Carol (Carol Schmidt Series) (9 page)

Raising her ass in the air, she brought herself off quickly, all
thoughts of calmness and control vanishing, her groin now grinding and jerking
as she came, hardly managing to strangle her squeals, which seemed to echo
around the room like cries for help.

Seconds later she had slumped forward on the bench, breathing hard,
her legs spread wide. Her sex was pulsating with the aftershock of the deepest
orgasm she had ever experienced, and she was suddenly exhausted, her arms
aching from the effort. It had all happened so quickly that she hardly knew
where she was.

Then she heard another sound, a distinct movement behind her.
Someone was definitely there. Forcing herself to be brave, she looked over her
shoulder. But the door hadn’t moved. It was still open a couple of inches, and
behind it there was only darkness. She was being watched. Whoever it was,
though, had made no attempt to come into the bulb room; they were outside,
looking in at her.

For several minutes she made no attempt to move, her perfect, naked
body slumped over the workbench, her tits touching the rough wood, and her wet
pussy and ass on full view. Whoever was watching her was still there, and she
had no idea what to do.

Slowly her breathing returned to normal. The effect of her self-administered
climax was slowly ebbing away, but a richly soothing sensation remained. Quite
unexpectedly, she was hornier than ever. The idea of having brought herself
off, here in her secret place, with somebody watching, made her feel incredibly
sexy. She was scared, but that only seemed to increase the excitement.

Just who was it out there? She was confused, unsure of what to do.
Yet even as she thought about it, spread prone on the bench, vulnerable, her
most intimate self on show, she realized that she wanted to stay here and show
more of herself. The very thought of it made her hot, and it was a new kind of
sensation, something more complex, dirtier, making her squirm with greedy,
self-centered desire.

This was ridiculous, she told herself. She had no idea who was out
there. A girl? A nun? A gardener? She didn’t know, only that they must be
enjoying it, because now, as she raised herself up on her elbows and lifted one
leg up until the knee rested on the edge of the bench, she heard them breath
deeply, as if stifling a moan.

Three weeks later
she was ushered into a small office on the top floor of the convent. Girls were
not allowed up there, and from the damp smell of the place, nothing much went
on in the series of rooms which led off from the long, dark corridor.

Behind a desk in an otherwise empty room was a tall, dark-haired
man. He wore a priest’s collar, but was otherwise in a normal black suit.

“Miss Schmidt,” he said, getting up momentarily from his seat, then
sitting back down, indicating that she should take the wooden chair which had
been placed directly in front of the desk.

The man waited until the nun who had brought her closed the door on
her way out, her footsteps receding down the corridor. Then, once they were
alone, he looked up from the desk. His eyes were large and black, but not
malevolent. There was, indeed, something distantly compassionate about him, not
in his movements, which were slow and calculated, but in the way that he didn’t
smile, didn’t try to put her at her ease; an honesty, perhaps, a sense of
frankness.

Carol had been in the potting shed when Raúl died. His death had
left everyone at the convent in shock. An air of confusion reigned among the nuns,
who hardly knew what to think or do. From the Mother Superior down, no one knew
how to deal with the situation, which was almost too sordid to comprehend. The
news had been kept from the girls, but they also knew something was wrong, and
they knew that Carol Schmidt was involved.

“So,” he said, his hands resting on the desk in front of him, “why
don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

What had happened was straightforward enough.

At around six in the evening, Carol had sneaked into her secret
place, as usual. And by now, it was also usual for the old caretaker Raúl to
sneak in just after her. They never spoke about it, never even met. But each
time she went there, he would follow at a safe distance, creeping silently into
the potting shed and easing the door to the bulb room open a couple of inches.
He would position a chair close to the door and sit, watching as she pleasured
herself.

Thus had it gone on, every single day, for three weeks. She never
heard more than a hint of his breath, just occasionally the muffled groan of
the man’s prurient satisfaction. He sat there silently and watched her as she
did whatever she wanted to herself. She could feel his eyes on her body, and as
she turned and twisted and showed him new ways of revealing herself, she became
hornier and hornier, loving every second of being the object of someone else’s
lust.

After each session he always left well before she did. Yet a kind of
fondness seemed to grow between them. In those faint breaths, and the sound of
him shuffling on his chair, she sensed his longing, the irrepressible needs of
a man who, quite suddenly, had found a woman willing to show herself to him,
full and unguarded, to let him drink it in, albeit from a distance.

He had never pushed that door open more than two or three inches,
and never attempted to go inside the room with her. And from everything she
knew about men and their desires, this was a mark of his honor and respect, the
actions of a true gentleman.

“Yes,” the Cardinal said, as she did her best to tell him what had
happened.

She chose her words carefully, and did her best not to elaborate.
But she didn’t avoid the truth, which was that for three weeks she had been
taking herself to almost unimaginable heights of sexual delight, right there in
the shed next to the chapel, while an employee of the convent, a married man,
looked on.

The Cardinal seemed to appreciate her honesty. After all, she could
easily have claimed that it had been the first time, or that she had been there
for some other reason, that it had all been a coincidence, a mistake. But she
didn’t. She told him the truth.

“And then,” she said, “one day I arrived and found the drawer of the
workbench open a little. When I looked inside...”

She faltered, feeling the embarrassment rise in her cheeks.

“Please,” the Cardinal said, “in this room we are free to talk of
whatever we wish. Please, Miss Schmidt, the truth.”

“... inside the drawer was a magazine, a magazine with pictures in
it...”

“Yes, I have seen the magazine.”

“So you know?” she said.

“I would like to hear it from you. Everything.”

So she told him everything, leaving out no details, a sudden urge to
be honest forcing her on through her shame.

When she entered the bulb room that day and looked into the draw,
there was a pornographic magazine, opened at a page depicting a man and a woman
fucking, both of them kneeling, he behind, at a slight angle so his thick cock
could be seen halfway inside her. Carol had imagined similar scenes a thousand
times, but now, as she saw it in all its glossy, full-color glory, she gasped.

Also in the drawer were a pair of black lace panties and a
brassiere. At first she didn’t now what to do. But the message was obvious
enough, and in any case her eyes were locked on the magazine, on the smooth,
rounded behind of the kneeling woman, and a big, glistening penis that was
being pushed inside her.

Almost without thinking, Carol took off her clothes and put on the
black panties and bra. They were a perfect fit, the kind of underclothes that
the girls in the convent dreamed of. Sometimes they’d mess about, pulling their
convent-issue underpants up between their butt cheeks and pretending they were
skimpy briefs, parading in front of each other provocatively.

Now Carol was wearing the real thing, and it made her feel fantastic.
The soft, silky material against her skin felt as if someone was caressing her,
there in the bulb room, with a man looking on, the man who had brought her
these things.

She still had her back to the door, and she was still transfixed by
the magazine. Slowly she flicked through its pages, one glossy full-color image
after another, the guy’s cock dark pink, purple at the end, something deeply
impressive in its girth and the way that just half of it seemed to make the
woman choke when it was in her mouth.

She turned more pages, feeling herself getting wet already,
wondering if it was OK to let her juices soak into the black panties she was
wearing. Then she came to a picture in which the woman was wearing black panties
and a bra, kneeling on the floor, legs apart, and letting the gusset of the
panties pull her pussy lips apart; meanwhile, the cups of the bra had been
pulled down and her tits hung awkwardly over the top, something sordid and
sluttish in the way they overflowed. The man was also in the picture, but he was
watching from the doorway, fully clothed, his penis in his hand.

Without a thought, Carol turned to face the door. Squatting on the
ground, she eased the cups of her bra down. Licking her fingers she toyed with
the nipples until they were hard, then let the breasts spill out, just like in
the magazine.

By now she could feel the wetness of her pussy soaking into the thin
crotch of the black panties. She leant back a little, using one hand on the
floor behind her to steady herself, and reached down to finger herself.

From behind the door she heard a creak as Raúl shifted in his seat,
his breathing a little raspy now, making no effort to hide it.

Her juices had already extended right along the gusset. She
delicately eased the cotton fabric inside her pussy, enough so the lips could
be seen emerging on either side. She widened her legs, felt the panties dig
gently into her, shuddering with pleasure as the tight material pushed against
her butt hole.

Through the panties she tickled her clit, bringing herself close,
even now, as the thought of that guy’s cock in the magazine turned her mad with
desire. She only had ten days left, less than two weeks before her eighteenth
birthday, the day she would be free to leave the convent and feel all this for
herself.

Closing her eyes, she let her fingers run up and down her sex, the
fabric now slimy wet. She knew what Raúl wanted. He wanted these panties back,
soaked in her juices, enough so he could smell her on them for days after. And
she was going to give him them, a good-bye gift, a memento of the times they’d
spent together; they had never spoken, yet they had both been so weirdly happy
in each other’s company.

She leant back yet further, letting her fingers reach her butt and
pushing the fabric of the panties slightly inside. From the door she could hear
him groan. He was breaking the rules, but she didn’t care. He could open the
door and stare right at her for all she cared.

Suddenly she flopped down on her back, unable to support herself,
and struggled out of the panties. She wiped her crotch with them, making sure they
absorbed every drop of her juices. Then, so quick that she hardly knew what she
was doing, she leapt forwards and tossed the panties through the gap in the
door, before immediately returning to her space on the floor. She lay on her back
and started masturbating hard and fast, her thighs already shaking.

She heard the door creak open. But she didn’t care. Her fingers were
going mad, as images of big, thick cocks crowded her mind. She let herself
dither madly on the edge of orgasm, the kind that she knew she wouldn’t be able
to control, her ass already thumping against the dusty ground, her pelvis
grinding up and down like a machine that couldn’t be turned off...

At the very moment she came, there was a loud thud, and a rush of
air. Tears were streaming down her face as she brought herself off. She
couldn’t stop. Her face was contorted into blissful agony and her sex was wet
through.

Then, opening her eyes and looking over her body toward the doorway,
she saw Raúl slumped there on the floor, face down, blood already trickling
from his ear.

His heavy breathing had stopped. There was only silence.

He was dead.

Several seconds later, trembling so hard that she could hardly use
her hands, she was dressed and back over the wall, panting and gulping for air
as she staggered back up to the convent, forcing herself to appear normal.

She went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, ran a shower,
and undressed. But when she looked down she saw the black bra, her breasts
still hanging out of the cups. In the rush to be out of the shed, she had
forgotten to change back. And immediately she realized that her own bra, neatly
labeled with her name, was still in the bulb room, alongside a pornographic
magazine and the dead body of Raúl Perez, a pair of damp, sex-stained panties
in his hands.

“Please,” the Cardinal said as she finished her story.

He rose from his chair and stepped over to the window. He beckoned
for her to join him. Down below, in the forecourt of the convent, was a state police
car.

“Mother Superior,” he said, quickly moving away, perhaps so as not
to intimidate her, going to the other side of the room as Carol looked down
with horror at the large star painted on the vehicle’s white hood, “she had no
choice but to call the authorities.”

“Am I to be...”

“You are safe with me. I represent a far higher authority, my child.
I can make all this go away.”

“But I didn’t...”

“As far as those men in uniforms are concerned, someone induced the
death of Raúl Perez. He was found in very strange circumstances, as you are
well aware, Miss Schmidt. The evidence, I think you must agree, leaves little
about doubt.”

She thought about the poor man, dead on the floor. She hadn’t seen
the black panties in his hands when she ran, because he must have been holding
them up to his face when he fell. The police would know that, too. They would
work it all out. Everything.

“You see,” the Cardinal explained, making it sound very simple, “it
has already been established that you were in the habit of disappearing every evening,
and that Mr. Perez had taken to disappearing at the same time.”

Carol knew how bad it looked. As she had left the bulb room,
buttoning up her clothes in a state of mad panic, she stepped over Raúl’s dead
body. His trousers were undone, and his flaccid penis was visible, glistening
with semen, more of which had dribbled down onto his trousers. She had brought
him to this. It had been her fault.

Suddenly her face was white. She had no legal knowledge, but as she
looked again at the waiting police car, she saw ahead of her not the freedom
she had longed for, and which was now just days away, but a prison cell in a
country not known for the luxury of its jails or the compassion of its penal
system.

“You have a choice, Carol. You are free to take your chances with
the Mexican police and the courts.”

She shuddered.

“Yes, I have been told that you are a bright girl. As I said, you
have a choice, as long as I am here. Will you take it?”

Her mouth opened, desperately trying to form the word “what.” But
nothing came out.

“I will make this go away,” he said, waving a hand in the direction
of the window. “It will be as if it never happened. And in return you will do
something for me. Something,” and a thin line of distaste crept onto his lips,
“for which, it seems, you are more than amply qualified.”