was the first time I'd really -- performed, I guess the word is -- on the subway.

I let the saliva spread over my lips, onto my cheeks, as they watched Andrew's hands squeeze my waist. I tried to let each of them know, through my eyes, what might've been, if only Andrew hadn't been there.

I sometimes get too far into my role. That was how this all started. You, Tyler, had told me that I "owe all men." I owed them what I could give them. And what could a woman give all these men, strangers in the subway? A woman could give them dreams. Wishes. Glimpses. I owed men their fantasies.

So, as a result of my choices, I was getting my mouth reamed in the subway by a guy I didn't particularly like. Andrew is... eh. He's way too self-involved, and as a result, he accidentally insults me in horrible ways. But I kept him close, because he was my self-assigned "task".

"Carol!" he hissed suddenly. "Your tit is sticking out!"

There he went, again! I stared at him, watching his anxiety build. I could feel my right breast sticking out -- when I swayed with the subway car, it pressed against the fabric which was now on the outside of the breast. "So?"

"Sss -- so? Like some whore?"

"You think someone's looking?"

Andrew refused to look around at my audience. "I know they're all staring at you."

I gave a nonchalant shrug. "So what? Why aren't you staring? Why aren't you pulling my other 'tit' out? Why aren't you covering me up with the palm of your hand?"

"I don't know!" He was utterly confused. "Is that what I do?"

"You do what you want to do. That's the whole point. Fake it till you make it."

"Your... breast... is still showing."

My patience ran out. "You know, Andrew. I'm not going to tuck my clothes around all night. I gave that up a month ago. You're going to have to come up with a strategy to deal with it."

And it went downhill from there.

Andrew said, "You're embarrassing me!"

"I'm embarrassing you?" I hissed, shocked. "I'm a frickin' galactic turn-on! Get with it! I'd damn near fuck any man in this car, without knowing their names. I'm a male's fantasy. Do you have fantasies? Why don't you live them out on me, rather than pissing yourself?"

(You would have been proud of me. I was certainly proud of myself, the way I reacted. I wasn't humiliated, or shy -- I was outraged! He was insulting my whole reality!)

I didn't know it then, but I'd be mad at him the whole weekend. That night, after a tense dinner, we came home and I threw him on the bed, unbuckled his pants and went down on him. Even when I pressed his hands against my body, and eased his cock into me, a dumb smile on my face, I was angry at him.

And he never learned. He wanted the curtains shut while we fucked -- so I left them open. He wanted me to wear underwear with my dress when we went into Manhattan on Saturday -- so I switched to a smaller dress (and still skipped the underwear). He was embarrassed to kiss me at the movie theater, so I went down on him. If guys whistled at me, and he complained, I'd make a show of myself. He moaned about the guys at the bar, who were all over me -- so I gave my phone number to all of them (and I'm getting a lot of calls). He didn't like me running around the house in just my panties, so I went totally naked.

Mostly, we fucked like bunnies for 48 hours. I don't want to ever see him again. Every time he shot into me, into my mouth or my puddy, I despised him a little more. In my mind, I pretended he was one of the guys from my classes, or a guy from high school. Even a guy on the street. It helped me come. I pretended I was just being used, to store cum. It helped me to fuck Andrew blind.

* * * * *

Back in the library, I sat in stunned silence as Carol leaned toward me, face flushed, whispering urgently in my ear.

When I'd kissed her good-bye on Friday, sending her with Andrew, I'd imagined -- I don't know. I thought she would tenderly take his virginity or something, a beautiful sharing that only a woman-Carol could give.

What I actually got was marathon, sweaty, anger-sex? Whatever it was, it was completely outside of where we were as a couple, it left me quite off-balance. Next time, I decided, we should really talk more about it beforehand.

"Yeah, it shocked me too," she said. "I'm just going to keep talking, T. I'll tell you about my make-out sessions with the next two guys."

I nodded. Weird and surprising as it was, I was actually fine with the Andrew story. Apart from being hugely annoyed with him for not appreciating Carol. I was willing -- okay, verry interested -- in hearing more (and relieved that I was feeling no jealousy).

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