Teaching Carol, Ch.6

Carol avoided me for a week or so—I assumed she was upset because of the incident at the library checkout desk. But I did nothing. She had enjoyed it—she may not have liked the fact that she enjoyed it, but she did—and that kind of enjoyment can be addictive.

Sure enough, one night there was a knock on my door and there she was. She was wearing floral-patterned shorts and a white t-shirt and she looked timidly at me when I opened the door.

“Hello, Jonathan.”

I said nothing; just looked at her inquiringly.

After an awkward moment or two had gone by, she looked down, then up at me again and said, “I want to see you again.”

I nodded slightly. “And…?”

She answered by opening and rummaging through her purse until she found her glasses, then put them on and looked back up at me.

I saw that the small dribble of dried semen was still there.

I said, “Tell me.”

She blushed and looked down. “You know,” she muttered.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Still looking down, she said, “I want you to…”

“Look at me.”

She kept her face down but raised her eyes to meet mine and spoke in a near-whisper. “I want you to…tell me what to do…” She waited for me to reply and, when I said nothing, went on. “I want you to…make me…do bad things.”

I continued to look at her in silence. She didn’t know what else to say. She started to speak a couple of times, stammered, and fell silent. Suddenly her eyes welled up and she fell to her knees. Still looking up at me, she whispered, her voice quavering, “I want you to h-humiliate me.”

Then: “P-please.”

I leaned down and kissed her gently, laying my hand along the side of her face. Then, placing my hands on her shoulders, I pulled her forward until she rested on her hands and knees. I turned and walked back into my room, leaving the door open, and she crawled in after me.

“Close the door behind you.”

She turned and closed the door, then crawled after me until we’d both reached the center of the room. My dorm room was a little smaller than hers was. It was constructed of cinderblock so there were no built-in closets or shelves; everything was freestanding. There was a large combination wardrobe/bureau against one wall, and that gave me the inspiration for the evening’s entertainment.

First, to keep Carol busy while I got organized I pulled the plastic laundry basket from under my bed. It was about half full, mostly dirty underwear and t-shirts. I dumped it on the floor in front of her and set the basket next to the pile, saying “Put those back.”

I watched as she lifted a hand from the floor and began to reach for something in the pile, hesitated, put her hand down again—then leaned down and picked up a pair of my dirty underwear in her teeth, crawled over to the basket and dropped them in. Then she crawled back to pick up the next item.

While she was thus occupied I opened one of the wardrobe drawers and rummaged around until I found what I was looking for: the remains of a spool of speaker wire and some wirecutters. I cut four two-foot lengths and put the rest away, along with the cutters. The top half of the wardrobe was designed as a closet, with two doors. I opened them and tied the end of one piece of wire around the top hinge on each side, then closed the doors again, leaving the ends hanging loose outside. I tied the ends of the remaining pieces of wire to the front feet of the wardrobe.

I was ready.

Carol had had her back to me the entire time, working at her task. I watched her for a while—ducking her head to seize an item of clothing with her teeth, turning and crawling over to the basket, dropping it in, returning for the next item. She seemed totally absorbed in what she was doing, as if it were the most important job in the world.

I noticed her picking up a particularly unsavory pair of my underpants, old and full of stains—some quite recent, I thought.

“Stop.”

She halted where she was, the underwear dangling from her teeth. I came around and crouched in front of her. Not surprisingly, her glasses were crooked and had slipped down her nose. I straightened them for her. I took the underwear from her mouth. Then I held the waistband open with both hands and fitted it over her face—turning the underwear sideways so that the top of her head came through one of the leg-holes…and the crotch, catching on the top of her glasses, covered her eyes. And nose. And mouth.

She cried out in disgust. “No! Unh!” and shook her head back and forth.

But she kept her hands on the floor and made no effort to remove the underwear, even as she was forced to breathe in the nasty odors I was sure the underwear were giving off.

When she had settled somewhat I told her to stand up, and when she had done so—a little unsteadily, being unable to see—I placed my hands on her shoulders and walked her backwards until she was against the doors of the wardrobe. She was panting a little, and not just from lack of air. And when I began fastening her wrists to the hinges above her head on either side, she was practically hyperventilating.

I nudged her feet apart as far as they would go—which couldn’t have been very comfortable—and fastened her ankles to the feet of the wardrobe.

She was now completely immobilized.

She must have been desperately wondering what I would do next. Would I fondle her? Undress her?

Nope.

It was worse than that—I did nothing.

I lay down on my bed and read for awhile, glancing up occasionally to see how she was doing. Her breathing had calmed somewhat, but she was still obviously quite anxious, not knowing what I was up to.

After a while I got up and fished under my bed until I found my digital camera. I set it to use the available light—mostly from my desk lamp, which I turned on her like a spotlight—and took a full-length picture of Carol tied to the wardrobe with my underwear over her face. She reacted to the quiet click the camera made, but said nothing.

I walked closer to her and said, “Open your mouth.” She did so and, using my index finger, I poked the crotch of my underwear as far into her mouth as I could. She made small noises of protest but knew she was helpless. I took a close-up shot of her face with the crotch of my underwear in her mouth.

Then I said, “Stick out your tongue.” She forced the material as far out of her mouth as she could with her tongue, and I took another close-up.

Then I said, “Lick.”

I took several more shots of her with her tongue in various parts of my underwear as she licked out the crotch, but of course I couldn’t capture the sounds of revulsion and near-nausea she made while she was doing it. Still, when I checked I had some very good shots.

I cued up the first one on the viewscreen, then held it in front of her face as I lifted the crotch of my underwear and let it rest on her forehead. So the first thing she saw was the long shot. Then, when I judged she’d taken it in I clicked to the next, where her mouth was open and full of my underwear. I leaned close and said, “You’re very photogenic—I think I’ll print these out and put them on my door so everyone can see how nice you look.” Then I clicked slowly through the rest…and as I’d expected, she went into orgasm before I’d reached the last one.